Brett Halliday: Framed in Blood

A throaty female voice with a suggestion of tears came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne? Can I see you?” There was a faint note of familiarity about the voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Downstairs. May I come up?”

“Who are you?” Shayne said swiftly, dabbing at his wet body with his free hand.

“I’m Betty Jackson. I have to see you about Bert. I’m terribly worried-and frightened.”

“All right,” growled Shayne. “I’ll leave the door on the latch. Come in and wait. I’m dressing.” He hung up and padded to the front door, threw off the night latch, and went to the bedroom.

He wondered about Betty Jackson as he finished drying himself and got into fresh clothes. And about Timothy Rourke and the extent of his interest in the young couple. And how Mrs. Jackson had learned about Bert’s visit to his apartment.

He was prepared thoroughly to dislike Mrs. Bert Jackson as he buttoned a clean white shirt and knotted a gray figured tie around his neck. He vaguely recalled meeting her at the wedding party two years previously, and retained an impression of softness and youth and superficial prettiness as she clung to her new husband’s arm, wide-eyed with adoration.

That had worn off fast, he told himself grimly. Judging by what young Jackson had said, at least. Less than two years of marriage, and she was stepping out with other men because her husband earned only sixty-two fifty a week.

Shayne knew lots of men who earned less and whose wives made homes with that amount. He was angry at himself for bothering with Betty Jackson as he made a pretense of brushing damp, unruly hair.

He had heard no sound from the outer room, but when he opened the bedroom door and stalked out he saw her sitting in the same deep chair where her husband had sat a short time before. He stopped abruptly and looked at her.

Much of her softness and youth had been shorn away by two years of marriage, and she had become a beautiful woman. Her eyes were large and velvety black and imploring. She was thinner, and the good bone structure of her face was more delicately outlined. Dark hair was brushed smoothly back from a high forehead, her dark brows heavy and slightly arched, her mouth full-lipped, and long lashes black against deep sockets as she looked up at Shayne. She sat erect with her feet planted close together and a hand pressed on each arm of the chair as though prepared to leap up and throw herself into his arms.

“I had to see you,” she said. “Please tell me about Bert-what he said to you and where he has gone.”

Shayne moved slowly toward her and said, “Among other things, your husband told me that you’re not satisfied to live on his salary and that you’ve been going out with other men who can buy champagne.”

She winced, and her eyes grew moist, but she did not move from the strained position. “What-were some of the other things he told you, Mr. Shayne?”

“First, tell me how you knew he was here.” Shayne crossed to his swivel chair and sat down.

“Tim Rourke phoned me. Do you know where Bert was going when he left here?”

“No. He could have been headed straight for the devil so far as I was concerned.”

She winced again, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and blinked her lids. The lashes were moist when she opened her eyes and strained forward to say, “I know Bert’s a fool, Mr. Shayne. But I–I love him-and I’m frightened.”

“Women who love their husbands don’t drive them to unethical and criminal acts to pick up a little extra dough.” Shayne’s tone was uncompromising, and he turned his eyes slightly to avoid looking directly into hers.

“What did he say?” Her voice rose hysterically. “Is he going through with his crazy plan to extort money for that story?”

“Don’t you approve?”

She sprang up and went toward him, anger blazing in the black eyes that had been liquid and shining a moment before. “Damn you!” she raged. “You’ve no right to say that to me. Bert’s crazy with jealousy, and he’s got everything wrong. Did he give you the idea he wanted that money for me?”

She was standing over him, and Shayne looked up into her eyes. “Didn’t he?” said Shayne coldly.

“No!” She turned away and sat down again. “He wanted it for her,” she told him in a dull voice. “So he could leave me. What did he say about Tim?”

“That he hadn’t seen Tim for several weeks. I gathered they aren’t friends any longer.”

Betty Jackson buried her face in her hands for a moment. Her cheeks were streaked with tears when she took them away, and there was a wild glint of hysteria in her eyes. “Something happened while Bert was still on the News,” she cried. “I don’t know exactly what, but it gave Bert this crazy idea he has now. Something about a story that Tim got paid money for covering up. Bert accused Tim of it, I guess, and Tim got him fired. All he’s talked about since then is how he was going to do the same if he ever had the chance.”

“What’s Tim Rourke to you?” demanded Shayne.

“Just-a good friend.” Color flooded her pale face under Shayne’s searching gaze, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “Tim has been like a brother to both of us.”

“Does Tim buy you champagne?”

“Sometimes,” she answered aloofly.

Shayne studied her for a moment, allowing himself to wonder. He knew Rourke’s weakness for beautiful women. Then he made an impatient gesture and growled, “All this stuff about your personal life doesn’t interest me. Why did you come here?”

“I want to find Bert.”

“Start looking in the nearest bars,” Shayne advised her callously. “It’s not more than an hour since he left here. I doubt if he’s gotten far.”

“Tim said he would check the places where Bert usually goes,” she said dubiously. “But we’re both afraid he’ll try to do-that other-by himself.”

“You mean the extortion deal?”

“Yes. He’s been getting up his nerve for weeks. I’ve tried to make him see how foolish it is, but he insists.” She paused, and again her voice rose hysterically. “It’s that other woman! She’s driven him to it-wanting money-offering to go away with him.”

“That’s twice,” said Shayne patiently, “that you’ve mentioned some other woman in connection with your husband. He gave me the impression he wanted the money for you.”

“Then he lied! All this last month-”

Her mouth trembled, and she was making a supreme effort to control herself when Shayne got up and said, “Let me get you a drink.”

“No thanks,” she said angrily, then added with heavy sarcasm, “You probably haven’t any champagne.”

Shayne was at the liquor cabinet reaching for a bottle of cognac, his back turned toward her. He grinned briefly. Along with her beauty, he decided, Betty Jackson appeared to have spirit and courage. “No champagne,” he told her evenly, “but I could mix a cocktail. Sherry?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Sherry will be fine.” She was relaxed with her hands folded in her lap when he came back with two glasses. He gave her the sherry and resumed his seat, took a sip of cognac, and nursed the glass between his palms.

Betty Jackson sipped her sherry, then said, “I want to tell you everything and get your help. Tim says you’re perfectly wonderful.” A wan smile flitted across her lips and she added, “You know, we always call you Mike when we speak of you.”

“Tim Rourke is full of blarney,” he replied. “Call me Mike if you like, and I have just fifteen minutes to listen before I have to go out.”

She moved to the edge of the chair and leaned toward him, her eyes wide and hopeful, her lips parted, as though she considered her thoughts carefully before speaking.