Seated at a table with a double orange juice before him and an order of crisp bacon and four scrambled eggs coming up, he unfolded the papers and looked at the Herald first.
They carried a brief story on the murder of the elevator operator, but nothing on Bert Jackson whose body had evidently been discovered too late to make the early edition. His own name wasn’t mentioned; it was simply stated that an office in the building had been rifled and the police believed the operator had been murdered by the burglars.
Shayne finished his orange juice and turned to the Tribune extra. They had really spread themselves on the murder of one of their reporters. A four-column cut of Bert Jackson, bordered with stark black lines, took up a lot of the front page. It was captioned:
Ace Reporter Mourned by Colleagues
There was not much on the actual story, less than Shayne already knew, but there was a glowing and colorful biography of Jackson which used a lot of adjectives like “stalwart” and “fearless” and intimated that the leading newspapers throughout the world were flying flags at half-mast to mourn his passing.
There were cautious references to Jackson’s latest assignment on the City Hall beat, with veiled hints that his death had been plotted by sinister elements in the city’s underworld who had feared publication of certain facts which Jackson had unearthed and which he refused to suppress even under threat of personal violence.
There was also a caustic second-page editorial commenting on the known inefficiency of the Miami police force and an offer by the Tribune of $1000.00 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Bert Jackson’s death. There was a flattering picture of Betty Jackson on the same page, captioned: Bereaved Bride, and it was stated that she was in seclusion at her home under the care of her personal physician and a trained nurse.
Shayne quirked his unswollen brow as he read this, and was glad that the enterprising reporter hadn’t snapped a picture of his secretary in her newly bought nurse’s uniform as an added attraction for the extra.
He ate his breakfast leisurely, then sauntered out and down Flagler to the Boulevard and north to the automobile dealer with whom he had dealt for years and from whom he had bought the sedan. He wondered idly whether it was still lying upside down in the bay or had been towed away by Painter’s men, but once inside the dealer’s establishment he brushed aside questions concerning the nature of the accident, and arranged without difficulty to drive away with a new model which he agreed to purchase at the list price, less the appraised value of his old car after it was checked for damages.
He chose a dull-gray sedan with corded silver upholstery, keeping Lucy’s approval in mind, drove it to West Flagler, where he parked in front of the unimposing building housing the Tribune plant.
Normally, he knew, there would be few of the editorial staff around at this time, but he had a hunch that most of them would be working overtime on the Bert Jackson story for the regular edition at eleven. This was confirmed when he asked for Abe Linkle and was directed to a small office off the City Room, after giving his name.
The editor was alone at his desk, a small man with prominent ears and tremendous vitality. A cardboard container of hot coffee rested on the desk at his elbow, and he was scribbling rapidly with a heavy black pencil on a wad of copy paper.
Linkle looked up, pushed a green eyeshade up on his forehead, and said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, Shayne. Some of the boys got a hint or two from the cops that you were in on the Jackson thing, and Brooks tells me Jackson went to see you about some mysterious something yesterday afternoon.”
Shayne nodded an affirmative to both statements, lowered himself gently into a chair, and sat quietly while Linkle’s shrewd eyes studied his bruised face and bandaged ear.
The editor said, “We got a flash early this morning on your car turned over in the bay off the causeway and a couple of dead gangsters on the beach near by. Want to give me something on that?”
“Ask Will Gentry,” said Shayne.
“I have. He’s keeping mum.”
“Keep after him,” Shayne suggested. “Needle him with stuff like has one of the stiffs been positively identified as the murderer of the elevator operator in my office building last night.”
Quick interest glinted in Linkle’s eyes. He made a notation on a sheet of paper and bawled through the open door, “Boy!” While he waited, he asked directly, “Any connection between all that and Jackson?”
“There might be,” Shayne told him affably, “but I wouldn’t want you to print any guesses just yet.”
A copy boy scooted in and took the memo from Linkle’s outstretched hand, and Shayne asked, “About this City Hall scandal you mention in your extra-Will Gentry tells me that Jackson evidently had something hot he wanted to turn in last night.”
Abe Linkle pushed the eyeshade farther up on his bald head, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. “We intend to follow that down and get it if it takes every man on the paper working twenty-four hours a day for six months.” He struck the desk resoundingly with the heel of a bony fist.
“No matter who it is-where it hits?”
“No matter nothing,” declared Linkle.
“How much idea have you got?”
“Damn little,” snapped the editor. “Just between you and me, and I hope I won’t be quoted. Jackson was close-mouthed. He had some fool idea that a reporter on the News had stolen a story from him once, and he wasn’t letting much out this time. Not even to Ned Brooks who was teamed up with him on the assignment.”
“What about the call Jackson made here last night? Do you know exactly what he said over the phone?”
“I was out for beans and beer about three quarters of an hour. Came back a little after ten-thirty, and Tommy Green, who was on the desk, handed me this.” Abe Linkle scrabbled among the papers on the desk and came up with a penciled notation, which he handed to Shayne.
The detective read, Call Bert Jackson’s house at once. He asked, “Did Green tell you any more about it?”
“He said Bert sounded tight and excited, claimed he was onto the grandpappy of all scandals and wanted to spill it for an exclusive in our first run today.”
“So you called Jackson’s house?” prompted Shayne.
“Right away. There was no answer. I waited until eleven, and when there still wasn’t any answer I let it drop. We were making up then, and I figured it would have to wait.”
“You don’t know exactly when Green took the message?”
“He didn’t say. Sometime during the forty-five minutes I was out. If you’ve got anything on this, Shayne, we’ll pay good money for a lead.”
“I know a little,” Shayne admitted. “Not enough to be worth your money-yet.” He arose and took a short, restless turn about the small office, then asked, “Is Tommy Green in now?”
“No. He’s got the day off. Gone fishing down on the Keys.”
Shayne swore softly, thought for a moment before asking, “Are you positive Ned Brooks can’t give you anything definite on the story Jackson wanted to turn in?”
“Pretty sure. I phoned him after I couldn’t get Jackson the first time last night. He said Bert had something hot, but he didn’t know what. He was surprised that Bert hadn’t answered his phone because he’d seen him going home a little after ten and said that Bert had told him at the time that he was going home to call me.”
Shayne scowled, moving his head from side to side slowly, grimacing with distaste and wincing slightly at his sore muscles.
That was one of the big pieces that didn’t fit. What had caused Bert Jackson to change his mind during the few minutes between leaving Marie’s apartment and arriving home?
He asked, “Is Brooks around now?”
“I think so.” Linkle shouted, “Brooks!”