What Really Happened

Chapter sixteen

SHAYNE TOOK A VACANT BOOTH at the front of the bar after checking to make sure Muriel Davidson wasn’t waiting. He ordered a double sidecar from the waiter, asking him to go easy on the Cointreau and heavy on the cognac, and telling him to set a place opposite him for an expected breakfast guest.

Muriel and the cocktail arrived at the same time. She was young and slender and astonishingly beautiful, with a well-boned face, lustrous dark eyes, and an outward air of demure composure which could not conceal the excitement seething within her.

Shayne half rose and smiled as she hesitated on the threshold. She saw him immediately and came to the booth, asking in a nicely modulated voice, “Are you Mr. Shayne?”

“I am. Miss Davidson?” She said she was Muriel Davidson, and when she was seated across from him, Shayne settled back with his sidecar.

She ordered orange juice, black coffee, and dry toast, explaining with a wry smile, “TV is lots harder on a girl’s diet than radio.”

“I’ve heard that TV is tougher on performers than radio in a lot of ways. How long have you been working in it?”

“Oh, I’ve just started recently. Is your new show going to be on TV or just radio, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne hesitated a moment. He liked the girl’s clear eyes and the youthful honesty of her manner. He made up his mind swiftly and said, “That’s what I want to talk about, Muriel. Frankly, the first time I heard of such a plan was when Tim Rourke mentioned your phone call this morning.”

She blinked in astonishment. “You mean they haven’t made arrangements with you yet?”

“I don’t even know who they are,” he explained.

“But that’s impossible. They’d certainly have to have your consent, wouldn’t they?”

“I should think so.”

“I don’t understand at all.” Muriel hesitated, and it was evident that she was bewildered and terribly disappointed. “I was told it was all settled, and that they were casting the show and getting ready for rehearsals.”

“Who told you that?”

She said, “I’m sorry, but I gave my word of honor not to tell, but the information should have been authentic. I understood that the girl who was chosen to play the lead would be unable to do it, and that there was a definite opening for someone. That’s why I phoned Tim so early this morning. Things move fast in this business, and I thought if I could arrange to meet you and you liked me for the part—” Her voice faltered self-consciously, but she managed a smile. “It seemed such a good idea for a program. It is a perfectly wonderful idea,” she went on strongly. “With your reputation and all the publicity you’ve had. It’s a natural, Mr. Shayne. It couldn’t possibly miss. Perhaps the producer who dreamed it up is holding back from contacting you until he gets an audition script ready and a show in rehearsal. That would explain why it’s all so hush-hush. It’s an idea that could be stolen by anyone. And it really is terrific. Any of the networks would grab it. A real detective in real-life cases,” she ended, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement,

Shayne smiled at her enthusiasm. “Maybe. Suppose I promise you this, Muriel. If such a program does materialize in the future, I’ll do my best to see that you are engaged for the job. In exchange for that promise, you tell me who told you about it.”

The eagerness faded from her young face, and she shook her head despondently. “I can’t do that, Mr. Shayne. I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why did your informant exact such a promise?”

A frown creased her forehead and smoothed away. She said, “I don’t know exactly. I imagine he was violating a confidence to give me the tip. You don’t know how jealous and secretive everything is in radio and television.”

“Was it Ralph Flannagan?”

“Oh, no.” Her answer came forthrightly and without hesitation, “I know Ralph, of course, but just casually. Do you think he plans to produce it?”

Shayne shrugged. “He just happens to be the only person I know in Miami who is actively engaged in radio.” He paused while the waiter set Muriel’s frugal breakfast before her, then asked, “Does the name Wanda Weatherby mean anything at all to you?”

“That’s — the woman who was shot last night.”

Shayne nodded. “Have you ever met her — heard her name mentioned before in any connection?”

“No. I’m quite sure I haven’t. It isn’t a name one would easily forget. Why, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne emptied his cocktail glass before replying. “I’m going to be absolutely frank with you, and this is confidential. I don’t know how this hooks up, but it’s definitely possible that the story you heard about me going on radio has something to do with Wanda Weatherby’s death. Every move I make in my investigation brings me into some sort of contact with radio and television. That’s why I’m going to ask you to break your promise and give me the name of the person who tipped you off about my program.”

Again she frowned, and her eyes were puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I don’t understand myself,” he said irritably. “It’s a possible lead. That’s all. And I have damned few of them thus far. Did you know Helen Taylor?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. Quite well. I was terribly sorry to read about her sudden death in the paper this morning. I saw her only a few days ago, and she seemed perfectly healthy.”

“The morning paper didn’t carry the full story,” he told her gravely. “Helen Taylor was poisoned.”

“You mean — murdered?”

Shayne nodded. “This is also confidential. I have reason to believe she was murdered by the same person who shot Wanda Weatherby. The person whom you may be protecting by keeping your promise.”

“Oh — no!” Her reaction was instantaneous and positive. “He couldn’t have — No, Mr. Shayne. It just isn’t possible.”

“I’m not saying your friend is a murderer,” said Shayne. “On the other hand, would you protect him if he were? If he had killed Wanda Weatherby and your friend, Helen Taylor?”

“No. Certainly not. But nothing would ever make me believe that about him.”

“If he can inspire such loyalty in a nice person like you,” Shayne said persuasively, “he must be all right. But I need to know where he heard the rumor he passed on to you. That’s all. It may be very important.”

“But, Mr. Shayne, I’m positive he had no idea of anything like that when he phoned me,” she said earnestly.

“Of course not. If he realized it might be important information in a murder investigation, don’t you think he would want to tell me?”

“I suppose so.” She sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Yes. I’m sure he would. It was Harold Prentiss who phoned me. He’s assistant director on the show we’re shooting now. He’ll be at the studio if you’d like to go with me and talk to him right now.”

“I’d like that very much.” He looked at the check while she finished her coffee and the last crust of dry toast, laid two bills and some change on it, and got up with her, suggesting, “My car is outside.”

“It’s quite far out on West Flagler,” she told him. “They have temporary offices there in an old building, and have fixed up a small studio for shooting interiors.”

They went out together, and Shayne swung into the flow of traffic on Biscayne Boulevard southward.

The improvised television studio proved to be an old three-story wooden mansion near Coral Gables. Shayne parked in the spacious front yard beside a dozen other cars and went with Muriel Davidson up the rickety front steps and into a hallway which opened onto what had once been the ballroom. Now, it was a huge, bare space with electric cables overhead and underfoot, spotlights suspended from the ceiling and mounted on heavy metal stands. There were four large cameras on rollers, and standing at one side of the room there were two flats at right angles to each other, simulating the corner of a room, with a sofa and two overstuffed chairs intimately and cozily arranged. Two girls and a man lolled on the sofa and in the chairs which were surrounded by brilliant spot lights and cameras. A dozen or so men moved about them, gesticulating and arguing in what seemed to Shayne a babel of confusion.

Muriel said, “I’m afraid I’m late, and I’m not even made up, so please excuse me, I have to hurry. You’ll find Harold in his office on the second floor — up those stairs and the first door to the right. And do explain to Harold why I sent you to him.” She hurried away and disappeared through a doorway on the left.

Shayne climbed the winding old stairway and knocked on the door with a typed sign that read; Prentiss. Private.

A voice said, “Come,” and Shayne entered what had obviously been a master bedroom, but now converted into the most untidy office he had ever seen. A state of confusion, it began to appear, was the natural habitat of television workers. Three desks were stacked with a litter of papers and scripts, there were two typewriter stands without typists, three filing cases with most of the drawers partially open, wadded sheets of discarded paper ankle-deep on the floor, and in the midst of it stood a bony and harassed-appearing young man talking excitedly over the phone.

He wore faded-blue dungarees, was barefooted, and his toenails were purple with polish. The blouse that hung outside his trousers was a violent pink with green elephants and giraffes chasing each other across his chest. He was prematurely bald, had a very high forehead, and obtrusively large ears. His eyes were deep-set and brown and melancholy, and his jaw was long and bony.

He fixed his eyes on Shayne with complete disinterest and continued to talk excitedly over the phone.

“I don’t give a green gumdrop what you think about it, darling. I’m telling you that scene stunk up the place and we had to call in fumigators. And it’s out.” He waved a thin hand in the air while he listened for a moment, then said, “And nuts to you, sweetheart.” He hung up, and in the same breath asked, “Who are you?”

“Mike Shayne. Are you Prentiss?”

“Certainly I’m Prentiss.” Obviously, Shayne’s name meant nothing to him. He turned and shuffled on bare feet through a litter of wadded paper and sat down at one of the desks with his back toward the detective. He rested his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

Shayne took a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, and the scratching of a match sounded loud in the quiet room. The assistant director continued to sit with his back turned, his face buried in his thin palms, and did not move or speak.

Shayne shuffled forward in the litter and eased one hip onto a corner of a desk a couple of feet from Prentiss, and said, “The name is Michael Shayne. I want—”

“Shut up, for the love of God!” Prentiss jerked his head up and stared at the redhead. “Can’t you see I’m concentrating? What was that — Michael Shayne, did you say? That’s a detective, isn’t it? Like Nero Wolfe?”

“Only different,” Shayne agreed. He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, “Where did you hear I was starting a radio program?”

“That’s it!” He snapped his bony fingers, then pressed a palm hard against his elongated forehead. “You’re real, aren’t you? Sure. Mike Shayne! Hard-fisted, cognac-drinking private eye here in Miami. Why shouldn’t you have a radio program if you want it? God knows one more on the air won’t make any difference,”

“Where did you hear about it?” Shayne repeated patiently.

Harold Prentiss stared at him for a moment, then leaned back and lifted one bare foot to rest it on the edge of the desk. He wriggled his purple-tipped toes and said in disgust, “Isn’t that a hell of a shade? I ordered magenta, damn it.”

Shayne leaned forward and slapped him. The force of his open palm slewed Prentiss sideways and his foot slid from the desk. He recovered his balance, stood up, and said seriously, “Why did you do that?”

“Cut the posing,” Shayne growled, “and answer my question.”

“What did you ask me?” He seemed honestly puzzled.

“Where you got your information about a Michael Shayne radio program?”

“Oh — that.” Prentiss waved both hands vaguely. “Some one must have told me.” He cocked his head on one side and narrowed his sad brown eyes. “You’ll play yourself, of course. It’s a terrific idea. Stupendous. On TV you’ll slay them.”

Shayne grated, “Sit down and shut up.”

Prentiss sat down and shut up.

“You can answer my question,” Shayne told him, “or you can tell the police.”

“I don’t — think — I — understand,” the assistant director said, frowning.

“I’m investigating a murder. Two murders. And it may be pertinent.”

“Why come to me?” Prentiss dropped his exaggerated façade of preoccupation and became composed and businesslike.

“Because you telephoned an actress named Muriel Davidson this morning and advised her to apply for a part in such a show. I want to know where the rumor started.”

“Who knows where any rumor starts? You can’t keep a thing like that a secret. Not in this business.”

“There has to be some foundation, and there isn’t any to this.”

“There isn’t?” Prentiss frowned thoughtfully.

“None whatever. So, someone started it. Who?”

“God, I don’t know where I did hear it. One of those things you pick up—”

“That’s a lie,” Shayne interrupted in a mild voice. “You wouldn’t have been so insistent that Muriel promise not to reveal her source of information if it was just something you had picked out of the air. I want to know where you got it.”

“I see.” Prentiss sighed and compressed his thin lips. He drummed his finger tips on the desk, and asked with downcast eyes, “You say it may be important in a murder investigation?”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid of that,” he acknowledged. He sighed again, and said bitterly, “I was a fool to tell Muriel. But I’ve been trying to make her for three weeks without getting to first base, and I thought she might be properly grateful for the tip. The crazy things a man will do when his chromosomes get impatient.”

Shayne said, “I’m waiting.”

“It was a girl named Helen Taylor. When I heard on the radio this morning that she had died last night and the police wanted to know where she had been between eight-thirty and midnight, I knew I’d be a fool to involve myself. So I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut.”

“Keep it open now,” Shayne advised him.

“Yeh.” Harold Prentiss lifted his thin shoulders in a gesture of futility. “I took Helen to dinner. That’s all. I took her home afterward and kissed her good night in a brotherly fashion in that horrible lobby of her hotel because she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want me to come up. That’s absodamnlutely all.”

“Where did you have dinner?”

“At the Palm Villa. She met me there a little after eight-thirty, and I sent her upstairs to bed about ten o’clock.”

“But she felt ill after dinner?”

Prentiss nodded emphatically. “She’d had a drink or two before I met her and was a little high. Then she got a tummyache. She thought it was the liquor on an empty stomach and then the heavy meal. Maybe it was.”

“Do you know where she had her drinks?”

“No. I didn’t ask. She was celebrating, you see, because she had just landed a new job.”

“What sort of job?” Shayne demanded.

“In a radio show. She wouldn’t tell me anything about it. Said it was a big secret, so I didn’t press her. Then, while we were eating dinner she began asking me if I’d ever heard of Michael Shayne. I said I had, and what about you? Then she got confused and tried to cover up, pretending it was just idle curiosity, but when I kept after her she asked me what I thought about a radio program featuring you in person and your exploits.

“So, I said it sounded wonderful and that she’d be damned lucky if she could land the lead in a show like that. She denied that was what she had been talking about, but I thought I could read between the lines and was pretty sure it was, and she had been told not to talk about it. When I heard she was dead this morning, I thought what the hell, it was a chance for Muriel to get an inside track, and I called her.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Shayne. “First, Helen told you she was celebrating because she had landed a new job and refused to tell you what it was. Later, she began talking about me, and when you pressed her to give a reason for her interest, she finally admitted she had heard someone was going to do a program featuring me. Is that the sequence?”

“Yes. As nearly as I recall.”

Shayne cleared a few facts in his own mind during the brief, ensuing silence. Helen Taylor had just come from Flannagan who admitted he had received Wanda’s letter at seven. True, the radio director denied having discussed the letter with anyone, but there was always the possibility that he might have left it lying around where a curious visitor might pick it up.

“Then it’s possible,” he said slowly, “that Helen Taylor might have been interested in me and asked questions about me for some entirely different reason? Something she didn’t want to tell you, when you pressed her for a reason, it’s possible that she just made up the stony about a radio show on the spur of the moment to explain her interest in me.”

“It’s possible, I guess,” said Prentiss dubiously. “It’s the sort of explanation that might spring into her mind, and one she knew I’d accept.”

“She didn’t actually tell you, then, that her new job was playing the lead in a mystery program?”

“N-No. I put two and two together and came up with that. Are you serious about saying there’s nothing to this radio-program idea?”

“Absolutely.”

“But that’s fantastic, you know. It’s a terrific idea,” said Prentiss excitedly, waving his bony hands in the air. “It’s a natural for television. My God! You’d be colossal playing yourself. Michael Shayne in person. You’ve got the looks and the voice for it. It’s worth millions. Come here, man!” He leaped to his bare feet and trotted to another desk where he pushed papers aside to disclose a tape recording machine.

While Shayne watched in amusement, he turned dials and started wheels turning, then picked up a small microphone and thrust it toward the detective. “Say something — anything. I’ll play it back and show you how good you are. I’ll produce the shows on film. It’ll be the biggest thing in television.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Come back to earth. I’m a detective, not an actor. You’ll have to go to the police and make a complete statement about meeting Helen Taylor last night.”

“That’s it!” Prentiss exulted. “That’s exactly it. You’ve got marvelous timbre and resonance.” He touched a control on the recorder and the tape whirled rapidly back ward.

Before Shayne could protest further, Prentiss turned another knob and the tape rolled forward and the detective’s voice came from the machine with startling clarity.

“… back to earth. I’m a detective, not an actor. You’ll have to go to the police and make a complete statement about meeting Helen Taylor last night.”

“See how well you come over,” the assistant director exclaimed. “We’re in, I tell you.”

Shayne stepped forward and looked down at the machine. “So that’s how they work. I always thought you had to process the tape — or something. Had to have another machine to play it back on.”

“No. That’s all there is to it. I’ll tell you what. I’ll work up a short script right away and we’ll make a real audition for you,”

Shayne shook his head and said grimly, “Right now, you’re going down to police headquarters with me and talk to Will Gentry. Do I take you barefooted, or have you got some shoes around?”