Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

Suddenly he knew.

Bert Jackson’s number was the one that Dirkson, Rourke’s city editor, had reluctantly given him when Bert insisted that he get in touch with Tim yesterday afternoon. A private, secret number that was to be called only in emergencies; and the deep-throated voice who had answered that call was Betty Jackson. She was the woman Rourke was with.

And Bert Jackson knew it!

Shayne swore under his breath, and when Marie said, “It is the right number, isn’t it?” he began flipping through the book.

“Yes, it’s the right number, Marie, but there are a couple of others I want to look up.”

This made so many things clear to him that hadn’t made sense before. Timothy Rourke’s evasiveness, his disinclination to discuss Bert and Betty and his relationship with them, his reason for sending Betty to his apartment to pump him for information the moment he learned that Bert had been there.

It explained Bert Jackson’s arrogant self-confidence when he suggested that Shayne call Rourke and put the proposition to him. Conscious that the older reporter was visiting his wife, he had used the fact to try to force Rourke to go along with his blackmail scheme.

Where did Rourke stand?

One count against his old friend came with the stabbing recollection that he had not called the Jacksons’ number while ostensibly trying to find out whether Bert had come home. He had called an entirely different number, listened for a long time before hanging up and reporting that there was no answer and advancing the theory that Bert was not at home and that Betty was asleep under the influence of sleeping-tablets.

Bert was dead at the time. Did Rourke know?

Shayne thought of the blood on the cushion of the reporter’s car, and of Rourke’s refusal to discuss that, and other details of Jackson’s murder; and as these thoughts flashed through his mind an even deadlier realization came in their wake.

In attempting to shield Rourke from Gentry’s probing, he had accomplished exactly the opposite! Inadvertently, his lie to the police chief about Bert wanting divorce evidence against his wife now appeared to be too near the truth for comfort. By withholding information on the blackmail scheme in which he believed Rourke was somehow involved, however innocently, he had actually tipped Gentry off to a fact that would eventually put the police on the track of Rourke as the “other man.”

All because Rourke hadn’t been frank with him, Shayne thought furiously, remembering that Marie was standing back of him, waiting until he had found what he was looking for.

“There’s a pencil and pad in the drawer of the telephone stand,” she said. “Unless it’s true that you remember everything you see and hear-like I’ve heard.”

“Thanks. I don’t,” he said soberly. He took a pencil and memorandum book from his pocket and pretended to write down numbers, grinding his teeth and damning Rourke for his lack of faith and failure to tell the whole truth.

It was too late now. At any moment, and certainly before many hours, Gentry’s men would have Rourke pegged as Betty Jackson’s lover, through a confession by Betty or the sudden return of Marie’s memory about the “other man.” Add that to the known bad blood between the two men, the undeniable fact that Rourke had combed the bars for Jackson last night, and the police would have evidence of murder.

Shayne picked up the receiver and dialed Rourke’s apartment, clamping the receiver against his ear, then dropping it with an oath when he heard a busy signal.

He whirled around to face Marie.

She cried out in alarm at the expression on his face. “What is it? I don’t-”

“Is there a rear stairway and a door in this place?” he interrupted rudely.

“Yes. The stairway is past the elevator at the end of the hall. There’s a back door that goes out to the parking-lot where we leave our cars. But why?”

“I’d just as soon not meet the cops coming in the front,” he told her. “And if you really want Bert’s murderer caught you will forget that you ever saw me. Better get back in bed and pretend you’ve been asleep all night.”

She ran to him and impulsively threw her arms around his neck. “I want Bert’s murderer caught more than anything in the world. I’ll go right to bed-but when will I see you again? I’ll be thinking about you-and wondering, Michael.”

Shayne put one arm around her and quietly turned the doorknob with his free hand. She pressed against him, and he pushed the bolt, freeing the night latch. Then he patted her shoulder and promised, “I’ll be in touch with you, Marie. Get some sleep now, if you can.”

He put her away from him gently, went out and closed the door, strode down the hall a dozen steps, then turned and tiptoed back. He paused outside with his hand gripping the doorknob and listened intently. He was rewarded by the clicking of the telephone as Marie dialed a number.

He turned the knob silently, eased the door open a crack, then wider when he heard the low murmur of her voice. Her back was toward the door, and she held the mouthpiece close to her lips.

Shayne could not distinguish any words as he moved stealthily inside and approached her. She stopped talking to listen, and as though some inner intuition warned her that someone was listening, she glanced around. A strangled cry escaped her throat.

“’By-Ned,” she exclaimed, dropped the instrument on its prongs and whirled to face Shayne with dilated eyes. “How did you-what do you mean?”

“Ned Brooks,” said Shayne flatly.

“Well, what of it?” she flared.

“Why did you call him?”

“Because Ned is Bert’s best friend-and he’s got a stake in that story they’ve been working on.”

“How well do you know Ned?”

She turned away from his cold, demanding gaze and said indifferently, “He has been here a few times with Bert. That’s all.”

Shayne wondered if that was all, but he knew he would get no more from her now, so he went out and continued down the hall to the back stairway.

The sky was growing light when Shayne stepped from the rear exit of the apartment building into the enclosed tenants’ parking-lot and made his way to an opening in the high board fence that led to a side street.

He yawned widely, then twisted his wide mouth in a grim grin. There had been a time, he reminded himself disgustedly, when an hour or so of sleep was enough. Especially when he was working on a case. But he was getting older. Besides, this wasn’t his case. Not officially. Thus far there wasn’t a fee involved, but from what Marie Leonard had told him about Bert Jackson’s phone call from her apartment he felt pretty certain he’d receive an offer before long. Whoever had gone so far as to murder an elevator operator and ransack his office and apartment must be convinced that the data for Jackson’s graft story was in his possession.

It wasn’t difficult, now, to surmise approximately what must have happened after Jackson left the Las Felice at ten o’clock. He probably stopped some place to call Mr. Big back and foolishly made a date to meet him that night, trusting that his story about a detective named Shayne having possession of the material would hold as life insurance for him.

And it hadn’t worked out that way.

The only trouble with that theory, he corrected himself sourly, was that it failed to account for the smear of blood on the back of Rourke’s car seat. If that smear had any connection at all with Jackson’s death.

He wished now that he had forced Rourke to explain the blood as soon as he discovered it. There could be a dozen plausible explanations. But at that time, he excused himself, things had been so mixed up in his own mind that he had been unwilling to press his friend for an explanation for fear-he acknowledged-of what Rourke might have told him. It was one thing to go to bat for an old friend if you suspected, but did not know, he had committed a crime. On the other hand, if he took advantage of friendship and confessed, it became an entirely different matter.