Framed in Blood (Michael Shayne, Book 20)
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Mike Shayne tries to find the killer of a young reporter who wanted to use his juicy story for blackmail purposes.
will forget that you ever saw me. Better get back in bed and pretend you’ve been asleep all night.” She ran to him and impulsively threw her arms around his neck. “I want Bert’s murderer caught more than anything in the world. I’ll go right to bed—but when will I see you again? I’ll be thinking about you—and wondering, Michael.” Shayne put one arm around her and quietly turned the doorknob with his free hand. She pressed against him, and he pushed the bolt, freeing the night latch. Then he
Augustine’s grass, and the houses were separated by graveled driveways leading back to one-car garages. Shayne didn’t have to check the house number. An official police car and a gray coupé were parked in front of a bungalow a third of the way down the block. He drew in behind them and got out. He recognized the gray coupé as Doctor Meeker’s, and felt quite sure that the police weren’t getting anything from Betty Jackson. As he started up the walk he heard the front door of the house next door
me being a big-shot reporter in a few years!” He choked over this, and hurried on. “I don’t blame Betty for stepping out on me. Why shouldn’t she have some fun?” he demanded, stopping in front of Shayne and glaring down at him. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne drawled. “Your wife is stepping out on you because you don’t earn enough money to take her places. Is that all that’s bothering you?” “That and a lot more,” he answered with tight-lipped fury. “What’s it got me to play it straight
might be coincidence. Although he was far from the appointed meeting-place, he pushed the accelerator down and grimly watched the car come on. The showdown might be coming sooner than he expected. There was no real reason why it should wait until he approached the Firestone estate on Miami Beach. It could just as well take place here on the lonely causeway if a car had been stationed at the causeway entrance, waiting for him to pass. When he realized that his top speed could accomplish nothing,
EARLY when Shayne went down the street. He stopped at a newsstand, bought a Herald and a Tribune extra, then sauntered on to his favorite restaurant on Flagler Street. 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