Framed in Blood

Chapter One

For some minutes Michael Shayne had been aware of the nervous regard of the young man sitting beside him at the bar. The tall redhead remained placidly impervious to the squirmings which seemed designed to attract his attention. It was not until Shayne lifted his glass to drain it that the young man said, “I guess that’s cognac you’re drinking.”

Shayne set the glass down and turned his head slowly, lifted his bushy red brows, and said in an impersonal tone, “What business is it of yours what I’m drinking?”

The man turned on the stool and faced Shayne. His thin blond mustache was tinged with nicotine on the left side, and his round face, which should have been plump, was haggard. There were dark circles beneath bloodshot blue eyes, and an uncertain smile quivered on his lips.

He said, “You are Michael Shayne, aren’t you?”

“So what?”

“So you must be drinking cognac.” The young man looked at the empty glass in Shayne’s big hand. “I’ll buy one. A double?”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders and resumed his hunched position after shoving the glass aside. “Make it a triple if you insist,” he said placidly, turning his head slightly to look at the man again. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“Sure.” His smile was steady now, his tone eager and placating and hopeful at the same time. “We met a couple of years ago. I was with-”

“Wait a minute. You were with Tim Rourke. Just starting in as a reporter on the News.” A frown of concentration trenched his forehead and drew his red brows together. “Bert Jackson,” he continued after a moment. “Tim was throwing a party for you. You were getting married or divorced or something.”

“Married,” said Bert Jackson, patently pleased that the detective hadn’t forgotten. “It was on the Coco-Palm Plaza roof. I’ve seen you around since then, and read lots of stuff about you in the papers, but I guess-”

“Still on the News?” Shayne asked idly when Jackson’s voice wavered off to indecisive silence.

“No. I’m on the Tribune now.” He spoke defensively, with a note of hopeful entreaty or of worried expectancy. He ordered the drinks, then appeared to be anxiously awaiting some comment, but Shayne remained silent until the bartender set an old-fashioned before Jackson and poured three ounces of Martell into a glass.

“Still married?” Shayne forced himself to ask with a show of interest when the silence became awkward. He was turning the glass absently between his blunt fingers, admiring the clean amber liquid; and thus occupied, he failed to see the look of hurt and disappointment that flashed across his companion’s face.

He did notice a thinness in Jackson’s monosyllabic affirmative, and waited for him to say more, but there was silence.

Shayne lifted his glass and turned toward Jackson to say, “Here’s to Tim Rourke.”

Jackson’s upper lip drew away from his nicotined teeth and tightened, and his red-streaked eyes glinted with anger. He lowered his lids and lifted his glass with seeming effort. “Sure,” he agreed listlessly. “To Tim.”

Shayne sipped his cognac and wondered what was bothering his companion. Jackson had been a sort of protege of Rourke’s back there in the beginning, he recalled. The older reporter had groomed him for the job, given him a hand up by taking him along on important assignments. He frowned again, recalling that he hadn’t heard Rourke mention the young reporter for a long time.

He heard the empty old-fashioned glass thump down on the bar, and Jackson’s strained voice say, “How about getting out of here where we can talk privately? I’ve been trying to catch up with you for a couple of days.”

“Rourke could have told you where to find me,” said Shayne shortly.

“I didn’t want to ask Tim Rourke.”

Shayne took a big sip of cognac and washed it around in his mouth as he considered Jackson’s terse reply and almost hostile tone. He took his time finishing the drink, then slid from the stool and said, “My place is just a couple of blocks away.”

Jackson followed him out of the air-cooled bar and onto the sidewalk where a blast of hot, humid air struck their faces. The street was choked with late-afternoon traffic and the sun-drenched sidewalk was crowded with tanned and bareheaded tourists. The reporter was almost a head shorter than the rangy detective, and he moved his legs rapidly to keep pace as they turned the corner off Flagler toward the drawbridge over the Miami River. There were fewer pedestrians on the Avenue, and Shayne walked faster after crossing Southeast First Street. Shayne’s Panama was tipped far back from his forehead, and he strode along with a look of quizzical unconcern on his rugged face. Jackson panted beside him, occasionally pushing his hat back to mop his brow, then pulling it low over his face as though to avoid recognition by passers-by.

Shayne stopped at the side entrance to an apartment hotel on the north bank of the river and opened the door for the reporter to precede him. He nodded to the stairway that by-passed the lobby and elevators and said, “Up one flight.” At the top of the stairs he took the lead down the hall and unlocked a door that opened onto a large, untidy living-room with windows overlooking Biscayne Bay.

Jackson entered the room behind him, and Shayne indicated a deep armchair beside the battered oak desk that had served him through the years, until he engaged a suite of offices in a downtown office building. He tossed his hat on the rack near the door, crossed the room to part limp curtains in the hope of inducing a bay breeze into the room, then dropped down into the swivel chair behind the desk.

Jackson sat with both hands deep in his pockets, short legs stretched out, and a sullen expression on his face.

Shayne lit a cigarette, frowning at the somewhat theatrically dejected posture of his visitor. “So you’ve been trying to catch up with me,” he began, leaning forward with both elbows propped on the desk.

“For a couple of days.” Jackson’s eyes were shielded by the brim of his hat, his gaze intent upon the floor.

“And you didn’t want to ask Rourke to find me?” He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“That’s right.” Jackson paused, sucking in his lower lip, then added bitterly, “I don’t see Tim much nowadays.”

Shayne waited a full minute for him to say something more, but when the reporter did not look up or speak, he said crisply, “My time is worth a certain amount of money, Jackson. You’ve used up about the price of a triple Martell. If you’re going to sit around and brood, you can just as well do it elsewhere.”

Jackson pulled himself stiffly erect and lifted a worried, haggard face. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “I’m a dope. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Try the beginning.”

“How does one know where the beginning is?” Jackson spread out his hands, and he suddenly looked very young and defenseless. “Two years ago when you met me-on my wedding night? That was one beginning. A year ago when I got canned from the News? That was another beginning.”

“Why did you lose your job? Rourke used to think you had the makings of a newspaperman.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jackson’s hands fell limply in his lap. He studied them for a moment, then resumed. “Maybe it began a month ago when-”

“When what?” Shayne prompted him.

“Nothing. That was more of an ending.” He laughed harshly. “To hell with all this. Could I have a drink?”

Shayne said, “No,” flatly.

Jackson looked startled, then belligerent, as though he had been slapped. His gaze went past the detective to the built-in liquor cabinet with an array of glasses and bottles behind the glass doors. “Why not?” he demanded. “If I had a bracer-”

Shayne shook his head, saying, “I’m wasting my time on you, but that’s no reason why I should waste good liquor, too. Have you had a fight with Tim?”

“No,” muttered Jackson. “I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and rubbed it out in an ash tray, made an impatient gesture, and pushed his chair back.

“I don’t know why I’m sitting here beating around the bush like a tongue-tied fool,” Jackson burst out. “As if, by God, I’m afraid I’ll shock you. A guy like you.” He laughed again, harshly and derisively.

A muscle tightened in Shayne’s left cheek, and his gray eyes were cold. “A guy like me,” he said evenly, “is pretty hard to shock.”

“Sure. That’s what I’ve been telling myself the last few days while I’ve been trying to work up nerve to approach you. From everything I’ve heard about you, this is right up your alley.” Jackson relaxed and slid back to his former position, took off his hat, tossed it on the floor, and wiped the beads of sweat from his face.

“You can hear all sorts of things about me in Miami,” Shayne told him. “What do you think is right up my alley?”

“I’ve got a proposition.” Jackson sat up again, slid forward in the chair. “Look-could I have that drink now?”

“If you’re ready to say something that makes sense.”

“You needn’t worry about wasting the price of a drink,” Jackson told him, a strange smile spreading his blond mustache. “There’ll be several thousands in it for you, Shayne.”

“That’ll buy a lot of liquor,” the redhead agreed. He got up and crossed to the cabinet, asking, “Bourbon or rye?”

“Rye. Mixed with a little plain water-if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” said Shayne, “if you want to ruin good whisky.” He poured rye in a tall glass, took another empty glass into the kitchenette where he put ice cubes and water in both, and returned to pour himself a glass of cognac. He carried the rye-and-water to Jackson, and when he was settled behind the desk with ice water and cognac he said, “Let’s have it.”

Jackson took a long drink, settled back with the tall glass clutched in one hand, and began.

“I’ve got hold of something so hot it’s scorching my fingers. I’ve been covering City Hall for the Tribune the last two months. An open assignment. Digging up any small items I could. I ran onto this thing and I’ve been holding it back while I covered all the angles. Now I’ve got it!” His tone was exultant. “Names, affidavits-everything. The biggest damned political scandal that ever hit Miami.”

“Miami,” said Shayne, “has had some lovely political stinks in the past.”

“But nothing like this one,” Jackson vowed, jerking himself erect again, squirming around in his chair. “I’ll crack the present administration wide open at its rotten seams and send one V.I.P. to the penitentiary for a long stretch-if my stuff is ever published,” he ended slowly and with waning enthusiasm.

Shayne took a sip of cognac and lazily washed it down with ice water while Jackson gulped a drink of rye. “If?” said the detective quietly.

“That’s what I said. I’ve got this exclusive, see? No one else is in on it. I haven’t peeped a word about it to the office. They don’t even know there is such a story floating around-else they’d never have turned me loose to dig it out.”

“Why are you holding it out if it’s so hot?”

“I’ll tell you why.” Bert Jackson slammed his glass down on the arm of his chair, pounded the opposite arm with his fist, and exploded, “Because I’ll be double-damned if I’m going to watch it die the way other stories like this one died. You know the sort of rag the Trib is.”

“I thought it was a pretty good paper,” said Shayne mildly.

Jackson’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “It’s nothing but a damned mouthpiece for the administration. I’ve watched this happen before. A story like mine hasn’t got the chance of a snowflake in hell. Not a word would ever see print if I were fool enough to turn it in.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Shayne argued. “Newspapers live on circulation. If this story is as sensational as you claim-”

“Nuts!” the reporter interrupted violently. “I’ve been around for two years now, finding out what oils the wheels. The Trib is no worse than any other paper. They all distort the news to fit their private policies. Deliberately play down certain stories, and front-page other stuff that doesn’t deserve more than a few lines. It’s a stinking, rotten business, and I’m sick of playing sucker.”

Shayne took time to light a cigarette and take a sip of cognac before saying, “I’ve known Timothy Rourke a lot of years, Jackson, and I never heard him complain that a story of his was killed because it didn’t conform to his paper’s policy. That expose of insurance rackets a couple of years ago that won him the Pulitzer prize. I happen to know his publisher was one of the biggest stockholders in one of the companies involved, yet there was never the slightest pressure on him to stop the investigation.”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Bert Jackson sourly. “A guy like Tim Rourke-Pulitzer prize winner. No one dares edit his copy. That’s why-I decided to get in touch with you.”

“Why?”

“I need money.”

“Most of us do these days.”

“I mean money.” Jackson surged to his feet with drink in hand, shaking a tight left fist at Shayne. “A lot of money. Ten grand. And I need it fast.”

“What for?”

“That’s my business,” flared Jackson, the red streaks in his eyes glinting between half-closed lids.

Shayne took a long puff on his cigarette and deliberately blew smoke upward, trying to decide whether to throw the reporter out on his ear or encourage him to keep on talking.

Jackson gulped another drink, set the glass down, and began to pace up and down the room, his hands alternately clawing at his long, sandy hair and ramming deep in his pockets, his angry words flowing rapidly.

“Know what my salary is? Sixty-two fifty a week. Know what my take-home pay is? Figure it out. I’m sick of scrimping and splitting pennies to make ends meet. I’m damned fed up with taking Betty to a juke joint on Saturday night for a beer while crooked bastards like this big shot I’m talking about are drinking champagne at swell hotels.

“Betty’s sick of it, too, and I don’t blame her. It isn’t what she expected when she married me. All that stuff Tim Rourke spread around about me being a big-shot reporter in a few years!” He choked over this, and hurried on. “I don’t blame Betty for stepping out on me. Why shouldn’t she have some fun?” he demanded, stopping in front of Shayne and glaring down at him.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne drawled. “Your wife is stepping out on you because you don’t earn enough money to take her places. Is that all that’s bothering you?”

“That and a lot more,” he answered with tight-lipped fury. “What’s it got me to play it straight these two years? I dig up a real story like this, and what happens? Do I get credit for doing a job? Nuts. If I play Little Boy Blue and turn it over to the front desk, what happens? It lays an egg. A damned rotten egg. And I go on working for peanuts. To hell with that. Why shouldn’t I cash in?”

“How?” asked Shayne coldly.

“How much do you think Mr. Big would pay to have my story suppressed? What’s ten thousand to him? He’ll pick up four times that amount in graft in the next twelve months if he stays out of the pen. Why in hell shouldn’t he split some of it with me?”

Shayne lifted one shoulder and settled deeper in his swivel chair. “Shakedowns are dangerous.

“I’m not afraid of a little danger,” Jackson snorted. “All I want is my share.”

“If you want my advice-” Shayne began.

“I don’t want your advice,” Jackson interrupted. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Shayne snapped. “Frankly, I’m not interested in your personal problems. It’s no concern of mine if you’re married to a money-hungry female. Go ahead with your sophomoric shakedown and get your ears pinned back.”

“Why should I get my ears pinned back?”

“What makes you think Mr. Big will pay off?”

“I’ve told you-”

“You’ve told me a lot of things,” Shayne broke in wearily. “Among them is your conviction that your paper will suppress the story if you turn it in. Then you talk about blackmailing Mr. Big by threatening to do just that. Why in the name of God would he pay you blackmail if he knows your paper won’t print the story?”

Bert Jackson dropped into his chair and took a long drink of rye, warm, now, and weakened further by melted ice cubes. “I thought about that angle,” he admitted, his haggard face twitching. “That’s what had me stymied until I thought about Tim Rourke.”

“What about Tim?” Shayne’s voice was suddenly harsh.

“You said it yourself a minute ago.” Jackson tensed forward and continued eagerly. “If it were Tim’s story, no one would dare suppress it. It would be front-paged just the way he wrote it-and Mr. Big knows that as well as we do.”

“But it isn’t Tim’s story, nor the News’s story.”

“I could turn all my stuff over to him.”

“To a rival paper?”

“Not to be printed,” said Jackson quickly. “Just to put pressure on Mr. Big. He’d pay plenty to keep it quiet if he knew Timothy Rourke had the lowdown on him. A lot more than ten grand. And ten grand is all I want out of it. Rourke can have the rest. You and Rourke-to split between you.”

Shayne was silent, watching his perspiring visitor through half-closed eyes to hide the rising anger in them. Jackson’s damp, sandy hair lay aslant his forehead, adding a maniacal look to his grim face. “Where do I come in?” he asked after a brief period.

“You put it up to Rourke. I’ll give you part of what I’ve got, enough to convince Tim it’s the real thing.”

“Why don’t you put it up to Tim yourself?”

Jackson licked his lips and combed his bangs back with nervous fingers. “Let’s say for personal reasons. What’s that to you? You’ll get a nice cut just for passing it on to Tim.”

“Tim Rourke didn’t get where he is now by suppressing legitimate news,” said Shayne shortly.

“But he won’t be suppressing anything. Not really. Don’t you see? There’s nothing actually unethical about my proposition. The way things are now, Rourke can’t print the story because he hasn’t got it. I can’t print it because I know my publisher will turn thumbs down on it. So, what the hell? We can all collect a chunk of money from a situation that can’t be changed.”

Shayne finished his drink and came to his feet. His face was deeply trenched, and white showed at the knuckles of his clenched fists. “I wouldn’t insult Tim Rourke by suggesting it. You’d better get out of the newspaper game and tout for the races or some other place where your particular talents will be appreciated. And get out of here fast if-”

“Wait a minute, Shayne. Don’t go off half-cocked.” Bert Jackson was on his feet, backing away from the redhead’s slow advance. “Why don’t you try Rourke on it and see what he says?”

Shayne stopped in his tracks. A peculiar intonation, a suggestion of sneering bravado in the reporter’s voice struck him as being all wrong. He tightened his mouth and studied the man appraisingly.

Jackson returned his scrutiny with sullen self-possession. “Don’t be so damned certain about Rourke,” he warned. “He might fool you. Why don’t you call him and see what he says?”

Shayne shifted his angry eyes from Jackson’s drawn face and instinctively massaged his ear lobe as he stared bleakly at the wall beyond his would-be client. “I will,” he said decisively, and went back to the desk. “And when he tells me to kick your proposition right down your throat that’s what I’ll enjoy doing.” He picked up the receiver and gave the switchboard operator the number of the Daily News while Jackson picked up his warm drink and sauntered nonchalantly around the room.

The City Room of the News told Shayne that Rourke was out and was not expected back soon. Shayne asked for the City Editor and waited until a voice said, “Dirkson speaking.”

“Mike Shayne, Dirk. You know where I can locate Tim?”

“I’ve got a telephone number,” said Dirkson cautiously. “Is it important, Shayne?”

“Since when did Tim start playing hard to get?”

“It’s just-he gave me this number privately, for us in case something special came up-any emergency. I guess that includes you.” He gave Shayne a number and hung up.

Shayne clicked for the switchboard and gave the number, holding the receiver against his ear. The phone rang four times before a woman’s voice answered. A low, intimate voice that conjured up a vision of a bedside table, a silken negligee, and cocktails for two. The kind of voice he was prepared to hear after Dirkson’s hocus-pocus about a private number and a long acquaintance with Timothy Rourke.

He said, “I want to speak to Tim Rourke,” and heard a breathy murmur of astonishment, then Rourke’s voice rasping with irritation.

“What the devil is it, Dirk? Can’t you let a man-”

“Mike Shayne, Tim. I’m calling for a friend of yours. A kid named Bert Jackson.”

There was a long moment of dead silence. Shayne glanced around and saw Jackson emerging from the kitchenette, heard the clink of ice in his glass, and watched him stop at the liquor cabinet and pour more rye over the cubes.

“What about Bert Jackson?” Rourke’s voice blustered defensively against Shayne’s eardrums.

“He’s offering us a proposition-to join him in a small blackmailing deal.” Shayne sketched in the details of the reporter’s offer, and added, “He insisted that I put it up to you before kicking him out.”

“Don’t kick the kid out, Mike,” said Rourke.

“Why not?”

Rourke’s next words came swiftly, muffled, as though he pressed his mouth against the instrument and tried not to be overheard by someone in the room. “Stall him, Mike. Pretend to go along. Get whatever you can and arrange to see him later. I’ll call you.” Before Shayne could speak he heard the receiver click. He slammed the instrument on the prongs and glared angrily at the recumbent form in the chair beside his desk.

“Did you really think Rourke was so lily-white he’d turn down a thing like that?” said Jackson, a sneer of triumph lifting his sparse mustache.

Shayne picked up his glass and drained it, thumped it down and said, “It’s nothing to me, youngster, but I have yet to see a blackmailer come out on the top of the heap. It never works out that way. Who’s the guy you plan to put the clamps to?”

“Oh, no.” Jackson took a long swig of his fresh drink, smiled with cocky assurance, and said, “Once you and Rourke had the name you could handle it without cutting me in. Tim’s got ways of digging up the same stuff I’ve got.”

Shayne set his teeth hard, silently cursing Rourke for placing him in this ambiguous position. After a moment’s deliberation he creaked the swivel chair forward and said persuasively, “Look, Jackson, I’ve been around Miami since you were wetting your diapers. There’s a lot of loose money in this town and a lot of ways of picking up a fast buck. Blackmail isn’t one of them. Give this stuff of yours to me and I’ll figure out another angle. If Tim and I can’t find a paper to break it locally, we’ll put it over a wire service and give you full credit.”

“Damn the credit. I’ve got to have cash.”

“How much?” Shayne swiveled forward and propped his elbows on the scarred desk. “I’ll advance you something. It depends on how good the stuff is after you lay it on the line for me to see.”

“Ten grand,” said Jackson sullenly.

“No story is worth that.”

“This one is-to a certain party.” Bert Jackson finished his second drink and wavered to his feet. Steadying himself with one hand on the back of the chair he said belligerently, “I tell you I’ve got enough to send Mr. Big up for life.”

“Then sell it to him,” Shayne snapped. “It’s your neck, not mine.”

Jackson bent down carefully, still clinging to the chair back with one hand, picked up his hat, and carefully fitted it on his head as he straightened. He then hiccuped and patted a sagging side pocket of his coat, leered at Shayne through half-closed lids, and said with drunken emphasis, “Don’t worry about my neck. Just let him try to get tough.”

“The sort of man you’re talking about,” Shayne told him wearily, “will have a dozen hoods on his payroll. You’d be safer tangling with a buzz saw.”

“So you’re backing out on it?” Jackson demanded.

“I haven’t been in on it. It’s okay if you and Rourke want to play, but count me out.”

The young reporter swayed indecisively beside the chair, still holding onto the back with one hand. Suddenly he let go and held himself rigidly erect. He rammed one hand in his trouser pocket and jangled coins nervously. “That’s just what I’ll do, Mr. Shayne. And thank you for-nothing.”

“You’d better get out, and fast,” Shayne said quietly. Bert Jackson tugged the brim of his hat low over his face and with the measured tread of the very drunk went out, slamming the door behind him.

The ringing of the telephone broke stridently into Shayne’s confused thoughts. He picked up the receiver and heard Timothy Rourke’s anxious voice coming over the wire before he clamped it against his ear.

“Mike-I’ve been calling your office, but no answer.”

“Lucy and I closed up early,” Shayne told him.

“Where’s Bert Jackson?”

“He just left, half tight and headed for trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Rourke. His voice was high-pitched, nervous, and excited.

“I told you about the screwy proposition he was making us not more than five minutes ago,” Shayne said impatiently. “Why did you tell me to stall him? A thing like that doesn’t make sense.”

“Hold on, Mike,” Rourke said sharply. “There’s no time to discuss the ethics of it now. Do you mean you turned Bert down flat?”

“I told him he could go to you, but I wasn’t having any.”

“Do you think he will-come to me?”

“I-don’t know,” said Shayne, thinking rapidly. “He seemed pretty sour on you. Have you had a fight?”

“Well, sort of, Mike,” Rourke answered cautiously. “Do you think he’ll try to put it through himself?”

“He was hell-bent on it when he left here,” said Shayne indifferently.

“For godsake, Mike,” Rourke exploded. “We’ve got to find him. Fast. Have you any idea-”

“You find him,” Shayne snapped. “I’ve had all of Bert Jackson I can stomach for one evening.” He slammed the receiver hard on the cradle and was eyeing his empty glass when a loud, urgent rapping sounded on the door. He strode toward it angrily, determined to conduct Bert Jackson to the top of the stairs and give him a swift kick down.

Shayne jerked the door open and saw an athletic figure with dark hair brushed neatly back from a smooth forehead. He was hatless, and attired in a sports jacket with gray gabardine slacks.

“My name is Ned Brooks, Mr. Shayne,” he said. “A friend of Tim Rourke. I work on the Trib with Bert Jackson.” His face was broad and squarish, his complexion dark and richly sun-tanned.

Shayne blocked the entrance with his tall, rangy body, looking down at the shorter man with a scowl. He said, “What do you want?” harshly.

“I’d like to talk to you a minute,” Brooks said. “About Bert. I saw him walking up this way with you a while ago, and I’ve been hanging around the lobby waiting until he left. He’d be sore if he knew I came here.”

“Why?”

“Because-well, look, Mr. Shayne,” Brooks said nervously, “Bert and I have been teamed on a story for some time. I know he’s got onto something big down at City Hall, and he’s holding out on me and the Trib. I want to know why-what’s he planning to do.”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because of hints he let drop,” said Brooks, folding his arms across his massive chest. “It’s my story as much as it is his, and I have a right to know why he doesn’t break it into print.”

“Why don’t you,” Shayne parried, “ask Bert?” He remained solidly in the doorway and showed no inclination to invite the reporter in.

“I have. But he’s gotten funny lately. I’ll tell you why I think he was here, Mr. Shayne, and if I’m wrong you can say so, and I’ll beat it.”

Shayne turned and waved a big hand toward the chair Bert Jackson had vacated and said, “I’ve got a few minutes to waste.”

Ned Brooks sat down carefully to preserve the sharp creases in his slacks. “I think Bert’s got some crazy idea of selling the story for cash instead of turning it in and he came to you for help in putting over some sort of deal.”

Shayne lowered one hip to the scarred desk. The blank expression on his face told the reporter nothing.

Brooks wet his lips nervously and went on. “You can see why that worries me. We’re working on it together, and anything he does reflects on my integrity, also. Don’t let him do it, Mr. Shayne. You can prevent it if you will. Aside from my own personal connection with it, I hate to see Bert get mixed up in a shady thing like that. He’s married to a nice girl and he’s got a big future in the newspaper business if he’ll just be patient.”

“What’s come between Bert and Tim Rourke?” Shayne asked abruptly.

Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his gaze from the detective’s. “They had a bust-up. About a year ago when Bert got fired from the News.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Well, I-not too much,” Brooks hedged.

“Do you know Bert Jackson’s wife?”

“Sure. Betty’s a swell kid. I’d feel sorry for her if anything happened to Bert.”

“That’s not exactly the way he told it to me.”

“You mean Marie? What did Bert tell you about her?”

“Not much,” Shayne said, and it seemed to him that Ned Brooks was faintly relieved by his reply.

The reporter leaned back and produced a neat leather case from an inner pocket. He took some time selecting a cigarette, lit it, and asked anxiously, “Was I right about what Bert wanted from you?”

“I don’t discuss the private affairs of my clients,” Shayne told him shortly.

“Then Bert is a client? You agreed to help him?”

“Or the private affairs of people who come to me, whether I take them as clients or not.”

“Would you tell me this one thing?” urged Brooks. “Did he mention my name at all?”

Shayne considered for a moment, then said flatly, “No. And now I’ve wasted all the time I have to spare.”

Ned Brooks arose swiftly, and was overprofuse in his thanks and apologies as he went to the door.

Shayne waved him away impatiently, and frowned when the door closed behind him. He wondered who Marie was, then angrily pushed the question from his mind, reminding himself that it was absolutely none of his affair.