and said mildly, “That’s all I can give you right now.”
“Here’s a funny thing, Chief,” said a Homicide man who squatted on the edge of the pavement going through the contents of Jackson’s pockets and cataloging them. He held up the brass key to a Yale lock. “There’s a regular key ring in his pocket, but this one was zipped inside his wallet. Funny place for a man to carry a single key. And it’s not a duplicate of any on the key ring. ‘Three A’ is the only marking on it. Might be the number of a room or apartment.”
Shayne went over to the officer and said, “What else did you find on the body?”
“That’s about all. Some loose change in a trouser pocket. Cigarettes and a book of matches from a Flagler Street bar.”
“Nothing else in his coat pockets?” Shayne persisted.
“A handkerchief, that’s all.”
“What are you getting at, Mike?” rumbled Gentry, stepping up beside Shayne. “What else did you expect to find on him? How well did you know Jackson?”
Shayne didn’t answer, but continued to stare down at the motionless body. “See if there’s a hole in the lining of the right-hand coat pocket,” he suggested, “where something could have slid through to the coat lining.”
The man squinted up at Shayne, frowned, then stooped again to explore the inside of Jackson’s jacket pocket. He turned the coat back to show his thumb protruding through a hole in the bottom of the pocket. “Here’s the hole,” he admitted, “but the coat isn’t lined. If anything went through it would fall out and be lost.”
Shayne’s face was grim, but he said lightly, “So we’ll never know what might have fallen through, will we?”
“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Mike?” Gentry demanded impatiently. “What do you think is missing from his pocket—and why?”
“It was just an idea, Will,” Shayne told him. “Probably nothing to it at all. That hole is just about big enough for a key to slide through,” he added with a shrug.
Gentry took Shayne by the arm and drew him aside as two men bearing a stretcher came up to remove the corpse. “What do you know about Bert Jackson, Mike?”
“Not much. I first met him a couple of years ago when he went to work on the News with Tim Rourke. He seemed a nice kid, newly married and enthusiastic about being a reporter.”
Gentry brushed this nonessential information aside and said brusquely, “You threw him out of your apartment this afternoon. Why?”
“A personal matter.”
“You told Rourke you didn’t like his proposition.”
“I didn’t.”
“What sort of proposition?”
“It can’t have any bearing on this,” he answered stubbornly.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Gentry growled. “Why did you throw him out?”
“I’ve told you it was personal.”
“Privileged communication from a client?”
“You might call it that.”
“You said you didn’t have any clients,” Gentry reminded him with thinly controlled anger.
“I didn’t then.” Shayne drew in a long breath. “But this changes things. Mrs. Jackson is now my client. My talk with Bert Jackson also concerns her.”
“Don’t push me too far, Shayne. Don’t forget that as soon as Rourke saw the condition of your office he guessed it had a connection with Bert Jackson. We had one murder then, but I let you walk out without giving me anything. Now we’ve got another.”
Shayne hesitated before answering. He knew Gentry to be a man of long patience, but the fact that the chief had addressed him by his last name evidenced that his patience was reaching the breaking-point.
“Look, Will,” he said placatingly, “Jackson couldn’t have done the job in my office. The doc said he’d been dead since about midnight.”
“I’m not saying he did that job. I want to know why Rourke thought there was a tie-up.”
“Ask him,” said Shayne.
“Morgan,” Gentry called, and an officer detached himself from the group and came toward them. “Put a
“Here’s a funny thing, Chief,” said a Homicide man who squatted on the edge of the pavement going through the contents of Jackson’s pockets and cataloging them. He held up the brass key to a Yale lock. “There’s a regular key ring in his pocket, but this one was zipped inside his wallet. Funny place for a man to carry a single key. And it’s not a duplicate of any on the key ring. ‘Three A’ is the only marking on it. Might be the number of a room or apartment.”
Shayne went over to the officer and said, “What else did you find on the body?”
“That’s about all. Some loose change in a trouser pocket. Cigarettes and a book of matches from a Flagler Street bar.”
“Nothing else in his coat pockets?” Shayne persisted.
“A handkerchief, that’s all.”
“What are you getting at, Mike?” rumbled Gentry, stepping up beside Shayne. “What else did you expect to find on him? How well did you know Jackson?”
Shayne didn’t answer, but continued to stare down at the motionless body. “See if there’s a hole in the lining of the right-hand coat pocket,” he suggested, “where something could have slid through to the coat lining.”
The man squinted up at Shayne, frowned, then stooped again to explore the inside of Jackson’s jacket pocket. He turned the coat back to show his thumb protruding through a hole in the bottom of the pocket. “Here’s the hole,” he admitted, “but the coat isn’t lined. If anything went through it would fall out and be lost.”
Shayne’s face was grim, but he said lightly, “So we’ll never know what might have fallen through, will we?”
“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Mike?” Gentry demanded impatiently. “What do you think is missing from his pocket—and why?”
“It was just an idea, Will,” Shayne told him. “Probably nothing to it at all. That hole is just about big enough for a key to slide through,” he added with a shrug.
Gentry took Shayne by the arm and drew him aside as two men bearing a stretcher came up to remove the corpse. “What do you know about Bert Jackson, Mike?”
“Not much. I first met him a couple of years ago when he went to work on the News with Tim Rourke. He seemed a nice kid, newly married and enthusiastic about being a reporter.”
Gentry brushed this nonessential information aside and said brusquely, “You threw him out of your apartment this afternoon. Why?”
“A personal matter.”
“You told Rourke you didn’t like his proposition.”
“I didn’t.”
“What sort of proposition?”
“It can’t have any bearing on this,” he answered stubbornly.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Gentry growled. “Why did you throw him out?”
“I’ve told you it was personal.”
“Privileged communication from a client?”
“You might call it that.”
“You said you didn’t have any clients,” Gentry reminded him with thinly controlled anger.
“I didn’t then.” Shayne drew in a long breath. “But this changes things. Mrs. Jackson is now my client. My talk with Bert Jackson also concerns her.”
“Don’t push me too far, Shayne. Don’t forget that as soon as Rourke saw the condition of your office he guessed it had a connection with Bert Jackson. We had one murder then, but I let you walk out without giving me anything. Now we’ve got another.”
Shayne hesitated before answering. He knew Gentry to be a man of long patience, but the fact that the chief had addressed him by his last name evidenced that his patience was reaching the breaking-point.
“Look, Will,” he said placatingly, “Jackson couldn’t have done the job in my office. The doc said he’d been dead since about midnight.”
“I’m not saying he did that job. I want to know why Rourke thought there was a tie-up.”
“Ask him,” said Shayne.
“Morgan,” Gentry called, and an officer detached himself from the group and came toward them. “Put a
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