Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

So you went along and kept your mouth shut and hoped for the best.

Shayne shrugged off the unpleasant thoughts as he rounded the corner cautiously and glanced down the street to make certain his car was the only one parked in front of the Las Felice, realizing that it was only a matter of time before Will Gentry would connect the key marked Three A with Marie Leonard’s apartment. And he didn’t relish the thought of what would happen if the police found him in the vicinity.

His was the only car. He went to it briskly, got in, and pulled away fast in the direction of Timothy Rourke’s bachelor quarters.

The busy signal he had received when he called the reporter’s number bothered him. If he had been talking to Betty Jackson, it might already be too late to do anything about the mistake Shayne had made in lying to Will Gentry. It was quite possible that the police were at the Jackson house, hoping to pick up just such a lead as a call from Rourke would give them. He hoped to God Rourke would be at home.

His luck held. Rourke’s car was parked in front of the apartment building. Shayne didn’t stop, but went around the corner and parked on a side street near an alley which he knew could be reached via the fire escape from the reporter’s second-floor apartment.

Long-legging it back to the front entrance, he hurried in and up one flight. The door of Rourke’s apartment stood ajar, and Shayne pushed it open onto a disordered living-room, saw the reporter sitting at his desk with the telephone receiver at his ear.

Rourke dropped the instrument on the hook and exclaimed, “I’m worried about Betty. She still doesn’t answer. I’m afraid she took more than two sleeping-tablets.”

Shayne heeled the door shut and strode into the room saying, “You’ll both be lucky,” grimly, “if she swallowed enough of them to stop her talking to the cops for a long time. Dammit it, Tim! Why didn’t you speak up back at my place? I warned you I couldn’t work in the dark. Now I’ve messed things up, set the police right on your tail.”

“Give you what straight?” Rourke countered belligerently.

“Everything. You not only didn’t tell me about your bedding down with Betty Jackson, but you threw me off completely by making that phony call to a number you pretended was the Jacksons’.”

“Okay,” Rourke muttered. He moved to a worn armchair and dropped into it. “Knowing the way your mind works I was sure you’d take it this way if you found out I was with Betty when you phoned me yesterday afternoon. There’s no use telling you now that we’re just good friends.”

“It doesn’t matter a hell of a lot what you tell me,” Shayne agreed, sauntering over to the couch and sitting down. “You’ll find out that the police have got nasty minds, too. It didn’t help things a bit,” he went on savagely, “when I thought I was covering up on this other business for you by throwing Will Gentry a false lead in the shape of private information that Betty has been two-timing her husband with some guy.”

“You told him that?” the reporter exclaimed incredulously. “Why? It’s a damned lie. Betty is-”

“Because,” groaned Shayne, “I thought it was a lie. I had to think fast and give Will some reason for that crack you made about Bert Jackson in my office to stop him from slipping the cuffs on me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth? About Bert’s blackmailing scheme. Damn your soul, Mike, I believe you’d sell your own mother for a piece of cash.”

Shayne’s gaunt features tightened. He exhaled a long breath and forced himself to speak calmly.

“Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for later, Tim. You can see the spot I was in. I had no intimation that there was anything between you and Betty Jackson-or between her and anyone. There were angles on this other thing in connection with you that worried me. I thought if I could send the cops off hunting for a nonexistent lover it would give me a free hand to chase down the real angles. Instead, I’ve turned them loose on you.”

“But I swear to you, Mike, that Betty and I-”

“It makes no difference whether you’ve been sleeping with her or not,” Shayne cut in swiftly. “You had a fight with Bert recently, spent all last evening trying to find him, after spending the afternoon with his wife. There are bloodstains in your car, and Bert Jackson was shot through the head with a twenty-two-caliber bullet. Where’s your target pistol?” he ended abruptly.

Rourke leaned back, his face drawn and haggard. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything. If a test bullet fired from it does-or doesn’t-match the death bullet. Dozens of people know you took a prize in that tournament last month and own a long-barreled twenty-two,” said Shayne impatiently. “Including Will Gentry who was one of the judges. Give me the gun if you’re in the clear, and I’ll turn it over to Ballistics.”

Rourke said, “I can’t give it to you, Mike.”

“Why not? If you’re afraid to have it tested-”

“I haven’t got it. Somebody stole it soon after the tournament.”

Shayne studied his friend somberly, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “I hope to God you reported the theft to the police,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t. It just didn’t seem important.” Rourke came to his feet, avoiding Shayne’s searching scrutiny. “Let’s have a drink.”

“If you’ve anything fit to drink,” said Shayne, watching the reporter’s curved spine as he went to the kitchenette.

Shayne was at the telephone with his hand on the receiver when Rourke came back with a bottle and glasses. “Do you know if the Jacksons have a regular doctor?” he asked, his stubby red brows drawn together in fierce concentration.

“I recommended Doc Meeker to them once when Bert was sick,” Rourke told him. “I think they’ve had him a few times. In fact, he gave Betty a prescription for the sleeping-pills.”

“Good old Doc Meeker,” Shayne said fervently, lifting the receiver and dialing a number while Rourke poured two drinks. The phone rang six times before a sleepy voice answered, and Shayne said, “Michael Shayne, Doctor. Are you awake enough to listen fast without interrupting?”

“I’m awake,” the doctor answered.

“This is an emergency, Doctor. A patient of yours, Mrs. Bert Jackson, needs you in a hurry. She has taken an overdose of sleeping-pills. Her husband was murdered a few hours ago, but she doesn’t know it yet. The police are probably on their way to her place now to question her.” He paused a moment before adding significantly, “As a detective who has her best interest at heart I’m very much afraid the shock might be fatal if she were awakened and questioned in her present condition. Do you agree?”

“It is possible,” said Doctor Meeker cautiously, “that under certain conditions it would be advisable to delay the shock.”

“Exactly,” Shayne broke in, and continued swiftly: “Under those conditions, wouldn’t you advise a strong sedative to take effect as the sleeping-pills wear off, something that might last a few hours at least?”

“I will go to Mrs. Jackson at once,” Doctor Meeker told him. “If my diagnosis confirms your opinion I will certainly see to it that she isn’t disturbed until-” He paused, a question in his tone.

“I’ll be in touch with you in a short time,” Shayne promised hastily. “And, Doc-if you’re asked, it might be just as well to say that Timothy Rourke called you.” Sweat was standing on Shayne’s brow. He sighed with satisfaction as he dropped the instrument on the prongs and took out his handkerchief. “That will take care of Betty Jackson for a while, at least,” he said. “If I know Doc Meeker, and I think I do.”