Read Framed in Blood for Free Online Page B
Authors: Brett Halliday
ran Jackson out—”
“I know, you told me that,” Rourke broke in irritably. “But I got to thinking.” He paused, raking his fingers through his sparse hair and drawing them down over his bony face.
“You got to thinking that I lied,” Shayne said in a fiat, toneless voice. “You decided that I threw in with Bert and that I lied to you to cut you out of your share of the blackmail. Damn it, Tim.”
“Get off your high horse,” Tim shouted hoarsely. “We’ll get nowhere suspecting each other this way. I didn’t think anything like that. I did think maybe you’d got the kid to leave his story with you, and that maybe you’d stall him like I asked you to over the phone.” He stopped talking long enough to drain his glass, then flung the accusation.
“That thing at your office looked exactly like what might happen if Bert had spilled everything. Now that he has disappeared, I wonder.”
Shayne looked at the liquor in his glass, and his mouth tightened with distaste. “It’s what might have happened if he had turned his dope over to me.” He stood up. “Lucy and I will have a mess to clean up in the morning.”
Rourke arose with him. “I’ll drive you over.” Neither of them spoke until Rourke drew up to the curb at the side entrance to Shayne’s hotel. The detective opened the door, got out, said, “Good night,” and turned away.
Rourke hesitated, hunched over the steering-wheel. His face showed intense strain. Then he jerked his door open and followed Shayne in, hurrying up the stairs behind him. Catching up with him on the top step, he panted, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let it break off this way, Mike. We’ve been friends too long to let a couple of punk kids come between us.”
Shayne shrugged and continued down the corridor. “You’re always welcome to a drink, but I don’t—”
He stopped abruptly as he reached the door of his apartment. It sagged open, and the marks of a jimmy scarred the doorframe. He reached inside to switch on the lights and began to curse deep in his throat when he saw the wreckage.
Chapter Four
COVER-UP FOR A PAL
TIMOTHY ROURKE WHISTLED SHRILLY. “Somebody is certainly looking for something,” he said with conviction.
“That,” said Shayne grimly, “is the understatement of the year.”
There were fewer papers here to be scattered, but the same intensive search as of his office was evidenced. The desk drawers were pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor; chair and couch cushions had been removed and tossed aside.
Shayne stalked into the bedroom to find chests of drawers emptied and mattress and pillows from the bed piled on the floor. In the kitchen the same careful search had been made of cupboards and refrigerator. His gray eyes were bleak when he re-entered the living-room slowly, massaging his angular jaw.
He made a sudden, savage gesture and went to the liquor cabinet muttering, “The bastards were in too big a hurry to drink my liquor, anyway. Rye, Tim?”
Rourke, after quietly peeking into the bedroom, was straightening chairs and replacing cushions. He nodded assent, then said, “If Gentry wasn’t convinced by your ransacked office, this will be the clincher that you’ve got something someone wants badly and in a hell of a hurry.”
“Yeh. If Will saw it,” he agreed, moving toward his desk with two bottles and glasses. “I think I’ll keep this to myself.” He set the bottles and glasses down and gazed restlessly around the room. “I gave it to him straight, Tim. There’s not one damned thing in my office or apartment worth a dime to anyone. And no reason for anyone to believe there is. I’m not working on anything, and haven’t had a client for weeks.” He sat down heavily and creaked the swivel chair forward, poured two drinks, glanced at his watch, and noted that less than an hour had elapsed since Gentry’s call had wakened him, and went on absently. “They didn’t waste much time breaking in here
“I know, you told me that,” Rourke broke in irritably. “But I got to thinking.” He paused, raking his fingers through his sparse hair and drawing them down over his bony face.
“You got to thinking that I lied,” Shayne said in a fiat, toneless voice. “You decided that I threw in with Bert and that I lied to you to cut you out of your share of the blackmail. Damn it, Tim.”
“Get off your high horse,” Tim shouted hoarsely. “We’ll get nowhere suspecting each other this way. I didn’t think anything like that. I did think maybe you’d got the kid to leave his story with you, and that maybe you’d stall him like I asked you to over the phone.” He stopped talking long enough to drain his glass, then flung the accusation.
“That thing at your office looked exactly like what might happen if Bert had spilled everything. Now that he has disappeared, I wonder.”
Shayne looked at the liquor in his glass, and his mouth tightened with distaste. “It’s what might have happened if he had turned his dope over to me.” He stood up. “Lucy and I will have a mess to clean up in the morning.”
Rourke arose with him. “I’ll drive you over.” Neither of them spoke until Rourke drew up to the curb at the side entrance to Shayne’s hotel. The detective opened the door, got out, said, “Good night,” and turned away.
Rourke hesitated, hunched over the steering-wheel. His face showed intense strain. Then he jerked his door open and followed Shayne in, hurrying up the stairs behind him. Catching up with him on the top step, he panted, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let it break off this way, Mike. We’ve been friends too long to let a couple of punk kids come between us.”
Shayne shrugged and continued down the corridor. “You’re always welcome to a drink, but I don’t—”
He stopped abruptly as he reached the door of his apartment. It sagged open, and the marks of a jimmy scarred the doorframe. He reached inside to switch on the lights and began to curse deep in his throat when he saw the wreckage.
Chapter Four
COVER-UP FOR A PAL
TIMOTHY ROURKE WHISTLED SHRILLY. “Somebody is certainly looking for something,” he said with conviction.
“That,” said Shayne grimly, “is the understatement of the year.”
There were fewer papers here to be scattered, but the same intensive search as of his office was evidenced. The desk drawers were pulled out and the contents dumped on the floor; chair and couch cushions had been removed and tossed aside.
Shayne stalked into the bedroom to find chests of drawers emptied and mattress and pillows from the bed piled on the floor. In the kitchen the same careful search had been made of cupboards and refrigerator. His gray eyes were bleak when he re-entered the living-room slowly, massaging his angular jaw.
He made a sudden, savage gesture and went to the liquor cabinet muttering, “The bastards were in too big a hurry to drink my liquor, anyway. Rye, Tim?”
Rourke, after quietly peeking into the bedroom, was straightening chairs and replacing cushions. He nodded assent, then said, “If Gentry wasn’t convinced by your ransacked office, this will be the clincher that you’ve got something someone wants badly and in a hell of a hurry.”
“Yeh. If Will saw it,” he agreed, moving toward his desk with two bottles and glasses. “I think I’ll keep this to myself.” He set the bottles and glasses down and gazed restlessly around the room. “I gave it to him straight, Tim. There’s not one damned thing in my office or apartment worth a dime to anyone. And no reason for anyone to believe there is. I’m not working on anything, and haven’t had a client for weeks.” He sat down heavily and creaked the swivel chair forward, poured two drinks, glanced at his watch, and noted that less than an hour had elapsed since Gentry’s call had wakened him, and went on absently. “They didn’t waste much time breaking in here