Framed in Blood Read Online Free Page A

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 move 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.