What Really Happened

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, Tim. 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?”

“It’s enough. Any more questions?”

“What do you know about Helen Taylor?”

“Damned little,” said Shayne promptly. “Probably much less than you do. She’s a radio actress.” He tipped the items off on his fingers as he continued. “She died around midnight, probably from strychnine. Prior to her death, her roommate found her in convulsions and muttering incoherently about Michael Shayne and Wanda Weatherby. Said roommate telephoned me, but Helen Taylor was dead before I could reach her. That’s all I know about the girl.”

Gentry’s agate eyes were hard. “That was the call you got while we were at your place,” he charged. “You lied about it to get out of there without me.”

Shayne nodded his red head. “I was in a hurry. The girl said she was dying, and I didn’t want to waste time trying to explain things to you that f didn’t know how to explain myself. If I had gotten any information from her about Wanda, I would have passed it on to you.”

“Maybe.” Chief Gentry’s tone was grim. “The fact is that you did lie to me. As a result, the police were delayed in reaching her by fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“The doctor who attended her will tell you that Helen Taylor was dying at the moment I received the call. The fifteen or twenty minutes didn’t make a damned bit of difference.”

“Why did you beat it instead of staying around to make a statement when my men arrived there?”

Shayne grinned. “I had a date waiting for me,” he reminded the chief. “I had been rudely interrupted if you will recall. And besides, I instructed Mary Devon to tell you the truth about everything. There was nothing I could add.”

“Will you swear that’s all you had on your mind when you slipped away? Just a date?”

“That’s all I had on my mind,” said Shayne solemnly. “I hope Lucy won’t be jealous, damn it, but I give you my word that I spent the next half hour very pleasantly in her apartment where there were drinks and other compensations for your and Tim’s interruption when I was just getting to first base with Sylvia.”

“All right.” said Gentry grumpily, “if you’ll swear you still have no idea what Helen Taylor meant by linking your name with Wanda Weatherby’s when she was dying.”

“I swear I haven’t the slightest idea. Is that all for now?”

“I guess so.” The police chief looked at his watch and scowled. “It’s eight minutes after nine. What time does the mail generally come, Lucy?”

“It’s due any moment, chief.” Lucy glanced up at the reporter who still lounged against the railing in front of her desk. “Why don’t you sit down, Tim? You make me nervous standing there.”

Rourke dragged himself erect and stretched his thin arms and torso. Turning to Shayne, he said, “While you and Will are keeping the vigil, I’ll just pop inside and investigate your filing-cabinet. Still in the second drawer?”

Shayne nodded absently. “Pour me a slug of cognac while you’re about it.” He waited until the gangling reporter went through the open doorway, then said to Gentry, “It’s my turn for a few answers now. What have you learned about Wanda Weatherby?”

“Practically nothing.” The chief sighed and extracted a thick black cigar from his breast pocket. He wrinkled his nose with distaste as he bit off the end. “No letters in her place. Nothing to show where she comes from or who she is. She appears to have lived well and kept to herself, and we haven’t turned up a single person who admits knowing her any more intimately than to pass the time of day.

“There is one thing,” he went on slowly. “We’ve had two complaints from her at headquarters in the past week. Routine investigations were made both times without accomplishing much.”

“From her — or about her?” Shayne asked with interest.

“From her. The first was a week ago. A telephone call at eleven-thirty that she had a burglar. A radio car was at her place within five minutes. She was frightened and hysterical. A window in her rear bedroom had been forced, but the culprit had evidently heard her phoning the police and been frightened away. She insisted it was someone trying to kill her, and asked for police protection, but could give no reason for thinking it was anything more than an ordinary burglary attempt.”

“So you refused her police protection,” said Shayne sardonically.

Gentry grunted and lifted one massive shoulder. “They turned in a report, and a cruiser was kept hanging around the neighborhood for the next few nights, but nothing happened.”

Timothy Rourke came out of Shayne’s private office with two paper cups in his hands. He handed one to Shayne, then asked Gentry. “What was the other complaint?”

“Day before yesterday—” The chief paused and moodily regarded the glowing tip of his cigar and warned, “This is confidential, Tim. Not for publication. She seems to have brought in a box of chocolates for analysis. Claims they arrived in the mail with no return address, and she was suspicious of them. She fed one to a neighbor’s dog, and it died a few minutes later.

“They reported the analysis to her yesterday morning,” he added sourly. “It was strychnine. Holbein went out to talk to her, but she flatly refused to give him anything to work on. Insisted that she had no idea who might have sent them, that it was up to us to find out and protect her from further attempts.”

“What did you do about it?” Shayne asked.

“What could we do about it? Holbein is a good man, but when she refused to co-operate, he could do nothing.”

Shayne’s gray eyes glinted, A phrase that had been repeated in Wanda’s letters leaped into his mind: He has tried to murder me twice in the last week. He said, “That was yesterday morning. So she began trying to telephone me in the afternoon after getting no satisfaction from your department.”

“Now, by God!” roared Gentry. “Let me tell you something, Mike. If you’d been in your office where you belong when she called, we might know something about this. Blame yourself for what happened if you’re going to blame anyone.”

“I do,” Shayne said curtly, and for a moment there was silence in the small anteroom. Gentry looked at his watch again, and said irritably, “The postman would be late this morning. It’s nine-sixteen.”

“Has it occurred to you,” Shayne asked blandly, “that someone might make an attempt to prevent Wanda’s letter from reaching me?”

“What sort of attempt?” Gentry demanded. “Who knows she wrote it or what she wrote?”

“It was just a thought. If her murderer knows she mailed me a letter with pertinent information, he might try something. The strychnine in Wanda’s chocolates reminds me of Helen Taylor,” he went on swiftly. “How did she get her dose last night?”

Gentry shook his graying head soberly. “There weren’t any chocolates around, if that’s what you mean.”

“What did the stomach analysis show?”

“Between a quarter and half grain. Probably swallowed very shortly before a heavy dinner which retarded the poison’s action considerably. Around nine o’clock is the doc’s best guess.”

“At least an hour before Wanda was shot,” Shayne muttered. “That would seem to do away with the possibility of murder and suicide on Helen’s part. Have you traced her movements during the evening?”

“We haven’t had much luck. Apparently she was in her room getting ready to go out — according to the Devon girl’s story. We know she had an audition at eight o’clock, and is supposed to have left there about eight-twenty in high spirits. After that, it’s a blank until her roommate returned around midnight and found her too far gone to be saved.”

“What sort of audition, Will?” Timothy Rourke asked.

“For a radio show. The producer called us this morning as soon as he read about her death, and volunteered the information. He says she seemed perfectly well and in good spirits when she left his place, and he had no idea where she went.”

“What’s the producer’s name?” Rourke asked in a worried voice.

“It’s a good Irish name Uh — Flannagan, I think. Pal of yours, Tim?”

“If it’s Ralph Flannagan,” said Rourke, “it just happens that he is.” He compressed his lips and his cavernous eyes sought Shayne’s imploringly, but the redhead was busy sipping cognac from the paper cup and refused to meet his gaze.

“Seemed to tell a straight enough story,” rumbled Gentry abstractedly, looking at his watch again. He stood up and his florid face was grim. “It’s now nine twenty-five, Mike. I checked with a couple of other offices here in the building before coming here. They say the mail is never later than nine-fifteen. How do you account for that?”

“Why should I account for it?”

“Because, by God, I think you’ve planned some hocus-pocus to keep that letter from being delivered while I’m here,” fumed Gentry. “You gave it away when you suggested a while ago that something might happen to the mail. If you’ve pulled a fast one on the United States mail, I’ll make it my job to see that they put you under Fort Leavenworth.”

At that moment the telephone rang, and Lucy Hamilton answered it. Gentry paused, breathing heavily, to listen.

She said, “One moment,” and held the instrument out to Shayne. “It’s for you, Michael. Henry Black.”

“I’ll take it inside,” he told her, stalking toward the door of his private office. He added over his shoulder, “You listen on that phone, Will. I think you may be interested in what Hank has to say.”

Hurrying to his desk, Shayne dropped one hip to the desk, picked up the receiver, and said, “That you, Hank?”

“Right. I thought you’d want to know how your hunch paid off, Mike. Just a block down Flagler. Two hoods waiting in a car to blast the postman. They had him spotted, all right, and if Matty and I hadn’t been right there and heeled, it would have been curtains.”

“What happened?” demanded Shayne, hearing a quick intake of breath from Will Gentry listening on the outer phone.

“The postman got one slug in his shoulder. They’re sending a substitute along with the mail. Nicky Calloni was one of the boys. Matty got him square in the heart. I don’t know his pal, but he’ll live, and the cops are talking to him now.”

Shayne said, “Fine, Hank. Send me a bill.” Then he said harshly to Will Gentry, “Still going to put me in Leavenworth, Will, for interfering with the mail?”