Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“Suicide?” Shayne demanded, still blocking the doorway as the doctor made a tentative move to leave.

“Probably. Most deaths by strychnine poisoning are. It’s possible it was taken accidentally, though Miss Devon insists there were no medicines at hand containing the poison.”

“Could it be murder?”

“That’s a matter for the police to determine, Mr. Shayne. It would be my guess that at least half a grain was ingested sometime between one and four hours prior to death. Analysis of the stomach contents is very important, and this should be reported at once.”

Shayne nodded and stood aside to let the doctor pass. He crossed over and sat down beside the girl and said quietly, “Please tell me everything you can before the police get here. We won’t have any chance to talk after that. First, what exactly did your friend say about me and about Wanda Weatherby?”

“Nothing, really. That is, nothing I could understand. Oh, it’s so horrible, Mr. Shayne!” she wailed. “I just can’t realize Helen is dead. She was delirious and sort of incoherent when I came home about twelve — and having convulsions. Oh! It was awful! And in between convulsions she would moan your name — and that woman’s. Wanda Weatherby. I never heard of her before, but I did know you were a famous detective. So I called Doctor Brinstead first, and then telephoned you to come. I guess she was actually dying when I was talking to you.”

“Who was Helen Taylor?” Shayne asked. “And who are you? Tell me about yourselves — and make it as fast as you can. You see,” he added bitterly, “Wanda Weatherby was also murdered tonight — before I could reach her.”

His last words struck through Mary Devon’s grief. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes terrified. “Then you really think Helen was — was—”

“Murdered.” Shayne supplied for her. “Unless she killed Wanda and then committed suicide. Perhaps that’s what she wanted to tell me. Try to remember every word she said so we can judge whether that could be it.”

“I just don’t know,” Mary said helplessly. “But Helen wouldn’t murder anybody. Not ever. She was sweet and nice — and so full of fun—” Her voice choked up, and Shayne got out a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand.

“Blow your nose and get hold of yourself,” he urged. He got up and restlessly crossed the bedroom to an open door at the rear leading into the bathroom. The connecting door was closed. He opened it onto a duplicate of the other.

A figure lay on the bed with a coverlet drawn over it. There was some disorder here, with clothes and towels strewn about on chairs, and Shayne’s face was masklike as he went around to the side of the bed and drew back the spread.

Helen Taylor was young, and had probably been an extremely attractive girl. Now, her body was arched rigidly in a final convulsion and her features were horribly contracted, the skin a characteristic dark blue shading to gray on the throat and breast.

He replaced the coverlet and returned somberly to the other room. Mary was sitting erect, wiping her eyes, and she managed a smile when the redhead re-entered her room.

“I just don’t know what to tell you,” she burst out. “I saw Helen about seven-thirty when I had to go out, and she seemed exceptionally cheerful. We’ve been roommates here for almost six months, and the best of friends. I had no premonition of anything like this. I knew she was going out later, but when I left she said she’d probably be home before I came in. When I did come back, she was—”

“Do you know where she went?” Shayne interrupted.

“No.” Mary hesitated a trifle. “It was something that came up unexpectedly — just before I went out, I think. She had a telephone call while I was dressing, and before that she had planned to spend the evening at home. The call made her happy, and I had the impression that it was — well, a man. But she didn’t tell me anything except that she would be going out, and I didn’t question her.”

“Any particular man?”

“No — not that I know of. Helen was popular and had lots of dates, but I didn’t know about anything serious. You see, we’ve been in radio quite a while, and we meet lots of people at the stations and on different programs.”

“In radio?” Shayne pounced on that small crumb of information. “Actresses?”

“Yes. That’s how we met. And it made it pleasant to share these two bedrooms.”

“Do you know Ralph Flannagan?”

“Oh, yes.” Mary looked at him in surprise “He produces the show I’m on regularly. ‘Fragments From Life,’ It’s just a daytime serial, but really quite well written and produced.”

“Did Miss Taylor work on his show?”

“No. That is, not one of the regular roles. She did do bit parts on it now and then.”

“So she knew Flannagan?”

“Yes.”

“How well? Did she ever date him?”

“Ralph? I don’t think so. He never — that is, I never heard of him showing any interest in any of the girls on his show. I think he’s engaged to marry his sponsor’s daughter. That’s what they say. Some of them think that — well, that’s the reason he’s got a sponsor. But it is a good program with a high rating, and most of that talk is just jealousy.”

“Do either of you do any television work?” Shayne asked abruptly.

“We haven’t yet. There actually isn’t much television here. Some film companies come down on location, but no live shows.”

“Do you know if Flannagan did any television?”

“I don’t think so. Everybody in radio is interested in it, of course, and wants to get a foothold, but there isn’t much opportunity here yet.”

“Have you heard any rumors of anyone going in for making pornographic kinescopes for private showing? Anyone being approached for that sort of thing?”

“No.” Mary Devon wrinkled her brow and appeared to be answering honestly. “I certainly haven’t been. And Helen never mentioned anything like that.”

“And you have absolutely no idea where she was between the time you went out at seven-thirty and your return about midnight?”

“No, I haven’t, Mr. Shane.”

“Did she receive a letter by special messenger this evening?”

“Not while I was here. And I had the impression she was leaving right after I did.”

“Try once more,” Shayne urged her, “to remember if you haven’t ever heard the name of Wanda Weatherby before.”

Mary shook her head slowly. “I’ve been racking my brains ever since Helen started mumbling her name. But I just don’t know.”

“The police will be here in a very few minutes,” Shayne warned her. “Tell them the truth — just as you’ve told me. Don’t try to hide anything. And if you remember anything important — or learn anything at all, please telephone me.”

He started for the door. She stopped him to ask in a troubled voice, “Shall I tell them you were here?”

“You’ll have to. The doctor will, and it’s all right. You had every reason to telephone me. I’ll be in touch.” He waved a big hand reassuringly and hurried out, down the stairs, and into the empty lobby. A police car pulled in to the curb behind him as he got into his car and hurried away.

MICHAEL SHAYNE PARKED on a quiet side street just east of the Boulevard in front of his secretary’s apartment building. Glancing up at the second-floor windows as he got out he saw that they were dark.

In the small foyer he pressed her button three long rings and waited with his hand on the doorknob. He turned it when her buzzer released the latch, went in and up the stairs two at a time and down the hall where Lucy Hamilton waited for him in the doorway.