Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“How did you know about the clips?” Gentry demanded.

“I discovered her body and called in,” Shayne reminded him evenly. “It was a few minutes before anybody got there. Do you think I sat down and twiddled my thumbs while I waited?”

“Hell, no. I’m sure you went through everything you could find and carried away anything you thought might help you solve the case and prevent us from doing it.”

“I left the clips for you,” said Shayne dryly.

“How did Gurley explain them to you?”

“He didn’t.”

“What did he say about them?”

“Why, just like you, Will, I didn’t think it was good business to spring them on him right then.”

“How else did you explain your interest in the Weatherby woman — your reason for going to him?”

“That wasn’t included in the trade,” said Shayne calmly. “But I assure you I didn’t put anyone else on the spot by intimating that he had sent me around.”

Gentry opened his mouth to reply, but checked himself with an effort. He set his half-emptied highball glass down and heaved his bulky body up from the couch, asking gruffly, “You coming along, Tim?”

“I think maybe I’ll stick around a few minutes,” Rourke answered slowly, avoiding Shayne’s eyes. “I’ll finish this drink and find out if his blonde has a friend.”

Gentry snorted and started for the door. The telephone rang, and the police chief stopped and turned back to listen while Shayne answered.

A girl’s excited voice came over the wire. “Is this Michael Shayne? The detective?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know me, Mr. Shayne, but I’m Mary Devon. Helen Taylor’s roommate.”

“Yeh?” he repeated when she paused. He glanced sardonically at the reporter and police chief who were listening intently.

“Something terrible has happened,” the girl’s voice resumed and grew panicky as she hurried on. “Helen — I’m afraid she’s dying, Mr. Shayne. I’ve called a doctor, but she keeps mumbling your name over and over. And something about Wanda Weatherby. I can’t understand it at all, but maybe you’ll know. You’d better hurry over here because I’m afraid — oh — that must be the doctor now.”

“Where are you?” Shayne demanded.

She named a small hotel on Miami Avenue, gave him the room number, and Shayne said, “Right away.”

He slammed the receiver down and leaped to his feet muttering angrily, “This is a hell of a mess. Sylvia’s husband. He’s on his way here now. You two guys can stay if you want, but I’m getting out of here fast.”

MICHAEL SHAYNE STRAIGHTENED his tie, grabbed his jacket, and shrugged into it on his way to the bedroom. He jerked the door open and said to Sheila, “We’ve got to get out of here in a hurry, babe,” in a loud, excited voice. “Your husband’s on his way here with blood in his eye.”

She was lying on the bed, fully clothed. “Wh-at?” She sat up slowly, her eyes round and staring in disbelief.

Shayne knew the two men were listening with amusement, and he made his voice angry. “Come on, for God’s sake! Pete just phoned to tip me off.” He caught her by the arm and rushed her out, stopping to snatch up her fur jacket from the couch.

Gentry and Rourke were at the door. Rourke grinned evilly and suggested, “Want me to smuggle her out, Mike? You can wipe that lipstick off your face and try to convince the guy you’ve been spending the evening with a good book.”

“Thanks,” Shayne snapped. “I’d rather be out when he gets here.” He pushed past the two men, dragged Sheila along with him to the elevator, jabbed impatiently at the elevator button, saying harshly, “Damn it, you told me he was all tied up for the night.”

Having no idea what the detective was talking about or why he was making this pretense, Sheila played up to him by looking as frightened and disconcerted as possible. She said, plaintively, “I don’t know how on earth he knew I was here, darling. I just don’t understand it. but please let’s hurry.”

The elevator came and the quartet got in and stood in awkward silence as it went down. Shayne got out first and strode swiftly across the lobby with his arm linked firmly in Sheila’s, calling over his shoulder, “See you at the office in the morning, Will.”

His car was parked at the front entrance. He pushed Sheila in the front seat, trotted around, and got in and sped away before Chief Gentry and Rourke emerged from the doorway.

“Had to do it that way,” he explained before she could start asking questions. “That call was from a dying woman — something about Wanda Weatherby, and I had to get out fast and shake Will Gentry at the same time. Only thing I could think of was the outraged-husband gag.”

Sheila sighed with relief. “You did it very efficiently,” she told him. “As though you’ve had practice. And neither of them seemed surprised.”

“Sorry to have to characterize you as an adulterous female,” Shayne muttered, swinging north onto First Avenue.

“Don’t be.” Her voice was light — almost gay. “For a little while back there I’m not sure I would have minded dreadfully being one.”

“There’s Henry,” Shayne reminded her, his tone as light as hers.

“I know. And I do love him. I guess I’m awful. I guess all women are — at times.”

“Not awful. Just honest enough to admit sometimes that monogamy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A very interesting topic of discussion. But right now I’m chasing down a murderer and I suggest you hop out here at Flagler.” He slowed for the main street of the city, and Sheila agreed in a subdued voice.

“I guess I’d better. But you didn’t take my money for a retainer.”

“Forget the money right now.” Shayne reached past her to open the door as he braked the car. “After I check your alibi will be time enough for that. I’ve got a green light,” he pointed out.

Sheila Martin bit her underlip and slid out. She started to say something, but Shayne gunned the motor to slide across Flagler as the light turned yellow. He drove north eight blocks, then swung left to one-way Miami Avenue and back half a block to pull up in front of the shabby Metro Hotel.

He entered a smelly, empty lobby. The desk was deserted, but a printed sign propped upon it read: Ring Bell for Clerk. Shayne strode to the stairs, went up two flights and down a narrow corridor searching for the number Mary Devon had given him over the phone.

Number 82 was next to the rear and the door stood ajar with light streaming through. Shayne tapped and pushed it open upon a small bedroom.

A girl reclined on the bed, crying quietly. A man stood beside her with a doctor’s bag in his hand. He wore bedroom slippers and a gray bathrobe over seersucker pajamas, and Shayne realized that the call had, indeed, been urgent.

The slim, balding doctor blinked nearsightedly at the detective and said to the girl in a weary, nasal voice, “I will have to report this to the police, of course. Leave everything just as it is until they arrive.”

Shayne stood blocking the doorway. He said. “Miss Devon?”

The girl gazed at him through her tears and nodded listlessly. “Are you Mr. Shayne? Helen is — The doctor says—”

“Michael Shayne?” The doctor lifted his brows expressively and looked relieved. “As you see, I came as quickly as I could, but it was too late. The young lady was — ah — D.O.A. You understand the importance of leaving everything untouched for the police. I’m Doctor Brinstead. The body is in the adjoining room.”

Shayne acknowledged the introduction, then asked, “Poison?”

“Indubitably. Definitely an alkaloid, and almost certainly strychnine.” He turned to the weeping girl. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Miss Devon. I’m afraid nothing could have saved your friend at the time you discovered her condition. I’ll make a full report to the police.”