Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“But you’ve only got one man to help you this time,” Shayne reminded him.

Doctor Meeker went quietly from the room. Shayne followed and went on outside when the doctor stopped at the telephone in the living-room, then nodded and said, “Thanks,” to Sergeant Allen as he went out the front door and down the walk.

He loitered on the sidewalk until Doctor Meeker came out, then moved beside him toward the gray coupe, asking in a low voice, “Is Mrs. Jackson really bad, Doc?”

“Just knocked out with an overdose of barbital,” said the doctor, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his short legs taking three steps to Shayne’s two long strides. “She was beginning to come around a few minutes before you arrived, but I gathered that you had some particular reason for hoping she would be unable to talk to the police for as long as possible. The sedative I administered will simply delay normal return to consciousness for a few hours.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Shayne murmured, not looking at his shorter companion.

They stopped beside the gray coupe. The doctor opened the door and thrust his medical bag onto the seat and got in under the steering-wheel.

“What actually happened to Mr. Jackson?” he asked, still avoiding looking at Shayne, and switching on the ignition, pressing the starter.

Shayne put both big hands on the open window sill as though purposely detaining the physician, and hastily told him the facts in a few words, then asked, “Do you think this was a suicide attempt, Doc?”

“I don’t know. I’ve known them ever since they were married, and have been watching their marriage go on the rocks. Months ago I advised her to see a psychiatrist. I just don’t know,” he repeated slowly. “Under certain conditions of shock she was capable of taking her own life. But I judge not in this case. I’m quite certain that she took no more than six tablets, and I’m sure she must know that that number is not likely to be fatal.”

“Why would she take six?” Shayne persisted. “Wouldn’t one or two put her to sleep?”

“Normally, yes. I’ve been prescribing them for her the past several months. Never more than half a dozen at the time. At first, one prescription lasted two to three weeks-”

“But couldn’t a person save them up?” Shayne broke in swiftly.

Doctor Meeker raced the idling engine as though anxious to get away, carefully avoiding looking at Shayne. “More than half the cases you read about are really accidental, Mike,” he said. “The effect of any drug taken regularly will gradually diminish, and a larger dosage is required. It’s perfectly normal for a person in a highly nervous state to feel that the prescribed dosage is inadequate, so they take one-maybe two more. The effect of even a moderate overdose often produces hallucinations, so they end up by taking the whole bottle without realizing it.”

Shayne was worrying his left ear lobe with thumb and forefinger, and a frown trenched his forehead. “About a nurse,” he said abruptly. “Have you got one you can trust?”

“I called the registry before I left. There’s not one available, but I think I could arrange for a practical nurse right away. Actually, the only necessity is to have someone who will see that she isn’t disturbed.”

“Look, Doc, suppose I get hold of one and send her over to take charge?”

Doctor Meeker nodded jerkily. “It would save me the bother, Mike. Just be certain she’s kept quiet and allowed to sleep off the effect of the hypodermic.” For the first time he turned toward Shayne. He asked, “Is our friend Tim Rourke mixed up in this?”

“More or less.” Shayne sighed, and after a moment’s thought he asked bluntly, “Was their marriage breaking up on account of Tim?”

“I’d rather you asked him that, Mike.” He raced the motor again, slid into low gear, and said, “Well, if there’s nothing more I can do-”

Shayne reached through the window to wring his hand and say heartily, “You’ve been swell, Doc,” then strode back toward Grandma Peabody’s house as the doctor drove away.

He was too late to keep his promise to report Betty Jackson’s condition. Sergeant Allen was standing just outside Mrs. Peabody’s living-room door with a notebook in his hand, and he could hear the old woman’s breathless words spanking the air, as vicious as the blazing sun’s rays which were unobscured by a single cloud in the sky and portending the scorching heat to come.

Turning back, Shayne got into his car and headed toward Biscayne Boulevard. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was only a little after six. He remembered then that he hadn’t had a case for weeks and, therefore, hadn’t been awake at dawn for some time, and that the sun did rise surprisingly early in June.

Yawning widely, he felt the need of a few hours’ sleep more than anything else, but there was no time for that. Not now. Things were moving and were likely to move faster in the next few hours.

He drove slowly, slumped behind the wheel, morosely thinking that if it weren’t for Tim Rourke he’d wash his hands of the entire affair and go home to sleep all day. But Tim was in it up to his scrawny neck. Playing around with a married woman-and a brunette! That, he could not understand or forgive when Miami was so full of eager blondes.

Jerking himself erect, he went over all the facets of the situation now confronting him, trying to put first things first. He made up his mind suddenly, stepped on the accelerator, then slowed to turn off onto a side street to drive a couple of blocks and stop in front of a two-story apartment house.

He got out and went into the small foyer, pressed a button, and three long, steady rings brought the desired click of the latch. He pulled the door open and wearily climbed one flight of stairs.

Lucy Hamilton stood in the doorway of her apartment, wearing a silk robe over cotton flowered pajamas. Her dark hair was disarrayed, and her brown eyes were anxious and heavy with sleep.

“Michael!” She put both hands on his shoulders and looked up into his lined face. “What is it? You look-awful.”

“Nothing that a drink won’t fix,” he told her cheerfully, pulling her hands gently from his shoulders and drawing her into the pleasant living-room where he released her, chucked his hat on a chair, and sank down on the couch.

His secretary closed the door and stood with her back against it, studying him with a solicitude that was almost maternal. Yet there was a hint of the cool reserve she had shown the afternoon before when she entered his apartment to find Betty Jackson in his arms.

“Chief Gentry phoned me last night. What was it all about, Michael? He wouldn’t tell me. He asked about clients and wanted to know what valuable papers we had in the office.”

“Yeh. He called me at the same time. The night elevator operator in our building was murdered and our office ransacked. Somebody looking for something. Will didn’t believe me when I told him we didn’t have a client-or anything worth murdering for.”

“And you’ve been up ever since then?” she cried, moving toward him, her brown eyes glowing softly.

“Worse than that.”

“I’m sorry I was-well, upset when I walked in your apartment and saw you holding that woman in your arms. I don’t know why.” She perched on the wide arm of the couch, catching her lower lip between her teeth and looking down at his bowed red head.

Shayne took his chin from his chest and looked up at her. “It’s all right, angel. I didn’t blame you.”

“But I blame myself. Why can’t I ever learn? I had no right, Michael. Even if we were married, I wouldn’t feel I had the right.” Her voice was shaky, stricken, and stormy and tender, all at the same time. “If that damned door hadn’t been unlocked-if I hadn’t walked in on you without warning-”