Shayne’s face was a purplish, swollen mask as the unexpected words came over the wire. Mrs. Bert Jackson? He thought he must have heard incorrectly.
“Let’s get this straight,” Shayne said harshly, thinking fast. “Don’t you know Bert Jackson is dead?”
“Of course I know that,” said the voice impatiently. “When Mrs. Jackson phoned me she assured me that you and she were in complete understanding on the method of payoff, and I was to mail it to her. If that’s not satisfactory-”
“It is,” said Shayne quickly. “I thought for a minute you didn’t understand the deal. Ten o’clock is right.” He dropped the instrument on the hook and turned slowly. Will Gentry had resumed his seat. His heavy face was only slightly less purple than Shayne’s bruises, and his murky eyes were hard as granite. Shayne’s hand went instinctively toward his left ear lobe, but dropped swiftly when his fingers touched the bandage. His head had stopped aching, and his brain was clear.
“Women,” he breathed softly. “By God, Will, you and I are just a couple of softies.”
“Cut the preliminaries,” Gentry growled. “Give it to me fast, Mike. You made some sort of deal with the man who was back of that attack on you this morning.”
“Yeh.” Shayne picked up his empty glass and stretched his sore leg muscles with long strides across the room to the liquor cabinet. He poured two ounces of brandy into it and recrossed the room with an expression of fierce concentration on his face. Settling himself on the desk once more he faced Gentry and said, “This should be worth twenty-five grand in damages, don’t you think?” He touched his injured head gingerly, and flung open the upper part of his robe.
“Damn it, Mike,” raged Gentry. “You can’t make a deal with a murderer.”
“Why not? His money will spend just like any other.”
“What are you selling him for it?”
“Not a damned thing,” Shayne told him cheerily, and downed a swallow of cognac.
The beefy color was draining slowly from Gentry’s face. He remained stiffly upright in the chair, his whole expression stolidy demanding, but his tone deceptively mild when he asked, “What was that about destroying everything Bert Jackson left in your possession without breaking the seals?”
“I promised him that. And if you leave me alone I’ll not only collect a fair-sized fee, but I’ll hand over Jackson’s murderer.”
“What did Bert Jackson leave with you? I’ve got to know, Mike.”
“I told you. Not one damned thing, Will.” He met the chief’s stony gaze levelly.
“But I heard you tell him-”
“That I’d destroy everything Bert Jackson left with me,” Shayne repeated blandly. “Maybe he needs a course in semantics. If Jackson had left anything with me I’d be bound to destroy it. Since he didn’t leave anything here-”
“Is the man you just talked to the killer?” Gentry broke in. “Are you going to collect twenty-five thousand from him for nothing and then turn him in?”
“Won’t it serve him right if he did murder Jackson?” Shayne countered.
“By God, Mike! Sometimes I wonder-” Words failed the police chief, and his face was growing darkly red again. He relaxed in his chair, shaking his head helplessly.
“Trouble with you cops,” said Shayne judiciously, “is that you treat crooks like honest men. The Golden Rule is all right in some cases, but I’ve learned to twist it a little. Like this-do unto others as they would do unto you-if they had the chance. Now, I’ve got to get dressed and go places. I’d certainly like to be around to hear what Mrs. Betty Jackson has to say about last night when she gets in shape to talk.” He stood up and started toward the bedroom.
“Do you expect me to leave things like this?” roared Gentry.
“Like what?” Shayne paused and turned back. Gentry was on his feet. He took two stolid steps toward the redhead, then stopped, and Shayne resumed innocently, “You’ve got one murderer already, Will. Lay off me until ten o’clock and I’ll give you another one.”
“Until you can collect a payoff for something you haven’t got?”
“Somebody has to keep me in liquor and pay Lucy’s salary.” Shayne waved a big hand in blithe dismissal and went on to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
It was still early when Shayne went down the street. He stopped at a newsstand, bought a Herald and a Tribune extra, then sauntered on to his favorite restaurant on Flagler Street.
Seated at a table with a double orange juice before him and an order of crisp bacon and four scrambled eggs coming up, he unfolded the papers and looked at the Herald first.
They carried a brief story on the murder of the elevator operator, but nothing on Bert Jackson whose body had evidently been discovered too late to make the early edition. His own name wasn’t mentioned; it was simply stated that an office in the building had been rifled and the police believed the operator had been murdered by the burglars.
Shayne finished his orange juice and turned to the Tribune extra. They had really spread themselves on the murder of one of their reporters. A four-column cut of Bert Jackson, bordered with stark black lines, took up a lot of the front page. It was captioned:
Ace Reporter Mourned by Colleagues
There was not much on the actual story, less than Shayne already knew, but there was a glowing and colorful biography of Jackson which used a lot of adjectives like “stalwart” and “fearless” and intimated that the leading newspapers throughout the world were flying flags at half-mast to mourn his passing.
There were cautious references to Jackson’s latest assignment on the City Hall beat, with veiled hints that his death had been plotted by sinister elements in the city’s underworld who had feared publication of certain facts which Jackson had unearthed and which he refused to suppress even under threat of personal violence.
There was also a caustic second-page editorial commenting on the known inefficiency of the Miami police force and an offer by the Tribune of $1000.00 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Bert Jackson’s death. There was a flattering picture of Betty Jackson on the same page, captioned: Bereaved Bride, and it was stated that she was in seclusion at her home under the care of her personal physician and a trained nurse.
Shayne quirked his unswollen brow as he read this, and was glad that the enterprising reporter hadn’t snapped a picture of his secretary in her newly bought nurse’s uniform as an added attraction for the extra.
He ate his breakfast leisurely, then sauntered out and down Flagler to the Boulevard and north to the automobile dealer with whom he had dealt for years and from whom he had bought the sedan. He wondered idly whether it was still lying upside down in the bay or had been towed away by Painter’s men, but once inside the dealer’s establishment he brushed aside questions concerning the nature of the accident, and arranged without difficulty to drive away with a new model which he agreed to purchase at the list price, less the appraised value of his old car after it was checked for damages.
He chose a dull-gray sedan with corded silver upholstery, keeping Lucy’s approval in mind, drove it to West Flagler, where he parked in front of the unimposing building housing the Tribune plant.
Normally, he knew, there would be few of the editorial staff around at this time, but he had a hunch that most of them would be working overtime on the Bert Jackson story for the regular edition at eleven. This was confirmed when he asked for Abe Linkle and was directed to a small office off the City Room, after giving his name.
The editor was alone at his desk, a small man with prominent ears and tremendous vitality. A cardboard container of hot coffee rested on the desk at his elbow, and he was scribbling rapidly with a heavy black pencil on a wad of copy paper.
Linkle looked up, pushed a green eyeshade up on his forehead, and said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with
