“It’s less than a ten-minute drive from here to Jackson’s house,” he went on evenly. “You did intercept him a block away, as you’ve admitted, and you did argue with him, but you lied when you said you tried to persuade him to phone the story in to the paper. It was just the other way around. When Jackson refused to change his mind after he’d resolved he’d do the decent thing, you fought with him and got the pistol from his pocket. It was you who followed him to his front walk and shot him as he went up the steps. Then you got in touch with Marie and told her to go ahead with the blackmail contact at once. It has to be that way, Brooks. How else did the pistol that killed Bert Jackson get here in your house?”
“My God!” Brooks cried hoarsely and vehemently. “If I had done what you say do you think I’d have handed the pistol over to Rourke this morning so he could shoot himself?”
“No. I don’t think you’d have done that. But you see, Brooks, as soon as I read that purported suicide note I knew Tim Rourke didn’t type it. I was also sure he hadn’t shot himself. And that leaves you.”
Ned Brooks squared his athletic shoulders. “That’s preposterous. Rourke’s fingerprints were on the pistol and the typewriter keys. You and Chief Gentry—all of us know how Tim was about doing all sorts of things when he was drunk and never remembered them later. It was just another case of his mind blacking out and his subconscious taking over his physical reflexes.”
“That’s where you’re wrong again,” Shayne told him. “Remember, Will,” he went on, turning to Gentry, “my telling you about watching Rourke type a three-page story when he was passed out without hitting a wrong key? Yet in that two-line note there are no less than six typographical errors and one word exed out and another letter struck over. Exactly the sort of mistakes that a person who didn’t know Tim too well would make intentionally in a forgery to indicate that the man doing the typing was drunk. Making those errors was just one degree too smart for your own good, Brooks,” he ended with a stiff gesture of finality.
“This man is crazy,” Brooks shouted, appealing to Gentry. “Your men checked the prints and they matched Rourke’s. I couldn’t possibly have—”
“That’s right, Mike,” Gentry interrupted. “How did Tim’s prints get on the keys if he didn’t type the note?”
“Tim told us that himself. Remember he said that before he passed out he started to write a story about Bert Jackson on Brooks’s typewriter?”
“But that was before he passed out,” Gentry objected. “If I get you right, you’re accusing Brooks of shooting Rourke and typing the note afterward. In that case we would have found Brooks’s prints superimposed on all the letters contained in the note.”
“Not necessarily,” said Shayne. “There’s another way of getting at the solution.” He went to the typewriter and took a fountain pen from his pocket. Without removing the protective cap he leaned over and tapped several keys sharply with one end.
Gentry was moving toward him when he straightened up, and the chief demanded, “What are you up to now, Mike?”
“Have your men check the prints again,” Shayne said. “That’s how he did it. But he didn’t realize how hard Tim’s head is, and he bungled the last part of the job.
“You can see that Jackson’s murder lies between you and Ned Brooks,” he continued savagely, stalking back to confront Marie Leonard. “All you have to do is admit calling him right after Bert left you. If you continue to protect him, it’ll be your neck that’s stretched at Raiford.”
There was a long, deadly silence in the room. Shayne felt Lucy’s hand trembling on his arm, but he didn’t look at her. No one looked at anyone else, and the tenseness of waiting was broken simultaneously by Gentry’s first heavy step returning to the group and the exhalations of indrawn breaths.
“I—I did call Ned,” Marie Leonard said faintly. “But I didn’t know what—I didn’t know until he called me back—just like you said. I swear I didn’t know.”
“You damned slut!” Ned Brooks shouted. “If you’d kept your lousy mouth shut—” He plunged toward the girl, but one of the officers grabbed him and shoved him back.
“That’s enough for now,” Will Gentry said gruffly. “Take them both in and get statements.”
Shayne stepped back with Lucy still clinging to his arm. The officer who had been guarding Marie led her away, followed by Ned Brooks struggling against the officer who had grabbed him. Jenkins closed in and caught Brooks’s other arm. Together, they forced him through the open doorway.
Gentry turned to Shayne and asked, “What about these two envelopes addressed to Mrs. Jackson? We still have nothing more than your guess as to their contents.”
“My guess still stands,” Shayne said shortly. “Legally, they’re Betty Jackson’s property. If that story is in one of them I’m pretty sure she’ll want to turn it over to the Tribune for publication.”
“But the money was paid in good faith to prevent publication,” Gentry objected.
Shayne touched his swollen face gingerly, and his eyes were bleak. “No it wasn’t, Will. You heard me make that deal yourself. The money was paid on my promise to destroy everything Bert Jackson had left in my possession. I’ve kept that promise to the letter, because there wasn’t anything to destroy in the first place.”
“Then that’s collecting money under false pretenses,” exclaimed Lucy.
“So it is,” Shayne agreed with a painful grin. “But I had to play along with our unknown friend in order to break the case at all. You understand how that was, Will?” he appealed to the police chief. “And at the same time I couldn’t tell you the truth either. I had to let you go along thinking I was conniving at blackmail or those two murderers of the elevator operator would never have come after me on the causeway as they did.”
“Even so, Michael,” said Lucy severely, “you’ve no right to keep the money in this envelope.”
“In the first place,” said Shayne patiently, I have no intention of keeping any of it. The contents of both those envelopes belong to Mrs. Jackson. If some anonymous friend wants to make her a cash contribution through the mail, I don’t see how she can refuse it. And the sender is not only a lousy political grafter,” Shayne went on angrily. “He also arranged one murder last night and did his damnedest to get me bumped off. Basically, Bert Jackson is dead because of him. It’s poetic justice that his widow should get a little cash out of the deal.”
Will Gentry was nodding slowly, fighting to keep a smile off his stolid face. “The two envelopes are her property,” he agreed. “I don’t see why she has to know who sent the money or why.”
Shayne had Lucy by the arm and was propelling her toward the door before Gentry had time to change his mind. Outside, he said casually, “Let’s take a look at our new car and see if you approve the color scheme. Then I’ll drive you home and you can do whatever you like, but I’m going to sleep for a week or so.”
“And I,” said Lucy with feeling, “am going to stay locked in my apartment until these scratches heal on my face.”
“You do look sort of—”
“Take a look at yourself,” she interrupted sharply. They stopped and looked at each other, and both began laughing.
“Let’s compromise,” said Shayne, “and look at our new automobile instead.”
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
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Framed in Blood Page 17
