Brett Halliday - Framed in Blood

“Yeh. If Will saw it,” he agreed, moving toward his desk with two bottles and glasses. “I think I’ll keep this to myself.” He set the bottles and glasses down and gazed restlessly around the room. “I gave it to him straight, Tim. There’s not one damned thing in my office or apartment worth a dime to anyone. And no reason for anyone to believe there is. I’m not working on anything, and haven’t had a client for weeks.” He sat down heavily and creaked the swivel chair forward, poured two drinks, glanced at his watch, and noted that less than an hour had elapsed since Gentry’s call had wakened him, and went on absently. “They didn’t waste much time breaking in here after I left for the office.”

Rourke drew up a chair, sat down, reached for his drink, and suggested, “They probably had you tagged when you went out.”

Shayne scowled. “Do you know how the cops got onto my office so fast?”

The reporter moved his head slowly and negatively. “I just got a piece of it over my car radio. When they said it was your office I beat it down there, even though I knew our man at headquarters would cover the regular angles.”

Shayne took a long drink, thumped his glass down, and said, “See if you can get him on the phone and find out. I’ve a hunch it was a tip-off to drag me away so they could make a try here after they failed to get what they wanted at the office.” He leaned back with a look of fierce concentration on his rugged face while Rourke picked up the receiver and asked for a number.

After a moment Rourke contacted his fellow-reporter, asked a couple of questions, hung up, and reported. “Your hunch is probably right, Mike. The cops had an anonymous call at one-thirty saying a man had been killed during the burglary of your office. They beat it down there and found the operator dead inside his cage.”

“Knowing that I’d be called right away,” Shayne ruminated. “Which gave someone the opportunity to do this job in a hurry.” Again his angry gaze roamed over the wreckage. “In the name of God, why?”

The strain that had threatened their friendship a few minutes before vanished with this new development. Rourke was silently thoughtful, his slate-gray eyes glittering in their deep sockets. “Do you suppose Bert Jackson might have slipped an envelope-or something-out of his pocket,” he suggested with some delicacy, “and hid it behind a cushion or somewhere while he was here?”

Shayne nodded slowly, recalling the drink Bert Jackson had helped himself to, getting ice cubes from the kitchen. “He could have. But why? I’d turned his proposition down flat.”

“He knew it was hot stuff,” Rourke argued. “If he planned to make his extortion pitch tonight, he might have wanted the stuff stashed in a safe place. It would be a lever to be able to say it was in your possession and that you’d take over if anything happened to him.”

“Could be,” Shayne agreed. “He was drunk enough and excited enough to think that was smart. Call his house and see if he’s come home.”

Rourke hesitated. “I can try. But if he isn’t there I doubt if Betty will be in shape to answer the phone. When I called at two o’clock she promised she’d take a couple of sleeping-tablets and go to bed.”

Shayne said, “Try her,” in a curiously urgent voice, then relaxed deeper in his chair and sipped brandy, his eyes half-closed.

Rourke dragged the desk phone toward him reluctantly and asked for a number which Shayne mechanically memorized for future reference After a long time Rourke hung up and said, “No answer. Betty must have knocked herself out with sleeping-tablets, and Bert evidently isn’t home. Damn it, Mike, I’m worried about him. I think we ought to put the whole thing squarely up to Will Gentry and get a search organized.”

“Are you sure you want that, Tim?”

“Why not?” The reporter’s tone was challenging.

“We’d have to tell him the whole story,” Shayne said evenly. “Like myself, Gentry’ll wonder why Bert Jackson seemed so sure you’d be willing to go into that blackmail deal with him. Can you afford that?”

“Damn it, Mike,” Rourke flared. “I told you the kid got that other deal all wrong.”

“I know you told me. But the death of the elevator operator makes this a Homicide investigation, Tim. I’ve been on the inside of those before. Every damned bit of dirt from the past will come out, even if you and Will are old friends. Think it over carefully before I say anything that mixes you into it.”

Rourke set his thin lips and stared down at clenched hands. Twice he started to speak, checked himself, then picked up his glass and drained it in spasmodic swallows. “I don’t believe there’s a man on earth,” he muttered, “who could justify everything he’s ever done. Do I have to for you?”

“Not for me,” said Shayne promptly. “And not to the police if you let me handle this my own way and keep you in the clear. But I can’t go barging ahead in the dark, Tim. I’ve got to know the truth so I’ll know how much to suppress. First-all these places where you went and asked for Jackson tonight, did you get on his trail at any of them?”

“He hadn’t been in any of the bars I went into. I finally tried the Las Felice apartments and hit pay dirt. Betty had told me about a woman Bert visited there, so I tried it about midnight.”

“And?” Shayne was studying his hands and frowning at the dark smear of blood on the right palm.

“There’s a doorman who goes off duty at midnight,” Rourke told him swiftly. “Five bucks bought a description of Bert from him. He remembered Bert arriving early in the evening, probably went directly there from here, and leaving about ten o’clock.”

“Alone?”

“Alone, and just about sober enough to stay on his feet. But an offer of ten bucks more wouldn’t buy the name of the woman he visits. There’s a self-service elevator, you see, and the doorman swore he didn’t know what floor Bert stopped on.”

“And after that?” Shayne probed.

“I drove straight to his house which is only a few blocks away. Betty was alone. Bert still hadn’t shown up.”

“So you comforted her?” Shayne suggested.

“The best I could,” Rourke admitted blandly. “Then I left to make the rounds of a few more places without any luck. Don’t you see what it adds up to, Mike? That woman at the Las Felice was egging him on-to get money for her. She must have worked on him plenty during those hours he was with her. I’d guess he made his contact by telephone from her apartment, and left at ten to keep an appointment to collect the swag.”

“That’s just a guess,” objected Shayne.

“But it ties in with what happened at your office and here.” Rourke gestured wearily. “What other theory does make sense? Even though you refused to go in with him he could, as I said, have used your name for a lever to threaten the guy. Say the stuff was in your possession and would be turned over to me for publication in case anything happened to him.”

“Could be,” Shayne agreed moodily. “And in that case I should be hearing from Mr. Big, after he has failed to find what he wants. There’ll be that chance just so long as I don’t let the police in on it,” he continued swiftly. “Once it comes out in the open, any chance of a deal will be off. From what Jackson said, there’s enough money involved to make it worth waiting for an offer.”

“Do you mean you’d make a deal with a man who had that night operator murdered?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Shayne demanded. “It isn’t as though I’ve actually got anything to sell him. If he chooses to think I have and wants to pay me to suppress it, why shouldn’t I let him?”

“Suppose he’s already murdered Bert Jackson, too?” Rourke burst out. “And that’s what I’m afraid has happened.”