What Really Happened

Chapter twenty

HAROLD PRENTISS WAS WAITING in the back seat of Shayne’s car when he brought Lucy Hamilton down from her apartment a little after seven-thirty. He introduced his secretary to the television director and explained.

“Prentiss has been giving me lessons on operating the recorder. He’ll go up to your friend’s apartment with you to get things set while I drop in on Flannagan.”

Lucy acknowledged the introduction as she got in the front seat. Shayne went around to the other side, settled himself under the steering-wheel, and no one spoke a word as they rode to their destination.

Shayne parked in front of the Courtland Arms and the three went in, with Harold Prentiss carrying the small recorder in its neat case. In the elevator, the detective punched the second-floor button, then the third. He got out at the first stop, grinned reassuringly at Lucy, and said, “It’ll be okay, angel. Just settle down in Marilyn’s apartment with a drink and let nature take its course. I’ll come up with a full report when it’s all over.”

The door closed and the elevator went up, and Shayne went down the corridor to Flannagan’s door with a lot more outward assurance than he felt, found it ajar, and pushed it open.

Donald Henderson and Sheila Martin were there, seated in chairs at opposite ends of the long room. Timothy Rourke and Ralph Flannagan were standing in the archway and talking together in low voices. They all turned to look at the detective, and Henderson came to his feet as Flannagan hurried to meet him, exclaiming, “Tim won’t tell me anything about this, Mr. Shayne, What has been happening, and what—”

“We’re still short two guests,” Shayne cut in. He consulted his watch and added, “They should be here any minute.” He brushed past Flannagan to nod at Sheila, then turned to Henderson and said pleasantly, “Very good of you to come. I think you’ve met Mrs. Martin.”

“Certainly. Mr. Rourke — ah — introduced us a moment ago. No one seems to know the purpose of this gathering,” he added with a noticeable lack of his usual oratorical intonation.

“Sit down and take it easy, Henderson,” Shayne told him, and turning to Sheila he added casually, “Thanks for the money you left with my secretary this afternoon — but I understood you were short sixty dollars of the full amount. I’ll expect the balance tomorrow.”

Sheila Martin bit her underlip and lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

Shayne wheeled away from her as Will Gentry escorted J. Pierson Gurley into the room. Gurley was immaculate in loose tweeds, his square face impassive as he stopped inside the door and surveyed each occupant of the room. He nodded curtly to Rourke, but gave no indication of recognizing any of the others.

Standing stolidly at The Lantern’s side, Will Gentry said, “Hello, Henderson,” studied Sheila’s face briefly, then glanced inquiringly from Flannagan to Shayne.

Shayne put his hand on Gentry’s shoulder and said, “I’m sure all of you are acquainted with our police chief, Will Gentry. Beside him is Jack Gurley who is under arrest on suspicion of having murdered Wanda Weatherby last night. And this is Ralph Flannagan, Will, who phoned you this morning about having seen Helen Taylor last night.”

Gentry grunted an acknowledgment of the introduction to Flannagan, and Shayne resumed.

“I asked all of you to come here tonight because each of you has known Wanda Weatherby in the past and may be able to help us find out who fired the bullet through her window last night and murdered her. You and Gurley sit down,” he urged Gentry, and as they crossed to seat themselves he glanced at his watch and went on swiftly.

“I picked Flannagan’s place to meet because when I was here last night I noticed that he had a highly selective radio, and there’s a program coming over the air from Nashville, Tennessee at eight o’clock that should clear up several things. You can get Nashville, can’t you?” he asked Flannagan.

“Why — I presume so, Mr. Shayne,” his host said, “I’ve never tried, but I pick up San Francisco and Denver without any trouble. If I knew the station and number on the dial—”

“I have a Nashville paper that lists it.” Shayne took the radio program he had clipped from the paper and said, “The station is WMAK, thirteen hundred kilocycles. See if you can get it now. It’s about three minutes of eight, and I don’t want to miss any of it. There’s a Bing Crosby program preceding it, so you’ll know when you tune in the right station.”

Flannagan said, “I’ll do my best,” his face a mask of confusion, and went to the radio.

Gurley came to his feet and moved aggressively toward the detective, demanding, “What’s this about Nashville?” His voice was hoarse with worry and anger. “What’s a radio program got to do with anything?”

“Maybe a lot of things,” Shayne told him evenly. “Sit down and listen and you’ll find out. Are your wife and daughter still visiting her fiancé in Nashville?” he added pleasantly.

Gurley doubled both fists and his square jaw jutted belligerently. “You keep my wife and daughter out of this. They’ve got nothing, by God, to do with—”

Chief Gentry was out of his chair and standing in front of Gurley. He gave The Lantern a shove, and growled, “Sit down and shut up.”

There was a buzz of static from the radio and the unintelligible words and bits of music as Flannagan turned the dial to center it on the right station. Then he stopped when Crosby’s crooning voice filled the room with “A White Christmas.”

“That must be it,” he said. “It’s right on the setting you gave me.”

“Thanks. We should get a station identification in about sixty seconds.”

Harold Prentiss, who had entered the room quietly on sandaled feet, touched Shayne’s arm. The redhead wheeled about and said, “You got here just in time. Meet our host, Ralph Flannagan. Harold Prentiss. You two have a lot in common, including the fact that you were the last people who are known to have seen Helen Taylor shortly before she died last night.”

The two men nodded briefly and guardedly, and Flannagan turned back to the radio and tuned the volume higher as the crooner’s song ended and an announcer came on with a commercial.

Shayne stepped back to the archway and leaned negligently against the frame where he had an unobstructed view of each person in the room. They were all sitting or standing, tense and listening, with various degrees of puzzlement and worry and curiosity depicted on their faces.

The commercial ended and a voice said, “This is your friendly voice for Mutual in Nashville, WMAK, with studios in the historic Maxwell House. Stay tuned to thirteen hundred on your dial for the tops in local and network shows.”

Then there was a clash of cymbals and another voice declaimed dramatically, “What… really… happened? How often have you asked yourself that question after reading a news account of some dramatic occurrence in your daily paper? How often have you put the paper aside and said to yourself, ‘That’s all very well so far as it goes — but I wonder what really happened?’

“Tonight we bring you another story behind the news. What… really… happened brings you each week a person who made the morning headlines — to tell you in his or her own words what really did happen.

“On our nationwide premiere last week you will recall that we brought to our microphone a man who had been acquitted of murder less than twenty-four hours previously by a jury of his peers. Sitting comfortably in your homes, you heard him relate for the first time: What… really… happened. You heard the startling confession of guilt from the lips of a man whom the law had adjudged innocent — a man who is protected by our laws from being prosecuted again for his crime; yet he confessed his guilt openly and without remorse to a million listeners.

“Tonight, we bring you a no less startling revelation. The story of what… really… happened in Miami, Florida last night. Standing beside me in this studio is the one woman in the world who knows the true story — and who, in a moment, is going to tell you what… really… happened.

“Did you read it? Was it headlined in your newspaper? It happened in Miami, Florida. Wanda Weatherby was shot to death last night under mysterious and baffling circumstances. The police were without clues, you read, lacking any semblance of a motive for the cold-blooded crime, and with ho suspects.

“You were told only that Wanda Weatherby died in her living-room with a rifle bullet in her head that had been fired by an unknown assassin lurking in the darkness of the night outside her open window. How many of you read the story and wondered: What… really… happened?

“Tonight you will hear exactly that — the true story behind this morning’s headline — the most startling and dramatic revelation that has yet been made on the air.

“This is not a transcription. No portion of this program is recorded. The voice you are about to hear is that of a real person who is now waiting at the microphone to speak.

“Tonight: What… really… happened, brings you not the perpetrator of a murder confessing his crime, not a fugitive from justice, but a fugitive from death. Tonight we bring you Wanda Weatherby herself to tell you in her own words what really happened in Miami last night. After a few words on behalf of our sponsor, Camel cigarettes, you will hear Wanda Weatherby’s own voice.”

“No! My God, no!” Ralph Flannagan jerked the words out wildly, staring at the radio with bulging eyes, his features twisted in a mask of desperation and fear and insanity.

“It was Wanda,” he raved in a strangled declaration. “I saw her through the window. I know it was Wanda!” He whirled around, white-faced and trembling, froth forming on his lips. “Shut it off!” he screamed hysterically. “It’s not Wanda! It couldn’t be! There’s — some — mistake—” He collapsed slowly to the floor, gibbering incoherently and sobbing, while a deep-toned voice extolled the virtues of Camel cigarettes over his radio.