Brett Halliday - She Woke to Darkness

He opened his eyes and nodded approvingly when I told him about the phone call to Mike Shayne in Miami and that Mike would be arriving about eight.

“Good. But you’ve got to be careful they don’t find out you telephoned Shayne to come. Remember, you’re playing it that you didn’t know a thing about it all this time. You didn’t contact me and I haven’t seen you.”

“I thought of that. We’ll say Mike had planned all along to meet me here this morning for the weekend. He’ll play along.”

“It should be okay,” Ed decided, “if they don’t get suspicious and start checking. No reason why they should if they believe your story. I’ve a strong hunch,” he added tiredly, “that you’re going to need Shayne in your corner. They’ll have you for a suspect, and won’t look too hard for another one. With Shayne to work on it, we’ll get the truth… if he’s half as good as you make him out in your books.”

“He’s better,” I told him. “Mike is always making me cut out some of the good stuff because he’s so modest.”

“I’ve wanted to meet that redhead for a long time.” Ed Radin yawned and poured himself another careful drink of brandy. “You got any ideas of your own?”

I shook my head. “I just met the girl tonight. I’ve only got one crazy thought at the moment, and that’s her manuscript. What did you and the police think of it?”

“I was coming to that,” Ed said quietly. He glanced at the thick sheaf of typewritten pages beside me. “That it?”

I nodded. “The original copy. The carbon copy was there in her place.”

He shook his head. “No long piece like that. I helped them inventory her desk. Three short stories. Two unfinished stories, five and eleven pages, a batch of notes with ideas for characters and situations. That was all.” He spread out his hands and studied me soberly.

“But this is around fifty pages,” I protested. “She had this in a manila envelope, and said she’d been working on the carbon copy. I was getting the bum’s rush, you see, after the telephone call. As I said, I had a strong impression she was afraid the caller might be on his way up even though she’d told him she was working and he shouldn’t, and she wanted to get rid of me fast. The carbon copy must be there, Ed.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then the killer took it.” I got up and began to pace the floor excitedly. “That’s it, Ed. That’s the motive for Elsie’s murder. I’ve read most of the script now, and she admitted to me that it is a thinly fictionized account of something that actually took place… that all the facts are true, only names and descriptions changed. It’s a mystery story, you see. A girl blanks out from too much liquor and wakes up with a dead man. One of the oldest cliches in the business, but this time I think it happened. And to Elsie. The story deals with the girl’s attempts to find out who did kill the man, in order to prove that she didn’t. We know it is Elsie’s own story… and if the killer knew she was writing it, and perhaps had inadvertently written down the truth without quite knowing it was the truth… and if he knew she planned to show the script to me… mightn’t he have killed her and stolen the script to keep me from seeing it?”

“But you have a copy,” Ed pointed out.

“Suppose he didn’t know that? Think back to the telephone conversation I overheard in her place. She said something like: ‘He’s not here. He dropped me after I promised to send him my script tomorrow and I’m getting it ready for him to see it.’ Don’t you see, Ed? She used that as an excuse to keep him from coming up. They were talking about me, damn it. Someone who saw her leave the Henry Hudson with me… or who had been told she did so. When she told him she was going to give it to me to read tomorrow, she signed her death warrant. He had to stop her… if what I think is true and the solution of another murder is concealed in these pages in the shape of fiction.”

Ed Radin was definitely interested. He eyed the typewritten sheets speculatively. “You think the proof of another murder is there?”

“I’m guessing,” I admitted. “I haven’t finished it. But it must be there. If you and Mike and I go over it carefully, we should be able to spot some clue I think Elsie herself hadn’t even spotted. If she had, she certainly wouldn’t have let the guy in to murder her tonight.”

“It’s an interesting thought,” Ed muttered, “and it’s a logical reason for the other copy being missing. But you’ll have to turn it over to the cops, Brett. It’s evidence in a murder case. You can’t hold it back for Shayne to work on.”

“At least I can finish reading it before they come to me.”

“You can do that… and tell them you have. But you’ll have to give it to them.” He looked at his watch and muttered, “Damn it. You’ve got me so interested I’d like to spend a couple of hours with Elsie’s manuscript myself. But I’ve got to check down at the Precinct…” He paused thoughtfully, then leaned forward and picked up one of the typewritten sheets.

It was a good clean copy as I’ve said, neatly typed on lightweight paper. Not onion skin, but about 12-pound stuff.

He nodded happily and said, “I’ve got an idea, Brett. I believe it’ll work. There’s an outfit that calls itself The Overnight Duplication Service. Ever hear of them?”

I shook my head.

“They have some process for photographing manuscripts. Make a specialty of it. Five cents a page for as many duplicate pages as you want, and guarantee to turn out any ordinary job in a few hours. They boast they work around the clock, and the only thing is: the original has to be a solid black impression on fairly thin paper to duplicate well. This fits the bill. Let me call them and see. They’ve done a lot of work for me.”

He got up and hurried into the bedroom, searched for a number and started to call it, paused, returned the phone, and came back shaking his head. “That wouldn’t be so good. The police will check the switchboard for calls from this room just as routine. You’d have no earthly explanation for rushing out to get this duplicated unless you knew Elsie was dead and thought it might contain a clue for Shayne to work on.

“Here’s the address.” He wrote it down. It was a number on West 45th. “It’s in the ground floor of a small hotel,” he went on. “Some of them live there. The boss, I guess. If you still think the script is important after you finish reading it, take it down and have them knock off a copy. Leave the copy with them for me to pick up later. Bring this copy back and hand it over to the law when they come. And you’d better pray to God there is a motive in the script and we can find it.

“I’ve simply got to run. Don’t be surprised if I turn up with the cops in the morning. Don’t lie about anything except having seen and talked to me tonight. Good luck.” He shook hands hard and went out the door.

I sat down and picked up Elsie’s manuscript again. It meant a lot more to me now that I’d learned the carbon was missing from her apartment. It had to be important. It had to be the motive for her murder.

I began reading again with intense absorption.

When Aline Ferris next awoke, sunlight streamed in the window, but the fear of last night remained strong and agonizing-the almost unbearable fear of the unknown.

She closed her eyes against the bright sunlight and tried to make her conscious mind quiescent, to break through to the subconscious which knew what she had to know.

Her telephone call from the cocktail lounge was the jumping-off place. That had been done without her conscious knowledge. It was the one thing she now knew she had done while blanked out. She had the number in her mind, memorized from the night before. She repeated the five digits over and over again silently, like an incantation to break down the barrier between conscious and subconscious. If she tried not to think about the numbers, not to recall consciously a name connected with them! Then, perhaps, the name would come.