Framed in Blood

by Brett Halliday

  “Goddamn you, Mike! You knew about her and didn’t tell me?”

  “We weren’t exchanging confidences at the moment,” Shayne reminded him grimly. “I didn’t actually know about her then, but when I saw the key with ‘Three A’ on it taken from Jackson’s wallet, I put two and two together and decided it was probably kept there where his wife wouldn’t see it. Three A is Marie’s apartment number. I found out when I went to the Las Felice to see who lived there.”

  “Just like that,” raged Gentry. “I suppose you just picked that particular apartment building by one of your famous hunches.”

  “You know I’m usually a couple of jumps ahead of you,” Shayne reminded him. “If you hadn’t got me sore by threatening to arrest me—”

  “And if I had arrested you,” Gentry roared, “you wouldn’t have got to this Leonard woman first.”

  Shayne looked down at the chief’s purpling face and said mildly, “You made up for that by keeping me away from Mrs. Jackson, Will. Has she talked yet?”

  “No. When she does, it’ll be to the police. I warn you to stay away from her, Shayne.” He jerked the door open and trampled solidly into his private office.

  Shayne followed him and started to pull up a chair to sit in on the interrogation of Ned Brooks, but Gentry settled his bulk in his swivel chair and shouted an order to the patrolman at the door.

  “Take Shayne outside and see that he stays there until I’m through with this man.”

  Shayne quirked his right brow in surprise, then glanced aside at Brooks. “Look, Will—”

  “Get out,” roared Gentry.

  “Better let me stay, Will, and see if he tells it the same way twice.”

  “From now on I’ll handle this case,” the chief said flatly.

  “Have it your way,” said Shayne. He sauntered toward the door as the patrolman started forward.

  The telephone on Gentry’s desk buzzed. He lifted the receiver and barked, “Gentry,” listened for a moment, then roared at the doorman, “Hold Shayne there until I get the straight of this.”

  The officer moved to grab Shayne’s arm. Shayne sidestepped him and lounged against the closed door to watch the chief’s apoplectic face and listen to him say, “Go on, give me the rest of it.” He listened again. Suddenly his big fist hit the desk, and he shouted into the phone, “Arrest her. Bring her to my office.” He slammed the receiver on the hook and glared at the lounging detective.

  “Is it all right if I go now, Will?” he asked in a pleasant tone.

  “Goddamn your double-crossing soul, Shayne,” growled the chief.

  “What’s eating you now? Honest to God—”

  “Don’t honest-to-God me,” sputtered the chief. “So you dressed your secretary up in a nurse’s uniform and sent her out to take care of Mrs. Jackson, pretending that some doctor sent her. This is the last straw, Shayne. I swear—”

  “Lucy’s a damned good nurse,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “She took a first-aid course in Civilian Defense during the war, and when Doctor Meeker said he needed someone to look after Mrs. Jackson this morning I sent her over. She went out of the kindness of her heart, and I don’t see—”

  “Out of the kindness of your heart, you mean,” the chief interrupted ironically. “You deliberately planted her there so she’d be the first one to hear her talk. This is the last time you’ll fool around with evidence in a murder case.” He took a drooling cigar stub from his mouth and hurled it at a wastebasket.

  Shayne moved toward his desk slowly. “Look, Will, you’ve got this all wrong,” he said soothingly. “I’ll wait for Lucy, and if Mrs. Jackson did tell her anything—”

  “You’ll wait outside,” Gentry informed him coldly. “Jack, take Shayne out in the hall and hold him there,” he ordered the officer at the door. “When Sergeant Allen brings in a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, don’t let her speak to Shayne.”

  “I was just trying to help, Will,” said Shayne mildly. “Sometimes Lucy gets awfully stubborn. She doesn’t like to be pushed around.” He turned and ambled through the open doorway, and the officer closed the door firmly. Shayne leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

  He was finishing his second cigarette when Sergeant Allen brought Lucy in. The white uniform accentuated the perfection of her slender figure, and the little cap gave her a professional look completely at variance with the uncompromising set of her mouth and the flaming anger in her cheeks; and the dull stubbornness in her normally soft brown eyes brought a grim half-smile to Shayne’s lips.

  Lucy Hamilton caught her breath in sharply and started to speak to him, but Sergeant Allen gripped her arm and hustled her on when the doorman said, “No talking, miss. Chief’s orders.”

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” Shayne told her as she went by with her head high.

  “That’ll be enough of that,” Jack warned him officiously.

  Shayne’s third cigarette was not more than half smoked when the door opened and Sergeant Allen beckoned him inside. Lucy sat primly erect in a straight chair, her eyes blazing and her lips tight. Chief Gentry was chewing on a fresh black cigar, shifting it across his mouth as his murky, protuberant eyes glared at Lucy, and Ned Brooks was slumped disconsolately in a chair.

  “For the last time,” Gentry burst out, “you and this young lady are going to have one chance to come clean with me. Push me one inch further and you both go behind bars.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Shayne asked mildly.

  “Miss Hamilton doesn’t seem to realize the seriousness of withholding evidence. If she thinks you can talk her out of this—”

  “Withholding evidence?” Shayne’s tone was both shocked and grieved. He shook his head at Lucy, turned to Gentry, and asked, “What is the exact situation?”

  “Miss Hamilton talked to the witness,” Gentry charged, “and refuses to tell us what Mrs. Jackson said. After getting into her bedroom by impersonating a nurse she bolted the door and refused to allow Sergeant Allen to enter, even after he heard them talking and knew the witness was conscious.

  “When Miss Hamilton did come out,” he went on angrily, “she claimed that Mrs. Jackson had gone back into a coma and shouldn’t be disturbed. And, by God, when Allen went in she was pretending she was in a coma and refused to talk to him!

  “Your secretary might have got away with it,” the chief continued bitterly, turning to Shayne, “if she hadn’t been recognized by one of my men when she was leaving the house. She still refuses to tell me one thing Mrs. Jackson told her. If she persists in this attitude—”

  “Did Mrs. Jackson tell you anything about what happened last night in her brief return to consciousness?” Shayne interrupted in a stern, reproving voice.

  Lucy stared at his bandaged ear and the puffed, purple left side of his face. “Yes, she did, Michael. But you’ve always told me the confidence of a client is inviolate and must not be repeated under any circumstances.”

  “Since when did Mrs. Jackson become your client, Shayne?” the chief cut in. “You told me last night you didn’t have a client.”

  “She became one—sort of—after I told you that,” Shayne explained. “I’ll make a deal with you, Will. If you’ll come down off your high horse and forget all this stuff about impersonating a nurse and withholding evidence, I’ll ask Lucy to tell us exactly what she got from Mrs. Jackson.”

  “Not by a damn sight,” Gentry exploded. “You’re through messing in this case. She’ll tell me without you, or she goes to jail.”

  Shayne spread out his big bruised hands. “Have it your own way, Will.” He grinned crookedly at Lucy and said, “It’s not too bad in jail, angel. Tell me what you need, and I’ll go pack your bag.”

  “Like hell you will,” Gentry fumed. “You’ll be locked in the next cell block.”

  “And you’ll wait until Mrs. Jackson is able to talk,” Shayne reminded him. “Which she may decide not to do, now that she knows her husband is dead. You did get the stuff from her before she knew that, did
n’t you?” he asked Lucy.

  “Yes, Michael,” said Lucy. “Just the way you told me. She was just coming to and hardly knew what she was saying.”

  “There you are, Will. Are you going to hold things up just because I had sense enough to put a woman on the job and get the actual information before some cluck like Morgan or Sergeant Allen clammed her up by telling her the truth?”

  Chief Gentry creaked back wearily in his swivel chair and was silent for fully thirty seconds. “I’m going to do it some day, Shayne,” he said slowly. “I swear to God I am. I’m going to catch you out on a limb—”

  “But right now,” Shayne interrupted, “you’d better compromise. Give me your word that Lucy and I walk out of here together after she gives you the whole story. What could be fairer than that?”

  Gentry grunted, rocked forward, and planted his elbows on the desk. “Will you give me your word, Miss Hamilton,” he asked formally, “that you’ll repeat exactly what Mrs. Jackson told you about last night?”

  Lucy looked at Shayne for confirmation. “If Michael agrees.”

  “I’d rather have it privately,” Shayne told her. “But this appears to be a stalemate, Lucy. Tell us what Mrs. Jackson said.”

  Lucy faced the chief and met his cold gaze levelly. “Mrs. Jackson said she remembered taking two sleeping-tablets about nine-thirty last night because she was worried about her husband. He hadn’t been home, and she didn’t know where he was. She dimly recalled taking one or two more tablets sometime later. Before ten o’clock, she was sure, and she doesn’t know what happened after that.”

  There was silence in the office.

  Shayne’s face had a look of blank amazement. Tim Rourke had said he talked with Betty Jackson at twelve o’clock and that he had called her on the phone at two!

  “Do you think she was telling the truth, Lucy?” he asked, trying to keep the tenseness he felt out of his voice.

  “Why, I got the impression she was, Michael. She was just coming out of a coma, and she was terribly worried about her husband not coming home.”

  “Did she claim she wasn’t conscious when Jackson returned at ten o’clock?” Gentry asked.

  “Yes. She didn’t remember anything from nine-thirty on,” Lucy told him.

  Shayne said, “This is as much a surprise and disappointment to me as it is to you, Will. I was counting big on getting some important dope from Mrs. Jackson.” He dragged a straight chair up to a strategic position where he could face both Lucy and the chief, sat down stiffly, and continued. “This leaves me completely out on a limb. If she’s telling the truth—”

  “And if Miss Hamilton is telling the truth,” Gentry broke in pointedly.

  “You are, aren’t you, Lucy?” Shayne asked. “I want you to. Don’t hold anything back now. You heard the bargain I made with Will.”

  “That’s all of it, Michael.” She nodded emphatically. “When I was sure she wouldn’t tell me anything more, I told her about her husband being murdered.” She paused, moistened her lips and looked down at her hands.

  “And?” Shayne prompted her sternly.

  “Well, unless she’s a superb actress, it was a surprise—and a terrible shock to her.”

  “So much of a shock that she sank right back into a coma?” Gentry demanded, rolling his rumpled lids halfway down.

  “I didn’t say that,” Lucy protested. “It was Sergeant Allen. He insisted on going in to question her as soon as I unlocked the door. He’s the one who told you that.” She glanced aside at the sergeant who lounged against the closed door.

  “I’m pretty sure Mrs. Jackson was pretending unconsciousness, Chief,” said the sergeant, moving forward to join them. “I had the distinct impression that she wanted to avoid being questioned.”

  “What does it matter now?” said Shayne impatiently. “We know what she told Lucy before she knew her husband was dead.” He took Lucy’s arm and drew her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here. You’ve got a job waiting—straightening up the office.” He glanced at Ned Brooks and asked significantly, “You want me to drop you some place?”

  “If you don’t mind,” the reporter answered, then added stiffly, “if the chief is through with me.”

  “Hell, yes,” Gentry roared. “I’m through with all of you. If I find out Miss Hamilton isn’t telling the exact truth, Mike—”

  “You can throw us both in jail—in the same cell.” Shayne gave him a lopsided smile and propelled Lucy from the room and down the corridor, with Ned Brooks following behind them.

  Outside and on the way to the car Lucy breathed, “Michael, what has happened since I saw you this morning? Your face looks simply awful.”

  “Just a little accident,” he told her cheerfully. “Ran my car into the bay. Had to buy a new one. Picked out one you’ll like.” They turned left on the walk, and Shayne glanced back. Ned Brooks was trailing some fifteen feet behind. Shayne lowered his voice and asked, “Anything you want to tell me fast?”

  “Yes,” Lucy whispered. “I quibbled back there. I didn’t really lie, because I only promised Chief Gentry I would repeat exactly what Mrs. Jackson told me. And I did do that, but I promised her I wouldn’t say anything about this other thing.”

  “What thing, angel?”

  “A letter I’m to get for her. I promised I’d go to the post office and pick it up from General Delivery. It’s addressed to her,” she went on hurriedly. “She told me about it after she knew her husband was dead. She made me promise to get it and keep it for her and not mention it to the police. I said I would if she’d promise me she’d pretend to be sound asleep when I left and not tell the police anything. I thought you’d want to know first, and it was the only way I could make her promise not to talk.”

  “You did exactly right,” Shayne assured her. He glanced at his watch and added in a louder voice as Ned Brooks came up behind them, “You go right along and attend to that. Then wait for me at the office. Right now I’ve got to see Tim and tell him he’d better change his story to fit the one Betty Jackson has told before the police get to him.”

  “Then I’ll see you at the office soon?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeh.” Shayne consulted his watch again and scowled when he saw that it was a little after ten. “It’s getting pretty warm, Lucy. Why don’t you grab a taxi?”

  Her eyes widened with surprise, but the urgent expression on his face prompted her to say quickly, “Oh, it is warm. And I do feel rather conspicuous in this uniform.” She turned and hurried away.

  “Want to ride out with me?” Shayne said to Brooks.

  “To my place? Sure.” The reporter got in while Shayne trotted around to the other side and slid under the wheel.

  “But what do you mean about Tim changing his story?” Brooks continued in a puzzled tone as Shayne started the motor and pulled away from the curb.

  “Some things he told me don’t fit with what Betty told Lucy,” he explained casually. “Tim gave me your address, but I’m not sure—”

  “Northwest Eightieth. Fastest way is out the Boulevard and west on Seventy-Ninth. I’ll tell you an impression I got from Tim this morning, Mr. Shayne,” the reporter went on earnestly. “He seemed to be badly worried about Betty, and maybe was sort of covering up for her.”

  “You mean Tim is afraid she did the job on her husband?”

  “Well, maybe not that exactly. But something. I don’t know. He began hitting the bottle when he reached my house and he talked a lot.”

  Shayne nodded grimly. He was on the Boulevard, and when he passed 20th Street he let the new car out in a surge of speed. Neither of them spoke again until they passed through the Little River business section.

  “Next turn to the right,” Brooks directed. “Go one block, then left. It’s the third house from the corner.”

  Ned Brooks lived in a small stucco bungalow with a vacant lot on either side separating it from the nearest neighbors. Shayne frowned as he pulled up to the curb and saw no car resembling Rourke’s parked in th
e vicinity. He muttered, “If he’s dodged out without telling me—”

  “His car is in the garage,” Brooks said. “I drove it in after driving mine out this morning, in case some cruising cop came along.”

  Shayne’s expression cleared when he saw the closed garage doors at the end of the driveway. He said, “That was a good idea.” He got out and followed the reporter with long, stiff strides to the front door where Brooks pushed the electric button.

  After thirty seconds the reporter took out his key, saying, “He’s probably passed out,” unlocked the door, and opened it upon a small living-room with shades and drapes drawn against the sun. He snapped on the ceiling light and moved toward the emaciated figure of Tim Rourke lying sprawled half off the long couch, with his head pillowed on one arm and one leg dangling off the edge.

  “I was right, by God,” he said hoarsely. “He is passed out.”

  Shayne was at Brooks’s side, rubbing his jaw with blunt fingers and staring bleakly down at Rourke.

  “And no wonder,” Brooks continued, pointing to an empty whisky bottle lying on the floor beside the couch. “That bottle was full when he started on it this morning.”

  Shayne pushed him aside and dropped to his knees near a pool of blood on the bare floor between the edge of the couch and the rug. He saw the smear of blood trickling down the waxen face from a bullet wound at the hairline above Rourke’s left temple, the .22 target pistol drooping from his right hand. He heard Brooks moving restlessly around the room, heard him stop, and when Shayne came stiffly to his feet again he turned to see the reporter staring down at a sheet of paper rolled into a portable typewriter.

  “Here, by God, is a confession.” Brooks turned slowly. “Has he committed suicide?”

  “Not quite—get a doctor here, fast. He’s still breathing.” Shayne’s voice cut savagely through the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  INCREDIBLE CONFESSION

  NED BROOKS STARED STUPIDLY, wavered on his feet, then hurried through the doorway leading into the hall. Shayne turned back to Rourke, listened until he heard Brooks dial a number, then bent impulsively to lift his friend’s thin legs to a comfortable position on the couch.