What Really Happened

Chapter four

J. PIERSON GURLEY unfolded his lingers and carefully placed the tips of them together. He said pleasantly, “Get up to date, Shayne. I graduated from the goon period in my life. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

“They’re still goons to me, no matter if you call them vice-presidents,” Shayne told him evenly. “And I don’t like anonymous threats over the telephone.”

“You want a thing done right,” said Gurley with a sigh, “do it yourself.” He opened a drawer and took out a sandalwood box of cigars and offered one to Shayne.

Shayne declined the offer, and got out a pack of cigarettes.

Gurley took a cigar and bit off the end with strong teeth. He asked wearily, “Why come to me about some telephone call?”

“Because I like to do my talking to the top guy.”

“What makes you think I’m the top?”

“Stop batting it around,” said Shayne impatiently. “It was a fool move, trying to warn me off Wanda Weatherby. A legitimate businessman ought to know better.”

“Have you talked to Wanda?” demanded Gurley.

Shayne said, “No.”

“Don’t.” Gurley drew a silver table lighter toward him and put the flame to the cigar. “And if you’re smart you’ll tear up that letter without reading it.”

“Sometimes I guess I’m not very smart.”

“How right you are. I can have you run out of Miami, shamus.”

“I doubt that.”

“Or carried out feet first.”

“I doubt that, too.” Anger blazed in Shayne’s gray eyes. He leaned forward and doubled one hand into a fist. “Do you want to talk about Wanda Weatherby before I read her letter — or afterward?”

Gurley said, “You’re making a big mistake.”

“Nuts to that!” Shayne shoved his chair back and stood up, leaning over the desk with both hands flat on the desk. “You and your cheap trigger boys. Keep them off my tail, Gurley. If any of them mess with me, I’ll hold you accountable.”

Jack-The-Lantern Gurley leaned back comfortably and clasped both hands behind his head. “Sounds to me,” he drawled, “as though you’ve been reading some of your own publicity. Get wise to yourself and don’t let the Weatherby bitch suck you into anything. If I hadn’t thought you knew how to add two and two I’d never bothered tipping you off. If you want money,” he added indifferently, “I’ll pay you five times what she offers.”

“She hasn’t offered me anything yet.”

“There’ll be a grand in her letter tomorrow. Mail it back to her and the next morning there’ll be an envelope with five thousand in it.”

“In payment for what?”

“For not snooping into things that don’t concern you, Look,” the club proprietor continued persuasively, “we’re both businessmen. So we make a deal. I admit it was probably a mistake to have Nick telephone you. But hell! I don’t know you very well. I can see now that you’re a lot like me. I’d get sore, too, and stick my neck out if I was given the office to lay off. So you didn’t scare. Okay. It would have been cheaper if you had, so you can’t blame me for trying.”

“What has she got on you?” Shayne demanded.

“Nothing,” said Gurley promptly. “But I don’t like stinks. Somebody,” he added darkly, “is going to bump that dame off some day, and I don’t want to be involved. That’s all. You know how it is when a man’s name gets mixed up in a murder investigation.”

“Yeh. I know. That’s why I came for your side of it first,” Shayne stated flatly. He paused, holding his breath to see whether Gurley would rise to the bait. If he had ordered the rifle shot that sent a bullet into Wanda’s brain, he must realize that she was already dead. And that was the only way he could possibly know so soon.

But the gambler either didn’t know or was too smart to fall into the trap. He said casually, “I’ve got nothing to tell anybody about Wanda Weatherby. And you can make five grand in one day — and stay healthy on top of that by staying clear of that dame.”

Michael Shayne jerked himself erect and picked up his hat from the desk. He said, “I hear your daughter is being married soon. Congratulations.”

“What does that crack mean?” Gurley stiffened and his voice was abruptly cold with anger.

Shayne shrugged. “Is it a crack to congratulate a girl’s father on hooking a husband like Thomas Marsh the Third; of the Nashville Marshes, isn’t he?”

He knew he had struck pay dirt by the expression on Gurley’s normally impassive features. But all the gambler said was, “Get out, Shayne.”

“Sure. I don’t like stinks, either.” He turned and walked out deliberately, went down the stairs and into the small anteroom.

The doorman said, “I’ll have your car for you at once, Mr. Shayne.” He turned and spoke into the mouthpiece of an intercommunication set.

Shayne brushed past him and went out the door where he strode to the end of the canopy and waited. He knew he had been a fool to lose his temper with Jack-The-Lantern Gurley. That wasn’t the right approach to a man like that. And he hadn’t learned anything except that his hunch as to the source of the mysterious telephone call had been correct.

There was still Timothy Rourke’s friend on Fortieth Street. And a woman named Sheila Martin who had promised to see him at twelve. Between them, he might be able to learn something about Wanda Weatherby and why she had been murdered.