Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“Okay.” Shayne’s tone was stiff and his fists clenched. There were deep trenches in his gaunt cheeks when he walked around the press car and settled beside the reporter. He took off his hat and laid it on the seat as Rourke pulled away from the curb, leaned his head back against the cushion to let the night air from the open window blow across his face.

After a moment of relaxation he became aware of an uncomfortable wetness against the back of his neck. Glancing aside he saw that Rourke had his head out the window watching for a place to stop. He sat up and ran his palm over the short hairs, then dabbed the back of his hand against the seat.

From long experience he knew that the sticky, viscous stuff on his hands and neck was partially dried blood. He got out a handkerchief, wiped his hands, then sat rigidly erect to avoid contact with the seat cushion again.

Shayne’s thought went bleakly back to another case when Rourke had jumped the gun in an effort to scoop a story and had received bullet wounds that nearly cost him his life. Now, there was every indication that he was mixed up in this one right up to his scrawny neck.

Rourke slid the car to the empty curb before a dingy all-night bar. They got out and walked silently through the door, and it was not until they were seated with drinks on the table that Shayne frowned at the palm of his right hand and said, “Why in the name of God did you mention Bert Jackson to Gentry?”

“Do you know that Bert hasn’t been home yet?” Rourke countered. “I phoned at two o’clock, and Betty said he wasn’t there.”

“I don’t know and I don’t give a damn if he never goes home,” said Shayne angrily. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” said Rourke gravely. “Why in hell do you think I’ve been hunting all over town for him tonight?”

Shayne took a drink and made a distasteful grimace before saying, “From what Betty Jackson told me, I assume it’s because you were afraid he was going ahead with the blackmail deal on his own without cutting you in on a share of the loot.” His voice was bitter and his gray eyes bleak.

Rourke looked at him in astonishment. “For God’s sake, Mike! You don’t believe I’d go into a thing like that!”

“I phoned you when Bert was with me,” Shayne reminded him. “You didn’t say no then.”

Rourke swallowed half of his drink, set the glass down, and rested both elbows on the table. “What did Betty tell you?” he inquired casually.

“A little about some incident on the News,” Shayne said, studying Rourke’s anxious face. “The way I got it, you pulled the same stunt Bert’s trying to pull, and Bert was in on it. You got him fired because he knew too much.”

“Betty has it all wrong, Mike,” Rourke told him gravely. “She’s been listening to Bert.”

“How was it?”

“Lay off me,” Rourke grated. “Damn it, Mike, if you feel that way-”

“How am I supposed to feel?” Shayne spread his right hand, palm up, showing the dark stain clearly. “Know what that is? It’s blood. Know where it came from?”

Rourke leaned forward and squinted at the detective’s palm. “Where?”

“From the back of the seat cushion in your car,” Shayne told him. “You say you were chasing Bert Jackson all over town tonight. You’d better level with me, Tim. Did you catch up with him?” He looked up and met Rourke’s eyes.

Rourke moved his head uneasily under Shayne’s hard stare. “What in the name of God have you got on your mind, Mike?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed wearily. “Betty Jackson was worried about what might happen if you and Bert met. I’m wondering if you did meet.”

“Why? Why was Betty worried?” The reporter’s eyes were feverishly bright again.

“Because of that thing on the News, I guess. Because she thinks you’re afraid Bert will bring it out into the open if anything happened while he was trying to pull the same stunt. For God’s sake, Tim!” Shayne exploded. “I can’t go on in the dark. Tell me where you stand and what this is all about. I keep thinking about the crack you made about Jackson in my office. Why pull that in front of Gentry?”

“Because it hit me all of a sudden,” said Rourke slowly. “Someone killed the elevator operator and tore your place up looking for something. Could be the guy Jackson planned to blackmail-if Bert didn’t get to him tonight.”

“Why would he tear up my place?” said Shayne. “I ran Jackson out-”

“I know, you told me that,” Rourke broke in irritably. “But I got to thinking.” He paused, raking his fingers through his sparse hair and drawing them down over his bony face.

“You got to thinking that I lied,” Shayne said in a fiat, toneless voice. “You decided that I threw in with Bert and that I lied to you to cut you out of your share of the blackmail. Damn it, Tim.”

“Get off your high horse,” Tim shouted hoarsely. “We’ll get nowhere suspecting each other this way. I didn’t think anything like that. I did think maybe you’d got the kid to leave his story with you, and that maybe you’d stall him like I asked you to over the phone.” He stopped talking long enough to drain his glass, then flung the accusation.

“That thing at your office looked exactly like what might happen if Bert had spilled everything. Now that he has disappeared, I wonder.”

Shayne looked at the liquor in his glass, and his mouth tightened with distaste. “It’s what might have happened if he had turned his dope over to me.” He stood up. “Lucy and I will have a mess to clean up in the morning.”

Rourke arose with him. “I’ll drive you over.” Neither of them spoke until Rourke drew up to the curb at the side entrance to Shayne’s hotel. The detective opened the door, got out, said, “Good night,” and turned away.

Rourke hesitated, hunched over the steering-wheel. His face showed intense strain. Then he jerked his door open and followed Shayne in, hurrying up the stairs behind him. Catching up with him on the top step, he panted, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let it break off this way, Mike. We’ve been friends too long to let a couple of punk kids come between us.”

Shayne shrugged and continued down the corridor. “You’re always welcome to a drink, but I don’t-”

He stopped abruptly as he reached the door of his apartment. It sagged open, and the marks of a jimmy scarred the doorframe. He reached inside to switch on the lights and began to curse deep in his throat when he saw the wreckage.

Timothy Rourke whistled shrilly. “Somebody is certainly looking for something,” he said with conviction.

“That,” said Shayne grimly, “is the understatement of the year.”

There were fewer papers here to be scattered, but the same intensive search as of his office was evidenced. The desk drawers were pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor; chair and couch cushions had been removed and tossed aside.

Shayne stalked into the bedroom to find chests of drawers emptied and mattress and pillows from the bed piled on the floor. In the kitchen the same careful search had been made of cupboards and refrigerator. His gray eyes were bleak when he re-entered the living-room slowly, massaging his angular jaw.

He made a sudden, savage gesture and went to the liquor cabinet muttering, “The bastards were in too big a hurry to drink my liquor, anyway. Rye, Tim?”

Rourke, after quietly peeking into the bedroom, was straightening chairs and replacing cushions. He nodded assent, then said, “If Gentry wasn’t convinced by your ransacked office, this will be the clincher that you’ve got something someone wants badly and in a hell of a hurry.”