Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“Then Jackson was all right when the two men parted?” Gentry did not try to hide his disappointment.

“Except being drunk.” Mr. Pastern seemed to realize that his story was falling flat. He fidgeted, looking from Shayne to Gentry, then went on awkwardly. “I wouldn’t want to say a single word but the truth. No matter what happened later, I’m bound to tell you the killing didn’t happen then. I kept looking back, like I said, and saw Mr. Jackson start to turn up his walk. Then this other fellow got in his car and drove off. But with bad blood like there was between them I guess it’s pretty plain he must’ve come back later to do it, don’t you reckon?” Again he appealed to the detective and the police chief, met their cold, impersonal gazes, and his body sagged wearily, his thin hands dangling between his knees.

Gentry said, “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Pastern, and it’s a pleasure to meet a citizen who is willing to take time off from his work to do his duty.”

Mr. Pastern straightened, and there was pride in his bearing. “You think I’ve been a help? I always aim to do my duty.”

“Your statement will be typed immediately. Officer Cline will take you along, and you can sign the document before you leave.” Gentry nodded to the plainclothes man; Mr. Pastern came to his feet, looked uncertainly around; then the two men went out together.

Turning to Shayne the police chief asked, “How does his story check with what Brooks told you?”

“Pretty close. With his friend dead, Brooks would naturally try to minimize the seriousness of the argument.”

“There’s one thing I wonder about, Mike,” rumbled Gentry, moving stolidly toward the closed door leading from the line-up room to his private office. “When my men first got to Ned Brooks at his house this morning they found him in the kitchen wearing slippers and a robe and making coffee. He claimed he’d just waked up and couldn’t go back to sleep, but they had a feeling he wasn’t really surprised to hear about Jackson, though he pretended he was.”

“He wasn’t,” said Shayne flatly. “Bert Jackson’s girl friend phoned him about it a short time before.”

“How do you know that?” Gentry paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“He told me about it, back at the newspaper office.”

“How did she know about it?” Gentry fumed. “His girl friend, eh? Who?”

Shayne said, “You’re not going to like this, Will, but if you jump Brooks about it he’ll tell you, anyway. Her name is Marie Leonard, and she lives at the Las Felice. I told her about Bert, Will. Right after you got me sore when they were picking up Jackson’s body.”

“Goddamn you, Mike! You knew about her and didn’t tell me?”

“We weren’t exchanging confidences at the moment,” Shayne reminded him grimly. “I didn’t actually know about her then, but when I saw the key with ‘Three A’ on it taken from Jackson’s wallet, I put two and two together and decided it was probably kept there where his wife wouldn’t see it. Three A is Marie’s apartment number. I found out when I went to the Las Felice to see who lived there.”

“Just like that,” raged Gentry. “I suppose you just picked that particular apartment building by one of your famous hunches.”

“You know I’m usually a couple of jumps ahead of you,” Shayne reminded him. “If you hadn’t got me sore by threatening to arrest me-”

“And if I had arrested you,” Gentry roared, “you wouldn’t have got to this Leonard woman first.”

Shayne looked down at the chief’s purpling face and said mildly, “You made up for that by keeping me away from Mrs. Jackson, Will. Has she talked yet?”

“No. When she does, it’ll be to the police. I warn you to stay away from her, Shayne.” He jerked the door open and trampled solidly into his private office.

Shayne followed him and started to pull up a chair to sit in on the interrogation of Ned Brooks, but Gentry settled his bulk in his swivel chair and shouted an order to the patrolman at the door.

“Take Shayne outside and see that he stays there until I’m through with this man.”

Shayne quirked his right brow in surprise, then glanced aside at Brooks. “Look, Will-”

“Get out,” roared Gentry.

“Better let me stay, Will, and see if he tells it the same way twice.”

“From now on I’ll handle this case,” the chief said flatly.

“Have it your way,” said Shayne. He sauntered toward the door as the patrolman started forward.

The telephone on Gentry’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver and barked, “Gentry,” listened for a moment, then roared at the doorman, “Hold Shayne there until I get the straight of this.”

The officer moved to grab Shayne’s arm. Shayne sidestepped him and lounged against the closed door to watch the chief’s apoplectic face and listen to him say, “Go on, give me the rest of it.” He listened again. Suddenly his big fist hit the desk, and he shouted into the phone, “Arrest her. Bring her to my office.” He slammed the receiver on the hook and glared at the lounging detective.

“Is it all right if I go now, Will?” he asked in a pleasant tone.

“Goddamn your double-crossing soul, Shayne,” growled the chief.

“What’s eating you now? Honest to God-”

“Don’t honest-to-God me,” sputtered the chief. “So you dressed your secretary up in a nurse’s uniform and sent her out to take care of Mrs. Jackson, pretending that some doctor sent her. This is the last straw, Shayne. I swear-”

“Lucy’s a damned good nurse,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “She took a first-aid course in Civilian Defense during the war, and when Doctor Meeker said he needed someone to look after Mrs. Jackson this morning I sent her over. She went out of the kindness of her heart, and I don’t see-”

“Out of the kindness of your heart, you mean,” the chief interrupted ironically. “You deliberately planted her there so she’d be the first one to hear her talk. This is the last time you’ll fool around with evidence in a murder case.” He took a drooling cigar stub from his mouth and hurled it at a wastebasket.

Shayne moved toward his desk slowly. “Look, Will, you’ve got this all wrong,” he said soothingly. “I’ll wait for Lucy, and if Mrs. Jackson did tell her anything-”

“You’ll wait outside,” Gentry informed him coldly. “Jack, take Shayne out in the hall and hold him there,” he ordered the officer at the door. “When Sergeant Allen brings in a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, don’t let her speak to Shayne.”

“I was just trying to help, Will,” said Shayne mildly. “Sometimes Lucy gets awfully stubborn. She doesn’t like to be pushed around.” He turned and ambled through the open doorway, and the officer closed the door firmly. Shayne leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

He was finishing his second cigarette when Sergeant Allen brought Lucy in. The white uniform accentuated the perfection of her slender figure, and the little cap gave her a professional look completely at variance with the uncompromising set of her mouth and the flaming anger in her cheeks; and the dull stubbornness in her normally soft brown eyes brought a grim half-smile to Shayne’s lips.

Lucy Hamilton caught her breath in sharply and started to speak to him, but Sergeant Allen gripped her arm and hustled her on when the doorman said, “No talking, miss. Chief’s orders.”

“It’s okay, Lucy,” Shayne told her as she went by with her head high.

“That’ll be enough of that,” Jack warned him officiously.

Shayne’s third cigarette was not more than half smoked when the door opened and Sergeant Allen beckoned him inside. Lucy sat primly erect in a straight chair, her eyes blazing and her lips tight. Chief Gentry was chewing on a fresh black cigar, shifting it across his mouth as his murky, protuberant eyes glared at Lucy, and Ned Brooks was slumped disconsolately in a chair.