Framed in Blood by Brett Halliday Page B

parked in front of the Las Felice, realizing that it was only a matter of time before Will Gentry would connect the key marked Three A with Marie Leonard’s apartment. And he didn’t relish the thought of what would happen if the police found him in the vicinity.
    His was the only car. He went to it briskly, got in, and pulled away fast in the direction of Timothy Rourke’s bachelor quarters.
    The busy signal he had received when he called the reporter’s number bothered him. If he had been talking to Betty Jackson, it might already be too late to do anything about the mistake Shayne had made in lying to Will Gentry. It was quite possible that the police were at the Jackson house, hoping to pick up just such a lead as a call from Rourke would give them. He hoped to God Rourke would be at home.
    His luck held. Rourke’s car was parked in front of the apartment building. Shayne didn’t stop, but went around the corner and parked on a side street near an alley which he knew could be reached via the fire escape from the reporter’s second-floor apartment.
    Long-legging it back to the front entrance, he hurried in and up one flight. The door of Rourke’s apartment stood ajar, and Shayne pushed it open onto a disordered living-room, saw the reporter sitting at his desk with the telephone receiver at his ear.
    Rourke dropped the instrument on the hook and exclaimed, “I’m worried about Betty. She still doesn’t answer. I’m afraid she took more than two sleeping-tablets.”
    Shayne heeled the door shut and strode into the room saying, “You’ll both be lucky,” grimly, “if she swallowed enough of them to stop her talking to the cops for a long time. Dammit it, Tim! Why didn’t you speak up back at my place? I warned you I couldn’t work in the dark. Now I’ve messed things up, set the police right on your tail.”
    “Give you what straight?” Rourke countered belligerently.
    “Everything. You not only didn’t tell me about your bedding down with Betty Jackson, but you threw me off completely by making that phony call to a number you pretended was the Jacksons’.”
    “Okay,” Rourke muttered. He moved to a worn armchair and dropped into it. “Knowing the way your mind works I was sure you’d take it this way if you found out I was with Betty when you phoned me yesterday afternoon. There’s no use telling you now that we’re just good friends.”
    “It doesn’t matter a hell of a lot what you tell me,” Shayne agreed, sauntering over to the couch and sitting down. “You’ll find out that the police have got nasty minds, too. It didn’t help things a bit,” he went on savagely, “when I thought I was covering up on this other business for you by throwing Will Gentry a false lead in the shape of private information that Betty has been two-timing her husband with some guy.”
    “You told him that?” the reporter exclaimed incredulously. “Why? It’s a damned lie. Betty is—”
    “Because,” groaned Shayne, “I thought it was a lie. I had to think fast and give Will some reason for that crack you made about Bert Jackson in my office to stop him from slipping the cuffs on me.”
    “Why didn’t you tell him the truth? About Bert’s blackmailing scheme. Damn your soul, Mike, I believe you’d sell your own mother for a piece of cash.”
    Shayne’s gaunt features tightened. He exhaled a long breath and forced himself to speak calmly.
    “Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for later, Tim. You can see the spot I was in. I had no intimation that there was anything between you and Betty Jackson—or between her and anyone. There were angles on this other thing in connection with you that worried me. I thought if I could send the cops off hunting for a nonexistent lover it would give me a free hand to chase down the real angles. Instead, I’ve turned them loose on you.”
    “But I swear to you, Mike, that Betty and I—”
    “It makes no difference whether you’ve been sleeping with her or