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The sky was growing light when Shayne stepped from the rear exit of the apartment building into the enclosed tenants’ parking-lot and made his way to an opening in the high board fence that led to a side street.
He yawned widely, then twisted his wide mouth in a grim grin. There had been a time, he reminded himself disgustedly, when an hour or so of sleep was enough. Especially when he was working on a case. But he was getting older. Besides, this wasn’t his case. Not officially. Thus far there wasn’t a fee involved, but from what Marie Leonard had told him about Bert Jackson’s phone call from her apartment he felt pretty certain he’d receive an offer before long. Whoever had gone so far as to murder an elevator operator and ransack his office and apartment must be convinced that the data for Jackson’s graft story was in his possession.
It wasn’t difficult, now, to surmise approximately what must have happened after Jackson left the Las Felice at ten o’clock. He probably stopped some place to call Mr. Big back and foolishly made a date to meet him that night, trusting that his story about a detective named Shayne having possession of the material would hold as life insurance for him.
And it hadn’t worked out that way.
The only trouble with that theory, he corrected himself sourly, was that it failed to account for the smear of blood on the back of Rourke’s car seat. If that smear had any connection at all with Jackson’s death.
He wished now that he had forced Rourke to explain the blood as soon as he discovered it. There could be a dozen plausible explanations. But at that time, he excused himself, things had been so mixed up in his own mind that he had been unwilling to press his friend for an explanation for fear-he acknowledged-of what Rourke might have told him. It was one thing to go to bat for an old friend if you suspected, but did not know, he had committed a crime. On the other hand, if he took advantage of friendship and confessed, it became an entirely different matter.
So you went along and kept your mouth shut and hoped for the best.
Shayne shrugged off the unpleasant thoughts as he rounded the corner cautiously and glanced down the street to make certain his car was the only one parked in front of the Las Felice, realizing that it was only a matter of time before Will Gentry would connect the key marked Three A with Marie Leonard’s apartment. And he didn’t relish the thought of what would happen if the police found him in the vicinity.
His was the only car. He went to it briskly, got in, and pulled away fast in the direction of Timothy Rourke’s bachelor quarters.
The busy signal he had received when he called the reporter’s number bothered him. If he had been talking to Betty Jackson, it might already be too late to do anything about the mistake Shayne had made in lying to Will Gentry. It was quite possible that the police were at the Jackson house, hoping to pick up just such a lead as a call from Rourke would give them. He hoped to God Rourke would be at home.
His luck held. Rourke’s car was parked in front of the apartment building. Shayne didn’t stop, but went around the corner and parked on a side street near an alley which he knew could be reached via the fire escape from the reporter’s second-floor apartment.
Long-legging it back to the front entrance, he hurried in and up one flight. The door of Rourke’s apartment stood ajar, and Shayne pushed it open onto a disordered living-room, saw the reporter sitting at his desk with the telephone receiver at his ear.
Rourke dropped the instrument on the hook and exclaimed, “I’m worried about Betty. She still doesn’t answer. I’m afraid she took more than two sleeping-tablets.”
Shayne heeled the door shut and strode into the room saying, “You’ll both be lucky,” grimly, “if she swallowed enough of them to stop her talking to the cops for a long time. Dammit it, Tim! Why didn’t you speak up back at my place? I warned you I couldn’t work in the dark. Now I’ve messed things up, set the police right on your tail.”
“Give you what straight?” Rourke countered belligerently.
“Everything. You not only didn’t tell me about your bedding down with Betty Jackson, but you threw me off completely by making that phony call to a number you pretended was the Jacksons’.”
“Okay,” Rourke muttered. He moved to a worn armchair and dropped into it. “Knowing the way your mind works I was sure you’d take it this way if you found out I was with Betty when you phoned me yesterday afternoon. There’s no use telling you now that we’re just good friends.”
“It doesn’t matter a hell of a lot what you tell me,” Shayne agreed, sauntering over to the couch and sitting down. “You’ll find out that the police have got nasty minds, too. It didn’t help things a bit,” he went on savagely, “when I thought I was covering up on this other business for you by throwing Will Gentry a false lead in the shape of private information that Betty has been two-timing her husband with some guy.”
“You told him that?” the reporter exclaimed incredulously. “Why? It’s a damned lie. Betty is-”
“Because,” groaned Shayne, “I thought it was a lie. I had to think fast and give Will some reason for that crack you made about Bert Jackson in my office to stop him from slipping the cuffs on me.”
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth? About Bert’s blackmailing scheme. Damn your soul, Mike, I believe you’d sell your own mother for a piece of cash.”
Shayne’s gaunt features tightened. He exhaled a long breath and forced himself to speak calmly.
“Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for later, Tim. You can see the spot I was in. I had no intimation that there was anything between you and Betty Jackson-or between her and anyone. There were angles on this other thing in connection with you that worried me. I thought if I could send the cops off hunting for a nonexistent lover it would give me a free hand to chase down the real angles. Instead, I’ve turned them loose on you.”
“But I swear to you, Mike, that Betty and I-”
“It makes no difference whether you’ve been sleeping with her or not,” Shayne cut in swiftly. “You had a fight with Bert recently, spent all last evening trying to find him, after spending the afternoon with his wife. There are bloodstains in your car, and Bert Jackson was shot through the head with a twenty-two-caliber bullet. Where’s your target pistol?” he ended abruptly.
Rourke leaned back, his face drawn and haggard. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Everything. If a test bullet fired from it does-or doesn’t-match the death bullet. Dozens of people know you took a prize in that tournament last month and own a long-barreled twenty-two,” said Shayne impatiently. “Including Will Gentry who was one of the judges. Give me the gun if you’re in the clear, and I’ll turn it over to Ballistics.”
Rourke said, “I can’t give it to you, Mike.”
“Why not? If you’re afraid to have it tested-”
“I haven’t got it. Somebody stole it soon after the tournament.”
Shayne studied his friend somberly, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. “I hope to God you reported the theft to the police,” he said slowly.
“I didn’t. It just didn’t seem important.” Rourke came to his feet, avoiding Shayne’s searching scrutiny. “Let’s have a drink.”
“If you’ve anything fit to drink,” said Shayne, watching the reporter’s curved spine as he went to the kitchenette.
Shayne was at the telephone with his hand on the receiver when Rourke came back with a bottle and glasses. “Do you know if the Jacksons have a regular doctor?” he asked, his stubby red brows drawn together in fierce concentration.
“I recommended Doc Meeker to them once when Bert was sick,” Rourke told him. “I think they’ve had him a few times. In fact, he gave Betty a prescription for the sleeping-pills.”
“Good old Doc Meeker,” Shayne said fervently, lifting the receiver and dialing a number while Rourke poured two drinks. The phone rang six times before a sleepy voice answered, and Shayne said, “Michael Shayne, Doctor. Are you awake enough to listen fast without interrupting?”
“I’m awake,” the doctor answered.
“This is an emergency, Doctor. A patient of yours, Mrs. Bert Jackson, needs you in a hurry. She has taken an overdose of sleeping-pills. Her husband was murdered a few hours ago, but she doesn’t know it yet. The police are probably on their way to her place now to question her.” He paused a moment before adding significantly, “As a detective who has her best interest at heart I’m very much afraid the shock might be fatal if she were awakened and questioned in her present condition. Do you agree?”
“It is possible,” said Doctor Meeker cautiously, “that under certain conditions it would be advisable to delay the shock.”
“Exactly,” Shayne broke in, and continued swiftly: “Under those conditions, wouldn’t you advise a strong sedative to take effect as the sleeping-pills wear off, something that might last a few hours at least?”
“I will go to Mrs. Jackson at once,” Doctor Meeker told him. “If my diagnosis confirms your opinion I will certainly see to it that she isn’t disturbed until-” He paused, a question in his tone.
“I’ll be in touch with you in a short time,” Shayne promised hastily. “And, Doc-if you’re asked, it might be just as well to say that Timothy Rourke called you.” Sweat was standing on Shayne’s brow. He sighed with satisfaction as he dropped the instrument on the prongs and took out his handkerchief. “That will take care of Betty Jackson for a while, at least,” he said. “If I know Doc Meeker, and I think I do.”
“You should,” said Rourke sharply. “He’s been doing your dirty work long enough.”
“But strictly ethical, Tim. You’ve got to admit that.”
Shayne mopped his face on the way to the couch, picked up his drink from the table, and made a wry face when he took a sip.
Rourke dropped into his chair and burst out, “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, Mike. You’re afraid Betty will tell the police about me and her.”
“I know police methods,” Shayne growled. “If they aren’t stopped they’ll barge in when she’s in a dazed condition and wring all sorts of admissions from her-twist the most innocent statements into damning revelations. Wake up, Tim. You know damned well that the minute they connect you two in any degree of intimacy they’ll stop looking elsewhere for her husband’s murderer. It’s the perfect pattern.”
Rourke sat slumped on his fifth vertebra, his legs crossed like sticks in ample trousers, and his head lolling back on the chair. His eyes, in their cavernous sockets, were closed, and he made no comment.
Shayne bent forward and said grimly, “That story about your pistol being stolen isn’t going to help any, Tim. It’s the oldest dodge in the world. Can’t you think up something better?”
“That,” said Rourke listlessly, “happens to be the truth.”
“Look, Tim, you’ve got to drop out of sight for a while,” Shayne said urgently. “For at least as long as Doc Meeker is able to keep Betty from being questioned. Give me one day with neither of you making damaging admissions to the police. But you have to get out of the way and stay there. I warn you, they’ll be pounding on your door within an hour or so.”
“Because of what you told Gentry,” said Rourke bitterly.
“All right. Because of what I told Gentry. That’s water over the dam. Right now we’ve got to think of some place for you to duck out of sight for a day or so.” Shayne got up with drink in hand and paced the floor restlessly. “It would be best if you’d get out of town, hole up in some small town upstate-”
The ringing of the telephone stopped him in midstride. Rourke sprang to his feet and went toward it.
Shayne growled a warning. “Hold it, Tim. We don’t know-”
The reporter’s face was set and inscrutable as he strode on, lifted the receiver, and said, “Tim Rourke speaking.”
An apologetic and worried voice came over the wire. “Ned Brooks, Tim. Sorry if I wakened you at this ungodly hour.”
“You didn’t waken me, Ned. What’s on your mind?”
“Two cops just left my place,” said Brooks rapidly. “I’m afraid, damn it, that they’re on their way to see you. I didn’t know what in hell it was all about, pounding at my door and throwing accusations at me-questioning me about Bert Jackson and his wife, wanting to know who were their close friends, and when did I see either of them last.”
“Well?”
“I told them the truth, damn it, and now I wish I hadn’t. Did you know Bert is dead?”
Rourke said, “Yeh. Go on, Ned.”
“I didn’t know what they were after, so I told them about running into Bert on the street last night a block from his house. That he was pretty drunk and raving about you and a big news story he’s planning to break. The same stuff he and I have been trying to dig up at City Hall, I gathered, except tonight he acted as though he was on to something I didn’t know about.
“Anyhow,” Ned Brooks went on rapidly, “he said he wanted to see you. I asked him if he’d tried his own house. But, hell, Tim, I didn’t mean anything. He was tight, and I thought he ought to get home.”
“You told the cops all this?” Rourke asked.
“Sure. Before I knew what was up. Honest to God-”
“Isn’t your wife out of town, Ned?” Rourke cut in sharply.
“Why, yes. Visiting her folks in New York. I’m batching it, and-”
“You’re going to have company if I can get away from here before the cops grab me. Sit tight, Ned. You can tell me the rest when I get there.” He slammed up the receiver and looked at Shayne with eyes that glittered with excitement.
“What’s up, Tim?” Shayne hadn’t moved. He had stood quietly, listening and gently massaging his ear lobe and staring bleakly into space.
“That was Ned Brooks-reporter on the Trib who was working with Bert on the City Hall run. Claims he doesn’t know much about the story Bert dug up, but if I pump him for details I might pick up something useful. His wife’s out of town, and he can put me up for a few days.”
“Is he a good friend of yours?” Shayne asked doubtfully.
“One of my best friends,” said Rourke with heavy irony. “Like you, he’s gone out of his way to tell the cops how friendly I am with Betty. He ran into Bert after he left the Las Felice tonight and he told the cops Bert was looking for me. They’re probably on their way here now.”
Shayne’s face was very grave. He caught Rourke’s arm and said brusquely, “Get out the back way-down the fire escape. I’ll go out front to your car. If I meet the cops coming up I’ll stall them and say I’ve been trying to rouse you without any luck. Give me Brooks’s address, and for God’s sake stay in out of sight until I contact you there. Are you sure he’ll keep his mouth shut and not turn you in?” he ended desperately.
“Ned owes me a few favors,” said Rourke. He gave Shayne the address, shrugged off the detective’s grip on his shoulder, and went through the kitchenette to the fire escape without another word.
Shayne hastily turned out the lights and left by the front door, closing it and making certain it was locked. He went down the corridor at a leisurely pace. He met no one, and outside he waited until Rourke got in his car and drove away.
As he walked toward the side street where his own car was parked he heard a speeding motor come up behind him, heard the squeal of brakes when it stopped in front of the apartment building. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two uniformed men entering, and without breaking his stride he went on, got into his car, and wheeled it away toward Sixtieth Street.