It was still early when Shayne went down the street. He stopped at a newsstand, bought a Herald and a Tribune extra, then sauntered on to his favorite restaurant on Flagler Street.
Seated at a table with a double orange juice before him and an order of crisp bacon and four scrambled eggs coming up, he unfolded the papers and looked at the Herald first.
They carried a brief story on the murder of the elevator operator, but nothing on Bert Jackson whose body had evidently been discovered too late to make the early edition. His own name wasn’t mentioned; it was simply stated that an office in the building had been rifled and the police believed the operator had been murdered by the burglars.
Shayne finished his orange juice and turned to the Tribune extra. They had really spread themselves on the murder of one of their reporters. A four-column cut of Bert Jackson, bordered with stark black lines, took up a lot of the front page. It was captioned:
Ace Reporter Mourned by Colleagues
There was not much on the actual story, less than Shayne already knew, but there was a glowing and colorful biography of Jackson which used a lot of adjectives like “stalwart” and “fearless” and intimated that the leading newspapers throughout the world were flying flags at half-mast to mourn his passing.
There were cautious references to Jackson’s latest assignment on the City Hall beat, with veiled hints that his death had been plotted by sinister elements in the city’s underworld who had feared publication of certain facts which Jackson had unearthed and which he refused to suppress even under threat of personal violence.
There was also a caustic second-page editorial commenting on the known inefficiency of the Miami police force and an offer by the Tribune of $1000.00 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Bert Jackson’s death. There was a flattering picture of Betty Jackson on the same page, captioned: Bereaved Bride, and it was stated that she was in seclusion at her home under the care of her personal physician and a trained nurse.
Shayne quirked his unswollen brow as he read this, and was glad that the enterprising reporter hadn’t snapped a picture of his secretary in her newly bought nurse’s uniform as an added attraction for the extra.
He ate his breakfast leisurely, then sauntered out and down Flagler to the Boulevard and north to the automobile dealer with whom he had dealt for years and from whom he had bought the sedan. He wondered idly whether it was still lying upside down in the bay or had been towed away by Painter’s men, but once inside the dealer’s establishment he brushed aside questions concerning the nature of the accident, and arranged without difficulty to drive away with a new model which he agreed to purchase at the list price, less the appraised value of his old car after it was checked for damages.
He chose a dull-gray sedan with corded silver upholstery, keeping Lucy’s approval in mind, drove it to West Flagler, where he parked in front of the unimposing building housing the Tribune plant.
Normally, he knew, there would be few of the editorial staff around at this time, but he had a hunch that most of them would be working overtime on the Bert Jackson story for the regular edition at eleven. This was confirmed when he asked for Abe Linkle and was directed to a small office off the City Room, after giving his name.
The editor was alone at his desk, a small man with prominent ears and tremendous vitality. A cardboard container of hot coffee rested on the desk at his elbow, and he was scribbling rapidly with a heavy black pencil on a wad of copy paper.
Linkle looked up, pushed a green eyeshade up on his forehead, and said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Shayne. Some of the boys got a hint or two from the cops that you were in on the Jackson thing, and Brooks tells me Jackson went to see you about some mysterious something yesterday afternoon.”
Shayne nodded an affirmative to both statements, lowered himself gently into a chair, and sat quietly while Linkle’s shrewd eyes studied his bruised face and bandaged ear.
The editor said, “We got a flash early this morning on your car turned over in the bay off the causeway and a couple of dead gangsters on the beach near by. Want to give me something on that?”
“Ask Will Gentry,” said Shayne.
“I have. He’s keeping mum.”
“Keep after him,” Shayne suggested. “Needle him with stuff like has one of the stiffs been positively identified as the murderer of the elevator operator in my office building last night.”
Quick interest glinted in Linkle’s eyes. He made a notation on a sheet of paper and bawled through the open door, “Boy!” While he waited, he asked directly, “Any connection between all that and Jackson?”
“There might be,” Shayne told him affably, “but I wouldn’t want you to print any guesses just yet.”
A copy boy scooted in and took the memo from Linkle’s outstretched hand, and Shayne asked, “About this City Hall scandal you mention in your extra-Will Gentry tells me that Jackson evidently had something hot he wanted to turn in last night.”
Abe Linkle pushed the eyeshade farther up on his bald head, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. “We intend to follow that down and get it if it takes every man on the paper working twenty-four hours a day for six months.” He struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of a bony fist.
“No matter who it is-where it hits?”
“No matter nothing,” declared Linkle.
“How much idea have you got?”
“Damn little,” snapped the editor. “Just between you and me, and I hope I won’t be quoted. Jackson was close-mouthed. He had some fool idea that a reporter on the News had stolen a story from him once, and he wasn’t letting much out this time. Not even to Ned Brooks who was teamed up with him on the assignment.”
“What about the call Jackson made here last night? Do you know exactly what he said over the phone?”
“I was out for beans and beer about three quarters of an hour. Came back a little after ten-thirty, and Tommy Green, who was on the desk, handed me this.” Abe Linkle scrabbled among the papers on the desk and came up with a penciled notation, which he handed to Shayne.
The detective read, Call Bert Jackson’s house at once. He asked, “Did Green tell you any more about it?”
“He said Bert sounded tight and excited, claimed he was onto the grandpappy of all scandals and wanted to spill it for an exclusive in our first run today.”
“So you called Jackson’s house?” prompted Shayne.
“Right away. There was no answer. I waited until eleven, and when there still wasn’t any answer I let it drop. We were making up then, and I figured it would have to wait.”
“You don’t know exactly when Green took the message?”
“He didn’t say. Sometime during the forty-five minutes I was out. If you’ve got anything on this, Shayne, we’ll pay good money for a lead.”
“I know a little,” Shayne admitted. “Not enough to be worth your money-yet.” He arose and took a short, restless turn about the small office, then asked, “Is Tommy Green in now?”
“No. He’s got the day off. Gone fishing down on the Keys.”
Shayne swore softly, thought for a moment before asking, “Are you positive Ned Brooks can’t give you anything definite on the story Jackson wanted to turn in?”
“Pretty sure. I phoned him after I couldn’t get Jackson the first time last night. He said Bert had something hot, but he didn’t know what. He was surprised that Bert hadn’t answered his phone because he’d seen him going home a little after ten and said that Bert had told him at the time that he was going home to call me.”
Shayne scowled, moving his head from side to side slowly, grimacing with distaste and wincing slightly at his sore muscles.
That was one of the big pieces that didn’t fit. What had caused Bert Jackson to change his mind during the few minutes between leaving Marie’s apartment and arriving home?
He asked, “Is Brooks around now?”
“I think so.” Linkle shouted, “Brooks!”
In less than a minute the reporter came in answer to the call. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was haggard. His whole appearance was droopy in contrast with the dapper elegance of the afternoon before. He looked at the detective and shook his head gravely.
“This is a bad business, Mr. Shayne. Do you think it has anything to do with what we talked about yesterday? If not, I hope that-all that stuff won’t have to come out.” His eyes were probing, pleading, and it was evident that his friend’s death had been a great shock to him. “That wasn’t like Bert at all. You can see that for yourself,” he went on swiftly. “When it came to the showdown Bert did the decent thing. I just don’t see why he had to get it just when he was coming through.”
“What’s all this about?” Linkle demanded. “What did you and Shayne talk about yesterday?”
Shayne hesitated, studying Ned Brooks. “You haven’t told anybody?” he asked quietly, “what you suspected Bert was up to?”
“Why should I, now that I know I was wrong? I’m damned ashamed of ever suspecting him-”
“Hold it,” said Shayne. He turned to Linkle. “I think you should be in on this, though I agree with Brooks that it wouldn’t do Jackson’s or the Tribune’s reputation any good to make it public.” He eased his rangy body down to the chair and briefly outlined what Jackson had said to him the preceding afternoon, leaving out all mention of Tim Rourke and of Betty Jackson’s later visit.
Linkle was fuming when he finished, and Shayne said hastily, “Don’t blame Bert too much for thinking about selling out to the highest bidder. As Brooks says, give him credit for not being able to go through with it at the last minute. If you are positive about it,” he added, turning to Brooks. “That’s the one thing we’ve got to settle right here. You’re sure Jackson had decided to turn in the story When you met him on his way home last night?”
“Of course I’m sure. Hasn’t Abe told you he phoned in and was ready to do the right thing? That’s what’s so horrible and unfair-that somebody bumped him off before he had a chance to put things straight.”
“I know about his phone call. But we don’t know when he made that call, and I want to know exactly when he changed his mind. What happened when you met him?”
“Well, he was staggering along the street about a block from home. He was pretty drunk, and I was worried about him, been sort of cruising around all evening looking for him.”
“Did you try Marie’s apartment?” Shayne asked abruptly.
Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his bloodshot eyes. “I did phone her. About nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen him all evening.”
“She was lying,” said Shayne shortly and pleasantly. “Go on about meeting Bert on the street near his home.”
“Maybe she was lying, but I took her word for it then. Well, I stopped my car and got out and asked him if he could make it home all right. That made him sore. You know how a drunk is-hates to admit he’s drunk. He told me to go on and leave him alone, then started babbling about this story he was ready to break. Said he was looking for Rourke, though I couldn’t quite figure out why. Wanted to crow over him, I guess. Kept saying it was bigger than anything Rourke had ever come up with.”
“So you told him that he might go on home and try looking for Tim Rourke in his wife’s bed.”
Ned Brooks’s pale face flushed. “Not that,” he protested. “And I was sorry later that I said anything. But-well, a man shouldn’t let a drunk make him sore, but Bert did get my goat. In fact, I was all wound up at the time about this other deal you and I had talked about, and in the beginning I got the idea Bert was going ahead with that angle. You know-I was mad, and I was disgusted, and I guess I said that about Rourke,” he ended haltingly.
“Wait a minute,” Shayne interposed. “You thought at first that Bert was talking about selling out?”
“That’s right. He didn’t make too much sense. Later, when Abe called me to say what had happened, I realized I must have misunderstood Bert.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. At last things were beginning to make a little sense. He said, “When you threw that at Jackson, about Rourke and his wife, was there any particular reason for you to think Rourke was at his home?”
“No, no particular reason,” Brooks mumbled. “He just made me sore, and I spoke out of turn. Everybody knows about Tim and Betty,” he went on sullenly to exculpate himself. “Even Bert knew. And I thought I had seen Tim’s car parked around the corner earlier when I was cruising around looking for Bert. I’m sorry I said it. I don’t really know that Tim was there, even if all the shades were drawn.”
“Go on,” Shayne snapped. “Did you take Bert home?”
“Oh, no,” he denied stoutly. “He wouldn’t have any help. After we argued a minute on the corner he went on by himself. I got in my car and drove home.”
“What,” asked Shayne, “did Marie Leonard say to you when she telephoned you around daylight this morning?”
Again Ned Brooks shifted his eyes under Shayne’s hard gaze. “She called me back after breaking the connection and told me about you sneaking back and catching her calling me. But don’t get any wrong ideas about Marie and me. She just knows me as Bert’s friend, and as soon as you told her what happened to Bert she thought she ought to call me.”
“She didn’t tell you that Bert had spent most of the preceding evening with her and that she’d run him out about ten o’clock when he insisted on trying to carry out his blackmail scheme?”
“Good God, no!” Stupefied with surprise he jerked his eyes back to Shayne’s and demanded, “Did she tell you that?”
“And who is this Marie?” Abe Linkle interjected with a touch of irony when Shayne answered Brooks with a nod of his red head.
Turning to the editor, Shayne said, “I can tell you who she is, but I’ll be damned if I know what she is. Was Jackson trying to keep her in that apartment on his reporter’s salary?” he demanded of Brooks. “Is that why he needed the extra money?”
“I think he wanted to divorce Betty and marry Marie,” Brooks muttered. “Hell, I never asked him if he was keeping her.”
“If you ask me,” Shayne told Linkle, “she’s the kind who probably had six different men paying the rent at the same time.”
“What’s her last name and her address?” Abe Linkle clipped the words out and compressed his thin lips.
Shayne said, “Get it from Brooks. If the cops catch one of your reporters interviewing her I wouldn’t want them to find out I gave her to you.”
Abe Linkle yanked his eyeshade down, picked up a pencil, and held it poised over a pad, and the angry flash of his eyes demanded the woman’s name and address from his reporter.
Brooks gave the information reluctantly, and immediately protested, “Can’t you keep that stuff out of your filthy sheet, Abe? The guy is dead. It’s going to be tough enough on Betty Jackson without digging up this kind of dirt.”
“I’ll decide what we print,” said Linkle curtly. “Your job is to report, not have information dug out of you the way Shayne’s been doing for the past ten minutes.”
“Don’t blame Brooks too much for trying to cover up for a pal,” said Shayne pleasantly. “By the way, how’s our friend doing?” he added to Brooks, and when he received a blank stare for response, explained, “The one who went to visit you early this morning.”
“Okay when I left. That is-he was hitting the bottle pretty heavy,” he amended, glancing aside at Linkle. “Nervous as a cat on a hot stove.”
“I’m afraid he’s got reasons for being nervous,” said Shayne harshly. He arose, nodded at Linkle. “Thanks for everything. I’ll be moving along.”
There was a stir in the outer office, and as all three of the men moved toward the door it was suddenly blocked by a uniformed policeman who looked from one to the other and said, “Ned Brooks?”
“What do you want with Brooks?” the city editor asked.
“Orders from headquarters.”
“What for?” Ned Brooks asked hoarsely.
“Are you Brooks?” the officer asked and took a step forward. “I don’t know what for, but you can come along easy or the hard way if you want it.”
Brooks’s murky eyes were wide with fright. He sent a despairing glance at Shayne as the officer took him firmly by the arm.
“Mind if I follow along, Officer?” said Shayne.
“My orders are to bring in Ned Brooks,” he replied. “Whoever comes along is none of my business, but there’ll be no more talking now.” He ushered the reporter through the outer office and out the door.
The wiry city editor was bristling with anger. “What the hell?”
“I’ll go along and see,” said Shayne.
Linkle detained him, saying, “Phone me if it’s important. Goddamn it, Shayne, I’ve already lost one reporter.”
“I’ll phone you if it’s important,” Shayne promised, and went out in a hurry.