Read The Private Practice of Michael Shayne for Free Online Page B

liberty to ask the prisoner any questions you wish.”
    “Is that right, Mike?” Timothy Rourke asked. “It puts you pretty much on the spot.”
    Rourke was a seasoned veteran of the Miami News, lean as a hound, shoulders bent slightly forward, and with eyes that invited confidence.
    “That’s right,” Shayne told him. He hesitated, then added in a tone that was somewhat apologetic to his old friend, “I’ve got an idea who called me for the frame. But it’s just an idea, Tim. You know how hard it is to identify a telephone voice. Especially if it is being disguised. And—suppose I am right? Hell, the guy will just deny it. Then where’ll I be?”
    “That’s just a stall,” Painter crackled. “If he’s got any clue to the caller—if there was a caller—let him tell us. I want you boys to witness that I’m giving him every chance to come clean and clear himself.”
    “Yeh, it can’t hurt to tell what you’re thinking, Mike,” Rourke urged. “I’ll see that it’s damn sure given a thorough investigation,” he ended with a belligerent glance toward Peter Painter.
    “But—if it’s who I think it was,” Shayne explained hesitantly, avoiding Rourke’s stalking eyes, “I’ll only be worse in Dutch when he denies it. I’d be better off to pretend I don’t recognize the voice than to tell what I think and be called a liar.”
    The telephone on Painter’s desk b-r-r’d discreetly. He unpronged the receiver and said, “Yes… Painter speaking.”
    He listened a moment and his black eyes glistened.
    “Yes,” he purred. “I understand, Mr. Marco. Yes, indeed, I think it’s extremely important. No, I don’t think it will he necessary for you to come down tonight. Drop in tomorrow morning and sign an affidavit. Thank you, Mr. Marco.”
    Triumph snapped in his eyes. He made an expansive gesture toward the reporters.
    “I’m going to lay all my cards on the table, boys. That was John Marco. City councilman here on the beach. He just heard a newscast on his radio saying that Shayne had been taken into custody for the murder of Harry Grange. He thought I might be interested to know that Shayne had a run-in with Grange in Marco’s private office tonight. It seems that Mr. Shayne threatened to break Grange’s neck if he didn’t stay away from a certain girl in whom Shayne has taken an—er—paternal interest. Phyllis Brighton by name. There were witnesses to the threat.”
    Painter held his manicured hand out and closed the fingers slowly.
    “There’s your motive, boys.”
    An electric silence followed. The five newspaper men stared at Shayne.
    Shayne’s wide mouth twitched into an ironic smile.
    “And I say that makes a swell motive for a frame-up. Hell, I’m not going to deny I threatened to break Grange’s neck.” He opened his big hands and closed them in front of their eyes. “I might have done it, too—if somebody else hadn’t beaten me to the pleasure.”
    “Mike’s right,” Tim Rourke declared. “His run-in with Grange earlier in the evening gives meaning to his story about the frame over the phone. For God’s sake, tell us who you think it was, Mike. I’ll run it down into its rathole if you’ll give me an inkle.”
    Shayne shook his head slowly, carefully avoiding Rourke’s eyes.
    “I might be wrong,” he protested. He turned to Painter with a frown creasing his forehead. “You can see how tough it is. Take you and the anonymous tip that you say sent you racing out to the beach almost before Grange’s heart had stopped beating—and just in time to conveniently catch me. You didn’t recognize that voice either.” A sardonic smile spread his wide mouth.
    “No,” Peter Painter admitted stiffly. “But it was likely someone I didn’t know.”
    “So you say,” Shayne snapped. “What proof have you? Who overheard the conversation and can swear there even was such a call?”
    Shayne’s hands rested on the chair arms, his body tensed forward from the waist, his