Again, the silence was heavy between them. Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and frowned thoughtfully. He glanced at his watch. The time was nearly midnight—and his appointment with Sheila Martin, from whom he hoped to learn more about Wanda Weatherby, was only a few minutes away. He drank his cognac and stood up, saying to his host, “May I use your telephone?”
Ralph Flannagan leaped to his feet. “Certainly. It’s right in here.” He led the way to open a door into a bedroom on the other side, switched on the light, and stepped aside, explaining, “I do all my homework here, so excuse the way things look. The telephone’s right there on the desk.”
Here was another long, narrow room, almost the length of the living-room. There was a double bed at one end, and built-in bookshelves on both sides, and a reading-light attached to the headboard. The other end of the bedroom was fitted up as an office with a large desk, and a standard model typewriter. There were neat stacks of typed scripts on the desk, and an oversize wastebasket beside the chair overflowed with crumpled sheets of paper.
The telephone was to the left of the typewriter and within easy reach. Beyond it stood a portable tape recorder equipped with a microphone that hung from a hook in the ceiling several feet from the desk and about five feet from the floor. On the right of the desk an open door revealed a bathroom with the lights on.
“It’s not a very fancy boudoir,” Flannagan apologized again as Shayne walked toward the desk, “but it’s handy if I want to jump out of bed at any time in the night when an idea or a bit of dialogue comes to me.”
Shayne glanced at the dangling microphone as he went by, and commented, “If you had the mike hanging over the bed, you wouldn’t even have to get up in the night.”
“Oh, I never dictate my stuff,” the producer assured him. “I’m conditioned to the typewriter. I use the microphone to record auditions and bits of rehearsal when I have some of my actors in.”
“This is a personal call,” Shayne said, and waited with his hand on the telephone. Flannagan flushed and immediately withdrew, closing the door firmly as he went out.
It was strange how the guy got on his nerves, Shayne thought wryly as he dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but somehow Ralph Flannagan rubbed him the wrong way.
Lucy’s phone rang three times before she answered. Shayne asked, “Did I wake you?”
“Michael! No. I couldn’t get to sleep after Chief Gentry called me a while ago. He wants you to call—”
“Yeh. I know,” Shayne growled. “I was standing at his elbow when he went through that routine. Never mind that,” he went on swiftly. “What sort of type do you have on your portable typewriter there in the apartment?”
“Elite. Why? What’s up, Michael?” she asked anxiously. “Shouldn’t I have told Gentry about those telephone calls?”
“That was okay,” Shayne reassured her. “There’s nothing much up right at the moment except that Wanda Weatherby is dead and Gentry and I both wonder why she wanted to see me. Go back to sleep if you can. I may have to drop in on you later, but don’t wait up for me. What time does the first mail reach the office?”
“A little after nine, usually. If there’s anything I can do—”
“If there, is, I’ll be seeing you. Good night.”
He hung up and went back to the living-room where his anxious host jumped up and asked, “Did you fix—”
“I’m not positive I can do anything for you,” Shayne told him soberly. “But you might write out that check for a thousand if you still want to. I won’t cash it unless I find a way to keep your name out of the murder investigation.”
“I want to thank you, Mr. Shayne. I’ll be right back with the check, and—”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Shayne said.
Flannagan hurried away, and Shayne crossed over to Rourke’s chair, scowled, and muttered, “When we get out of here, I want to know why you’re so willing to pass up a juicy story.”
Rourke said, “Okay,” and got up to stretch his stiff limbs.
Flannagan returned, waving a check in the air to dry the ink. He handed it to the detective, who folded it and put it in his pocket.
“I think I’ll go along with Mike, Ralph,” said Rourke. “I’ll be in touch with you, huh?”
“You bet,” Flannagan returned genially. “And I can’t ever thank you enough, Tim. And, Mr. Shayne, I don’t know how to tell you how much—”
“Wait until I cash this check,” Shayne advised. “And if I do cash it, an invitation to your wedding will be thanks enough.” He picked up his hat and went out, waited a moment for Rourke, and they went down the corridor to the elevator together.
“Ralph isn’t a bad guy, Mike,” Rourke said as he stretched his thin legs to keep pace with the rangy detective. “I’ve known him a long time and he really had talent when he went into radio work. Now, he’s all mixed up and frustrated on account of the drivel he has to write to hang onto his job.”
“His relation with Wanda Weatherby would make a swell headline for tomorrow’s paper,” said Shayne shortly. The elevator came up and they got in.
“But the guy’s innocent, Mike,” the reporter argued. “Damn it—we know he is.”
“Do you believe his version of the affair with Wanda?”
“Absolutely. From his viewpoint, at least. He’s actually that naïve, Mike. She could be the toughest little hooker in Miami taking Ralph for a ride all the way, but he’d still be dewy-eyed about doing the decent thing by her.”
The elevator door opened, and Shayne said, “Somehow I have a hunch we’re going to learn a lot of interesting things about Wanda Weatherby before this is over,” as they went through the lobby. “Most of it you won’t be able to print if my guess is right.”
Outside, on the sidewalk, Rourke demanded, “Why did you ask Ralph about Gurley? What’s his connection with Wanda?”
“Right now, I haven’t any idea,” Shayne admitted. “Except that he’s damned anxious to keep her letter about Ralph quiet.”
“But—why? If Ralph doesn’t even know him. And how did Gurley find out about the letter?”
“All I can say is I don’t know to both questions,” Shayne told him as they walked toward his car. When they reached it Shayne lit a cigarette and gave him a brief résumé of the anonymous telephone call and his later interview with the gambler.
“How did you guess Gurley was behind this mug who called you?” Rourke asked.
“Something I ran onto at Wanda’s house before the police arrived. I won’t tell you what it was, Tim, so that you can truthfully deny knowing anything about it if Will Gentry later accuses me of holding out on him. But I wish you would beat it down to headquarters and find out if Gentry picked up the same lead. Call me if you get anything hot.”
“Sure, Mike,” Rourke promised, and strolled back to his own car, adding over his shoulder, “If you don’t hear from me sooner, I’ll be at your office at nine o’clock.”
“So will Gentry,” said Shayne, “to pick up my mail for me.”
Rourke spun around and took a couple of steps. “You’re not going to give him Wanda’s letter about Ralph?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Shayne growled. “You know as well as I do just how far I can push Will Gentry.”
He left the reporter standing on the sidewalk, got in his car, gunned the motor, and hurried away to keep his midnight appointment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The time was a few minutes past twelve when Shayne strode into the lobby of his hotel-apartment house. The man on the desk beckoned to him as he headed toward the elevator. Shayne swung toward him with ragged brows lifted inquiringly.
“There’s a lady waiting for you upstairs, sir. I sent her up a few minutes ago,” he added apologetically. “But you always said I should use my own judgment.”
“That’s all right, Bennie,” Shayne told him with a grin. “But I’ve never known you to unlock my room for a lady before.”
Bennie licked his thin dry lips. “I don’t recall any ladies wanting in to your room before, Mr. Shayne.” The clerk grinned briefly, then added seriously, “This one is real class. She claimed she had an appointment.”
“Green eyes?” asked Shayne negligently.
“What’s that? N-No. But maybe they are, at that,” he added after thinking for a moment. “Sort of grayish-green. And there was a phone call for you about half an hour ago. Some man—wouldn’t leave his name, but wanted to know when you’d be in. I told him I didn’t know, and he said he’d come over and wait. He seemed pretty anxious.”
“Call me if he comes in,” said Shayne. “And thanks, Bennie.” He swung away and strode to the waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the second floor. He took his key out as he went down the corridor, put it back in his pocket when he saw his apartment door ajar and light streaming through the door. He pushed the door wide open when he reached it, and stood for a moment observing the woman sitting on the couch.
Her legs were crossed, and a short, expensive-looking fur jacket was thrown carelessly back from her shoulders. She wore a sheer black dress with a bright-orange scarf fluffed out at the throat, and was hatless. Her hair was long and straight, parted in the center and hanging down to her shoulders. It gleamed brightly in the overhead light, and the word “tawny” leaped into his mind. She had a high forehead and dark, thick brows and eyelashes. Her features were smooth and regular, her chin firm, her mouth wide and painted a deep shade of red that looked almost purple.
She appeared to be about thirty-five. Her head rested against the couch and her eyes were closed. She was smoking a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, and was evidently unaware that she was being observed.
Shayne said, “Sorry to be late,” pulling off his hat and tossing it on a wall hook near the door.
She opened her eyes and her lips formed a faint, questioning smile.
Shayne moved toward her, saying, “You were supposed to be a brunette. With limpid green eyes.”
Her smile widened and the sensuous, sultry voice flowed out as it had over the telephone wire. “I hope you’re not too disappointed, Michael Shayne.”
“I hope I won’t be. Drink?”
“Please.” She leaned forward sinuously to crush out her cigarette in an ash tray beside the couch.
Shayne went past her to the liquor cabinet. “There’s rye and cognac.”
“Cognac, of course. Wouldn’t it be a sacrilege to drink anything else in Michael Shayne’s apartment at midnight?” Her tone was light, but there was a nervous tremble that told the detective she was afraid in spite of her casual manner.
“Soda or water?” he asked.
“Straight, please. With some water on the side. And I need a big one before I lose my nerve and run out of here without telling you a word of what I came to say.”
“We can’t have that,” said Shayne pleasantly. He took two four-ounce glasses from the shelf and filled one, handed it to her, adding, “I’ll be right back with some ice water.”
In the kitchen he put ice cubes in two tall glasses and filled them with water. When he turned, Sheila was standing in the doorway, watching him intently. Her glass was half-empty and spots of color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes did look greenish, and wide and imploring.
“Are you the kind of man they say?” she asked breathlessly.
Shayne stopped in front of her with a glass in each hand. She didn’t move from the threshold. He said, “I don’t know, Sheila.”
She looked up into his eyes, lips parted and chin lifted. “Why don’t you kiss me? Don’t you know that’s what I want you to do? Hold me tight and comfort me and tell me I’m beautiful and promise to do what I’m going to ask you. Don’t you know that’s why I chose midnight? And came here to your place where we would be alone?” A pulse trembled in her rounded throat as she strained upward.
He said, “I didn’t know, but I’m glad to have you tell me.” He set the glasses aside on a kitchen table and put an arm around her. She went limp and buried her face against his chest and began to sob. The cognac glass fell from her hand and spilled liquor on the floor.
She was talking in a choked voice between sobs, but her words were not clear. He held her tightly for a moment, looking down somberly at the glistening, tawny hair against his chest. Then he sighed, picked her up in both arms, and carried her in to the couch. He put her down gently, and she huddled there with her hands over her face, sobbing convulsively.
Shayne returned for the glasses of water, retrieved her glass, and brought it back to the living-room where he refilled it and poured a drink for himself.
Sheila Martin sat erect after a while, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Shayne set her cognac and ice water on the low table in front of her and said, “Nothing is as bad as that, darling. Relax and make yourself kissable again if you’re determined to seduce me.”
She smiled wanly and blew her nose. “I’ve been holding it in so long,” she said in a husky whisper. “I couldn’t tell anyone, and it’s been absolute hell. Then I got her letter tonight. You don’t know Wanda Weatherby, do you?”
Shayne said, “No.” He dropped into a chair close to the couch and stretched his legs out.
“When you do meet her you won’t believe what I’m going to tell you,” she burst out angrily. “She’s vicious and depraved and evil. But you won’t see that. No man ever does. She’ll lie to you, and you’ll believe her, even though you will already know the truth from me. I wish to God I had killed her,” she went on violently, her face paling. “I should have done it right then when I threatened to. That’s why she thinks it’s I who tried to kill her, you see.”
“I don’t see much of anything,” Shayne told her in a mild tone. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“I’ll have to, I suppose. But first you’d better read this letter. You’ll be getting a duplicate of it in the mail tomorrow morning, so you may as well read it now.”
She reached for her handbag, opened it, and took out a square white envelope similar in size and shape to the one Ralph Flannagan had showed him. She handed it to him, saying, “It came by special messenger. Read it, and you’ll understand why I’m so terribly upset.”
Shayne took out the single sheet of folded paper and glanced at it, already suspecting what he would find. His hunch was right, for insofar as he could determine without comparing the two of them word for word, it was a duplicate of the carbon copy Flannagan had received, except her name and address was substituted for Flannagan’s.
He frowned and pretended to read it carefully while he did some fast mental acrobatics. Was it possible that Jack Gurley had also received a duplicate by messenger, but with his name on it? That would explain a lot of things. If none of the three knew about the other letters—
He put speculation out of his mind as he refolded Sheila’s letter and returned it to the envelope. Looking up to meet her eyes again, he said quietly, “If you haven’t harmed her and don’t plan to, why did this letter frighten you so?”
“Because you’ll naturally want to see Wanda tomorrow as soon as you read the original of that, and she’ll tell you—well, I don’t know what she’ll tell you about me. The truth, perhaps. Though I doubt it. If she can think up anything worse than the truth, she’ll tell you that. And then you’ll start checking up, and everything will come out, and Henry will be sure to find out. So you can see why I wish I had killed her,” she ended defiantly.
Shayne leaned back and took a long drink of cognac. He indicated her glass and advised, “Take another sip and tell me why Wanda Weatherby suspects you want to murder her.”
“She doesn’t just suspect. She knows I do. I am going to tell you the truth, Mr. Shayne, even if I die of shame, because after you hear it maybe you’ll be willing to disregard her letter in the morning and think of some way to prevent her from absolutely ruining my life.”
Shayne said, “I never knew anyone to the of shame. How is
she trying to ruin your life?”
“It goes back a long time. To nineteen thirty-five, in Detroit. I was eighteen and dewy-eyed from a farm in Iowa. My mother had just died, and I hated my stepfather, so I went away to the city to make my fortune.” Her mouth twisted over the recollection. “Remember nineteen thirty-five, Mr. Shayne?”
He nodded. “I know what you mean.”
“There weren’t any jobs. Long lines of girls answering one advertisement. So, what does a girl do under those circumstances when her money runs out and she can’t go back home?”
Shayne avoided her angry gaze. He frowned and suggested, “You tell me.”
“It looks easy to a man. I’ve had lots of them say, ‘My God, I wish I were a girl. You can bet I wouldn’t go hungry.’ But it isn’t easy. Not when you’re eighteen and fresh from the farm. You don’t know how to start, damn it. You just don’t know what to do. Not that girls don’t think about it if they get hungry enough. That’s when I met Wanda Weatherby. Just when I was down to my last penny and desperate enough to try anything.
“She was sitting beside me in a restaurant one day when I had ordered a bowl of soup, the first thing I’d eaten in twenty-four hours, and I guess it showed. She was a few years older and beautiful and poised and, well, I guess I thought of her as being sophisticated. Anyway, she insisted on ordering me a lunch.
“Afterward, I went up to her apartment. I was ready for anything that afternoon. I wasn’t so naïve that I thought she was just being generous. I’d heard about girls who like other girls, and I was all ready for even that. I didn’t know what it was going to be, but I just didn’t care.”
Sheila Martin paused and took a big sip of cognac and a drink of ice water, then continued.
“Then when she sprung what she really wanted of me it didn’t seem so bad after all. Because I was all keyed up for something worse, you see.” Her voice trembled with earnestness, as though it was terribly important that she make him understand.
What Really Happened Page 5
