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  “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.

  Chapter Two

  FRIGHTENED FEMALE

  MICHAEL SHAYNE WAS STEPPING from the shower half an hour later when his phone rang. He snatched up a heavy towel and dried himself sketchily as he went to answer it.

  A throaty female voice with a suggestion of tears came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne? Can I see you?” There was a faint note of familiarity about the voice, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Downstairs. May I come up?”

  “Who are you?” Shayne said swiftly, dabbing at his wet body with his free hand.

  “I’m Betty Jackson. I have to see you about Bert. I’m terribly worried—and frightened.”

  “All right,” growled Shayne. “I’ll leave the door on the latch. Come in and wait. I’m dressing.” He hung up and padded to the front door, threw off the night latch, and went to the bedroom.

  He wondered about Betty Jackson as he finished drying himself and got into fresh clothes. And about Timothy Rourke and the extent of his interest in the young couple. And how Mrs. Jackson had learned about Bert’s visit to his apartment.

  He was prepared thoroughly to dislike Mrs. Bert Jackson as he buttoned a clean white shirt and knotted a gray figured tie around his neck. He vaguely recalled meeting her at the wedding party two years previously, and retained an impression of softness and youth and superficial prettiness as she clung to her new husband’s arm, wide-eyed with adoration.

  That had worn off fast, he told himself grimly. Judging by what young Jackson had said, at least. Less than two years of marriage, and she was stepping out with other men because her husband earned only sixty-two fifty a week.

  Shayne knew lots of men who earned less and whose wives made homes with that amount. He was angry at himself for bothering with Betty Jackson as he made a pretense of brushing damp, unruly hair.

  He had heard no sound from the outer room, but when he opened the bedroom door and stalked out he saw her sitting in the same deep chair where her husband had sat a short time before. He stopped abruptly and looked at her.

  Much of her softness and youth had been shorn away by two years of marriage, and she had become a beautiful woman. Her eyes were large and velvety black and imploring. She was thinner, and the good bone structure of her face was more delicately outlined. Dark hair was brushed smoothly back from a high forehead, her dark brows heavy and slightly arched, her mouth full-lipped, and long lashes black against deep sockets as she looked up at Shayne. She sat erect with her feet planted close together and a hand pressed on each arm of the chair as though prepared to leap up and throw herself into his arms.

  “I had to see you,” she said. “Please tell me about Bert—what he said to you and where he has gone.”

  Shayne moved slowly toward her and said, “Among other things, your husband told me that you’re not satisfied to live on his salary and that you’ve been going out with other men who can buy champagne.”

  She winced, and her eyes grew moist, but she did not mov
e from the strained position. “What—were some of the other things he told you, Mr. Shayne?”

  “First, tell me how you knew he was here.” Shayne crossed to his swivel chair and sat down.

  “Tim Rourke phoned me. Do you know where Bert was going when he left here?”

  “No. He could have been headed straight for the devil so far as I was concerned.”

  She winced again, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and blinked her lids. The lashes were moist when she opened her eyes and strained forward to say, “I know Bert’s a fool, Mr. Shayne. But I—I love him—and I’m frightened.”

  “Women who love their husbands don’t drive them to unethical and criminal acts to pick up a little extra dough.” Shayne’s tone was uncompromising, and he turned his eyes slightly to avoid looking directly into hers.

  “What did he say?” Her voice rose hysterically. “Is he going through with his crazy plan to extort money for that story?”

  “Don’t you approve?”

  She sprang up and went toward him, anger blazing in the black eyes that had been liquid and shining a moment before. “Damn you!” she raged. “You’ve no right to say that to me. Bert’s crazy with jealousy, and he’s got everything wrong. Did he give you the idea he wanted that money for me?”

  She was standing over him, and Shayne looked up into her eyes. “Didn’t he?” said Shayne coldly.

  “No!” She turned away and sat down again. “He wanted it for her,” she told him in a dull voice. “So he could leave me. What did he say about Tim?”

  “That he hadn’t seen Tim for several weeks. I gathered they aren’t friends any longer.”

  Betty Jackson buried her face in her hands for a moment. Her cheeks were streaked with tears when she took them away, and there was a wild glint of hysteria in her eyes. “Something happened while Bert was still on the News,” she cried. “I don’t know exactly what, but it gave Bert this crazy idea he has now. Something about a story that Tim got paid money for covering up. Bert accused Tim of it, I guess, and Tim got him fired. All he’s talked about since then is how he was going to do the same if he ever had the chance.”