What Really Happened

Chapter ten

MICHAEL SHAYNE PARKED on a quiet side street just east of the Boulevard in front of his secretary’s apartment building. Glancing up at the second-floor windows as he got out he saw that they were dark.

In the small foyer he pressed her button three long rings and waited with his hand on the doorknob. He turned it when her buzzer released the latch, went in and up the stairs two at a time and down the hall where Lucy Hamilton waited for him in the doorway.

She wore a quilted robe over flowered pajamas, and her brown hair was brushed back neatly from her face and caught with a ribbon in the back. Barefooted and with no make-up, she looked absurdly childlike as she stepped back inside exclaiming, “I’d just got back to sleep, Michael. What’s been happening?”

“I’ll bring you up to date in a minute.” He ruffled her hair and dropped a light kiss on her lips. “But here’s something first,” he added, striding to the telephone stand. He lifted the directory and began leafing through it in search of Ralph Flannagan’s number. He found it listed, a direct line that did not go through the building switchboard.

Lucy stood beside him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What on earth?”

“Here — take the receiver and dial this number. I’ll call it off for you. And start talking fast when a man answers,” he directed. “Say, ‘This is Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard over the radio about Wanda Weatherby and I have to see you at once.’ That’s all. Make your voice sound excited and worried. Don’t answer any questions except to insist you’re Helen Taylor and must see him. Got it?”

“Let’s see — I’m Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard about Wanda Weatherby over the radio and have to see him at once. Who, Michael?”

“His name is Ralph Flannagan, but I don’t know whether Helen would call him Ralph or Mr. Flannagan or darling, so try to skip it.” He called the numbers as she dialed, then stepped aside to light a cigarette.

Lucy waited a moment, then spoke rapidly and excitedly into the mouthpiece. He watched her face tensely when she finished, heard the faint crackle of Flannagan’s voice over the wire.

“I am Helen,” she insisted after a moment. “And I must talk to you at once.” She listened again for a moment, then hung up. “My voice must have sounded all wrong,” she said ruefully. “He simply didn’t believe I was Helen Taylor, and acted as though he didn’t know what any of it was about. He said he would call me back to check, and then hung up. He sounded frightened and angry, Michael. Does that help?”

“It might.” Shayne stood for a moment rubbing his angular jaw, his gaze remote and withdrawn. At this moment, only one person other than the police, Dr. Brinstead, the girl’s roommate, and himself could possibly know that Helen was dead — or had reason to suspect she was so ill from poison that it was unlikely she could be using the phone.

Shayne said slowly, “Try exactly the same thing on Jack Gurley at the Sportsman’s Club, Lucy. You’ll know better what to listen for when I tell you that Helen Taylor died about twenty minutes ago from strychnine. If she was murdered, the person who fed her the poison is the only one who knows about it.”

Lucy nodded uncertainly. “Your Mr. Flannagan seemed awfully certain I wasn’t Helen Taylor. On the other hand, he was going to call her back. Would he do that if he knew she was already dead?”

“He might. If his nerves were steady enough and he thought fast enough. On the other hand, it’s what an innocent man would normally do if your voice didn’t sound right. Try it on Gurley, anyway. Those are the only two strings I’ve got right now. Shall I mix you a drink?”

“A small one. Isn’t Jack Gurley the man they call The Lantern?”

“Yeh.”

Shayne went into the kitchen and took a bottle of cognac from a high shelf where he knew it would be. He poured a large straight drink for himself, put a smaller portion into a glass with a cube of ice and a little water, carried them back into the living room in time to hear Lucy say, “No. This is a personal call. Just tell him it’s Helen Taylor.”

She glanced aside with lifted brows as Shayne made himself comfortable on the couch, with the two glasses on the coffee table. Then she said over the telephone, “This is Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard over the radio about Wanda Weatherby and I have to see you at once.”

She listened while Shayne moodily smoked a cigarette and visualized the gambler at the other end of the wire. Then she protested, “I can’t tell you any more over the phone. But this is Helen Taylor and I must see you at once.” After listening again and for a longer period, she said, “Very well, then,” and hung up.

A frown puckered her forehead as she crossed to the couch. “I guess that was a blank, Michael, though you can’t really tell about a man like that. He said he didn’t know me and why did I think he was interested in talking about Wanda Weatherby. When I wouldn’t tell him, he said why didn’t I write him a letter, and hung up.” Lucy sat down beside him and curled her bare feet up under her robe and reached for the glass of watered cognac.

She said, “Now start at the beginning and tell me everything. Who is Wanda Weatherby — and what does Helen Taylor have to do with anything?”

“First, you tell me about those phone calls this afternoon. Did Wanda give you any idea why she wanted to see me?”

“No. Except it was important that she see you at once.”

“Did you suggest her calling me at home later?”

“No. When she called the second time she said she was writing you a letter which you’d receive in the morning. From that, I supposed it could wait overnight.”

Shayne nodded and took a long drink of cognac. “Something came up,” he told Lucy moodily, “to make her realize it couldn’t wait overnight. She called me at home at ten o’clock — after I had already received two calls from other people who knew about the letter she had written me.” He settled back and related the events from the time he entered his apartment that evening to find the telephone ringing.

Lucy listened attentively, and when he finished, she said, “I turned on my radio after Chief Gentry woke me to ask about you. There was a flash about Wanda Weatherby on the eleven-thirty newscast. From what Mr. Flannagan and that Sheila person told you about her, it sounds as though she was asking for just what she got. If Sheila is as nice as you say,” she added thoughtfully, “it would be horrible to drag up something like that one indiscretion out of her past — now that she’s happily married.”

“I don’t know how nice Sheila is,” Shayne told her irritably. “And I don’t go too far on the happy-marriage angle. The way she cuddled up to me—”

“But she was frightened to death by Wanda’s letter, and desperately needed your help,” Lucy interrupted. “Besides, you’re not so hard to cuddle up to, Michael,” she added, her brown eyes crinkling with laughter.

“U-m-m,” Shayne muttered absently. He got up and went to the phone, saying, “I forgot about the man who said he was coming to my hotel to see me. I’d better check.” He dialed the number and said, “Mike Shayne,” when the clerk answered.

The clerk said rapidly, “There’s a man waiting here in the lobby, Mr. Shayne — and there was a call for you just a minute ago. Mr. Ralph Flannagan wants you to call him at once. It’s very important.”

“Who’s the man waiting?”

“He didn’t give his name,” said the clerk. “He’s been waiting about half an hour. Said he was the one who had phoned while you were out.”

Shayne said, “Put him on now.”

After a short wait a richly unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne? How soon may I see you? It’s very important.”

“Who’s speaking?” Shayne interrupted.

“I — ah — Please keep this completely confidential, Mr. Shayne. This is Donald J. Henderson speaking. I must have your advice on a matter of the gravest importance immediately.”

“What sort of a matter? I’m tangled up with a case and don’t know when I’ll be in.”

“It concerns — ah — a letter you will receive in the morning post.”

“From Wanda Weatherby?” Shayne demanded.

“How did you — Then you’ve been in touch with her?” Henderson’s tone took on a note of aggrieved asperity. “I have no idea what she may have told you, but I assure you there is not a word of truth in it. Why, I don’t even know the woman, Mr. Shayne. This is the most preposterous—”

“Hold it until I get there,” Shayne snapped. “Within half an hour, I hope.”

He hung up and growled, “Another one, Lucy. One of our most esteemed civic leaders this time. Donald Henderson. My God! The woman must have sent out her letters wholesale. Henderson claims he doesn’t even know her.” He paused, his hand on the receiver, started to ask his secretary the number she had dialed for Ralph Flannagan, then remembered the digits he had called to her. He lifted the instrument and dialed.

The radio producer sounded much relieved to hear his voice. “Mr. Shayne! The most extraordinary thing has happened. I thought you should know at once. I’ve been trying to get you.”

“What is it?” he asked, grinning at Lucy.

“A short time ago I had a telephone call from some woman who claimed she was Helen Taylor and who insisted she wanted to talk to me about Wanda. I do know a girl named Helen Taylor — in a business way. She’s an actress who has done bit parts on my show occasionally, and I’m certain it wasn’t her voice. She refused to say anything more except that she wanted to talk to me about Wanda. I hung up and checked by calling Miss Taylor’s number.

“A man answered the phone, Mr. Shayne.” Flannagan’s voice trembled with excitement and fear. “He sounded — well — gruff and official. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought it was a policeman. He demanded to know who I was when I asked for Miss Taylor, and kept on asking questions when I wouldn’t tell him, and I had a feeling he was trying to keep me on the line while the call was traced. So I hung up.

“What do you suppose has happened? What connection can there be between Miss Taylor and Wanda? And who could the woman be who called me?”

“How positive are you that it wasn’t Miss Taylor?” Shayne asked casually.

“Voices are my business, Mr. Shayne. I suppose one can’t be absolutely positive over the telephone, but there’s the added fact that Miss Taylor was here for an audition this evening, and I listened to her very carefully, evaluating the quality, the timbre and nuances—”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne sharply. “You say she was at your place this evening?”

“Yes. She and two other actresses. I told you—”

“What time?” Shayne interrupted. “It may be very important.”

“Why — about eight, I think.”

“After the letter from Wanda arrived by messenger? Are you quite sure you didn’t mention it to her, Flannagan?”

“Positive. I don’t discuss personal affairs with girls who come for auditions,” he said stiffly.

“Is it possible she could have seen the letter without your knowledge?”

“Why I — think it extremely unlikely, it may possibly have been lying about while she was here, but she didn’t impress me as the sort of girl who would surreptitiously read my personal mail.”

“What time did she leave your place?”

“About eight-twenty, I should say.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. See here, Mr. Shayne, what do you think—”

“What sort of mood was she in?” the detective cut in sharply.

“Excellent,” Flannagan assured him. “You see, the audition went well, and I practically assured her she would get the part.”

“You’ll have to report this to the police,” Shayne told him, “as soon as you read about her death in the morning paper.”

“Helen — Taylor’s — death?” The radio producer’s voice was inexpressibly shocked. “Good Lord! What possible connection could there have been between her and Wanda? And who could have phoned me?”

“My secretary,” said Shayne grimly, “and you can leave that fact out of the story when you talk to the police. That is, if you still hope to avoid being involved in Wanda Weatherby’s murder.”

“Certainly, Mr. Shayne. And you do think we can avoid it, don’t you?”

“I’m going to do my best,” Shayne told him wearily. “I have to get started right now. You’d better get some sleep.” He hung up abruptly and went back to the couch, his thumb and forefinger tugging at his left earlobe.

“What do you think now, Michael?” Lucy asked eagerly.

“It’s all just a little bit more tangled than before,” he answered absently. “Helen Taylor was at Flannagan’s apartment between eight and eight-twenty. At midnight she dies in convulsions, moaning something about me and Wanda Weatherby. If Gentry sees that letter in the morning, he really will tear into Flannagan.”

“But you’ll have to let him see it, Michael,” Lucy insisted. “You told me you promised him you would.” Shayne picked up his drink, took a long sip, set it down, and leaned his head back on the couch. He closed his eyes and thought for a long moment, then jerked himself erect and gave Lucy a crooked smile.

“Look — what I promised Will, in his own words, was that I would not make any trouble about his reading my mail in the morning. Get out your portable,” he went on cheerfully, “and some feminine notepaper — the kind that folds. Preferably white, with square envelopes, if you have it.”

“I received three boxes for Christmas presents,” she told him. “One of them was white, if I remember correctly. But what on earth—”

“Be ready when I get back, angel,” he said. He came swiftly to his feet, tossed off his drink, and taking his glass with him strode into the kitchenette for a refill.

When he returned, Lucy Hamilton had the portable on her lap and a sheet of white notepaper rolled in. She held a square envelope up and asked, “Will this do?”

“Fine.” He sat down beside her and began dictating: “Dear Mr. Shayne: I enclose one thousand dollars and the original of another letter to you which will be self-explanatory. The thousand is for your retainer in case something happens to me before I am able to talk to you. Very truly yours, Wanda Weatherby.”

Lucy shook her head worriedly, but her eyes sparkled when she finished typing and looked at him. “Is that all, Michael? I don’t understand why Chief Gentry could find anything in a note like—”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said, a wry smile spreading his wide mouth. “Add a postscript.”

Lucy rolled the paper down, wrote, P.S., and he dictated:

“I wish to retain you because I have absolutely no faith in the Miami police department which has a reputation for being the most corrupt and inefficient in the United States.”

Lucy Hamilton gasped, stopped short of finishing the sentence, and exclaimed, “Michael Shayne! If you’re planning to do with this letter what I think you are, Will Gentry will have kittens all over the office when he reads it.”

“Finish it,” Shayne told her blandly. “Will deserves just that — for suspecting me of holding out on him.”

Lucy finished typing the postscript, rolled the sheet from the portable, laid it on the table, and started to pick up an envelope.

“Hold it,” Shayne ordered. “Put in another sheet of paper,” and when she complied, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the exact wording of the two letters Ralph Flannagan and Sheila Martin had showed him. He dictated slowly:

“Dear Mr. Shayne: I tried to call you at your office two different times today, but you were out and it is five o’clock now so I am going to write you instead. I enclose one thousand dollars as a retainer for you in case anything happens to me tonight, and that will be your fee for convicting Jack Gurley at the Sportsman’s Club of my murder, because he will be the guilty one. He has tried to murder me twice already, and I am desperately afraid he will try again tonight.

“I am going to send him a carbon of this letter by special messenger so he’ll know I’ve told you about it, and maybe he will decide not to when he realizes you will suspect him.

“I will telephone you first thing in the morning for an appointment if I am still alive. Very truly yours. Wanda Weatherby.”

Lucy asked, “Any postscript?” when she finished typing. Shayne shook his head, and she rolled the sheet from the portable.

“Now address an envelope to me at the office. Put her address in the usual place, but make a couple of mistakes in it and in my address. Ex out the errors so you’ll he able to recognize this envelope from the one she mailed when they both arrive at the office tomorrow morning.”

Lucy put the envelope in the pot table and followed instructions. When she rolled it out and handed it to him, she said, “This really throws Mr. Gurley at Chief Gentry, Michael. And you don’t even know that she wrote a letter like this about him.”

“It’s a fair assumption, angel. The two recipients I do know about have alibis for the time of her death. That is, Sheila Martin claims she has — and they’re both fairly nice people who appear to have been victimized by Wanda.

“Gurley, on the other hand, is distinctly not a nice person, and he gets this special attention for trying to put the pressure on me instead of coming to me decently, like the others, and putting his cards on the table.”

Lucy set the portable on the coffee table, closed the box of notepaper, curled her feet under her robe again, and said, “Suppose Chief Gentry insists on looking through the mail himself and finds both letters? How many years in jail can we get for doing this, Michael?”

“God knows. Be sure to wipe your fingerprints off both notes before you seal them. And take your portable down to a repair shop on your way to the office and leave it to have the type changed. Not the shop we generally use, and give a false name. Just a precaution,” he added with a wide grin. “It’ll be up to you to see that nothing goes wrong. Take a taxi, but get off a few blocks from where you’re going.”

Lucy took a sip of her thin drink. “I’ve learned how to be cautious in a little thing like that,” she said. “I’m worried about Chief Gentry and the morning mail.”

“Don’t, angel. After all, it is my office and my mail, and Gentry has no right to see anything except one letter from Wanda Weatherby. I’ll insist that you take the mail from the postman right in front of Will, and I’ll tell you to sort it out and give me the one from Wanda. He’ll be watching, so shuffle through them fast until you come to the one you addressed tonight. Don’t, for God’s sake, make a mistake and hand me her letter instead. It will be addressed in the same elite type and in an envelope just about this size, and may or may not have a return address. Watch out for that.”

Lucy picked up the envelope, carefully noted the two letters she had exed out, and said. “I’ll watch out, all right. I hate messy typing.” She plucked a cocktail napkin from a decorative holder on the table and began rubbing it over the portions of the notes where she had handled it. She asked. “Is this all right for eliminating fingerprints?”

“Sure. But rub hard where you touched it, and on both sides. The envelope, too.”

Lucy worked silently. She was disturbed, but she knew that any argument would be futile. She used the paper napkin when she folded them to place them in the envelope. She was tucking the notepaper inside when she turned to Shayne and said, “If I seal it now, how are we going to get the thousand dollars Wanda Weatherby says is inside?”

“I almost forgot that.” he admitted. “You got a check-book handy?”

“Yes — but what good will that do? I haven’t got a thousand—”

“Get it. And don’t worry.”

Lucy’s eyes were deeply puzzled, but she went into her bedroom and returned with a small checkbook on the First National Bank of Miami.

“Write a check for a grand, payable to me,” Shayne directed. “Date it as of yesterday.”

“That’s about seven hundred dollars more than I have in my checking-account,” Lucy protested.

“You’re going to sign Wanda Weatherby’s name to it, angel,” he told her with a wide grin.

“How do you know she banks at the First National?” she protested. “And don’t forget that Chief Gentry saw her bank stubs and will recognize the signature as a forgery as soon as he sees it.”

“Those are chances we have to take,” he said blithely.

“Chances I have to take. I don’t see you forging anything.”

“It’s not much of a chance,” he comforted her. “I’ll try to hang on to the check. It is my property, and Gentry already expects a check to be enclosed, so there’s no reason for him to insist upon examining it.”

“All right, but darn it, Michael, I don’t like it. I’ll never understand why you get yourself into a spot where you have to pull a stunt like this.” She unfolded the checkbook, got a fountain pen from the desk drawer, and deliberately filled in the blanks with a broad backhand that was exactly the opposite of her fine Spencerian handwriting.

Shayne said, “It’s guys like Gentry who force me to take measures like this, and I don’t like it. But a private detective has to protect his clients.” He stood up and stretched his long body.

“You’ll need a stamp on the envelope,” Lucy reminded him, and again disappeared into her bedroom, taking the envelope with her. She moistened the stamp on a wet washrag, pasted it on, and carefully sealed it with a piece of tissue. She carried it into the living-room, holding the envelope in the tissue. She said, “Please be careful, Michael,” holding the letter out to him.

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.