Framed in Blood Read Online Free PDF

mechanically counted the rings. On the tenth, he threw back the covers and turned on the light. A long-standing arrangement with the switchboard operator in the hotel gave him no hope that the phone would stop ringing until he answered. Not if the call was important. If the operator considered it unimportant he would let it ring three times, inform the caller that Shayne was not in, and break the connection.
    Shayne took his time, stretching and yawning widely. He looked at his watch. The time was seven minutes after two. He padded into the living-room, barefooted and gaunt-faced after less than an hour’s sleep. Lifting the receiver he growled, “Mike Shayne.”
    “Dead drunk—from the time it took you to answer.” Chief Will Gentry’s gruff voice rumbled over the wire.
    “Not yet,” said Shayne amicably. “Hold the line a minute, Will, while I pick up a bottle.”
    “Damn it, Mike,” Gentry protested, before Shayne laid the receiver down and went across the room where he took a half-filled cognac bottle from the liquor cabinet. He drew the cork as he returned to the desk, took a long drink, grinning at the unintelligible snorts emanating from the prone instrument.
    Plunking the bottle down hard, he picked up the receiver and said, “What’s on your mind, Will?”
    “Your office, Shamus,” Gentry snapped. “Get down here as fast as you can.”
    “What about my office?” Shayne scowled at the wall. “What in hell are you doing there?”
    “I’ll expect you in ten minutes,” Gentry said flatly.
    The banging of the receiver rang in Shayne’s ears. He hung up, took another drink from the bottle, and tugged absently at his left ear lobe as he slowly returned to the bedroom.
    It took him five minutes to dress and only a few minutes more for his long-legged strides to carry him the few blocks to the downtown office building where he had rented a suite because Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, did not consider it proper to work in her employer’s apartment.
    Chief Gentry’s sedan and two radio cars were parked at the curb, and a uniformed patrolman guarded the entrance to the building. The officer intercepted Shayne as he swung into the doorway.
    “Nobody allowed in—” he began, then stepped aside. “It’s you,” he amended. “Chief’s waiting for you upstairs, Mr. Shayne.”
    Shayne strode to the elevator which was manned by another officer whom he didn’t recognize. He stepped inside, and the man fumbled with the controls to get the door closed, sent the cage jerkily upward to the third floor where Shayne got out and went down the corridor.
    He stopped in front of an open door that was scarred from jimmy marks around the lock and bore leaf-gold lettering on the frosted glass reading: Michael Shayne—Private Investigator.
    Detective Sergeant Riley stood just inside the reception room over which Lucy Hamilton presided from nine to five every day. Around her desk and the filing-cabinet papers were scattered over the floor.
    Shayne’s bleak gaze swept over the disorder and came back to the sergeant’s face. “What the hell goes on, Riley? If you guys wanted something—”
    “The chief’s inside,” Riley interrupted, jerking his thumb toward a closed door marked Private.
    Shayne set his jaw and stalked to the door, flung it open to a scene of devastating wreckage. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and piled on the floor. The compartments of a tall green metal filing-cabinet stood open, and piles of papers and cardboard folders lay haphazardly around it.
    Two men squatted on the floor, their backs toward Shayne, pawing through the papers. Shayne closed the door quietly and watched for a moment, his eyes smoldering dangerously.
    “If you’re looking for a drink,” he said, “I keep a bottle stashed in the top compartment.”
    Will Gentry turned his graying head slowly, grunted as he heaved his bulk upward, and turned to face Shayne; but his companion continued to squat on his heels, poking