Pay-Off in Blood

of detectives.

“He didn’t say anything about this this morning?” asked Painter patiently.

“He didn’t have to. I could tell. You can’t be married to a man for twenty-two years without having an intuition. And when Nurse called this afternoon I had a premonition.”

“Is that why you hit the bottle of vodka so hard that you passed out and didn’t even know when he came home… didn’t even hear the shot that killed him?” asked Painter, folding his arms and thrusting his chin forward.

“Now I like that! Why, you, you… No gentleman would make an insinuation like that to a lady. I was worried and frightened, and I took a little sip of spirits, and it relaxed me and I took a nap. That is absolutely all.”

“Dr. Cross,” said Painter flatly, “tells me you had the better part of a quart of ninety-proof vodka in your stomach when he found you passed out in the bedroom half an hour ago.”

“Of all the insolent lies!” She turned her head and looked at the doctor like a little girl reproving a parent. “Don’t you realize I could sue you for slander and libel for making such a gratuitously untrue statement? What sort of doctor are you, anyway? I don’t know you, do I? Doctor Cross?” She spat out the two words venomously. “What sort of doctor are you? An osteopath?”

Dr. Cross studied her patiently and disapprovingly, and did not reply.

“This gambling of your husband’s,” said Painter. “On the horses, you say? Did he bet at the tracks?”

“Oh, no.” She turned her round, blue eyes on him in a manner to indicate that she thought him some sort of imbecile to ask such a question. “With his patients and all, he hardly ever had time to get out to the racetracks. It was a… a bookie, I guess you call them.”

“Can you give us his name, Mrs. Ambrose?”

“The bookie’s name?” She registered mild surprise. “You know them all, don’t you? You’re a policeman. I remember asking Doctor if it wasn’t illegal, and he said they couldn’t operate five minutes without police protection. So you must know lots more about that than I do.”

“We’ll skip that,” said Painter brusquely. “Now then, Mrs. Ambrose, answer me this: Were you aware that your husband was being blackmailed?”

Watching her face closely, Shayne could have sworn that her surprise was genuine. “Blackmailed?” she wailed. “Doctor? Whatever for?”

“I hoped you could tell us that.”

“But how could I? I simply don’t believe it! That’s something you made up because you’re a policeman in cahoots with the gamblers who murdered my husband. And so you start accusing my poor, dead, murdered husband of blackmail! Shame on you!” She turned to the doctor again, trembling violently now, and holding out both her shaking hands, palms upwards. “Now, couldn’t I?” she beseeched him. “You can see how overwrought my nerves are.”

“In about three minutes,” Dr. Cross told her austerely, “your nerves will be perfectly all right again.”

“Let’s not waste those three minutes, Mrs. Ambrose. Let’s go back to this afternoon. After the doctor’s nurse telephoned you that he would be detained. You say you had a premonition that it had something to do with his gambling debts?”

“Yes… I… I thought about that.” The widow slumped sideways on the sofa. Her eyes were becoming slightly glazed.

“What did you do?” demanded Painter urgently.

“What could I do? I… waited for him to come home. I was so worried. Mercifully, I dropped off to sleep about nine-thirty when he still wasn’t here.”

“And you didn’t see his car come in the driveway at ten? You didn’t hear the shot that killed him?”

“I was taking a nap,” she murmured defensively, sighing and blinking her eyes shut and open rapidly.

“One more thing, Mrs. Ambrose.” Peter Painter glanced at Dr. Cross and received a brief nod. He took the.32 automatic from his pocket and held it out in front of her face. “Have you ever seen this before?”

“Is it Doctor’s?” she asked weakly.

“I’m asking you.”

She murmured, “It looks like Doctor’s,” and closed her eyes, slumping a little more to the side and cuddling down among the nest of puffy pillows.

“You mean… he owned a pistol that looked like this?”

Keeping her eyes closed, she answered drowsily, “Yes… he… had a permit for it.”

“Where did he keep it, Mrs. Ambrose?”

“Here, sometimes. In the office, I guess. Glove compartment…” Her voice trailed off and she settled down convulsively in a huddled pile on the sofa.

Dr. Cross took two strides to stand in front of her and lift a limp wrist to feel her pulse. He glanced over his shoulder at the chief of detectives and said, “She’ll be out for eight hours, at least.”

Painter nodded and stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ll send a man in to help you get her into the bedroom… and he’ll spend the night.”

He swung on his heel and made for the front door, motioning Shayne and Rourke to follow him. Outside, he issued orders to a detective who was standing at the bottom of the steps, and then faced the redhead and the reporter and asked, “Did either one of you get anything in particular out of that?”

When Timothy Rourke shook his head and didn’t reply, Shayne said, “That business about the gambling, Chief. I may have an angle on it.”

“What is it?” snapped Painter.

“He’s been paying blackmail for six months,” Shayne explained. “He told me that, in order to cover up in front of his wife, he had told her he was gambling heavily and losing.”

“And she believed him.” Painter swung on the reporter. “How about it, Rourke? You’ve known him for years. Was the doctor a heavy gambler?”

“I told you I knew him only casually,” protested Rourke. “I never checked on his personal habits.”

“You mean you don’t know?” persisted Painter.

“I mean I don’t know,” agreed Rourke stiffly.

“All right.” Painter swung away. “You can both go. I may be calling on you tomorrow.” He went down the walk on hard heels toward his unmarked car with a police chauffeur at the curb.

Timothy Rourke turned after him, muttering, “Guess I’ll take off, too.”

Shayne caught up with him in three long strides. He clamped the fingers of his big left hand tightly around the reporter’s thin biceps and pulled him to a halt. “We’ve got things to talk about, Tim.”

“I don’t see it.” His old friend faced him defiantly in the thin moonlight. “I asked you for a favor. You refused. That’s your right. What the hell?” He looked away from Shayne’s scowling face. “I need a drink.”

Shayne said, “So do I.” He released Rourke’s arm, gave him a little shove toward the sidewalk. “Get in your heap, and I’ll follow,” he said grimly. “Pull in at the first gin-mill where we can have a quiet drink and some talk.”

CHAPTER SIX

Shayne got in his car and switched on the headlights that picked out Timothy Rourke’s shambling figure as he got into the driver’s seat of the shabby coupe which the detective knew so well. He started his motor and waited until Rourke drew away from the curb, then pulled out behind him. There were only two police cars left parked on the quiet side street as they drove away.

Rourke’s coupe turned south toward the business section of Miami Beach, and Shayne followed close behind. On Fifth Street, Rourke turned to the right toward the Causeway, slowed and pulled into the curb in front of the first bar at which there was parking space.

Shayne parked behind him, cut off his ignition and headlights, and got out briskly. He caught up with the reporter as Rourke was entering the bar, and walked beside him, without speaking, to an empty booth. Timothy Rourke slid into it and Shayne sat opposite him. Rourke avoided meeting his eyes as a waiter came up to take their order. He said, “Bourbon and water. Make it a double,” and Shayne ordered cognac with ice water on the side.