What Really Happened

by Brett Halliday

  He took it and put it in his pocket. “I’m always careful. Don’t worry.”

  “But Jack Gurley is going to be awfully angry if he ever finds out you suppressed the letters accusing other people and you gave only his name to the police.”

  “I’ve had guys like Gurley sore at me before. You get some sleep so you’ll be sure to reach the office ahead of the postman.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead, patted her shoulder, and strode out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Shayne stopped at the main post office and dropped the letter in the slot for local mail, then drove toward his apartment. He felt weary, both physically and mentally, from traveling in too many concentric circles. And there was still Donald Henderson waiting to see him.

  Henderson was a type of man he detested, though he had never met him personally. A self-professed humanitarian and loudmouthed proclaimer of the inalienable rights of the humblest citizen to life, liberty, and happiness, yet he was owner of the largest and scurviest slum section in the city, and therefore a bitter and articulate foe of any plan for public housing or slum clearance. His tenants, he was wont to proclaim stridently at civic meetings, had the same rights as any other citizen to hang onto their snug little nests in his crummy tenements and to resist every effort of a totalitarian government bureau to regiment them into more pleasant and comfortable living-quarters at rents no higher than they paid to him for the squalid surroundings in which they now existed.

  It would have been more fun and probably a greater public service, Shayne told himself, to have put Henderson’s name in the letter he intended to foist onto Gentry, instead of sending the police after Jack Gurley. He didn’t know, of course, that Henderson had actually received one of Wanda’s carbon copies, but from what the man had said over the telephone, he suspected that to be the case.

  It was too late for that now. Perhaps there would be a story in it that Timothy Rourke could use in his paper later.

  He turned off the avenue and drove past the side hotel entrance to the driveway that led to a row of wooden garages maintained for the use of permanent guests. The double doors of his garage stood open. He slowed and made a wide turn, heading into the opening smoothly and without conscious thought.

  There wasn’t time for conscious thought as the long hood went through the doorway and headlight beams sprayed out to reveal momentarily the two men hugged against the front wall on either side of the opening.

  There was a flash of reflected light from metal on the right, and close beside the car on his left Shayne glimpsed the figure and face of a masked man with a short-barreled shotgun held at approximately the position of port arms.

  That was all. There was a split second between the realization that he had driven into a perfect ambush and the moment when his car would halt with its bumper against the rear wall. Shayne’s foot was on the brake and his motor was idling. There was no time for calculation or thought. There was only that instant between life and the certainty of death.

  It was probably well for Shayne that his mind was numbed with fatigue and practically in a subconscious state. His reaction to danger was wholly reflex and due to a lifetime of training in the specialized art of staying alive in the midst of danger.

  His big foot slid from the brake to the throttle. The ultra-modern Hydromatic gear shifted as swiftly into low gear and the powerful motor roared thunderously.

  There was a splintering crash of ripped wood and the screech of protesting nails from two-by-four joists and flimsy clapboards as the heavy car charged through the wall and into the alley beyond.

  Protected by unbreakable glass and a steel body, Shayne was hunched over the wheel and fully conscious as he went through. His foot left the throttle to brake the car as he wrenched the wheel to the right with all his strength, grazing the rear of another garage on the opposite side of the alley. There was the blast of a shotgun behind him and the sharper barking of a heavy automatic.

  Then his car was racing down the alley, and there was silence behind him. Not more than two seconds could have elapsed since he first sighted the lurking gunmen.

  Shayne’s mouth was set in grim lines as he slowed a trifle for the alley exit. He swung sharply in the wrong direction on a one-way street for a block, and again in the wrong direction at the next intersection which took him back to the hotel entrance.

  He slid to the curb on screaming tires and leaped out, went through the open door with long strides to confront the white-faced clerk at the desk who exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mr. Shayne, did you hear that noise? Sounded like a building falling down—and then shooting.”

  “Right.” Shayne’s eyes were bleak and the lines were deep in his cheeks. “Get the police on the phone.”

  As the clerk whirled to the switchboard, a portly man arose from a deep chair near the elevator and came toward him, saying petulantly, “Shayne? I’ve been waiting here for hours—”

  “You can wait a little longer,” Shayne snapped. He strode to a phone booth at a gesture from the clerk, picked up the receiver, and barked, “Mike Shayne talking. Corner of Second and Third. Two hoods just tried to blast me. It’s probably too late, but put out a call to pick up any of Jack Gurley’s boys that may be wandering around and give them a frisk. Gentry still around?”

  Upon being told that the chief had gone home, Shayne hung up. He left the booth and said to the openmouthed clerk, “Don’t bother me if cops come around asking questions. Just tell them I said the city owes you for a new back to one of your garages.”

  “Was that what it was, Mr. Shayne? Good Lord, I heard that terrible crash and then the shooting, and I didn’t know what it was.”

  Shayne grinned slowly and took out a handkerchief to mop sweat from his face. “They were waiting for me inside the garage, and I had to keep on going. Maybe you’ll have a chance to back my car around into the drive after a while.”

  “Sure. Gee, you are lucky, Mr. Shayne.”

  “Yeah. And right now I need a drink.”

  He turned away to be intercepted by Donald Henderson who told him importantly, “I hope I may have a word with you now, Shayne. I’ve wasted the entire evening trying to contact you.”

  Shayne said pleasantly, “That’s too damned bad. Come on up and waste some more time if you’re in the mood.” He went to the elevator, and Henderson followed him.

  Upstairs, Shayne went down the corridor without speaking and unlocked his door. He switched on the lights, tossed his hat at a hook on the wall, and sauntered toward the liquor cabinet, saying over his shoulder, “I need a drink. Have one?”

  “No thank you,” Henderson said stiffly. He walked to the center of the room and watched disapprovingly while the detective poured four ounces of cognac and lifted it to sniff the bouquet approvingly.

  “Really, Shayne,” Henderson complained, “I hope you don’t intend to drink all that. I have an extremely important matter to discuss with you, and I suggest that you retain a clear head to discuss it.”

  Shayne grinned, drank half the cognac, and said happily, “Nothing like a small snifter to give a man a clear head.” He sank down in a chair, indicated another near by, said, “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind, Henderson.”

  “It’s this—this letter.” He took a square white envelope from his breast pocket, and his plump hand trembled when he held it out to Shayne. “It was delivered by special messenger this evening. I didn’t know what to make of it at first. Most extraordinary, as you will note. A hoax of some sort, was my first thought. Perhaps an ill-considered practical joke. A man in my position does receive many crank letters.”

  Shayne noted that the address was in the same type as that on the letters received by Ralph Flannagan and Sheila Martin. He removed the folded sheet of paper and glanced at the contents with disinterest. The wording appeared to be an exact duplicate of the others. He yawned widely, and said, “So what?”

  “I don’t think you read it carefully,” Henderson protested. “It practically accuses m
e of planning to murder a woman who is a complete stranger to me. A woman whose name I don’t even recognize.” He leaned forward with both palms on his knees. “You can readily understand how upsetting it was.”

  Shayne shrugged and smothered a yawn. “If you didn’t plan to murder her, why should it upset you?”

  “That’s what I told myself,” said Henderson quickly. “I had a meeting to attend and I put it aside, thinking I might check with you later to see if you could explain it. Then afterward, while driving home, I turned on my car radio for the eleven-thirty newscast. I was absolutely horrified. It was ghastly. I kept thinking it was some weird coincidence, but then I began to realize the really awful position I was in. Because the woman is dead—murdered, Shayne. Just as her letter prophesied. And I stand accused of killing her.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Donald J. Henderson looked properly horrified at the suggestion. He snapped, “Definitely not. I’ve told you I don’t even know a woman named Wanda Weatherby.”

  Shayne said wearily, “I know. A lot of people have told me a lot of different things tonight. This meeting you claim you attended. What was it?”

  “Our Civic Betterment Association. We had an important agenda tonight, and I presided. I must say that I don’t care for your attitude, Shayne,” Henderson ended stiffly.

  “The door is right behind you.” Shayne took a big sip from his glass. Henderson compressed his lips and was silent.

  Shayne asked, “What time was your meeting?”

  “It was called to order promptly at nine-thirty.”

  “And the members present can swear you stayed at the meeting how long?” Shayne asked.

  “Until we adjourned shortly after eleven o’clock. I didn’t come here to be cross-questioned, Shayne.”

  “Why did you come?” the detective asked bluntly.

  “To put this matter fairly before you and ask you to use discretion after you open your mail in the morning and read this absurd charge against me. It’s a fiendish plot to ruin me, that’s clear,” he continued sharply. “As soon as I heard that the woman had actually been murdered tonight, I realized that was the only answer. A dastardly plan to smear my reputation.”

  “Do you mean to say you believe the Weatherby woman was murdered simply to throw suspicion on you, and thus harm your reputation?” asked Shayne incredulously.

  “What other answer is there? I’m afraid you don’t fully understand the vicious elements behind the interests I have opposed in taking an outspoken stand against the misuse of public funds to subsidize housing. I have publicly stated time and again that this is the downward path to Socialism—or worse. Communism, sir.” His voice was rich and rolling now, as fanatical as any soapbox orator in Union Square. “I have been marked for purging. This is exactly the sort of Russian tactics those scoundrels would employ. They are sneaky and treacherous and un-American. If you believe in Democracy and are a true citizen of our free republic, you will not hesitate to stand beside me in this fight.”

  Shayne crushed out his cigarette and asked mildly, “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Isn’t your duty clear? Presumably, you will receive the original of this letter in the morning mail, with a thousand dollars to bribe you to play an unwitting role in their plot to ruin me. By refusing to be taken in by these underhanded tactics, you will strike a resounding blow against the enemies of your country and mine.”

  “In fewer words,” said Shayne, “you want me to disregard the evidence against you.”

  “Evidence?” snorted Henderson. “That letter signed by a dead woman isn’t evidence. It’s base calumny. Observe the devilish ingeniousness of their plan. Quite likely the letter itself is a forgery. Yet the woman whose name is signed to it is dead and cannot deny authorship. There it stands as mute evidence against me. Once this letter or a hint of its contents becomes public, I am automatically branded as a murder suspect, despite all my denials, despite all the evidence I can put forward to prove my innocence.”

  “So I’m to tear up the letter from Wanda Weatherby merely on your say-so, and forget about it?” asked Shayne. “What do you suggest I do with her thousand dollars?”

  “Keep it,” snapped Henderson. “If she did actually send it herself—which I seriously doubt—she will never know. And if the whole thing is a forgery, those who did send it will certainly not dare to come forward and claim it.”

  Shayne laughed shortly and finished his drink. “And some people,” he marveled, “have an idea that private detectives are crooks. You’d better get the hell out of here, Henderson. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, loosened his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  His visitor’s mouth sagged open. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Surely you can realize the importance—”

  “Of keeping faith with my clients,” Shayne cut in angrily. “If someone pays me a thousand dollars for investigating you as a murder suspect, by God, you’re going to be investigated a thousand dollars’ worth.”

  “Even if it’s dirty Communist money?” demanded Henderson.

  “Even if it’s dirty Communist money,” Shayne told him flatly. He turned on his heel, stripping off his shirt.

  “Suppose,” Henderson suggested doubtfully, “I were to counter with an offer of double that amount not to investigate me?”

  “I’d throw you out of here,” Shayne told him, striding toward the bedroom and unbuckling his belt. He slammed the door shut, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and got into pajamas.

  When he returned to the living-room, it was empty and the outer door was closed. Shayne sighed gratefully and poured a final, small drink, then draped one hip on a corner of his desk and picked up the receiver to call a number.

  He listened to it ring several times before Henry Black’s sleepy voice came over the wire.

  “Mike Shayne, Hank,” he said briskly. “You got anything on tomorrow morning?”

  “You mean this morning? My God, Mike—”

  “This morning,” Shayne agreed.

  “Nothing but a lousy hang-over,” Black told him.

  “Mathews still with you?”

  “My checkbook says he is, but sometimes I wonder.”

  “You and Mathews have a job,” Shayne broke in. “Get around to the post office early—before any mail deliveries start out—and get on the tail of the postman who makes the early delivery to my office building. Stay on his tail. Hank, until he reaches my office.”

  “Wait a minute. Which postman is he? How’ll I know?”

  “If a smart dick like you can’t get that information,” said Shayne, “it’ll probably be all right, because a couple of would-be hijackers shouldn’t be able to get it, either. In that case, you and Mathews better be hanging around the street outside close to nine o’clock, because that will be their best chance.”

  “Hijackers? Is this a gun job, Mike?”

  “Wear everything you’ve got,” Shayne advised him grimly. “They tried to use a riot gun on me tonight, so don’t spare the ammunition if anything breaks.”

  “Hey! Why ring me in on a deal like that?” demanded Black in alarm. “If you know who they are—”

  “I don’t. But they do know me, and I might spoil the try by being around. Besides,” he added happily, “I’ll be paying you for the job while I get a little sleep.”

  He hung up, grinning over Henry Black’s loud protests, and went to bed knowing he had done everything possible to make certain the mail would reach his office intact.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For one of the few times since opening a downtown office in Miami, Michael Shayne opened the door precisely at nine o’clock the next morning. He was clear-eyed and jaunty, and he grinned at the sight of Chief Will Gentry seated stolidly in one of the straight chairs in the small outer room, and at Timothy Rourke lounging against the low railing talking to Lucy Hamilton, who was seated at her desk.

  He said, “Greetings. You’re up and about early this morning, Will. Hi-ya, Ti
m. Good morning, Lucy. Have these guys been bothering you?”

  She smiled faintly. “Tim isn’t quite his usual self on account of being chaperoned by Chief Gentry. They’ve been asking about the mail delivery.”

  “Oh, yes. I expect an important letter, Lucy. From a woman named Wanda Weatherby.”

  “Oh—yes.” Lucy puckered her brow, as though just remembering. “She’s the woman who telephoned you twice yesterday, Michael. Said she was writing you a letter.”

  Shayne said briskly, “That’s the one we’re all interested in. I promised Will a look at it, so bring it right in to us as soon as the mail arrives.” He turned toward the inner office, adding over his shoulder, “The chairs are softer in here, Will.”

  “I’ll stay right here until the mail comes,” rumbled Gentry. “If there is a letter, I don’t want Lucy holding out on me.”

  “Lucy wouldn’t do that,” Shayne protested. “And I promised you last night, remember?”

  “I know,” said Gentry placidly. “I’ve also seen some of your stunts in the past to wriggle around verbal promises. I’ll sit right here by the door. Come on back, Mike. I want to ask you some questions.”

  Shayne shrugged resignedly, strode back, and twirled a chair around, straddled it, and faced the police chief with his arms folded across the back. “Okay. We’ll horse-trade some more. For every question I answer, you answer one. Shoot.”

  “What happened at your garage early this morning?”

  “I reported it to your cops. A couple of torpedoes were waiting to blast me when I drove in. So I kept on driving through the back of it.”

  “Did you recognize either of them?”

  “No. The one on my side was masked, and I didn’t take time to get a good look at the other one.”

  “What gave you the idea Gurley sent them?”

  “You. You admitted leaving Gurley believing I had sent you after him to ask about Wanda. He’s the type who would resent that.”

  Gentry grunted, took a sodden cigar butt from his mouth, and put it in a tall ash stand near his chair. “That all you got to go on?”