“I’d just as soon not meet the cops coming in the front,” he told her. “And if you really want Bert’s murderer caught you will forget that you ever saw me. Better get back in bed and pretend you’ve been asleep all night.”
She ran to him and impulsively threw her arms around his neck. “I want Bert’s murderer caught more than anything in the world. I’ll go right to bed-but when will I see you again? I’ll be thinking about you-and wondering, Michael.”
Shayne put one arm around her and quietly turned the doorknob with his free hand. She pressed against him, and he pushed the bolt, freeing the night latch. Then he patted her shoulder and promised, “I’ll be in touch with you, Marie. Get some sleep now, if you can.”
He put her away from him gently, went out and closed the door, strode down the hall a dozen steps, then turned and tiptoed back. He paused outside with his hand gripping the doorknob and listened intently. He was rewarded by the clicking of the telephone as Marie dialed a number.
He turned the knob silently, eased the door open a crack, then wider when he heard the low murmur of her voice. Her back was toward the door, and she held the mouthpiece close to her lips.
Shayne could not distinguish any words as he moved stealthily inside and approached her. She stopped talking to listen, and as though some inner intuition warned her that someone was listening, she glanced around. A strangled cry escaped her throat.
“’By-Ned,” she exclaimed, dropped the instrument on its prongs and whirled to face Shayne with dilated eyes. “How did you-what do you mean?”
“Ned Brooks,” said Shayne flatly.
“Well, what of it?” she flared.
“Why did you call him?”
“Because Ned is Bert’s best friend-and he’s got a stake in that story they’ve been working on.”
“How well do you know Ned?”
She turned away from his cold, demanding gaze and said indifferently, “He has been here a few times with Bert. That’s all.”
Shayne wondered if that was all, but he knew he would get no more from her now, so he went out and continued down the hall to the back stairway.
Chapter Eight
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
