In less than a minute the reporter came in answer to the call. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was haggard. His whole appearance was droopy in contrast with the dapper elegance of the afternoon before. He looked at the detective and shook his head gravely.
“This is a bad business, Mr. Shayne. Do you think it has anything to do with what we talked about yesterday? If not, I hope that-all that stuff won’t have to come out.” His eyes were probing, pleading, and it was evident that his friend’s death had been a great shock to him. “That wasn’t like Bert at all. You can see that for yourself,” he went on swiftly. “When it came to the showdown Bert did the decent thing. I just don’t see why he had to get it just when he was coming through.”
“What’s all this about?” Linkle demanded. “What did you and Shayne talk about yesterday?”
Shayne hesitated, studying Ned Brooks. “You haven’t told anybody?” he asked quietly, “what you suspected Bert was up to?”
“Why should I, now that I know I was wrong? I’m damned ashamed of ever suspecting him-”
“Hold it,” said Shayne. He turned to Linkle. “I think you should be in on this, though I agree with Brooks that it wouldn’t do Jackson’s or the Tribune’s reputation any good to make it public.” He eased his rangy body down to the chair and briefly outlined what Jackson had said to him the preceding afternoon, leaving out all mention of Tim Rourke and of Betty Jackson’s later visit.
Linkle was fuming when he finished, and Shayne said hastily, “Don’t blame Bert too much for thinking about selling out to the highest bidder. As Brooks says, give him credit for not being able to go through with it at the last minute. If you are positive about it,” he added, turning to Brooks. “That’s the one thing we’ve got to settle right here. You’re sure Jackson had decided to turn in the story When you met him on his way home last night?”
“Of course I’m sure. Hasn’t Abe told you he phoned in and was ready to do the right thing? That’s what’s so horrible and unfair-that somebody bumped him off before he had a chance to put things straight.”
“I know about his phone call. But we don’t know when he made that call, and I want to know exactly when he changed his mind. What happened when you met him?”
“Well, he was staggering along the street about a block from home. He was pretty drunk, and I was worried about him, been sort of cruising around all evening looking for him.”
“Did you try Marie’s apartment?” Shayne asked abruptly.
Ned Brooks hesitated, shifting his bloodshot eyes. “I did phone her. About nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen him all evening.”
“She was lying,” said Shayne shortly and pleasantly. “Go on about meeting Bert on the street near his home.”
“Maybe she was lying, but I took her word for it then. Well, I stopped my car and got out and asked him if he could make it home all right. That made him sore. You know how a drunk is-hates to admit he’s drunk. He told me to go on and leave him alone, then started babbling about this story he was ready to break. Said he was looking for Rourke, though I couldn’t quite figure out why. Wanted to crow over him, I guess. Kept saying it was bigger than anything Rourke had ever come up with.”
“So you told him that he might go on home and try looking for Tim Rourke in his wife’s bed.”
Ned Brooks’s pale face flushed. “Not that,” he protested. “And I was sorry later that I said anything. But-well, a man shouldn’t let a drunk make him sore, but Bert did get my goat. In fact, I was all wound up at the time about this other deal you and I had talked about, and in the beginning I got the idea Bert was going ahead with that angle. You know-I was mad, and I was disgusted, and I guess I said that about Rourke,” he ended haltingly.
“Wait a minute,” Shayne interposed. “You thought at first that Bert was talking about selling out?”
“That’s right. He didn’t make too much sense. Later, when Abe called me to say what had happened, I realized I must have misunderstood Bert.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. At last things were beginning to make a little sense. He said, “When you threw that at Jackson, about Rourke and his wife, was there any particular reason for you to think Rourke was at his home?”
“No, no particular reason,” Brooks mumbled. “He just made me sore, and I spoke out of turn. Everybody knows about Tim and Betty,” he went on sullenly to exculpate himself. “Even Bert knew. And I thought I had seen Tim’s car parked around the corner earlier when I was cruising around looking for Bert. I’m sorry I said it. I don’t really know that Tim was there, even if all the shades were drawn.”
“Go on,” Shayne snapped. “Did you take Bert home?”
“Oh, no,” he denied stoutly. “He wouldn’t have any help. After we argued a minute on the corner he went on by himself. I got in my car and drove home.”
“What,” asked Shayne, “did Marie Leonard say to you when she telephoned you around daylight this morning?”
Again Ned Brooks shifted his eyes under Shayne’s hard gaze. “She called me back after breaking the connection and told me about you sneaking back and catching her calling me. But don’t get any wrong ideas about Marie and me. She just knows me as Bert’s friend, and as soon as you told her what happened to Bert she thought she ought to call me.”
“She didn’t tell you that Bert had spent most of the preceding evening with her and that she’d run him out about ten o’clock when he insisted on trying to carry out his blackmail scheme?”
“Good God, no!” Stupefied with surprise he jerked his eyes back to Shayne’s and demanded, “Did she tell you that?”
“And who is this Marie?” Abe Linkle interjected with a touch of irony when Shayne answered Brooks with a nod of his red head.
Turning to the editor, Shayne said, “I can tell you who she is, but I’ll be damned if I know what she is. Was Jackson trying to keep her in that apartment on his reporter’s salary?” he demanded of Brooks. “Is that why he needed the extra money?”
“I think he wanted to divorce Betty and marry Marie,” Brooks muttered. “Hell, I never asked him if he was keeping her.”
“If you ask me,” Shayne told Linkle, “she’s the kind who probably had six different men paying the rent at the same time.”
“What’s her last name and her address?” Abe Linkle clipped the words out and compressed his thin lips.
Shayne said, “Get it from Brooks. If the cops catch one of your reporters interviewing her I wouldn’t want them to find out I gave her to you.”
Abe Linkle yanked his eyeshade down, picked up a pencil, and held it poised over a pad, and the angry flash of his eyes demanded the woman’s name and address from his reporter.
Brooks gave the information reluctantly, and immediately protested, “Can’t you keep that stuff out of your filthy sheet, Abe? The guy is dead. It’s going to be tough enough on Betty Jackson without digging up this kind of dirt.”
“I’ll decide what we print,” said Linkle curtly. “Your job is to report, not have information dug out of you the way Shayne’s been doing for the past ten minutes.”
“Don’t blame Brooks too much for trying to cover up for a pal,” said Shayne pleasantly. “By the way, how’s our friend doing?” he added to Brooks, and when he received a blank stare for response, explained, “The one who went to visit you early this morning.”
“Okay when I left. That is-he was hitting the bottle pretty heavy,” he amended, glancing aside at Linkle. “Nervous as a cat on a hot stove.”
“I’m afraid he’s got reasons for being nervous,” said Shayne harshly. He arose, nodded at Linkle. “Thanks for everything. I’ll be moving along.”
There was a stir in the outer office, and as all three of the men moved toward the door it was suddenly blocked by a uniformed policeman who looked from one to the other and said, “Ned Brooks?”
“What do you want with Brooks?” the city editor asked.
“Orders from headquarters.”
“What for?” Ned Brooks asked hoarsely.
“Are you Brooks?” the officer asked and took a step forward. “I don’t know what for, but you can come along easy or the hard way if you want it.”