Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

She came over and peered out the window with him, reluctant to give up her role as the all-seeing eye. “I’d like to know why not,” she snapped. “I saw him with my own eyes, didn’t I? Staggering up that path and land knows how he managed to walk all the way from the bus in that condition.”

“You saw him walk up the path to within ten feet of the front porch,” Shayne corrected her. “You don’t know that he went in. He could have circled around either side of the house without you seeing him.”

“Why in the name of goodness would he do a fool thing like that?” she asked, slightly crestfallen.

Shayne shrugged and returned to his chair. “Drunks get queer ideas sometimes. I’m just showing you what a lawyer would do with your testimony if you got on the witness stand.”

Her old eyes beamed with anticipation. “I’ve never been a witness in court before.” She paused, savoring the idea, then said, “Still and all, I don’t see why he’d sneak around his own house without going in. Not unless he saw something through the front window when he came up-or somebody inside with his wife. But-I reckon that couldn’t of been,” she ended limply, “because nobody else came after she came home by herself.”

“There’s always the back door,” Shayne reminded her, hoping to God as he implanted this thought in her mind that Rourke would be able to prove where he was between ten and twelve last night.

“You mean that other man slipped back in the back way after going off with her so openlike?” She was eager again, nodding her white head knowingly. “Just like in a play I saw once. And him so broke up and noble he went off and shot himself so he wouldn’t be in their way any longer and they could get decently married.”

“You have to keep in mind that drunk men get queer ideas sometimes, Mrs. Peabody,” Shayne reminded her, choking a desire to laugh. He arose and added, “This has been very pleasant, and I’m sure the police will want to hear everything you can tell them.” He paused near the door, a frown creasing his brow, asked, “Are you positive Bert Jackson didn’t come home in a taxi when he arrived at nine minutes after ten?”

She shook her head emphatically. “I watched him walking all the way from the corner. But I did notice a car come up behind him when he turned in his walk, and I remember thinking it was stopping at his walk and wondering who it’d be at that time of night, but it went on after a minute, and I guess it was just somebody watching him stagger down the sidewalk and was curious to see if he’d fall flat on his face or make it home all right. Some people are pretty curious like that.”

Shayne gravely agreed that some people were. He escaped by promising to bring her news of Betty Jackson’s condition before he left, and recrossed the driveway and patch of lawn to the Jacksons’ walk.

The front door opened as he stepped up on the porch. A detective sergeant whom he knew slightly said with an unwelcoming scowl, “Sorry, Shamus. We got orders you’re not to talk with Mrs. Jackson.”

Shayne lifted his ragged red brows in simulated surprise. “Oh?” He lounged against the doorframe and lit a cigarette, then asked, “Who gave the orders, Sergeant?”

“The chief,” Sergeant Allen replied mildly. He smiled briefly, then added in a confidential tone, “Not that you’re missing much, just between you and me and the gatepost. Some doctor got here first, and he’s in there working on her now. Looks to me like she did a job with sleeping-pills that’ll keep her quiet for a good long time.”

“She’s not dead?” Shayne asked quietly.

“Nope. But she’s sure as hell out like a light. Morgan’s in there arguing with the doc.”

“If she isn’t conscious,” said Shayne good-naturedly, “it can’t do any harm to go in and see what the score is.”

Sergeant Allen pursed his full lips, creased his forehead and finally agreed, “I guess not. Chief didn’t say anything except you wasn’t to talk to her.”

“I’m sure Morgan will be happy to run me out if she recovers enough to talk.” Shayne pushed past the sergeant into a living-room identical in size and shape with Grandma Peabody’s. There the resemblance ended, for here was cluttered disorder in contrast to the immaculate neatness of the other room.

A long, narrow table was stacked with magazines and old newspapers, and half a dozen ash trays were filled with cigarette stubs. The pillows on the couch were crushed and rumpled, and books were thrust haphazardly in dusty bookshelves.

A narrow passageway led from the center of the room to two bedrooms with a bath in between. Shayne heard the sound of angry voices and sauntered down the narrow hall to an open door.

“… mighty highhanded way of doing things,” Detective Morgan was saying. “I tell you this woman is an important witness in a murder investigation.”

“And I’m her physician,” Doctor Meeker replied crisply. “I don’t care if Saint Peter wants to interview her. She’s my patient, and as long as she’s alive I won’t have her disturbed. This injection is necessary, and I intend to administer it.”

“I’m warning you, Doctor, that you’re liable to prosecution.”

Shayne stepped into a bedroom with shades lowered. He said provocatively, “Don’t pay any attention to Morgan, Doctor. When I get around to it I’m going to prosecute him for digging into my private office files.”

Morgan whirled around and faced Shayne with a hostile gaze, but the doctor remained in his bent position, holding Betty Jackson’s arm in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other.

Inserting the needle deftly he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I have no intention of endangering my patient’s life just to please some oaf of a policeman.”

“What are you doing here, Shayne?” Morgan demanded. “Didn’t Sergeant Allen tell you-”

“That I wasn’t to interview Mrs. Jackson. From what I just heard I guess there’s not much danger of my doing that, is there, Doctor?”

“Not for at least six hours,” said the doctor, withdrawing the needle and massaging the spot on his patient’s arm with a piece of cotton. He was a short, heavy-set man with gray hair and a strong jaw that was at the moment set determinedly. He glanced casually at Shayne with no show of recognition and began replacing things in his black physician’s bag.

“Will Mrs. Jackson be all right?” Shayne asked anxiously.

“With proper care and attention she should regain consciousness shortly after noon with no effects worse than a bad hangover,” he answered gravely. “But I absolutely forbid any attempt to waken her for questioning before she rouses from her condition normally.” He snapped his bag shut, turned to Morgan, and continued.

“I intend to hold you strictly accountable, Officer Morgan. Your full name and badge number, if you please.”

Morgan bristled, his face reddening. “See here, Doctor. As an officer of the law-”

“As an officer of the law it is your duty to see that the patient is not disturbed,” Doctor Meeker interrupted with quiet professional reserve. “Your name and number?”

“I can give you his name, Doctor,” Shayne interposed. “And I can get his badge without any trouble. But what about Mrs. Jackson? Shouldn’t she have a nurse to take care of her, stand by? Some of these hot-shot Homicide boys have conveniently short memories when it comes to a thing like this.”

“Decidedly,” snapped Doctor Meeker. “She must have a nurse with her. I’ll arrange to have one come on duty at once.”

Detective Morgan’s nostrils were flaring with each enraged breath. “That’s enough smart talk from you, Shamus. If you don’t get out and stay out, I’ve still got those handcuffs I didn’t use last night.”