to turn in an important story to his paper last night?”
“Ned Brooks. He ran into Bert near the Jackson house last night and Bert told him then. He was pretty drunk, according to Brooks, and was raving about putting one over on Rourke and wishing he could find him so he could gloat about it.”
“And in a nice friendly way,” Shayne interjected angrily, “Brooks suggested that Bert might go home and find Tim there with his wife.”
“How did you know that?” Gentry demanded.
“Never mind how I know. Damn it, Will, don’t you see that Brooks is lying all over the place for some reason of his own? I know Bert Jackson had no intention of turning in his City Hall story last night. He couldn’t have told Brooks that. I suggest that everything else Ned Brooks told you is a lie.”
“The city editor on the Tribune corroborates Brooks’s claim,” said Gentry, unruffled.
“Abe Linkle? What do you mean?”
“Just that. Jackson phoned in last night while Abe was off the desk and left a message for Abe to call him back as soon as he came in. Said he had a City Hall scandal so hot it was burning his hands and he wanted to bring it in.”
“Bert phoned from where?” said Shayne incredulously.
“From his home. At least, he left word for Linkle to call him there. Which Abe did soon afterward. But Jackson’s phone didn’t answer. He tried again later without getting an answer, then gave up.”
Shayne finished his coffee, slid painfully from his position on the desk, and began walking stiff-legged around the room, his head bowed in fierce concentration as he tried to digest this amazing bit of news. He tried to recall exactly what Marie Leonard claimed she had heard Bert say over the telephone in her apartment.
Jackson had called the man he planned to blackmail and given him half an hour to call him back at his home before turning the story in. Suppose the man hadn’t called? Suppose Bert had waited at home for the call, getting drunker and more desperate, and finally decided to drop the idea of blackmail and turn the story in to his paper?
That made sense. But Ned Brooks claimed he had met Bert before he reached home and Bert had told him of his decision then. How could Bert have reached such a decision if the half hour hadn’t elapsed? And it hadn’t-if Marie Leonard and Mrs. Peabody were correct in their timing. Marie said he left her apartment around ten, and Mrs. Peabody had seen him reach home at nine minutes after ten-just about time to have walked the distance from the Las Felice, but not enough to conclude that his blackmail scheme had fallen through.
So Ned Brooks must have lied about that. Yet how had Brooks known the truth if Bert hadn’t told him?
“What time,” Shayne asked, going slowly toward Gentry, “did Bert Jackson phone the Tribune and ask for Abe Linkle?”
“Around ten or ten-thirty. Linkle got back a little after ten-thirty, found the message, and called Jackson’s number at once.”
That was the first unanswered phone call, then, that Mrs. Peabody had heard from next door, Shayne figured, turning away.
“And Linkle called again about eleven?” he flung over his shoulder.
“Right. Says he waited about half an hour, and when he didn’t get an answer decided to put it off till morning.”
There it was-more definitely now. That crucial period between Bert’s return home shortly after ten and the unanswered telephone about half an hour later. What had happened in the Jackson house during that period? Where were Bert and Betty Jackson at the time Abe Linkle called back that neither of them was able to answer the phone?
More than ever, Shayne realized that Betty’s testimony was of the utmost importance, and he wondered, now, whether he had made a mistake in calling Doctor Meeker to attend her. But he had been afraid her story would involve Tim Rourke-was still afraid of that. There was Rourke’s testimony that he had seen Betty soon after midnight, and she claimed Bert hadn’t returned home all evening.
Was Rourke lying? Or was Betty lying? Or had Betty actually been out of the house for a period and didn’t know Bert had returned? If that were true, why had Bert gone out soon after calling Linkle, without waiting for the city editor to call back?
Shayne’s brain was confused with the muddle of so many unanswered questions, and his head ached from Tiny’s blackjack. He turned to Gentry again and said, “How close can you spot the time of Jackson’s death?”
Chief Gentry was slow in answering, and he chose his words carefully. “The full report isn’t in yet. Won’t be until the p.m. is completed. Doc tentatively places it somewhere before midnight, an hour or so, maybe. There’s one peculiar thing he has turned up,” he went on cautiously. “He admits he’s guessing right now, but from certain indications of the way the blood settled-what they call post mortem lividity-he thinks the body lay in one position for a certain length of time after death-couple of hours at a guess-before it was dumped where we found it. And it must have been put there at least two to three hours before we reached it.”
“You mean the corpse was carried around in a car after the shooting for a couple of hours before the killer dumped it?”
“According to Doc.”
“But why?”
Gentry didn’t answer. He took his half-smoked cigar from the ash tray, looked at it with a distasteful grimace, lit a fresh one, and puffed on it until the end glowed.
“I’ve given you a lot, Mike,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to tell me where I can find Tim Rourke?”
“Even if I knew,” said Shayne, “I don’t think I’d tell you, Will. Damn it, you haven’t got anything on him, really.”
“Then why not bring him in and have him turn over his pistol for Ballistics?”
“You’ve known Tim as long as I have. You don’t believe he’s a murderer.”
“Been better if he hadn’t ducked out,” Gentry rumbled.
“It’s probably the smartest thing he ever did,” Shayne disagreed. “If I get to him first and he takes my advice he’ll stay out of your way until we know more about this case.”
“As soon as Mrs. Jackson comes to her senses we’ll know more,” Gentry reminded him patiently. “Look a lot better if we don’t have to go looking for Tim.” Shayne turned his back on Gentry when the phone rang and kept it turned as he stepped over to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Michael Shayne speaking.”
After an audible indrawn breath a voice said, “I just caught a news flash on the radio from the Beach. I guess you won that round, Shamus.”
“I generally do.”
“Yes. I guess you do.” The voice grew worried, submissive. “I’m ready to deal with you on the original basis.”
“I was ready to deal with you,” Shayne said grimly, “a couple of hours ago.”
“My mistake, and I’m admitting it. When can I expect to get delivery?”
“There’s not going to be any delivery,” Shayne growled. “Not after that deal on the causeway.” He turned his head slightly and saw Chief Gentry puffing furiously on a cigar and pushing himself up from his chair with a heavy hand on each arm. Shayne continued talking rapidly. “You’ll trust me this time or to hell with it. I’ll destroy everything Bert Jackson left in my possession without breaking the seals after you pay off.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” The man’s voice broke on the whining demand.
“You don’t.” Shayne felt Gentry’s sleeve brushing the sleeve of his robe. He tightened the receiver against his ear and motioned frantically to the police chief to keep quiet.
“I guess I’ve got that coming,” said the voice bitterly, “after those two mugs messed up the deal the way they did.”
Shayne said, “I guess you have. It’ll be my way or nothing. You’re nuts if you think I’m going to walk into another Tommy gun.”
“I don’t blame you,” said the other quickly, and again there was a noisy, long-drawn breath. “It was a fool move, and I’m sorry. Does the original arrangement still hold good?”
“Yeh. Twenty-five grand.”
“And you still want it in hundred-dollar bills addressed to Mrs. Bert Jackson, care of General Delivery, dropped in the main office at ten o’clock this morning?”
