What Really Happened

by Brett Halliday

  Otherwise, her appearance was composed. Her right arm was outstretched above her head with slender, tapering fingers lying flat and relaxed. The left hand was curved beneath her breast.

  Studying the body intently, standing less than two feet away, Shayne could now see a large, bloody hole high in the back of her head which was not quite hidden by the thick reddish-gold ringlets.

  A soft-nosed bullet, he surmised, entering from the front and ranging upward to emerge at that spot.

  He moved to stand directly in line with the prone body and the screened window, gauging the position of the hole in the wire, then pivoting slowly in an arc of one hundred and eighty degrees. From this position he carefully examined the rug, and nodded with satisfaction when he saw the small, shapeless mass of a mushroomed bullet lying three feet away.

  Shayne studied the bullet moodily, but it didn’t tell him anything except that Wanda Weatherby had been shot through the screen, probably from a rifle, just as she arose from the couch after telephoning him. She had heard a sound and turned toward the window, and then—

  He shook his red head slowly. That must have been the way it happened. The pool of blood had glazed over, confirming his first guess as to the time of her murder. Just about the length of time that had elapsed since her telephone call and the time of his arrival.

  He tried to visualize the whole scene—the telephone call, her extreme panic. There was something about it that worried him. She hadn’t made it sound so imminent, or was he growing callous to frantic women calling him at all times of the night? She had been frightened, but not by something she expected to happen before he could reach her. He was certain of that as he searched his memory for the exact words she had spoken, and the intonations.

  No. She had hung up on him, and, somehow, this fact gave Shayne a certain sense of release from his feeling of guilty negligence. If she had heard any suspicious noise outside before or during her brief conversation, she would have told him or screamed, or perhaps fainted from fear and left the receiver dangling.

  But she had hung up.

  Another twinge of conscience struck him when he remembered that she had tried to reach him by telephone twice that day, and he had not been on the job. The motive for her letter which would reach him in the morning mail was clear. The letter which he had been warned to tear up without reading it if he wanted to stay alive. The letter that a woman named Sheila Martin wanted to talk to him about at midnight, and which a friend of Timothy Rourke’s was now waiting to discuss with him.

  Only they had the answers now. Wanda Weatherby had made her final pitch half an hour ago when she telephoned him with her urgent plea for help.

  Shayne shook his head angrily and ran troubled fingers through his coarse red hair. He went to the telephone. As he lifted the receiver he noticed that there was no number in the blank inside the dial.

  That meant the telephone was unlisted and explained why he had been unable to obtain her number from the directory or from Information. This seemed odd for a woman who lived in a small bungalow on a quiet side street.

  He dialed police headquarters. At this point, the homicide squad could accomplish a lot more than he could.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Utilizing the brief interval before the nearest radio police car could reach the scene, Shayne hurried from the death room, went down the narrow hallway to the rear bedroom. It was a small room, with a single bed, unmade, with rumpled sheet and spread thrown back. The drapes at the two windows were drawn aside and hung limply. A cheap, soiled rug lay beside the bed, and when Shayne examined the closet, he found it empty. The only other article of furniture in the room was a substantial walnut desk in the corner between the windows.

  An uncovered portable typewriter was on the desk, and a box of heavy, square notepaper with envelopes to match stood beside it. On the right-hand side of the typewriter there was a large glass ash tray with a dozen or more cigarette butts inside.

  An envelope lying beyond the typewriter caught the detective’s eye. It was from a newspaper-clipping service and addressed to Miss Wanda Weatherby. Shayne picked it up, opened it, and found a clipping inside with a printed slip pasted to the top with the name of the service and the typed information that it was from a Nashville paper, dated two weeks ago.

  Shayne unfolded the clipping for a quick look. There was a picture of a woman and a young girl, both smiling happily into the camera. The caption read:

  MRS. J. PIERSON GURLEY AND DAUGHTER, JANET, OF MIAMI, FLORIDA

  Shayne frowned as he glanced through the society item and read that Mrs. Gurley and her debutante daughter, prominent in Miami society, were guests at the Nashville home of Janet’s fiancé, Thomas Marsh, III, making final plans for the wedding which would take place in Miami two months hence.

  His frown deepened as he refolded the clipping and put it back in the envelope.

  J. Pierson Gurley, prominent member of Miami’s society, was actually Jack-The-Lantern Gurley.

  It was quite true that he was well known in Miami’s social circle, but in a different way from that implied by the clipping. Shayne itched to go through the drawers of the desk to see what else he might turn up, but he knew there wouldn’t be time for that. He slid the envelope into his pocket and opened the door to the bathroom connecting the two rooms.

  The bathroom was surprisingly large and beautifully appointed for a small bungalow. The sunken tub was fully six feet long, and there was a curtained dressing-alcove, and mirrors reflected his image everywhere. He didn’t have time for an inventory, but Shayne was impressed by the cleanliness and the luxury of expensive taste, from the silver-topped cosmetic jars, the huge fluffy towels monogrammed WW, and other appointments that didn’t quite fit into the pattern of disorder in the back bedroom where Wanda Weatherby apparently conducted whatever business she was engaged in.

  The front bedroom confirmed his impression that the dead woman had done herself exceedingly well. The bed was an oversize Hollywood creation with a silk coverlet that touched the floor on both sides. The chests of drawers were large and seemed to be genuine antiques, and here, as in the bathroom, mirrors reflected the room from all available wall space. A chaise longue near the bed looked daintily feminine, covered in creamy silk to match the drapes and dotted with a pattern of blue flowers.

  He heard a prowl car squealing to a stop as he opened the door of a large corner closet for a quick look. The smell of some exotic perfume floated out, and there was a neat array of dresses on padded hangers.

  There was not the slightest sign anywhere of male occupancy, Shayne thought. He crossed the thick white rug to open the front door when he heard hurried footsteps approaching.

  One of the uniformed men recognized Shayne. “Mike,” he exclaimed. “We got a flash.”

  “I called in. She’s in there,” he said soberly. “I took a quick look around after I phoned,” he went on, “but didn’t make a thorough search. You want me outside?”

  “Yeh, sure. Homicide’ll be here, and then—”

  “I’ll stick around.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the open door of the living-room. The patrolman entered, and Shayne went out past two officers stationed at the front door. He lit a cigarette, and drew smoke deeply into his lungs.

  Other official cars began racing up at top speed, and brakes screeched. The lights went on in two of the neighboring houses, and curious faces appeared at windows.

  Detective Dickerson, in charge of the first detail, leaped from his car and approached Shayne. He was a tall, slender man with incredibly wide shoulders. He said quietly, “What’s the trouble here, Mike?”

  “Murder,” Shayne told him grimly. “I found her dead on the floor at ten thirty-eight. When she didn’t answer her doorbell, I broke in the back door for a look. Then I phoned in.” He paused, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Have your men check the lawn from the first side window of the living-room to the hedge. Looks to me as though she was shot through the screen. Rifle, probab
ly.”

  “Okay, Mike.” Dickerson didn’t ask any other questions, but said, “Stick around. Chief Gentry is on his way.”

  “I’ll wait around.” Shayne tossed his cigarette away and walked out on the lush green lawn, his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

  The setup in Wanda Weatherby’s house disturbed him. The contrast between the bare, dingy back bedroom and the rest of the house, so neat and clean and expensively furnished!

  “Hello, Mike,” a deep, rumbling voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Shayne whirled around. “Oh, hello, Will.”

  Chief Will Gentry was a big, solid man with graying hair and slightly protuberant eyes the color of granite. He was chewing on the stub of a cigar which he tossed away before he asked, “What’re you doing here, Mike?”

  “When did you start chasing ambulances?”

  “When they told me you called headquarters,” he rumbled. “Who’s the dame?”

  “My guess is Wanda Weatherby. But you’ll have to get somebody else to identify the body.”

  Gentry reached a pudgy hand to his hat and thrust it back from his forehead, rolled his crinkled lids up to study Shayne’s face shrewdly in the faint moonlight. “Tell me about it.”

  “At ten o’clock tonight a woman called me. Said her name was Wanda Weatherby. I didn’t know her, but she said she’d tried to call me twice today at my office and couldn’t get me. She said she’d written me a letter I’d get in the morning. She was frightened and talked fast and didn’t give me a chance to say no. She begged me to come out right away, and hung up. I tried to find her number and call her back, but she isn’t listed in the telephone book. So I beat it out here. The house was lighted just as it is now, but she didn’t answer when I rang. I took a gander through the side window there and saw her on the floor. I broke in the kitchen door. It was locked and I had to break the glass. When I saw she was dead and I couldn’t help her, I phoned headquarters.” He spread out his hands and added, “That’s all.”

  Chief Gentry said stolidly, “Let’s go in.”

  They walked across the lawn in silence and through the open doorway. A police doctor was bending over the body, photographers were snapping pictures of the death room, and other experts were prowling about the house, searching for physical clues.

  Detective Dickerson met them just inside, holding the small lump of metal in his hand. “A soft-nosed bullet from a high-power rifle,” he told the chief. “It was on the rug, about three feet from the body. Came through that open window across the room.”

  Shayne went past them to peer over the doctor’s shoulder at the dead woman. The body had been turned over, and there was a small round hole just above the bridge of her nose where the bullet had entered. There was a trickle of blood from the hole, but otherwise her face was not disfigured.

  She appeared to be in her early thirties, with smooth skin and carefully arched brows. The features were a trifle thin, nose and chin sharply outlined, and in life she probably possessed a serene and patrician beauty. In death, the face was pinched and tight, the jaw hanging laxly open and the inner portion of the lips showing blue beyond the line of crimson lipstick.

  The police doctor rocked back on his heels and looked up as Gentry joined them. Then he came to his feet, yawned, and said, “They can take her away any time. Death was instantaneous and probably about an hour ago.”

  Gentry asked Shayne, “What time did you say she called you, Mike?”

  “A few minutes after ten.” His watch showed 10:53 now, and he nodded slowly. “That fits. She must have got it very soon after she hung up. Dickerson got anything else, Will?”

  “Not much. A neighbor has identified her as Mrs. Weatherby. They’re working the neighborhood for someone who heard the shot or saw anything.

  “She rented this place about six months ago,” the chief rumbled on. “Lives here alone. Has a cleaning woman come in every afternoon. Very unneighborly and reputed to have lots of money, and suspected of leading a gay life, but nothing definite. Now you give us something, Mike.”

  “I told you I had this phone call from her at ten o’clock.”

  “Was she terribly frightened?” Dickerson broke in. “As though she feared this?” he added, indicating the corpse.

  “She was afraid, all right. Worked up and highly emotional. But I didn’t get the impression she knew a murderer was waiting outside to shoot her. In other words, she had no reason to believe she wouldn’t be alive to talk to me when I got here. At least, that’s my impression,” Shayne ended truthfully.

  “What did she call you about today?” Gentry demanded.

  “I have no idea. I was at the races and didn’t get back to the office. I can call Lucy and ask her.”

  “I’ll call Lucy,” said Gentry. “I’ve got one hell of a hunch you’re holding out something, Mike. It smells like one of your stunts, damn it.”

  Shayne shrugged elaborately and lit a cigarette while Chief Gentry went to the phone to dial Lucy Hamilton’s number.

  He wasn’t ready, yet, to tell about the telephone calls that had preceded Wanda’s, and he didn’t want company when he went to discuss Wanda with Rourke and his friend, Ralph Flannagan. That might come later, but right now he was in the middle of something without the slightest idea how he’d gotten there. Until he learned more about Wanda Weatherby and why she wanted to see him it was quite possible that he would be violating the confidence of a prospective client by giving information to the authorities about those three calls.

  He listened with interest while Will Gentry spoke into the telephone. “That you, Lucy? Will Gentry. Sorry to bother you, but is Mike there?”

  Gentry listened a moments, then rumbled placatingly, “No, I’m not taking over the morals squad. And it’s not that late, anyhow. No reason Mike mightn’t have stopped in for a drink. When did you see him last?”

  He listened again, then explained. “It’s about a woman who is supposed to have called his office this afternoon. Wanda Weatherby. Do you know if Mike talked to her?”

  He listened for another interval, then said, “Okay, Lucy. If you hear from Mike ask him to check with me.”

  Shayne was grinning widely when he hung up.

  Gentry said sourly, “You’ve got Lucy well trained or else you’re telling the truth for once. She says this Weatherby woman called at two and again at four-thirty. Wouldn’t say what she wanted except that it was personal, and she sounded worried. The last time, she told Lucy she was writing you a letter and mailing it.”

  “You want to search me for a thirty-caliber rifle before I go?” Shayne asked. “I guess my time of arrival could fit, couldn’t it, Doc?”

  The doctor was closing his bag. “Anywhere from half an hour to an hour and a half.”

  Will Gentry made an impatient gesture. His ruddy and normally pleasant face wore a scowl. “Quit horsing around, Mike. I’ll be at your office when the mail arrives in the morning.”

  Shayne said, “Fine. And I’ll show you Wanda’s letter if I feel like it.” He turned and strode out, angry with himself for having been jockeyed into a position at cross-purposes with Gentry, yet stubbornly certain that he had a much better chance of turning up the truth about Wanda’s death if he went at it his own way without interference from the police.

  Jack Gurley’s Sportsman’s Club was located on the shore of Biscayne Bay in the Sixties. Shayne pondered over the clipping in his pocket as he drove swiftly to the club. He knew Gurley slightly and, in a sense, respected the man. “The Lantern” had been one of Capone’s minor mobsters in prohibition days, and had parlayed a fast trigger and cold-blooded disdain for human life into a small fortune and a position of semirespectability in the course of twenty years.

  His Sportsman’s Club was actually a club—with a membership strictly limited to men who were in the big money and enjoyed spending it lavishly. The annual dues paid by each member were rumored to be five thousand dollars, but for this sum free food and liquor were available at the club t
wenty-four hours a day every day in the year. Admittance was by card only, but guests of members were welcomed at a modest assessment of one hundred dollars a day, billed to his host at the end of the month. Since it was a private club and, strictly speaking, he sold no food or liquor on the premises, Gurley was not hampered by licensing-restrictions or closing-hours. If his sporting members and their guests enjoyed gambling, it was available to them on the second floor in luxurious surroundings, also on a twenty-four-hour basis and with a monthly settlement of wins and losses which made the losing of money just about as painless as possible.

  Shayne had never been inside the club, since he had no intimate friends who were eager to press a hundred-dollar-a-day guest card on him. It was a large, three-story wooden building directly at the dead end of a street, with a large parking-lot on each side, and a modest canopied entrance with an alert young man to open the door of one’s car and drive it away for him.

  The attendant was waiting when Shayne drove to the club and braked his car. Shayne got out, gave his name, and said, “Spot it close. I only expect to be here a few minutes.”

  The young man said, “Certainly, Mr. Shayne.”

  The detective walked up beneath the canopy where a suave individual wearing a dinner jacket bowed and said quietly, “Your card, sir?”

  Shayne said, “I haven’t any card. Send word to Jack Gurley that I’m here. Michael Shayne. It’s business.”

  “I’m not sure that Mr. Gurley will be immediately available, sir. If you’d care to wait here—”

  “I’ll wait, but tell him to make it fast.”

  The man nodded and went to speak to a confrere who stood beside glass doors that opened into a cocktail lounge.