Framed in Blood (16 page)

“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 the 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.

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.

He drew his big hands back instinctively. From all indications Rourke had been lying like that for several hours, and he realized the importance of leaving him exactly as he was until the doctor arrived.

His eyes were grim and brooding as he went to the typewriter and studied the note in the roller. There were only two lines:

I killed bertJacksonm and Bettr docsnST know anything about it nomatter what she tellsyxx yox.

Ned Brooks hurried back to the living-room shouting, “Ambulance will be here in a few minutes. My God, Shayne, what’ll we do? Tear up that note before the police get here? I’m willing to do whatever—”

“The police?” Shayne swung on him angrily. “I told you to call a doctor.”

“Well—it’s an emergency,” faltered Brooks. “I called headquarters because they’re faster.”

“You were probably right at that,” Shayne grunted absently. His bleak eyes reread the note for the tenth time, and he mumbled, “It’s too late to try to cover up anything now.”

Brooks sank down in a chair and hid his face with his hands. “I suppose it is,” he moaned.

“Is this your typewriter?” Shayne asked abruptly.

“Yes. I opened it up for Tim when he first came and wasn’t so tight. He said he might write a story. My God, Mr. Shayne—I wonder if he was planning that while I was still here? That gun. He must have had it in his pocket all the time.” He uncovered his face and asked miserably, “Do you really think he’s still alive? The bullet didn’t—didn’t—”

“He’s got a pulse,” Shayne growled. “I didn’t examine the wound closely, but it looks to me like it bounced off without actually penetrating. Tim’s got a thick skull, and a twenty-two doesn’t have too much power. Tell me exactly how he acted before you left,” he went on swiftly. “Everything he said that you can remember. We haven’t got much time before Gentry gets here—that is, if you reported who you wanted the ambulance for.”

“I did,” moaned Brooks. “I thought they’d be faster if they knew it was Tim. He—Tim had been drinking, like I told you, and he acted funny. I got the idea he was worried about Betty Jackson.”

“What do you mean he was acting funny?” Shayne asked harshly.

“Look, I’m not a detective,” said Brooks, moving his arms in a gesture of despair. “You know a lot more about such things than I do, but if you’ve read that note carefully, don’t you get the idea that he was really covering up for Betty? Or do you think they were in it together and when he got drunk he decided to do it this way and take all the blame? He must have been awfully drunk after emptying that fifth of whisky.” The thin keening of a siren sounded from a distance as Brooks finished. Shayne turned without answering and went to the window. He watched in silence until the ambulance came into view, then hurried out to signal the driver as he slowed to hunt for house numbers.

The vehicle swung into the curb at his signal and an intern leaped nimbly from the front seat. Shayne urged him inside with a jerk of his thumb and a couple of words, waited for the attendants to pile out of the ambulance, then followed them as far as the front porch where he said, “Wait here until the doc calls you.”

When he re-entered the living-room the intern was bending over Rourke. Shayne motioned Brooks to a corner and muttered, “You understand that Will Gentry will have to draw his own conclusions if Tim doesn’t stay alive to tell us anything. You’d better tell them the exact truth about phoning Rourke to warn him you’d set the cops on his tail, and how you invited him over here to hole up to sort of make up for it. The truth won’t hurt you, and anything else is likely to. Tim wasn’t a fugitive, and there’ll be no charge against you for harboring him.”

Other sirens were screaming close by. Shayne whirled toward the door, adding, “Think it over carefully, Brooks,” and went outside again.

A radio car with two officers pulled in behind the ambulance. Shayne halted them as they trotted up the walk. “Doc’s inside,” he told them shortly. “This is for Homicide. Chief Gentry will be here in a moment, so you’d better not mess around too much.”

The senior patrolman knew Shayne by sight. He nodded and said to his partner, “I’ll go inside, Jenkins. If Chief Gentry shows up—”

“There’s his car now,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll tell him you’ve got things under control.” He moved slowly down the walk as Gentry heaved himself from his sedan and walked stolidly toward the detective.

 “I thought you’d be in on this,” the chief growled without rancor. “What is it with Rourke?”

“It looks like attempted suicide, Will. With a twenty-two target pistol.”

Gentry puffed furiously on his cigar, avoiding Shayne’s cold gray eyes, aware of the close bond of friendship between the rangy redhead and the crusading reporter. His own relationship with Timothy Rourke had been very close in the past, and his voice was strangely hoarse when he asked, “Is he bad?”

“There was just a flicker of pulse when Brooks and I got here,” Shayne told him as they walked unhurriedly toward the house. “He left a note that looks bad. I knew he was here at Brooks’s place, Will. I sent him here early this morning.”

“To keep us from getting hold of him,” said Gentry without inflection.

“Yeh.” Shayne’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I didn’t know. There were a lot of things—and I needed time to work on some angles. Before God, Will, I don’t know what I’d have done if I had decided that Rourke fired a bullet into Jackson’s head.”

“I knew something like that was worrying you,” said Gentry heavily. “Better stick around outside while I take a look.” He stalked up the steps and disappeared into the living-room.

Shayne paced the length of the walk twice before the summons came. Gentry met him just inside the living-room door and said, “It’s not too good, Mike. The intern has patched him up and gives him a fifty-fifty chance. Tim’s beginning to come out of it, and a hypo is necessary. We’ll have maybe three or four minutes to question him before it takes effect, and I’m giving you a break. Come on in and hear what he says. If he doesn’t recover I don’t want you feeling there was any funny business.”

Shayne’s throat was dry. “Thanks, Will,” he said huskily. “But do me one more favor. Since Tim will be conscious to answer only a few questions, let me ask them. I know what to say to get the truth out of him.”

“Sorry,” said Gentry gruffly. “I’m stretching a point to let you listen in—”

“Don’t you gee how it is?” Shayne burst in angrily. “I know Tim didn’t do it. A dozen things tell me. Damn it, Will, he’s covering up for Betty Jackson, and she’s not worth it! I don’t have time to give it to you now, but if you’ll let me talk to Tim I’ll get the truth.”

“This is a police investigation,” Gentry reminded him.