Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“Damn the credit. I’ve got to have cash.”

“How much?” Shayne swiveled forward and propped his elbows on the scarred desk. “I’ll advance you something. It depends on how good the stuff is after you lay it on the line for me to see.”

“Ten grand,” said Jackson sullenly.

“No story is worth that.”

“This one is-to a certain party.” Bert Jackson finished his second drink and wavered to his feet. Steadying himself with one hand on the back of the chair he said belligerently, “I tell you I’ve got enough to send Mr. Big up for life.”

“Then sell it to him,” Shayne snapped. “It’s your neck, not mine.”

Jackson bent down carefully, still clinging to the chair back with one hand, picked up his hat, and carefully fitted it on his head as he straightened. He then hiccuped and patted a sagging side pocket of his coat, leered at Shayne through half-closed lids, and said with drunken emphasis, “Don’t worry about my neck. Just let him try to get tough.”

“The sort of man you’re talking about,” Shayne told him wearily, “will have a dozen hoods on his payroll. You’d be safer tangling with a buzz saw.”

“So you’re backing out on it?” Jackson demanded.

“I haven’t been in on it. It’s okay if you and Rourke want to play, but count me out.”

The young reporter swayed indecisively beside the chair, still holding onto the back with one hand. Suddenly he let go and held himself rigidly erect. He rammed one hand in his trouser pocket and jangled coins nervously. “That’s just what I’ll do, Mr. Shayne. And thank you for-nothing.”

“You’d better get out, and fast,” Shayne said quietly. Bert Jackson tugged the brim of his hat low over his face and with the measured tread of the very drunk went out, slamming the door behind him.

The ringing of the telephone broke stridently into Shayne’s confused thoughts. He picked up the receiver and heard Timothy Rourke’s anxious voice coming over the wire before he clamped it against his ear.

“Mike-I’ve been calling your office, but no answer.”

“Lucy and I closed up early,” Shayne told him.

“Where’s Bert Jackson?”

“He just left, half tight and headed for trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Rourke. His voice was high-pitched, nervous, and excited.

“I told you about the screwy proposition he was making us not more than five minutes ago,” Shayne said impatiently. “Why did you tell me to stall him? A thing like that doesn’t make sense.”

“Hold on, Mike,” Rourke said sharply. “There’s no time to discuss the ethics of it now. Do you mean you turned Bert down flat?”

“I told him he could go to you, but I wasn’t having any.”

“Do you think he will-come to me?”

“I-don’t know,” said Shayne, thinking rapidly. “He seemed pretty sour on you. Have you had a fight?”

“Well, sort of, Mike,” Rourke answered cautiously. “Do you think he’ll try to put it through himself?”

“He was hell-bent on it when he left here,” said Shayne indifferently.

“For godsake, Mike,” Rourke exploded. “We’ve got to find him. Fast. Have you any idea-”

“You find him,” Shayne snapped. “I’ve had all of Bert Jackson I can stomach for one evening.” He slammed the receiver hard on the cradle and was eyeing his empty glass when a loud, urgent rapping sounded on the door. He strode toward it angrily, determined to conduct Bert Jackson to the top of the stairs and give him a swift kick down.

Shayne jerked the door open and saw an athletic figure with dark hair brushed neatly back from a smooth forehead. He was hatless, and attired in a sports jacket with gray gabardine slacks.

“My name is Ned Brooks, Mr. Shayne,” he said. “A friend of Tim Rourke. I work on the Trib with Bert Jackson.” His face was broad and squarish, his complexion dark and richly sun-tanned.

Shayne blocked the entrance with his tall, rangy body, looking down at the shorter man with a scowl. He said, “What do you want?” harshly.

“I’d like to talk to you a minute,” Brooks said. “About Bert. I saw him walking up this way with you a while ago, and I’ve been hanging around the lobby waiting until he left. He’d be sore if he knew I came here.”

“Why?”

“Because-well, look, Mr. Shayne,” Brooks said nervously, “Bert and I have been teamed on a story for some time. I know he’s got onto something big down at City Hall, and he’s holding out on me and the Trib. I want to know why-what’s he planning to do.”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because of hints he let drop,” said Brooks, folding his arms across his massive chest. “It’s my story as much as it is his, and I have a right to know why he doesn’t break it into print.”

“Why don’t you,” Shayne parried, “ask Bert?” He remained solidly in the doorway and showed no inclination to invite the reporter in.

“I have. But he’s gotten funny lately. I’ll tell you why I think he was here, Mr. Shayne, and if I’m wrong you can say so, and I’ll beat it.”

Shayne turned and waved a big hand toward the chair Bert Jackson had vacated and said, “I’ve got a few minutes to waste.”

Ned Brooks sat down carefully to preserve the sharp creases in his slacks. “I think Bert’s got some crazy idea of selling the story for cash instead of turning it in and he came to you for help in putting over some sort of deal.”

Shayne lowered one hip to the scarred desk. The blank expression on his face told the reporter nothing.

Brooks wet his lips nervously and went on. “You can see why that worries me. We’re working on it together, and anything he does reflects on my integrity, also. Don’t let him do it, Mr. Shayne. You can prevent it if you will. Aside from my own personal connection with it, I hate to see Bert get mixed up in a shady thing like that. He’s married to a nice girl and he’s got a big future in the newspaper business if he’ll just be patient.”

“What’s come between Bert and Tim Rourke?” Shayne asked abruptly.

Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his gaze from the detective’s. “They had a bust-up. About a year ago when Bert got fired from the News.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Well, I-not too much,” Brooks hedged.

“Do you know Bert Jackson’s wife?”

“Sure. Betty’s a swell kid. I’d feel sorry for her if anything happened to Bert.”

“That’s not exactly the way he told it to me.”

“You mean Marie? What did Bert tell you about her?”

“Not much,” Shayne said, and it seemed to him that Ned Brooks was faintly relieved by his reply.

The reporter leaned back and produced a neat leather case from an inner pocket. He took some time selecting a cigarette, lit it, and asked anxiously, “Was I right about what Bert wanted from you?”

“I don’t discuss the private affairs of my clients,” Shayne told him shortly.

“Then Bert is a client? You agreed to help him?”

“Or the private affairs of people who come to me, whether I take them as clients or not.”

“Would you tell me this one thing?” urged Brooks. “Did he mention my name at all?”

Shayne considered for a moment, then said flatly, “No. And now I’ve wasted all the time I have to spare.”

Ned Brooks arose swiftly, and was overprofuse in his thanks and apologies as he went to the door.

Shayne waved him away impatiently, and frowned when the door closed behind him. He wondered who Marie was, then angrily pushed the question from his mind, reminding himself that it was absolutely none of his affair.

Michael Shayne was stepping from the shower half an hour later when his phone rang. He snatched up a heavy towel and dried himself sketchily as he went to answer it.