Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

The vehicle swung into the curb at his signal and an intern leaped nimbly from the front seat. Shayne urged him inside with a jerk of his thumb and a couple of words, waited for the attendants to pile out of the ambulance, then followed them as far as the front porch where he said, “Wait here until the doc calls you.”

When he re-entered the living-room the intern was bending over Rourke. Shayne motioned Brooks to a corner and muttered, “You understand that Will Gentry will have to draw his own conclusions if Tim doesn’t stay alive to tell us anything. You’d better tell them the exact truth about phoning Rourke to warn him you’d set the cops on his tail, and how you invited him over here to hole up to sort of make up for it. The truth won’t hurt you, and anything else is likely to. Tim wasn’t a fugitive, and there’ll be no charge against you for harboring him.”

Other sirens were screaming close by. Shayne whirled toward the door, adding, “Think it over carefully, Brooks,” and went outside again.

A radio car with two officers pulled in behind the ambulance. Shayne halted them as they trotted up the walk. “Doc’s inside,” he told them shortly. “This is for Homicide. Chief Gentry will be here in a moment, so you’d better not mess around too much.”

The senior patrolman knew Shayne by sight. He nodded and said to his partner, “I’ll go inside, Jenkins. If Chief Gentry shows up-”

“There’s his car now,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll tell him you’ve got things under control.” He moved slowly down the walk as Gentry heaved himself from his sedan and walked stolidly toward the detective.

“I thought you’d be in on this,” the chief growled without rancor. “What is it with Rourke?”

“It looks like attempted suicide, Will. With a twenty-two target pistol.”

Gentry puffed furiously on his cigar, avoiding Shayne’s cold gray eyes, aware of the close bond of friendship between the rangy redhead and the crusading reporter. His own relationship with Timothy Rourke had been very close in the past, and his voice was strangely hoarse when he asked, “Is he bad?”

“There was just a flicker of pulse when Brooks and I got here,” Shayne told him as they walked unhurriedly toward the house. “He left a note that looks bad. I knew he was here at Brooks’s place, Will. I sent him here early this morning.”

“To keep us from getting hold of him,” said Gentry without inflection.

“Yeh.” Shayne’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I didn’t know. There were a lot of things-and I needed time to work on some angles. Before God, Will, I don’t know what I’d have done if I had decided that Rourke fired a bullet into Jackson’s head.”

“I knew something like that was worrying you,” said Gentry heavily. “Better stick around outside while I take a look.” He stalked up the steps and disappeared into the living-room.

Shayne paced the length of the walk twice before the summons came. Gentry met him just inside the living-room door and said, “It’s not too good, Mike. The intern has patched him up and gives him a fifty-fifty chance. Tim’s beginning to come out of it, and a hypo is necessary. We’ll have maybe three or four minutes to question him before it takes effect, and I’m giving you a break. Come on in and hear what he says. If he doesn’t recover I don’t want you feeling there was any funny business.”

Shayne’s throat was dry. “Thanks, Will,” he said huskily. “But do me one more favor. Since Tim will be conscious to answer only a few questions, let me ask them. I know what to say to get the truth out of him.”

“Sorry,” said Gentry gruffly. “I’m stretching a point to let you listen in-”

“Don’t you gee how it is?” Shayne burst in angrily. “I know Tim didn’t do it. A dozen things tell me. Damn it, Will, he’s covering up for Betty Jackson, and she’s not worth it! I don’t have time to give it to you now, but if you’ll let me talk to Tim I’ll get the truth.”

“This is a police investigation,” Gentry reminded him.

“Hell, don’t you think I realize that? Let me do the talking-give Tim the impression I’m alone. Stand aside and listen in.”

Gentry took a dead cigar from his pudgy lips, glanced aside at the intern, who crooked a forefinger for them to come closer. He sighed and said, “Okay, Mike.”

Shayne was on his way to the couch where Rourke’s body lay in a comfortable position, the white bandages around his head making a sharp contrast to his deeply sun-tanned face that was drawn and discolored from the impact of the shot and loss of blood. He motioned to the intern, went close to him, and said in a low whisper, “Get out of sight, over there with the chief. If either of you object to my questions or the replies I get, you can intervene. But if you really want to know the truth,” he added to Gentry, “you’ll let me do it my way.”

Gentry frowned but said nothing. The intern bent over Rourke, his fingers on Rourke’s pulse. “In about thirty seconds the patient will rouse,” the young doctor said. “He should be conscious for a few minutes before the hypodermic takes full effect. But I must warn you that he must not become excited. If he chooses to answer questions of his own volition, however, it shouldn’t harm him.” He stepped aside and joined Gentry.

Timothy Rourke’s head moved slightly. He opened his slate-gray eyes. The pupils were dilated, and he looked up at Shayne with a dull, blank expression. Recognition came slowly as his eyes focused on Shayne’s face a foot above his own.

“It’s all right, Tim,” Shayne said softly. “Don’t move, and listen to me. Can you hear me?”

“Yeh,” Rourke answered feebly. “What the hell?”

“Let me ask the questions, Tim. You’re going to pass out in a minute or two, and it may be too late after that. You may be dying.”

“Yeh,” said Rourke again. “I guess I passed out, huh? Ned and I were sitting here drinking-”

“Save your strength for something very important,” Shayne broke in anxiously. “You’ve got to stop covering up for Betty. She’s not worth it, Tim. I swear she isn’t.” His voice became harsh as he continued. “I know you thought she did it because she loved you, but she didn’t. She gunned Bert for cash-to get twenty-five grand. That was her real reason, Tim.”

For a brief instant Rourke’s eyes glittered, and he tried to raise his head and shoulders from the couch.

Shayne put gentle pressure on his chest and said, “Listen, Tim, while I give it to you straight. Betty killed Bert because at the last moment he decided to do the right thing and turn his story in to the Tribune. She had been needling him into the blackmail scheme and she became frantic when she saw that money slipping away. So she shot him. Just like that. Through the back of the head with your target pistol. Then she calmly called Mr. Big and demanded twenty-five grand mailed to her care of General Delivery at ten o’clock this morning. Then she took a batch of sleeping-tablets and passed out. That’s the way you found her when you got to her house a little after midnight, wasn’t it? In bed, passed out cold? And you found Bert Jackson murdered with your gun. How did she get your gun, Tim?”

Sweat stood out on his face. Half of what he was saying was pure guesswork, but he drove the points home and hoped he wasn’t blundering.

Timothy Rourke closed his eyes, and a spasm of pain twisted his cadaverous features. “Is that-the truth, Mike? About the money?” His voice was faint, wavering.

“I swear it’s the truth, Tim,” Shayne told him, bending closer, his voice tense. “Tell me, how did she get hold of your gun?”

“I–I loaned it to her. A week ago.” Rourke opened his eyes slowly. For a moment he appeared to study the taped ear and the puffed left side of Shayne’s face, and the deeply trenched right side, a familiar sight, and the only thing in the world that made sense to him at the moment. His lips twisted in a slow smile intended to show bitterness, but succeeded only in being pitiable. “The gun-was to protect her from Bert-if he got abusive,” he said. “When I-stumbled over his body-on the front porch and went inside and found Betty-passed out in her bed-I thought-”