Before Shayne could answer, Rourke strode into the office beaming happily and holding the two letters in his hand. “I don’t know what kind of frame-up this is, but it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“Frame-up?” asked Gentry.
“What Tim means, I think,” Shayne said casually, “is that this has all the earmarks of a phony. We know that Gurley received a copy of that letter earlier in the evening, so it would look as though he’s the one man in Miami who wouldn’t have harmed Wanda last night.”
Gentry’s agate eyes narrowed suspiciously. He sat down heavily in the cushioned chair across from the detective. “Wait a minute, now. Sure he knew about the letter. And that drove him to it. If she’d been alive this morning she meant to come to you with whatever she had on Gurley. He had to kill her before she saw you. Probably had a man planted outside her house last night and heard her telephone you to come over in a hurry. So, that was curtains for Wanda.”
Shayne wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Will.”
“Why else would he have risked hijacking the United States mail?” Gentry argued.
“Even if he didn’t kill her himself,” Shayne objected, “he knew this letter put him on one hell of a spot when he found out someone else did the job last night. That gave him practically the same motive for grabbing the mail as if he were guilty.” He swiveled back in his chair and tugged at his earlobe for a moment, then added, “I think that’s what Tim meant when he mentioned a frame-up.”
The reporter drew a chair up to the side of the desk, sank into it, and laid the letters on the table.
Chief Gentry’s cigar was dead. He leaned forward to lay it in an ash tray, then asked Shayne, “You mean to say you don’t think Wanda Weatherby wrote the letter? That someone planned to kill her and used this method of throwing suspicion on Gurley?”
Shayne said slowly, “If that check is good, Wanda must have written the covering letter. But she took the precaution of sending a carbon copy to Gurley as insurance against his harming her. It should have worked that way but we know it didn’t.”
“Sure. But when he killed her last night,” Gentry argued, “he had his plans all made for seeing that the letter never reached you. If you hadn’t figured that move and had Black on the job,” he interposed grudgingly, “he might have succeeded. I still say it was his best bet under the circumstances. We’ll know more about that when we find out exactly why Wanda Weatherby was afraid of him.”
There was a brief silence, then Shayne said abruptly, “Tell me something. Do you know whether private stag parties at the Sportsman’s Club are sometimes enlivened with pornographic movies?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Gentry told him.
“I would,” Timothy Rourke said. “The answer is yes. I never attended one myself, but I know fellows who have.”
“Yeh,” Gentry said with deep disgust. “Fellows who’d swear you were a liar if we put them on a witness stand.”
“While you’re checking Wanda’s background,” Shayne broke in hastily, “see if you can find anything to indicate she’s been mixed up in that sort of thing. You might check with Detroit—all the way back to the mid-thirties on that angle. And also look for her husband in Detroit, though somehow I don’t think you’ll find one.”
“Where,” Gentry demanded, “did you get the Detroit lead if you still insist you know nothing about the woman?”
“I made that statement at eleven o’clock last night,” Shayne reminded him. “It was true at the time. I am a detective, Will, and the word means one who detects. I made it my business to learn some things about her.”
“And you’re not telling me how you went about it,” the chief said sarcastically.
“No. But I’m giving you what leads I have. You’re better equipped to follow them up.”
“All right.” Gentry came heavily to his feet. “My department will do the work of convicting Gurley, and you’ll sit back and collect a fat fee for the job.”
“That’s the way it goes, Will,” he agreed blandly. “And thanks.”
Gentry strode stolidly from the room, leaving the door open. Rourke followed him, closed the door carefully, then returned to sprawl in the chair vacated by the police chief. He said, “Damned if you don’t do some fancy skating on thin ice, Mike. Tell me how in the name of God you fixed it to substitute a letter naming Jack Gurley for the one Wanda wrote accusing Ralph Flannagan.”
“Even a newspaper reporter should be able to figure that one out.”
“Damned if I can, Mike. I was standing right there watching you open the envelope. Even if you had Hank Black primed to make some sort of switch during the fracas with Calloni, I don’t see how he could have pulled it. And I don’t believe a man like Black could be hired to tamper with the mail.”
Shayne grinned and punched a button on the intercom. He said, “Is the coast clear, Lucy?”
“Chief Gentry went straight out.”
“Throw the lock on the front door,” he directed, “and bring any other important mail in here—if there is any.”
“There is, Michael,” she said excitedly. “I’ll bring it right in.”
Shayne snapped the switch and swiveled back in his chair. Rourke compressed his thin lips in wordless bafflement.
Lucy came in with a square white envelope in her hand, placed it in front of Shayne, and confessed, “I was so scared I thought I would die when Chief Gentry almost got the mail first. And then when you waved that check in front of his face—”
“You were perfect, angel,” Shayne cut in. “Let’s see what Wanda wrote to me.”
He tore the bulky envelope open and shook the contents onto the desk. There were five sheets of folded notepaper instead of two, and a check for a thousand dollars folded in the center. He glanced swiftly at the four letters, all identical except for the different names, and pushed them aside. He read the covering letter aloud to Lucy and Rourke.
“‘Dear Mr. Shayne: I’ve called your office twice this afternoon, but now it’s too late to reach you before tomorrow, so I’m writing this letter of explanation in case I am dead before you receive it.
“‘Someone is trying to murder me, has tried twice in the past week, and the police seem unable to do anything about it.
“‘There are four people whom I suspect equally, though I haven’t the faintest idea which one of them it is. I haven’t given their names to the police because then I would have to explain why I suspect them, and that’s my secret and will remain my secret.
“‘The only precaution I can think of which may frighten the guilty one into giving up his attempts is to write four separate letters, each naming one of the persons I suspect, and send a carbon of each letter by messenger to that person. In that way, each one will think the entire burden of suspicion will fall on him if I am killed, and will be frightened off—I hope.
“‘I enclose my check for one thousand dollars as your retainer to investigate my death if it occurs tonight, and to convict one of the four.
“‘If my plan works and I am still alive tomorrow morning, I will telephone you for an appointment.
“‘Sincerely hoping to make your acquaintance, I am very truly yours, Wanda Weatherby.’”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Four of them!” Timothy Rourke exclaimed as Shayne finished reading. “Our Wanda must have been quite a gal.” He scooped up the four enclosures and shuffled through them, muttering, “Here’s Flannagan. And a woman—Sheila Martin. And Jack Gurley, by God! He’s here, all right. And Donald J. Henderson! Why, the old whited sepulcher. What sort of game has he been playing behind teacher’s back?” His feverish, slaty eyes studied the notes spread out before him, then lifted to study the detective’s face thoughtfully. “You didn’t even bother to look at the names of her suspects,” he charged.
“I had already seen copies of three of those letters,” he answered dryly, “and I had every reason to believe Gurley was the fourth.”
“You’d seen three of them, eh? So the gal you were necking last night was Sheila Martin, and not the Sylvia you pawned off on Gentry.”
“It was purely impromptu,” Shayne told him, glancing at Lucy. “I had to explain her in some way so Gentry wouldn’t start digging.”
Rourke nodded thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to get it. If Ralph, or any of the three others, had realized Wanda had named the other suspects, none of the four would have been so worried.”
“That’s exactly what must have occurred to her when she wrote the four letters. She fixed it so that each one thought he was the only suspect—which would be a stronger deterrent than if each had known that he—or she—was only one out of four.”
Rourke whistled significantly. “She had a right to be worried, with four people after her blood. I take it that you fixed that other letter, Mike. Mailed it to yourself so you could hand it to Gentry. Wasn’t it kind of tough on Gurley to single him out for Gentry to work on?”
“I meant it to be tough on him,” Shayne growled. “The others at least came to me for help. Besides, he’s the only one of the four without an alibi. That is, I haven’t checked Mrs. Martin’s yet, but I have a hunch it will stand up.”
Rourke muttered, as if to himself, “Three out of the four have alibis.” He frowned and closed his eyes, considered for a moment, then said, “It looks almost like—collusion.”
Shayne nodded. “Could be. The trouble is, none of the three admits knowing the others.”
“Could they all have had the same reason?” Rourke asked.
“If Flannagan is telling the truth about that picture some guy snapped of them at the motel,” Shayne observed, “Sheila Martin certainly couldn’t have had the same reason. And I don’t think Gurley is the type to be taken in by a thing like the Flannagan deal. If he did shack up with Wanda and she had a picture of him, he’d just tell her to go to hell.”
Again there was silence. Lucy Hamilton, who had been standing and listening attentively, drew a chair back and sat down.
Rourke’s head was bent, his chin resting on his chest, his eyes closed. He straightened and said, “I’m wondering about Henderson. I like him for a suspect—the mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s just the type to fall for the Flannagan setup—only in more luxurious surroundings.”
Shayne shook his red head. “Henderson swears he never even heard of the woman.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No. But I have no proof to the contrary. And he has an alibi. That’s something you can check for me, Tim. Someone on your paper must have covered the Civic Association meeting last night where Henderson presided. Check to see if he was definitely there all the time between ten and ten-thirty.”
“Will do,” said Rourke cheerfully. “Wanda Weatherby must have been quite a femme fatale to have given four such widely dissimilar people reason for wanting her out of the way.”
“She evidently played the field,” Shayne agreed. “But what we need is someone who actually knew the woman before we can begin to guess why four people wanted her murdered.”
“What will Gentry do if he finds out you hoaxed him on Wanda’s letter?”
“Jerk my license,” he said soberly. “The only way I can justify covering up for those three is to prove them innocent.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Suppose you make a start, Tim, by checking Henderson’s alibi. Don’t just take the word of one reporter, but get hold of a couple of other people who were at the meeting. Then I’d like to meet you at the paper in about an hour and go through every damned thing in your morgue on Gurley.” He paused, turned to Lucy Hamilton, and said, “You can reach me there if anything comes up.”
“What will you be doing and where can I reach you in the meantime—in case Chief Gentry wants you, Michael?”
“Checking on Sheila Martin’s alibi and satisfying myself that she really does love her husband enough that the threat of raking up a past mistake was sufficient motive for her to commit murder. But don’t tell Gentry that,” he added with a broad grin.
Rourke was walking out of the room with him. The reporter stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, and turned to Shayne with a wide, crinkled grin. “In all the confusion, there’s something I almost forgot, Mike. What’s this about you going on the radio?”
Shayne stopped, and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Or is it television? You know, one of those private-eye programs.” Rourke struck an attitude and declaimed: “Tonight, folks, we bring you another exciting adventure in the life of Michael Shayne, redheaded, hard-fisted private eye of Miami, Florida. Scourge of the underworld and the darling of gangsters’ molls, we bring you Michael Shayne in one of his most exciting adventures.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Shayne demanded irritably.
Rourke dropped his pose and said seriously, “It’s a swell idea, Mike. You could play the lead yourself. The only honest-to-God real-life detective on radio, with Lucy playing the part of your ever-loving secretary. You’d have everything the other shows have got, plus the fact that it would be real.”
Lucy came up behind them and said breathlessly, “I think it would be a wonderful idea, Michael. They could dramatize your cases from our files. Are you really thinking about it?”
Shayne looked from Lucy to Rourke, a puzzled frown between his eyes. “It’s news to me. Where did you get the idea, Tim?”
“Hasn’t anyone approached you about it?” the reporter asked seriously.
Shayne snorted. “No. What makes you think they have?”
Rourke searched his friend’s face, said, “You wouldn’t kid me, Mike?”
“I wouldn’t kid you,” he retorted, and again demanded, “Where did you get the idea?”
“Why—a girl I know who’s been doing some television work called me early this morning to ask me if there was any chance of her meeting you to see if she could get on the program. She knows I’m a friend of yours, and said she’s heard the program was being set up, and wanted an inside track.”
Shayne tugged at his left earlobe thoughtfully. “You say this girl is in television? I thought all the shows in Miami were on film.”
“Then there isn’t anything to it?” Rourke asked sadly. “This girl is a nice kid. She’s been in radio—”
“There isn’t anything to it,” Shayne cut in sharply. “I don’t know where she got the idea, but I’d like to know. What’s her name?”
“Muriel Davidson. I’ll give you her phone number, but I warn you she lives with her mamma and is what is known, euphemistically, as a good girl.”
Shayne snapped, “I’d still like to have her phone number.” He took a small book from his pocket and wrote it down as Rourke repeated it.
Lucy said, “Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, Michael. Tim is absolutely right. You’d be a lot better on radio or television than a lot of those guys. You could be realistic.”
Shayne whirled on her and demanded, “You aren’t in on this, are you, Lucy?”
“Me? Gosh, no. It’s the first I’ve heard of it, but I think it’s wonderful. Would they pay him for it, Tim?”
“We’ll stick to detecting, Lucy,” Shayne told her before the reporter could answer. “Here’s something I want you to do while I’m out.” He reached in his pocket and brought out the envelope containing the clipping he had picked up in Wanda Weatherby’s home. The name and address of the bureau was printed in the left-hand corner. He showed it to Rourke and asked, “Do you know how an outfit like this operates?”
“Sure. This New York concern is one of the biggest in the country. They cover every newspaper and periodical in the country, and will clip items on anything—at so much per clip.”
“On what basis?”
“I think you pay in advance for a certain number of clips. Fifty or a hundred, or something like that. When that quota is filled, you can either renew your order or not, as you wish.”
Shayne nodded and handed the envelope to Lucy. “Call them long-dis
tance,” he directed, “and find out when Wanda Weatherby started getting clippings on Gurley. If they hesitate about giving out information, tell them their client is dead and that it’s a homicide investigation.”
He turned and strode out of the office with Timothy Rourke a step behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sheila Martin lived in a duplex apartment in the Little River section north of Seventy-Ninth Street. A little girl of four or five was playing on the front lawn when Shayne stopped his car and got out. As he went up the walk he saw a young woman sitting in a metal chair under a coco-palm just off the walk of the other entrance.
The woman stopped knitting and watched his approach with placid curiosity. She wore a neat cotton dress and had a thin, intelligent face.
Shayne took off his hat and said, “I’m looking for Mrs. Martin.”
“She’s out at the moment,” the woman said pleasantly. “Gone down to the corner for a can of coffee. She’ll be back in a few minutes if you’d care to wait.”
“Thanks, I will.” He dropped to his knees on the grass and smiled at the bright-eyed child who approached him with shy interest. He said, “Good morning. Do you live here?”
She put the knuckle of her forefinger between her teeth and nodded with a smile.
“Doris is shy with strangers,” the woman said. “Don’t be afraid of the nice man, darling, and take your finger out of your mouth. I’m Doris’s mother,” she volunteered, “and we live in this side of the duplex.” Her dark eyes appraised Shayne openly, as though trying to decide whether he was selling something or had come to collect an overdue bill.
Shayne said, “I’m with a credit agency, making a routine check. Do the Martins own or rent?”
“We both rent. They’re good neighbors,” she went on quickly. “Mr. Martin has a steady job and is a good man. He works nights and sleeps late in the mornings.” She hesitated as though about to say something else, but looking past Shayne down the street, she said, “There comes Sheila now.”
What Really Happened Page 11
