What Really Happened

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 realty 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-distance,” 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.