What Really Happened

Chapter six

BOTH MEN SAT VERY STILL and stared at Shayne for a long moment. Then Ralph Flannagan said in a hoarse whisper, “Disposed of her? Do you mean—”

“With a rifle bullet through her head,” Shayne stated in a flat voice. “She called me at ten o’clock — and was dead when I arrived at her house on Seventy-Fifth Street.”

The radio producer shuddered and buried his face in his hands and moaned, “Wanda.”

Rourke dragged his thin body up and leaned toward Shayne, his cavernous, slate-gray eyes feverish with interest. “Then she had picked the wrong guy to be afraid of. Any other dope, Mike?”

“Nothing. She probably didn’t see her killer. He stood outside and fired through the wire screen.”

“To prevent her from talking to you?”

“It’s a fair inference,” Shayne told him with a shrug “It’s even possible he was standing close enough to the open window to have overheard her call. If he knew about this letter she had written me accusing Flannagan, it would have seemed a perfect time to bump her and hope that you would be the fall guy, Flannagan.”

“Which I might have been so easily,” the producer muttered, lifting his head and shaking it distraughtly. “If I didn’t have an alibi. If Tim hadn’t happened to be here at the right time.”

“Who else did you tell about the letter?” Shayne demanded.

“Why — no one,” he protested in a shocked voice. “My God! It isn’t the sort of thing a man would discuss.”

“You said some people came in for auditions,” Shayne pressed him. “Are you sure you didn’t mention it?”

“Positive,” said Flannagan.

“How many people knew about your affair with Wanda? And that you were paying her blackmail?”

Flannagan’s face suffused with anger and his heavy jaw jutted. “It wasn’t blackmail at all. I won’t let you think that about Wanda. It was I who insisted on paying her the money.”

“Nevertheless,” Shayne pointed out grimly, “it’s a hell of a good motive for murder — on the surface. Here you are, engaged to a wealthy girl, with your livelihood at stake if your affair with Wanda comes out. What I’m trying to point out is that anyone who knew the truth about you, and who had some personal reason for wanting Wanda out of the way would know you’d be the prime suspect if anything happened to her. Look at her letter,” he went on. “No matter how you felt about the affair, Wanda herself suspected you of planning to kill her. She accuses you of having made two previous attempts. How many people knew the truth?”

“No one. I swear I never told anyone. Good heavens! If a word of it had leaked out—” He broke off, shuddering at the thought.

“Do you know a man named Gurley?” Shayne asked abruptly.

Flannagan frowned, then said, “I don’t — think so.”

“Jack Pierson Gurley,” Shayne amplified, “sometimes known as Jack-The-Lantern.”

“Oh, that one? I’ve heard about him and his swanky gambling-club, but I’ve never met him personally.”

“Ever hear Wanda mention his name?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve explained that we weren’t actually intimate. That is, I honestly don’t know much about her personal life. We only met briefly those few times.”

“Think back on those few times and concentrate,” growled Shayne. “Can you remember anything at all to indicate a connection between her and Jack Gurley — or the Sportsman’s Club?”

The producer shook his head helplessly. “Not a thing, I’m afraid.”

“What’s this about Gurley?” Rourke asked eagerly.

“I don’t know. There’s some connection, all right.” Shayne hesitated, thinking back over his talk with the gambler.

Gurley was one person who knew about the letter Wanda had written accusing Flannagan of planning her death. He had known about the letter even before her death, as evidenced by the first telephone call by one of his goons earlier in the evening. But why the devil should Gurley be so anxious to have the letter destroyed unread? What was his interest in Ralph Flannagan? If Gurley had ordered her death because she had pointed the finger at Flannagan, he certainly wouldn’t want the letter destroyed.

Unless, of course, he had some personal reason for wanting to protect Flannagan from suspicion.

Shayne’s brow was furrowed when he said harshly, “Don’t lie to me, Flannagan. What about Gurley’s daughter, Janet? How well do you know her?”

“I don’t know Gurley and I didn’t know he had a daughter,” the radio producer told him. “So far as I can recall right now, I don’t know any girl named Janet.”

“What about a woman named Sheila Martin?”

Again Ralph Flannagan shook his head helplessly. “That doesn’t click, either. I’ve told you I didn’t really know Wanda. I was never in her home. I’ve never met any of her friends or talked about her personal affairs.”

“What about the party where you met her? Didn’t anyone there know her?”

“Why — I suppose someone must have invited her. But I don’t really know. I’ve explained the sort of party it was. She might have come with someone else who had been invited. You know how those parties are. I didn’t see her talking to anyone. She was sitting alone when I noticed her, and we left together shortly afterward.”

Shayne sighed and said, “All right. So we get back to the situation between the two of you and the fact that she suspected you of having tried to kill her twice and of planning another attempt. Who could have known you were responsible for her condition — and thus a logical suspect if she were killed?”

“I swear I have not told anyone. Do you mean you think perhaps Wanda didn’t actually write that letter to me?” His face lit up hopefully. “That must be it. I just can’t believe Wanda felt that way about me. But who could have found out the truth?”

“Wanda knew,” Shayne reminded him. “She might have told others. And there is the detective who took the picture of you and sold it back to her. There’s no way of knowing whether a louse like that actually did sell it back to her or not,” he went on disgustedly. “Having shaken her down for a grand, what was to prevent his going ahead and turning over a duplicate set to her husband to collect his fee?”

“Oh, no. I’m certain he didn’t do that. Wanda told me he gave her the original Photostat and the negative — and that she destroyed them immediately,”

“Photostats can be copied,” Shayne reminded him wearily. “And a duplicate negative can easily be made from a print. The police will probably check pretty closely on her husband.”

“What! You mean they’ll have to — know all about this?” Flannagan faltered. “It will ruin me, Shayne! Can’t you keep the information confidential? Work on the case yourself? If I’m your client, you don’t have to tell them, do you? Isn’t there something in the law about a private detective having the same right to refuse to divulge confidential information from a client as a lawyer?” The radio producer grew more excited as he spoke, leaning tensely toward the detective.

“There is that,” Shayne agreed. “But as soon as I receive the original of this letter in the morning’s mail with Wanda Weatherby’s retainer, she will legally become my client.”

“Can’t we both be?” pleaded Flannagan. “I’ll employ you on the same terms to do the same job. I want her murderer found, too.”

“The way her letter reads,” the detective reminded him gruffly, “the thousand dollars is being paid me to convict you of her murder.”

There was a brief, heavy silence, then Timothy Rourke said, “You know you can’t prove Ralph murdered her, Mike, because I can prove he didn’t. It seems to me you’re ethically bound to turn her retainer down. Hell, Mike. Give the guy a break. You can do more with information like this in solving the case than the police can,” he continued persuasively. “Why drag Ralph through the mud when you know he’s innocent?”

“I’m not eager to drag anybody through the mud,” said Shayne angrily. “You’ve known me long enough to know that. It’s just that my hands are practically tied on this thing. I don’t see any chance of keeping the police out.”

“You mean you told them about coming here to Ralph’s place?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Will Gentry was there and he rubbed me the wrong way by disbelieving me when I said I didn’t know a damned thing about Wanda Weatherby except her telephone call.”

“Why tell him now?” Rourke urged. “He’ll just be sore because you didn’t bring him along. Let Ralph pay you the retainer, if you want to get legal about it, and have an out for keeping this letter quiet.”

“Please, Mr. Shayne,” Flannagan broke in earnestly, “I’d want to help find Wanda’s murderer, even if I weren’t involved as a suspect. Let me give you a check for a thousand dollars right now.” He had both hands on the arms of his chair, ready to spring up.

When Shayne hesitated, Rourke said in a cynical tone, “He can afford it, Mike. It only amounts to the next ten weekly payments that he won’t have to pay Wanda now.”

“I don’t like to have you put it on that basis, Tim,” Flannagan said swiftly and angrily. “You make it sound as though I’m glad Wanda is dead.”

Shayne apparently ignored both of them. He said soberly, “Even if I don’t turn this carbon over to the police, there’s the original arriving in the mail tomorrow morning. Gentry knows about that, and he’ll be waiting in my office to grab it when it’s delivered.”

“How did he know about it?” Flannagan asked.

“She told me about it over the telephone, and she also explained to my secretary that she was going to mail it when she called my office and couldn’t get me.” Shayne paused, then added, “Of course, Will Gentry has no idea what will be in her letter. Neither did I until I came here.” Again, the silence was heavy between them. Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and frowned thoughtfully. He glanced at his watch. The time was nearly midnight — and his appointment with Sheila Martin, from whom he hoped to learn more about Wanda Weatherby, was only a few minutes away. He drank his cognac and stood up, saying to his host, “May I use your telephone?”

Ralph Flannagan leaped to his feet. “Certainly. It’s right in here.” He led the way to open a door into a bedroom on the other side, switched on the light, and stepped aside, explaining, “I do all my homework here, so excuse the way things look. The telephone’s right there on the desk.”

Here was another long, narrow room, almost the length of the living-room. There was a double bed at one end, and built-in bookshelves on both sides, and a reading-light attached to the headboard. The other end of the bedroom was fitted up as an office with a large desk, and a standard model typewriter. There were neat stacks of typed scripts on the desk, and an oversize wastebasket beside the chair overflowed with crumpled sheets of paper.

The telephone was to the left of the typewriter and within easy reach. Beyond it stood a portable tape recorder equipped with a microphone that hung from a hook in the ceiling several feet from the desk and about five feet from the floor. On the right of the desk an open door revealed a bathroom with the lights on.

“It’s not a very fancy boudoir,” Flannagan apologized again as Shayne walked toward the desk, “but it’s handy if I want to jump out of bed at any time in the night when an idea or a bit of dialogue comes to me.”

Shayne glanced at the dangling microphone as he went by, and commented, “If you had the mike hanging over the bed, you wouldn’t even have to get up in the night.”

“Oh, I never dictate my stuff,” the producer assured him. “I’m conditioned to the typewriter. I use the microphone to record auditions and bits of rehearsal when I have some of my actors in.”

“This is a personal call,” Shayne said, and waited with his hand on the telephone. Flannagan flushed and immediately withdrew, closing the door firmly as he went out.

It was strange how the guy got on his nerves, Shayne thought wryly as he dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but somehow Ralph Flannagan rubbed him the wrong way.

Lucy’s phone rang three times before she answered. Shayne asked, “Did I wake you?”

“Michael! No. I couldn’t get to sleep after Chief Gentry called me a while ago. He wants you to call—”

“Yeh. I know,” Shayne growled. “I was standing at his elbow when he went through that routine. Never mind that,” he went on swiftly. “What sort of type do you have on your portable typewriter there in the apartment?”

“Elite. Why? What’s up, Michael?” she asked anxiously. “Shouldn’t I have told Gentry about those telephone calls?”

“That was okay,” Shayne reassured her. “There’s nothing much up right at the moment except that Wanda Weatherby is dead and Gentry and I both wonder why she wanted to see me. Go back to sleep if you can. I may have to drop in on you later, but don’t wait up for me. What time does the first mail reach the office?”

“A little after nine, usually. If there’s anything I can do—”

“If there is, I’ll be seeing you. Good night.”

He hung up and went back to the living-room where his anxious host jumped up and asked, “Did you fix—”

“I’m not positive I can do anything for you,” Shayne told him soberly. “But you might write out that check for a thousand if you still want to. I won’t cash it unless I find a way to keep your name out of the murder investigation.”

“I want to thank you, Mr. Shayne. I’ll be right back with the check, and—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Shayne said.

Flannagan hurried away, and Shayne crossed over to Rourke’s chair, scowled, and muttered, “When we get out of here, I want to know why you’re so willing to pass up a juicy story.”

Rourke said, “Okay,” and got up to stretch his stiff limbs.

Flannagan returned, waving a check in the air to dry the ink. He handed it to the detective, who folded it and put it in his pocket.

“I think I’ll go along with Mike, Ralph,” said Rourke. “I’ll be in touch with you, huh?”

“You bet,” Flannagan returned genially. “And I can’t ever thank you enough, Tim. And, Mr. Shayne, I don’t know how to tell you how much—”

“Wait until I cash this check,” Shayne advised. “And if I do cash it, an invitation to your wedding will be thanks enough.” He picked up his hat and went out, waited a moment for Rourke, and they went down the corridor to the elevator together.

“Ralph isn’t a bad guy, Mike,” Rourke said as he stretched his thin legs to keep pace with the rangy detective. “I’ve known him a long time and he really had talent when he went into radio work. Now, he’s all mixed up and frustrated on account of the drivel he has to write to hang onto his job.”

“His relation with Wanda Weatherby would make a swell headline for tomorrow’s paper,” said Shayne shortly. The elevator came up and they got in.

“But the guy’s innocent, Mike,” the reporter argued “Damn it — we know he is.”

“Do you believe his version of the affair with Wanda?”

“Absolutely. From his viewpoint, at least. He’s actually that naïve, Mike. She could be the toughest little hooker in Miami taking Ralph for a ride all the way, but he’d still be dewy-eyed about doing the decent thing by her.”

The elevator door opened, and Shayne said, “Somehow I have a hunch we’re going to learn a lot of interesting things about Wanda Weatherby before this is over,” as they went through the lobby. “Most of it you won’t be able to print if my guess is right.”

Outside, on the sidewalk, Rourke demanded, “Why did you ask Ralph about Gurley? What’s his connection with Wanda?”

“Right now, I haven’t any idea,” Shayne admitted. “Except that he’s damned anxious to keep her letter about Ralph quiet.”

“But — why? If Ralph doesn’t even know him. And how did Gurley find out about the letter?”

“All I can say is I don’t know to both questions,” Shayne told him as they walked toward his car. When they reached it Shayne lit a cigarette and gave him a brief resume of the anonymous telephone call and his later interview with the gambler.

“How did you guess Gurley was behind this mug who called you?” Rourke asked.

“Something I ran onto at Wanda’s house before the police arrived. I won’t tell you what it was, Tim, so that you can truthfully deny knowing anything about it if Will Gentry later accuses me of holding out on him. But I wish you would beat it down to headquarters and find out if Gentry picked up the same lead. Call me if you get anything hot.”

“Sure, Mike,” Rourke promised, and strolled back to his own car, adding over his shoulder, “If you don’t hear from me sooner, I’ll be at your office at nine o’clock.”

“So will Gentry,” said Shayne, “to pick up my mail for me.”

Rourke spun around and took a couple of steps. “You’re not going to give him Wanda’s letter about Ralph?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Shayne growled. “You know as well as I do just how far I can push Will Gentry.”

He left the reporter standing on the sidewalk, got in his car, gunned the motor, and hurried away to keep his midnight appointment.