Framed in Blood

by Brett Halliday

  A narrow passageway led from the center of the room to two bedrooms with a bath in between. Shayne heard the sound of angry voices and sauntered down the narrow hall to an open door.

  “… mighty highhanded way of doing things,” Detective Morgan was saying. “I tell you this woman is an important witness in a murder investigation.”

  “And I’m her physician,” Doctor Meeker replied crisply. “I don’t care if Saint Peter wants to interview her. She’s my patient, and as long as she’s alive I won’t have her disturbed. This injection is necessary, and I intend to administer it.”

  “I’m warning you, Doctor, that you’re liable to prosecution.”

  Shayne stepped into a bedroom with shades lowered. He said provocatively, “Don’t pay any attention to Morgan, Doctor. When I get around to it I’m going to prosecute him for digging into my private office files.”

  Morgan whirled around and faced Shayne with a hostile gaze, but the doctor remained in his bent position, holding Betty Jackson’s arm in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other.

  Inserting the needle deftly he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I have no intention of endangering my patient’s life just to please some oaf of a policeman.”

  “What are you doing here, Shayne?” Morgan demanded. “Didn’t Sergeant Allen tell you—”

  “That I wasn’t to interview Mrs. Jackson. From what I just heard I guess there’s not much danger of my doing that, is there, Doctor?”

  “Not for at least six hours,” said the doctor, withdrawing the needle and massaging the spot on his patient’s arm with a piece of cotton. He was a short, heavy-set man with gray hair and a strong jaw that was at the moment set determinedly. He glanced casually at Shayne with no show of recognition and began replacing things in his black physician’s bag.

  “Will Mrs. Jackson be all right?” Shayne asked anxiously.

  “With proper care and attention she should regain consciousness shortly after noon with no effects worse than a bad hangover,” he answered gravely. “But I absolutely forbid any attempt to waken her for questioning before she rouses from her condition normally.” He snapped his bag shut, turned to Morgan, and continued.

  “I intend to hold you strictly accountable, Officer Morgan. Your full name and badge number, if you please.”

  Morgan bristled, his face reddening. “See here, Doctor. As an officer of the law—”

  “As an officer of the law it is your duty to see that the patient is not disturbed,” Doctor Meeker interrupted with quiet professional reserve. “Your name and number?”

  “I can give you his name, Doctor,” Shayne interposed. “And I can get his badge without any trouble. But what about Mrs. Jackson? Shouldn’t she have a nurse to take care of her, stand by? Some of these hot-shot Homicide boys have conveniently short memories when it comes to a thing like this.”

  “Decidedly,” snapped Doctor Meeker. “She must have a nurse with her. I’ll arrange to have one come on duty at once.”

  Detective Morgan’s nostrils were flaring with each enraged breath. “That’s enough smart talk from you, Shamus. If you don’t get out and stay out, I’ve still got those handcuffs I didn’t use last night.”

  “But you’ve only got one man to help you this time,” Shayne reminded him.

  Doctor Meeker went quietly from the room. Shayne followed and went on outside when the doctor stopped at the telephone in the living-room, then nodded and said, “Thanks,” to Sergeant Allen as he went out the front door and down the walk.

  He loitered on the sidewalk until Doctor Meeker came out, then moved beside him toward the gray coupé, asking in a low voice, “Is Mrs. Jackson really bad, Doc?”

  “Just knocked out with an overdose of barbital,” said the doctor, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his short legs taking three steps to Shayne’s two long strides. “She was beginning to come around a few minutes before you arrived, but I gathered that you had some particular reason for hoping she would be unable to talk to the police for as long as possible. The sedative I administered will simply delay normal return to consciousness for a few hours.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Shayne murmured, not looking at his shorter companion.

  They stopped beside the gray coupé. The doctor opened the door and thrust his medical bag onto the seat and got in under the steering-wheel.

  “What actually happened to Mr. Jackson?” he asked, still avoiding looking at Shayne, and switching on the ignition, pressing the starter.

  Shayne put both big hands on the open window sill as though purposely detaining the physician, and hastily told him the facts in a few words, then asked, “Do you think this was a suicide attempt, Doc?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve known them ever since they were married, and have been watching their marriage go on the rocks. Months ago I advised her to see a psychiatrist. I just don’t know,” he repeated slowly. “Under certain conditions of shock she was capable of taking her own life. But I judge not in this case. I’m quite certain that she took no more than six tablets, and I’m sure she must know that that number is not likely to be fatal.”

  “Why would she take six?” Shayne persisted. “Wouldn’t one or two put her to sleep?”

  “Normally, yes. I’ve been prescribing them for her the past several months. Never more than half a dozen at the time. At first, one prescription lasted two to three weeks—”

  “But couldn’t a person save them up?” Shayne broke in swiftly.

  Doctor Meeker raced the idling engine as though anxious to get away, carefully avoiding looking at Shayne. “More than half the cases you read about are really accidental, Mike,” he said. “The effect of any drug taken regularly will gradually diminish, and a larger dosage is required. It’s perfectly normal for a person in a highly nervous state to feel that the prescribed dosage is inadequate, so they take one—maybe two more. The effect of even a moderate overdose often produces hallucinations, so they end up by taking the whole bottle without realizing it.”

  Shayne was worrying his left ear lobe with thumb and forefinger, and a frown trenched his forehead. “About a nurse,” he said abruptly. “Have you got one you can trust?”

  “I called the registry before I left. There’s not one available, but I think I could arrange for a practical nurse right away. Actually, the only necessity is to have someone who will see that she isn’t disturbed.”

  “Look, Doc, suppose I get hold of one and send her over to take charge?”

  Doctor Meeker nodded jerkily. “It would save me the bother, Mike. Just be certain she’s kept quiet and allowed to sleep off the effect of the hypodermic.” For the first time he turned toward Shayne. He asked, “Is our friend Tim Rourke mixed up in this?”

  “More or less.” Shayne sighed, and after a moment’s thought he asked bluntly, “Was their marriage breaking up on account of Tim?”

  “I’d rather you asked him that, Mike.” He raced the motor again, slid into low gear, and said, “Well, if there’s nothing more I can do—”

  Shayne reached through the window to wring his hand and say heartily, “You’ve been swell, Doc,” then strode back toward Grandma Peabody’s house as the doctor drove away.

  He was too late to keep his promise to report Betty Jackson’s condition. Sergeant Allen was standing just outside Mrs. Peabody’s living-room door with a notebook in his hand, and he could hear the old woman’s breathless words spanking the air, as vicious as the blazing sun’s rays which were unobscured by a single cloud in the sky and portending the scorching heat to come.

  Turning back, Shayne got into his car and headed toward Biscayne Boulevard. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was only a little after six. He remembered then that he hadn’t had a case for weeks and, therefore, hadn’t been awake at dawn for some time, and that the sun did rise surprisingly early in June.

  Yawning widely, he felt the need of a few hours’ sleep more than anything else, but there was no time for that. Not now. Things were
moving and were likely to move faster in the next few hours.

  He drove slowly, slumped behind the wheel, morosely thinking that if it weren’t for Tim Rourke he’d wash his hands of the entire affair and go home to sleep all day. But Tim was in it up to his scrawny neck. Playing around with a married woman—and a brunette! That, he could not understand or forgive when Miami was so full of eager blondes.

  Jerking himself erect, he went over all the facets of the situation now confronting him, trying to put first things first. He made up his mind suddenly, stepped on the accelerator, then slowed to turn off onto a side street to drive a couple of blocks and stop in front of a two-story apartment house.

  He got out and went into the small foyer, pressed a button, and three long, steady rings brought the desired click of the latch. He pulled the door open and wearily climbed one flight of stairs.

  Lucy Hamilton stood in the doorway of her apartment, wearing a silk robe over cotton flowered pajamas. Her dark hair was disarrayed, and her brown eyes were anxious and heavy with sleep.

  “Michael!” She put both hands on his shoulders and looked up into his lined face. “What is it? You look—awful.”

  “Nothing that a drink won’t fix,” he told her cheerfully, pulling her hands gently from his shoulders and drawing her into the pleasant living-room where he released her, chucked his hat on a chair, and sank down on the couch.

  His secretary closed the door and stood with her back against it, studying him with a solicitude that was almost maternal. Yet there was a hint of the cool reserve she had shown the afternoon before when she entered his apartment to find Betty Jackson in his arms.

  “Chief Gentry phoned me last night. What was it all about, Michael? He wouldn’t tell me. He asked about clients and wanted to know what valuable papers we had in the office.”

  “Yeh. He called me at the same time. The night elevator operator in our building was murdered and our office ransacked. Somebody looking for something. Will didn’t believe me when I told him we didn’t have a client—or anything worth murdering for.”

  “And you’ve been up ever since then?” she cried, moving toward him, her brown eyes glowing softly.

  “Worse than that.”

  “I’m sorry I was—well, upset when I walked in your apartment and saw you holding that woman in your arms. I don’t know why.” She perched on the wide arm of the couch, catching her lower lip between her teeth and looking down at his bowed red head.

  Shayne took his chin from his chest and looked up at her. “It’s all right, angel. I didn’t blame you.”

  “But I blame myself. Why can’t I ever learn? I had no right, Michael. Even if we were married, I wouldn’t feel I had the right.” Her voice was shaky, stricken, and stormy and tender, all at the same time. “If that damned door hadn’t been unlocked—if I hadn’t walked in on you without warning—”

  “No one else had a better right,” he said gently. “If I ever do persuade you to marry me—”

  “I won’t be a jealous wife, Michael.” Her eyes were wide and bright and starry. “I know how you are with women, and how they are about you—And I know it’s all—well—impersonal. Something that doesn’t touch me. But I never actually saw you with a woman in your arms before.”

  Shayne’s long arms grabbed her and pulled her from the arm of the couch. He kissed her gently, then held her hard against him for a long moment. When he released her he said, “I’m going to tell you this once more, then you forget it. It wasn’t what you thought with Betty Jackson. She was worried about her husband, and—in love with Tim Rourke, I guess,” he ended slowly.

  “In love with Tim?” Lucy pulled away from him and resumed her seat on the arm of the couch. “What an odd way of demonstrating it.”

  Shayne sighed and raked his bristly hair with his finger tips. “If I could have that drink, maybe I could make a better job of explaining that Bert Jackson got himself murdered last night and I’m afraid Tim is mixed up in it.”

  Lucy said, “Tim?” She stood up slowly. “Bert Jackson? Was he that woman’s husband?”

  Shayne nodded. “Suppose we have that drink.”

  “Wouldn’t you like coffee?”

  “Cognac first. Then coffee with cognac laced in,” he agreed, grinning up at her anxious face, then lounging to his feet. “Is there any around?”

  “It’s right where you left it the last time you were here,” she told him, going toward the kitchen.

  Shayne caught up with her, lifted her slim body clear of the floor with his right arm, released her, and they were both laughing when they went through the open archway into the tiny kitchen. Lucy began measuring water and coffee into the pot while Shayne took a bottle of cognac from the cupboard. It was two-thirds full. He poured a couple of inches into a glass and sipped it slowly, leaning against the drainboard end of the sink.

  “I’m terribly sorry about Tim being mixed up in this, Michael,” she said gravely, going to the stove and turning the front gas jet for the dripolator. “How is he involved in it?”

  “I don’t know, angel. The police are going to believe he killed Jackson as soon as they add a couple more things up.”

  Lucy turned the gas low and said, “Let’s go in and get comfortable, and you can tell me all about it.”

  She sat beside him on the couch, and in a flat monotone Shayne related every incident, beginning with his meeting with Bert Jackson in the bar after they closed the office, carefully including the fact that he had consulted his watch several times near the end of Betty Jackson’s visit to his apartment, and ending with his final talk with Doctor Meeker.

  “A lot depends on what sort of story—”

  “Just a minute, Michael,” said Lucy, springing up and hurrying into the kitchen. “The coffee’s gurgling.” She returned with a tray bearing two cups of coffee and the cognac bottle. Shayne laced brandy in his cup, tasted it, settled back with the cup in his hand, and continued.

  “The story Betty Jackson will tell when she wakes up is going to be very important. If Grandma Peabody is right and Bert did go straight home from Marie Leonard’s apartment—”

  “Either Betty lied to Tim, or Tim lied to you,” Lucy supplied excitedly.

  “Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “Maybe Betty wasn’t there and didn’t know her husband had come back. Maybe she’d slipped out the back way to meet Tim and they were together. Hell! I don’t know, Lucy.” He made a savage gesture with his left hand and set his cup on the coffee table.

  “Why not ask Tim?” she suggested.

  “I’m afraid to,” he acknowledged. “I’m afraid of what he’ll tell me. As long as I don’t ask him—as long as he stays out of sight—”

  “Then you think it’s the man Bert Jackson was trying to blackmail—the unknown Mr. Big.”

  “I hope to God it is,” Shayne said fervently.

  “But how are you going to find out, Michael? With Bert dead—”

  “Don’t forget that Bert told him I had all his dope,” Shayne broke in. “We know that much from Marie Leonard. And Bert must have made it pretty convincing,” he added wryly, “because my apartment as well as my office was ransacked last night.”

  “No!” Lucy exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  Shayne thought for a moment, then grinned. “I was so intent on keeping the fact from Will Gentry I must have buried it in my mind. Tim took me home from the office, and we found my apartment door jimmied and everything ripped apart,” he said. “Since they didn’t find anything in either place, it’s a cinch they’ll have to come after me. Whoever committed the murders is desperate to get his hands on that Bert Jackson story.”

  “Oh, Michael,” Lucy cried out, “why didn’t you tell Chief Gentry the truth when he threatened to arrest you? If you hadn’t told him Bert Jackson wanted divorce evidence—”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he told her. “If I hadn’t told him something good I’d be in jail right now. Besides, it was bound to come out.”r />
  “But you’d be safe in jail,” Lucy said in a small, frightened voice, “with no murderers coming after you for something you haven’t got.”

  “But that’s the only chance to smoke them out,” he reasoned patiently, taking her small, cold hand in his. “They have to come to me—if Betty can be kept quiet a few hours so Gentry can’t get onto it and mess things up. And that’s where you come in, angel. Ever had a yen to be a nurse?”

  Lucy looked at him with round, startled eyes. “Why, no. A first-aid course in Civilian Defense during the war convinced me.”

  “Then you’ll be able to pull this off,” Shayne said excitedly. “As soon as the stores open, go out and buy yourself a nurse’s outfit. White shoes, white cotton stockings, perky cap, and all. Go out to the Jackson house and introduce yourself as the nurse Doctor Meeker sent to take care of Mrs. Jackson. Be tough about it, angel, and insist on staying in the room with her—alone. The minute she starts to come out of her stupor, get the story of every move she made last night—everything that happened, before you tell her about her husband—and before the police get to her. Think you can do that?” He had turned to face her, holding her hand in a tight grip.

  “Of course, Michael. I’d be glad to do anything.” She responded to his enthusiasm, but her practical mind added, “Isn’t there a penalty for impersonating a nurse?”

  Shayne grinned at her. “A year or so in the pen, maybe. Okay?”

  “If anybody even makes a move to send me to the penitentiary for a year, Michael Shayne,” she burst out, “I’ll tell—”

  “Look, angel,” he cut in, “just get the essence. Don’t try to pump her. Ten o’clock is the crucial time. If she was home when Bert returned, if she heard him get his phone call and knew where he was going—”

  His voice trailed off and he shook his head worriedly, releasing her hand and turning to let his head loll against the cushion. “You should be able to leave as soon as she comes to and you get her story. Your duty as a nurse will be over then, I guess.”