Read Online Framed in Blood by Brett Halliday - Free Book Online Page A

widely-acclaimed efficiency apartments in Miami which were usually rented furnished. This one, beyond doubt, had been done over by the occupant with gray and dull-blue stippled walls to accentuate the richness of deep cream silken drapes at the triple windows that blended into the dull-gold brocaded cover of a day bed, replete with blond end tables and fat pillows resting against the inner wall. The rug was silver-gray, leaving a generous portion of polished floor between the edges and the wall. A lacquered Japanese table with splotches of red at the west end held a combination television set, and at the east end, near the windows, two leatherette club chairs were drawn companionably together with a low glass table between.
    Directly across from the entrance door where he stood Shayne saw a swinging door which he guessed led into a kitchenette, and opposite the leatherette chairs a door with an inside full-length mirror stood ajar to reveal a portion of the bedroom.
    Two small, oddly shaped lamps on the blond end tables, a larger one on the Japanese table, and three or four choice statuettes added to the decorativeness of the small room. There was no suggestion of crowding, nothing expensive, and Shayne’s swift glance of approval gave him the impression that Marie Leonard strove for an effect of simplicity, comfort, and elegance with inexpensive imitations.
    His eyes were softer when he turned back to the shrinking figure.
    “What do you mean—the police will be here?” she asked tremulously. “Who are you and what do you mean by forcing your way into my apartment?”
    “I’m a friend of Bert Jackson’s.”
    Color flooded into her face. “But—why the police?” she stammered.
    “Don’t you know the sort of mess Bert has got himself into?” Shayne demanded.
    Marie Leonard backed away until she leaned against the sill of the swinging door, lifted her pointed chin, and said stormily, “There was nothing wrong about Bert coming here. It was all in his wife’s nasty mind. We never—” She hesitated, her lashes half closing over her eyes.
    “It’s not the vice squad you’ve got to worry about.” He turned away, hat in hand, and dropped into one of the chairs opposite the mirrored door. “We’ve got to talk about a lot of things, and I could do with a drink.”
    “Has something happened to Bert?” she cried, taking a few quick steps toward him.
    As she moved Shayne caught a glimpse of bare legs and guessed that she wore nothing underneath the dressing-gown. “Didn’t you know he was heading for trouble when he left here tonight?” he countered.
    She held the robe at her waist with one hand and covered her face with the other as she sank down on the edge of the day bed. “Yes—I was afraid,” she wailed, bending forward until her chin touched her bare, crossed knee. Then she lifted her face. It was waxen-white again. “Damn him, anyway,” she said. “I begged him not to go through with it, but he was wild. He wouldn’t listen.”
    “If you could scare up a drink,” Shayne suggested.
    She caught her breath in sharply and exclaimed, “I know who you are! You’re Michael Shayne, the private detective Bert went to see yesterday afternoon.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why did you encourage him to go on with it?” she raged. “You’re older and more experienced. You must have known it would never work. If anything has happened to him it’s your fault.” She grabbed at the crawling silk of the robe and covered her legs.
    “Wait a minute,” Shayne protested. “I don’t know that—”
    “I know your reputation,” she burst out, spots of red in her cheeks. “You’re tough and cynical, and you don’t care what happens to other people. You egged him on—”
    “Is that what he told you?” Shayne broke in gruffly.
    “Yes. And you can’t deny it. I heard him make the phone call.”
    “What call?” Shayne demanded. “To whom?”
    “I don’t know who the man is. Bert never would tell