Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“You should,” said Rourke sharply. “He’s been doing your dirty work long enough.”

“But strictly ethical, Tim. You’ve got to admit that.”

Shayne mopped his face on the way to the couch, picked up his drink from the table, and made a wry face when he took a sip.

Rourke dropped into his chair and burst out, “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, Mike. You’re afraid Betty will tell the police about me and her.”

“I know police methods,” Shayne growled. “If they aren’t stopped they’ll barge in when she’s in a dazed condition and wring all sorts of admissions from her-twist the most innocent statements into damning revelations. Wake up, Tim. You know damned well that the minute they connect you two in any degree of intimacy they’ll stop looking elsewhere for her husband’s murderer. It’s the perfect pattern.”

Rourke sat slumped on his fifth vertebra, his legs crossed like sticks in ample trousers, and his head lolling back on the chair. His eyes, in their cavernous sockets, were closed, and he made no comment.

Shayne bent forward and said grimly, “That story about your pistol being stolen isn’t going to help any, Tim. It’s the oldest dodge in the world. Can’t you think up something better?”

“That,” said Rourke listlessly, “happens to be the truth.”

“Look, Tim, you’ve got to drop out of sight for a while,” Shayne said urgently. “For at least as long as Doc Meeker is able to keep Betty from being questioned. Give me one day with neither of you making damaging admissions to the police. But you have to get out of the way and stay there. I warn you, they’ll be pounding on your door within an hour or so.”

“Because of what you told Gentry,” said Rourke bitterly.

“All right. Because of what I told Gentry. That’s water over the dam. Right now we’ve got to think of some place for you to duck out of sight for a day or so.” Shayne got up with drink in hand and paced the floor restlessly. “It would be best if you’d get out of town, hole up in some small town upstate-”

The ringing of the telephone stopped him in midstride. Rourke sprang to his feet and went toward it.

Shayne growled a warning. “Hold it, Tim. We don’t know-”

The reporter’s face was set and inscrutable as he strode on, lifted the receiver, and said, “Tim Rourke speaking.”

An apologetic and worried voice came over the wire. “Ned Brooks, Tim. Sorry if I wakened you at this ungodly hour.”

“You didn’t waken me, Ned. What’s on your mind?”

“Two cops just left my place,” said Brooks rapidly. “I’m afraid, damn it, that they’re on their way to see you. I didn’t know what in hell it was all about, pounding at my door and throwing accusations at me-questioning me about Bert Jackson and his wife, wanting to know who were their close friends, and when did I see either of them last.”

“Well?”

“I told them the truth, damn it, and now I wish I hadn’t. Did you know Bert is dead?”

Rourke said, “Yeh. Go on, Ned.”

“I didn’t know what they were after, so I told them about running into Bert on the street last night a block from his house. That he was pretty drunk and raving about you and a big news story he’s planning to break. The same stuff he and I have been trying to dig up at City Hall, I gathered, except tonight he acted as though he was on to something I didn’t know about.

“Anyhow,” Ned Brooks went on rapidly, “he said he wanted to see you. I asked him if he’d tried his own house. But, hell, Tim, I didn’t mean anything. He was tight, and I thought he ought to get home.”

“You told the cops all this?” Rourke asked.

“Sure. Before I knew what was up. Honest to God-”

“Isn’t your wife out of town, Ned?” Rourke cut in sharply.

“Why, yes. Visiting her folks in New York. I’m batching it, and-”

“You’re going to have company if I can get away from here before the cops grab me. Sit tight, Ned. You can tell me the rest when I get there.” He slammed up the receiver and looked at Shayne with eyes that glittered with excitement.

“What’s up, Tim?” Shayne hadn’t moved. He had stood quietly, listening and gently massaging his ear lobe and staring bleakly into space.

“That was Ned Brooks-reporter on the Trib who was working with Bert on the City Hall run. Claims he doesn’t know much about the story Bert dug up, but if I pump him for details I might pick up something useful. His wife’s out of town, and he can put me up for a few days.”

“Is he a good friend of yours?” Shayne asked doubtfully.

“One of my best friends,” said Rourke with heavy irony. “Like you, he’s gone out of his way to tell the cops how friendly I am with Betty. He ran into Bert after he left the Las Felice tonight and he told the cops Bert was looking for me. They’re probably on their way here now.”

Shayne’s face was very grave. He caught Rourke’s arm and said brusquely, “Get out the back way-down the fire escape. I’ll go out front to your car. If I meet the cops coming up I’ll stall them and say I’ve been trying to rouse you without any luck. Give me Brooks’s address, and for God’s sake stay in out of sight until I contact you there. Are you sure he’ll keep his mouth shut and not turn you in?” he ended desperately.

“Ned owes me a few favors,” said Rourke. He gave Shayne the address, shrugged off the detective’s grip on his shoulder, and went through the kitchenette to the fire escape without another word.

Shayne hastily turned out the lights and left by the front door, closing it and making certain it was locked. He went down the corridor at a leisurely pace. He met no one, and outside he waited until Rourke got in his car and drove away.

As he walked toward the side street where his own car was parked he heard a speeding motor come up behind him, heard the squeal of brakes when it stopped in front of the apartment building. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two uniformed men entering, and without breaking his stride he went on, got into his car, and wheeled it away toward Sixtieth Street.

The Jackson residence on Sixtieth Street was one of a row of bungalows erected from the same architectural plan. The monotony was relieved by reversing the design with every other house, and by the use of different colors of paint on the stuccoed exteriors. Here and there wide awnings had been installed on front porches to shut out the sun’s glare, thus obscuring the numbers. Set back some twenty feet from the sidewalk, each narrow lot boasted a patch of St. Augustine’s grass, and the houses were separated by graveled driveways leading back to one-car garages.

Shayne didn’t have to check the house number. An official police car and a gray coupe were parked in front of a bungalow a third of the way down the block. He drew in behind them and got out. He recognized the gray coupe as Doctor Meeker’s, and felt quite sure that the police weren’t getting anything from Betty Jackson.

As he started up the walk he heard the front door of the house next door slam and a voice say, “Pssst-young man.”

Shayne turned his head and saw a little old lady standing at her porch steps. She beckoned a gnarled finger imperiously. He hesitated briefly, then took off his hat and crossed the driveway, smiling his pleasantest smile.

“Now, young man, I want to know exactly what’s going on next door,” she began without preamble, her bright-blue eyes glittering with curiosity. “You come right in here and tell me. I saw the doctor come first,” she continued, catching his arm and urging him toward the open living-room door, keeping her voice low. “Then I saw those other men. They’re policemen. You’re not a policeman, are you?”