What Really Happened

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.”

Shayne pinched the child’s tanned cheek gently and said, “’By, now,” stood up and said to the woman, “I’ll meet her outside so as not to disturb her husband,” He nodded to her, put on his hat, and went down the walk to wait for Sheila.

She was bareheaded and wore a peasant blouse and full skirt and tan sandals on bare feet. She carried a grocery bag and her pace slowed when she saw him waiting. She stopped close to him and said anxiously, “What is it, Mr. Shayne? Has anything happened?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he told her lightly. “Thus far, no one else has seen Wanda Weatherby’s letter accusing you. And insofar as I know, the police are not aware of your existence.”

“Thank God!” she breathed. “Do you know who did it?”

Shayne shook his head and suggested, “Let’s sit in my car for a minute. Your neighbor said your husband is asleep, and there’s no need to drag him into this. And don’t worry about what your neighbor will think,” he added as Sheila hesitated and glanced at the woman, “I told her I was a credit investigator on a routine job. She’ll expect me to ask you a few questions.”

Sheila looked relieved, and went with him, got in the front seat of his car, and said, “Jane is a grand neighbor, but she does have an awful streak of curiosity.”

Shayne closed the car door on her side and went around to seat himself on the other side.

Sheila asked desperately, “Do you think you can prevent the police from finding out — and coming here to question Henry and me?”

“If your alibi is okay, I’ll do my best. A lot depends on your friend, Betty Hornsby. I have to establish exactly where you were between ten and ten-thirty last night.”

“Oh, Betty’ll give you my alibi, all right. I called her this morning and told her you might be around. She lives just three blocks from here — on Eighty-Fourth.” She gave him the number, and added, “She’ll remember all the places we went last night.”

“I hope it works out,” said Shayne absently.

“It will,” she told him, catching his hand and squeezing it tightly. “But tell me what happened after you left me last night. You were in a hurry to get to a dying woman to find out something about Wanda. Was it important?”

Shayne drew his hand away from hers and said, “I don’t know. She was dead before I got there. Do you know a couple of radio actresses named Mary Devon and Helen Taylor?”

Sheila thought for a moment, and said, “No.”

“Do you know a radio producer named Ralph Flannagan?”

“N-No. I don’t think so.”

“How well do you know Henderson?” he asked abruptly.

“Henderson?” She hesitated, sucking in her underlip. and her eyes were round and questioning.

“Donald J. Henderson. One of the local big shots.”

“Oh.” Her expression cleared. “I thought I recognized the name. I’ve seen it in the newspapers.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Okay, Sheila. I’ll talk with Betty Hornsby. If your alibi stands up, I’ll do my best to keep you out of the mess.”

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly. “I’ll do anything, if you can.”

Shayne looked at her speculatively and she met his gaze without flinching. A pulse throbbed in her smooth throat from some inner tension.

He nodded and said gruffly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He reached a long arm past her, unlatched the door, settled himself behind the wheel, and started the motor. Sheila Martin got out, hugging her grocery bag in her arm.

Shayne drove the three blocks with a frown of concentration on his face. He stopped in front of a small, homey cottage where purple bougainvillea and flame vine intertwined on either side of the door and ran rampant over the roof. The lawn was freshly cut and the property line was gay with blooming hibiscus.

The outward appearance left Shayne totally unprepared for Betty Hornsby when she opened the door to his ring.

Instead of the neat housewife he had pictured, with a couple of tots clinging to her skirts, he looked down upon a frowsy, fattish blonde with loose lips lavishly rouged. Her hair was rolled in metal curlers, and she wore a wraparound kimono of flowered silk that accentuated her uncorseted figure.

She said, “Come right in,” with a simpering smile. “Everything’s in an awful mess, but I haven’t had time to clean up after the party last night. You know how those things are.”

Shayne sternly reminded himself of the job he had to do, and went into the hot dimness of a shade-drawn and cluttered living-room. The stench of overflowing ash trays and the dregs of last night’s drinks filled the air. He took off his hat and dropped it in a chair, and politely declined Betty Hornsby’s effusive offers of a drink.

He said, “Please sit down. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course,” she said. “I know who you are now. You’re Michael Shayne, the famous detective. Sheila said you were just terribly good-looking, with red hair and all.” She sat down on a small sofa directly across from him and crossed her plump legs carelessly, letting the kimono fall away on both sides. “And she told me not to dare make a pass at you. As if I would,” she added with a silly giggle, “looking like this.” She touched the curlers with her finger tips. “But if you have a teeny bit of time, it’ll just take me a jiffy to fix you a little drink.”

Shayne tried to look genuinely sorry when he said, “I’m in a hurry right now. Maybe another time, now that I know the way. Right now I want to know about you and Sheila — what you did last night.”

“It was terribly exciting,” she told him. “Sheila was in a dither, but she wouldn’t tell me anything about it except that she just had to raise a lot of cash before midnight. I had some people invited in for later, but Henry had their car, so I took mine and just left the front door open and the lights on and the liquor set out so they could help themselves. Then I drove Sheila around to everybody I knew well enough to ask for a loan. She finally told me this morning that she needed the money to pay you for a retainer, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”

She paused, caught her breath, and leaned toward Shayne, her pale-blue eyes greedy, her lids puffed. “It isn’t her and Henry, is it?” she asked. “They’re not busting up?”

Shayne said gravely, “It’s a confidential matter, Mrs. Hornsby. What time did Sheila get here last night?”

She sank back and said, “She told me you’d want to know that. She came over at ten o’clock. I know for certain because I was waiting for the Helter-Skelter Boys to come on. Do you ever listen to them, Mr. Shayne? They’re just a riot some nights. They come on at ten o’clock and the announcer was just introducing them when Sheila came in. So, I went right out to help her raise the money, because she’s awfully sweet and I’d do anything for her.”

“Where did you go first?” Shayne queried.

“To Mamie Eldon’s. That’s over near the Boulevard and Ninetieth. John, that’s her husband, was asleep, but Mamie went through his pants and found forty-two dollars and gave it to Sheila. Then we stopped at the Crocus Bar on the Boulevard, and I borrowed ten from the bartender who is a real good sport.

“The Helter-Skelter Boys were just going off when we left the bar. They really should have more than a half-hour program. They are a scream, really, Mr. Shayne. There’s this fat one—”

“I really must be going, Mrs. Hornsby,” Shayne said firmly, and stood up.

“Miss Hornsby,” she corrected him with a simpering smile. She got up and followed him to the door. “I was going to tell you all the other places we went, and—”

“I’ll be back,” Shayne promised, “if I need any more information.”

“You do that anyway, and let me know next time and I’ll have some cognac. Sheila told me what you like to drink.”

“I’ll do that.” He stepped outside and breathed deeply of the fresh, sun-laden air.

He went down the walk without looking back, conscious that Betty Hornsby was standing in the doorway simpering after him, and wondering angrily how a woman like Sheila Martin could claim a floozie like Betty as her best friend.

He shrugged away his irritation, reminding himself that Sheila’s friends were no concern of his, and drove back to the Little River business section where he stopped at the first sign indicating a pay telephone.

He went in and dialed the number of the television actress Rourke had given him.

A pleasantly husky voice came over the wire in answer to his inquiry

“This is Muriel Davidson. Who’s calling?”

“Michael Shayne, Miss Davidson. Tim Rourke gave me your number this morning. I’d like to see you.”

“Michael Shayne!” She sounded breathless and a little disbelieving. “The detective?”

“Yes. Tim told me about your telephone call to him, and I’d like to discuss it with you.’

“I see. Certainly.” She turned off her excitement and her tone took on a businesslike quality when she said, “When would be convenient for you, Mr. Shayne?”

“Right now.”

“I’m on my way to breakfast. Then I have to go on to the studio.”

“Have breakfast with me,” suggested Shayne.

“That would be wonderful. I’m near the Boulevard and Twelfth. You name the place.”

Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “Meet me at Cramer’s. Do you know the place?”

“Oh, yes.”

“In fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

Her voice had a hopeful lilt as she said good-by, and Shayne scowled when he hung up, realizing that she would keep the appointment, expecting to be offered a part in a radio show that existed only in someone’s mind. He hated himself for not disillusioning her over the phone, but that would have required a lot of explanations that were better left until he could make them in person.