Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“Yes,” Lucy whispered. “I quibbled back there. I didn’t really lie, because I only promised Chief Gentry I would repeat exactly what Mrs. Jackson told me. And I did do that, but I promised her I wouldn’t say anything about this other thing.”

“What thing, angel?”

“A letter I’m to get for her. I promised I’d go to the post office and pick it up from General Delivery. It’s addressed to her,” she went on hurriedly. “She told me about it after she knew her husband was dead. She made me promise to get it and keep it for her and not mention it to the police. I said I would if she’d promise me she’d pretend to be sound asleep when I left and not tell the police anything. I thought you’d want to know first, and it was the only way I could make her promise not to talk.”

“You did exactly right,” Shayne assured her. He glanced at his watch and added in a louder voice as Ned Brooks came up behind them, “You go right along and attend to that. Then wait for me at the office. Right now I’ve got to see Tim and tell him he’d better change his story to fit the one Betty Jackson has told before the police get to him.”

“Then I’ll see you at the office soon?” Lucy asked.

“Yeh.” Shayne consulted his watch again and scowled when he saw that it was a little after ten. “It’s getting pretty warm, Lucy. Why don’t you grab a taxi?”

Her eyes widened with surprise, but the urgent expression on his face prompted her to say quickly, “Oh, it is warm. And I do feel rather conspicuous in this uniform.” She turned and hurried away.

“Want to ride out with me?” Shayne said to Brooks.

“To my place? Sure.” The reporter got in while Shayne trotted around to the other side and slid under the wheel.

“But what do you mean about Tim changing his story?” Brooks continued in a puzzled tone as Shayne started the motor and pulled away from the curb.

“Some things he told me don’t fit with what Betty told Lucy,” he explained casually. “Tim gave me your address, but I’m not sure-”

“Northwest Eightieth. Fastest way is out the Boulevard and west on Seventy-Ninth. I’ll tell you an impression I got from Tim this morning, Mr. Shayne,” the reporter went on earnestly. “He seemed to be badly worried about Betty, and maybe was sort of covering up for her.”

“You mean Tim is afraid she did the job on her husband?”

“Well, maybe not that exactly. But something. I don’t know. He began hitting the bottle when he reached my house and he talked a lot.”

Shayne nodded grimly. He was on the Boulevard, and when he passed 20th Street he let the new car out in a surge of speed. Neither of them spoke again until they passed through the Little River business section.

“Next turn to the right,” Brooks directed. “Go one block, then left. It’s the third house from the corner.”

Ned Brooks lived in a small stucco bungalow with a vacant lot on either side separating it from the nearest neighbors. Shayne frowned as he pulled up to the curb and saw no car resembling Rourke’s parked in the vicinity. He muttered, “If he’s dodged out without telling me-”

“His car is in the garage,” Brooks said. “I drove it in after driving mine out this morning, in case some cruising cop came along.”

Shayne’s expression cleared when he saw the closed garage doors at the end of the driveway. He said, “That was a good idea.” He got out and followed the reporter with long, stiff strides to the front door where Brooks pushed the electric button.

After thirty seconds the reporter took out his key, saying, “He’s probably passed out,” unlocked the door, and opened it upon a small living-room with shades and drapes drawn against the sun. He snapped on the ceiling light and moved toward the emaciated figure of Tim Rourke lying sprawled half off the long couch, with his head pillowed on one arm and one leg dangling off the edge.

“I was right, by God,” he said hoarsely. “He is passed out.”

Shayne was at Brooks’s side, rubbing his jaw with blunt fingers and staring bleakly down at Rourke.

“And no wonder,” Brooks continued, pointing to an empty whisky bottle lying on the floor beside the couch. “That bottle was full when he started on it this morning.”

Shayne pushed him aside and dropped to his knees near a pool of blood on the bare floor between the edge of the couch and the rug. He saw the smear of blood trickling down the waxen face from a bullet wound at the hairline above Rourke’s left temple, the. 22 target pistol drooping from his right hand. He heard Brooks moving restlessly around the room, heard him stop, and when Shayne came stiffly to his feet again he turned to see the reporter staring down at a sheet of paper rolled into a portable typewriter.

“Here, by God, is a confession.” Brooks turned slowly. “Has he committed suicide?”

“Not quite-get a doctor here, fast. He’s still breathing.” Shayne’s voice cut savagely through the room.

Ned Brooks stared stupidly, wavered on his feet, then hurried through the doorway leading into the hall. Shayne turned back to Rourke, listened until he heard Brooks dial a number, then bent impulsively to lift his friend’s thin legs to a comfortable position on the couch.

He drew his big hands back instinctively. From all indications Rourke had been lying like that for several hours, and he realized the importance of leaving him exactly as he was until the doctor arrived.

His eyes were grim and brooding as he went to the typewriter and studied the note in the roller. There were only two lines:

I killed bertJacksonm and Bettr docsnST know anything about it nomatter what she tellsyxx yox.

Ned Brooks hurried back to the living-room shouting, “Ambulance will be here in a few minutes. My God, Shayne, what’ll we do? Tear up that note before the police get here? I’m willing to do whatever-”

“The police?” Shayne swung on him angrily. “I told you to call a doctor.”

“Well-it’s an emergency,” faltered Brooks. “I called headquarters because they’re faster.”

“You were probably right at that,” Shayne grunted absently. His bleak eyes reread the note for the tenth time, and he mumbled, “It’s too late to try to cover up anything now.”

Brooks sank down in a chair and hid his face with his hands. “I suppose it is,” he moaned.

“Is this your typewriter?” Shayne asked abruptly.

“Yes. I opened it up for Tim when he first came and wasn’t so tight. He said he might write a story. My God, Mr. Shayne-I wonder if he was planning that while I was still here? That gun. He must have had it in his pocket all the time.” He uncovered his face and asked miserably, “Do you really think he’s still alive? The bullet didn’t-didn’t-”

“He’s got a pulse,” Shayne growled. “I didn’t examine the wound closely, but it looks to me like it bounced off without actually penetrating. Tim’s got a thick skull, and a twenty-two doesn’t have too much power. Tell me exactly how he acted before you left,” he went on swiftly. “Everything he said that you can remember. We haven’t got much time before Gentry gets here-that is, if you reported who you wanted the ambulance for.”

“I did,” moaned Brooks. “I thought they’d be faster if they knew it was Tim. He-Tim had been drinking, like I told you, and he acted funny. I got the idea he was worried about Betty Jackson.”

“What do you mean he was acting funny?” Shayne asked harshly.

“Look, I’m not a detective,” said Brooks, moving his arms in a gesture of despair. “You know a lot more about such things than I do, but if you’ve read that note carefully, don’t you get the idea that he was really covering up for Betty? Or do you think they were in it together and when he got drunk he decided to do it this way and take all the blame? He must have been awfully drunk after emptying that fifth of whisky.” The thin keening of a siren sounded from a distance as Brooks finished. Shayne turned without answering and went to the window. He watched in silence until the ambulance came into view, then hurried out to signal the driver as he slowed to hunt for house numbers.