you, Shayne. Some of the boys got a hint or two from the cops that you were in on the Jackson thing, and Brooks tells me Jackson went to see you about some mysterious something yesterday afternoon.”
Shayne nodded an affirmative to both statements, lowered himself gently into a chair, and sat quietly while Linkle’s shrewd eyes studied his bruised face and bandaged ear.
The editor said, “We got a flash early this morning on your car turned over in the bay off the causeway and a couple of dead gangsters on the beach near by. Want to give me something on that?”
“Ask Will Gentry,” said Shayne.
“I have. He’s keeping mum.”
“Keep after him,” Shayne suggested. “Needle him with stuff like has one of the stiffs been positively identified as the murderer of the elevator operator in my office building last night.”
Quick interest glinted in Linkle’s eyes. He made a notation on a sheet of paper and bawled through the open door, “Boy!” While he waited, he asked directly, “Any connection between all that and Jackson?”
“There might be,” Shayne told him affably, “but I wouldn’t want you to print any guesses just yet.”
A copy boy scooted in and took the memo from Linkle’s outstretched hand, and Shayne asked, “About this City Hall scandal you mention in your extra-Will Gentry tells me that Jackson evidently had something hot he wanted to turn in last night.”
Abe Linkle pushed the eyeshade farther up on his bald head, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. “We intend to follow that down and get it if it takes every man on the paper working twenty-four hours a day for six months.” He struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of a bony fist.
“No matter who it is-where it hits?”
“No matter nothing,” declared Linkle.
“How much idea have you got?”
“Damn little,” snapped the editor. “Just between you and me, and I hope I won’t be quoted. Jackson was close-mouthed. He had some fool idea that a reporter on the News had stolen a story from him once, and he wasn’t letting much out this time. Not even to Ned Brooks who was teamed up with him on the assignment.”
“What about the call Jackson made here last night? Do you know exactly what he said over the phone?”
“I was out for beans and beer about three quarters of an hour. Came back a little after ten-thirty, and Tommy Green, who was on the desk, handed me this.” Abe Linkle scrabbled among the papers on the desk and came up with a penciled notation, which he handed to Shayne.
The detective read, Call Bert Jackson’s house at once. He asked, “Did Green tell you any more about it?”
“He said Bert sounded tight and excited, claimed he was onto the grandpappy of all scandals and wanted to spill it for an exclusive in our first run today.”
“So you called Jackson’s house?” prompted Shayne.
“Right away. There was no answer. I waited until eleven, and when there still wasn’t any answer I let it drop. We were making up then, and I figured it would have to wait.”
“You don’t know exactly when Green took the message?”
“He didn’t say. Sometime during the forty-five minutes I was out. If you’ve got anything on this, Shayne, we’ll pay good money for a lead.”
“I know a little,” Shayne admitted. “Not enough to be worth your money-yet.” He arose and took a short, restless turn about the small office, then asked, “Is Tommy Green in now?”
“No. He’s got the day off. Gone fishing down on the Keys.”
Shayne swore softly, thought for a moment before asking, “Are you positive Ned Brooks can’t give you anything definite on the story Jackson wanted to turn in?”
“Pretty sure. I phoned him after I couldn’t get Jackson the first time last night. He said Bert had something hot, but he didn’t know what. He was surprised that Bert hadn’t answered his phone because he’d seen him going home a little after ten and said that Bert had told him at the time that he was going home to call me.”
Shayne scowled, moving his head from side to side slowly, grimacing with distaste and wincing slightly at his sore muscles.
That was one of the big pieces that didn’t fit. What had caused Bert Jackson to change his mind during the few minutes between leaving Marie’s apartment and arriving home?
He asked, “Is Brooks around now?”
“I think so.” Linkle shouted, “Brooks!”
In less than a minute the reporter came in answer to the call. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was haggard. His whole appearance was droopy in contrast with the dapper elegance of the afternoon before. He looked at the detective and shook his head gravely.
“This is a bad business, Mr. Shayne. Do you think it has anything to do with what we talked about yesterday? If not, I hope that-all that stuff won’t have to come out.” His eyes were probing, pleading, and it was evident that his friend’s death had been a great shock to him. “That wasn’t like Bert at all. You can see that for yourself,” he went on swiftly. “When it came to the showdown Bert did the decent thing. I just don’t see why he had to get it just when he was coming through.”
“What’s all this about?” Linkle demanded. “What did you and Shayne talk about yesterday?”
Shayne hesitated, studying Ned Brooks. “You haven’t told anybody?” he asked quietly, “what you suspected Bert was up to?”
“Why should I, now that I know I was wrong? I’m damned ashamed of ever suspecting him-”
“Hold it,” said Shayne. He turned to Linkle. “I think you should be in on this, though I agree with Brooks that it wouldn’t do Jackson’s or the Tribune’s reputation any good to make it public.” He eased his rangy body down to the chair and briefly outlined what Jackson had said to him the preceding afternoon, leaving out all mention of Tim Rourke and of Betty Jackson’s later visit.
Linkle was fuming when he finished, and Shayne said hastily, “Don’t blame Bert too much for thinking about selling out to the highest bidder. As Brooks says, give him credit for not being able to go through with it at the last minute. If you are positive about it,” he added, turning to Brooks. “That’s the one thing we’ve got to settle right here. You’re sure Jackson had decided to turn in the story When you met him on his way home last night?”
“Of course I’m sure. Hasn’t Abe told you he phoned in and was ready to do the right thing? That’s what’s so horrible and unfair-that somebody bumped him off before he had a chance to put things straight.”
“I know about his phone call. But we don’t know when he made that call, and I want to know exactly when he changed his mind. What happened when you met him?”
“Well, he was staggering along the street about a block from home. He was pretty drunk, and I was worried about him, been sort of cruising around all evening looking for him.”
“Did you try Marie’s apartment?” Shayne asked abruptly.
Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his bloodshot eyes. “I did phone her. About nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen him all evening.”
“She was lying,” said Shayne shortly and pleasantly. “Go on about meeting Bert on the street near his home.”
“Maybe she was lying, but I took her word for it then. Well, I stopped my car and got out and asked him if he could make it home all right. That made him sore. You know how a drunk is-hates to admit he’s drunk. He told me to go on and leave him alone, then started babbling about this story he was ready to break. Said he was looking for Rourke, though I couldn’t quite figure out why. Wanted to crow over him, I guess. Kept saying it was bigger than anything Rourke had ever come up with.”
“So you told him that he might go on home and try looking for Tim Rourke in his wife’s bed.”
Ned Brooks’s pale face flushed. “Not that,” he protested. “And I was sorry later that I said anything. But-well, a man shouldn’t let a drunk make him sore, but Bert did get my goat. In fact, I was all wound up at the time about this other deal you and I had talked about, and in the beginning I got the idea Bert was going ahead with that angle. You know-I was mad, and I was disgusted, and I guess I said that about Rourke,” he ended haltingly.
“Wait a minute,” Shayne interposed. “You thought at first that Bert was talking about selling out?”
“That’s right. He didn’t make too much sense. Later, when Abe called me to say what had happened, I realized I must have misunderstood Bert.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. At last things were beginning to make a little sense. He said, “When you threw that at Jackson, about Rourke and his wife, was there any particular reason for you to think Rourke was at his
