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
