Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

She wore a quilted robe over flowered pajamas, and her brown hair was brushed back neatly from her face and caught with a ribbon in the back. Barefooted and with no make-up, she looked absurdly childlike as she stepped back inside exclaiming, “I’d just got back to sleep, Michael. What’s been happening?”

“I’ll bring you up to date in a minute.” He ruffled her hair and dropped a light kiss on her lips. “But here’s something first,” he added, striding to the telephone stand. He lifted the directory and began leafing through it in search of Ralph Flannagan’s number. He found it listed, a direct line that did not go through the building switchboard.

Lucy stood beside him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What on earth?”

“Here — take the receiver and dial this number. I’ll call it off for you. And start talking fast when a man answers,” he directed. “Say, ‘This is Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard over the radio about Wanda Weatherby and I have to see you at once.’ That’s all. Make your voice sound excited and worried. Don’t answer any questions except to insist you’re Helen Taylor and must see him. Got it?”

“Let’s see — I’m Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard about Wanda Weatherby over the radio and have to see him at once. Who, Michael?”

“His name is Ralph Flannagan, but I don’t know whether Helen would call him Ralph or Mr. Flannagan or darling, so try to skip it.” He called the numbers as she dialed, then stepped aside to light a cigarette.

Lucy waited a moment, then spoke rapidly and excitedly into the mouthpiece. He watched her face tensely when she finished, heard the faint crackle of Flannagan’s voice over the wire.

“I am Helen,” she insisted after a moment. “And I must talk to you at once.” She listened again for a moment, then hung up. “My voice must have sounded all wrong,” she said ruefully. “He simply didn’t believe I was Helen Taylor, and acted as though he didn’t know what any of it was about. He said he would call me back to check, and then hung up. He sounded frightened and angry, Michael. Does that help?”

“It might.” Shayne stood for a moment rubbing his angular jaw, his gaze remote and withdrawn. At this moment, only one person other than the police, Dr. Brinstead, the girl’s roommate, and himself could possibly know that Helen was dead — or had reason to suspect she was so ill from poison that it was unlikely she could be using the phone.

Shayne said slowly, “Try exactly the same thing on Jack Gurley at the Sportsman’s Club, Lucy. You’ll know better what to listen for when I tell you that Helen Taylor died about twenty minutes ago from strychnine. If she was murdered, the person who fed her the poison is the only one who knows about it.”

Lucy nodded uncertainly. “Your Mr. Flannagan seemed awfully certain I wasn’t Helen Taylor. On the other hand, he was going to call her back. Would he do that if he knew she was already dead?”

“He might. If his nerves were steady enough and he thought fast enough. On the other hand, it’s what an innocent man would normally do if your voice didn’t sound right. Try it on Gurley, anyway. Those are the only two strings I’ve got right now. Shall I mix you a drink?”

“A small one. Isn’t Jack Gurley the man they call The Lantern?”

“Yeh.”

Shayne went into the kitchen and took a bottle of cognac from a high shelf where he knew it would be. He poured a large straight drink for himself, put a smaller portion into a glass with a cube of ice and a little water, carried them back into the living room in time to hear Lucy say, “No. This is a personal call. Just tell him it’s Helen Taylor.”

She glanced aside with lifted brows as Shayne made himself comfortable on the couch, with the two glasses on the coffee table. Then she said over the telephone, “This is Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard over the radio about Wanda Weatherby and I have to see you at once.”

She listened while Shayne moodily smoked a cigarette and visualized the gambler at the other end of the wire. Then she protested, “I can’t tell you any more over the phone. But this is Helen Taylor and I must see you at once.” After listening again and for a longer period, she said, “Very well, then,” and hung up.

A frown puckered her forehead as she crossed to the couch. “I guess that was a blank, Michael, though you can’t really tell about a man like that. He said he didn’t know me and why did I think he was interested in talking about Wanda Weatherby. When I wouldn’t tell him, he said why didn’t I write him a letter, and hung up.” Lucy sat down beside him and curled her bare feet up under her robe and reached for the glass of watered cognac.

She said, “Now start at the beginning and tell me everything. Who is Wanda Weatherby — and what does Helen Taylor have to do with anything?”

“First, you tell me about those phone calls this afternoon. Did Wanda give you any idea why she wanted to see me?”

“No. Except it was important that she see you at once.”

“Did you suggest her calling me at home later?”

“No. When she called the second time she said she was writing you a letter which you’d receive in the morning. From that, I supposed it could wait overnight.”

Shayne nodded and took a long drink of cognac. “Something came up,” he told Lucy moodily, “to make her realize it couldn’t wait overnight. She called me at home at ten o’clock — after I had already received two calls from other people who knew about the letter she had written me.” He settled back and related the events from the time he entered his apartment that evening to find the telephone ringing.

Lucy listened attentively, and when he finished, she said, “I turned on my radio after Chief Gentry woke me to ask about you. There was a flash about Wanda Weatherby on the eleven-thirty newscast. From what Mr. Flannagan and that Sheila person told you about her, it sounds as though she was asking for just what she got. If Sheila is as nice as you say,” she added thoughtfully, “it would be horrible to drag up something like that one indiscretion out of her past — now that she’s happily married.”

“I don’t know how nice Sheila is,” Shayne told her irritably. “And I don’t go too far on the happy-marriage angle. The way she cuddled up to me—”

“But she was frightened to death by Wanda’s letter, and desperately needed your help,” Lucy interrupted. “Besides, you’re not so hard to cuddle up to, Michael,” she added, her brown eyes crinkling with laughter.

“U-m-m,” Shayne muttered absently. He got up and went to the phone, saying, “I forgot about the man who said he was coming to my hotel to see me. I’d better check.” He dialed the number and said, “Mike Shayne,” when the clerk answered.

The clerk said rapidly, “There’s a man waiting here in the lobby, Mr. Shayne — and there was a call for you just a minute ago. Mr. Ralph Flannagan wants you to call him at once. It’s very important.”

“Who’s the man waiting?”

“He didn’t give his name,” said the clerk. “He’s been waiting about half an hour. Said he was the one who had phoned while you were out.”

Shayne said, “Put him on now.”

After a short wait a richly unctuous voice came over the wire. “Mr. Shayne? How soon may I see you? It’s very important.”

“Who’s speaking?” Shayne interrupted.

“I — ah — Please keep this completely confidential, Mr. Shayne. This is Donald J. Henderson speaking. I must have your advice on a matter of the gravest importance immediately.”

“What sort of a matter? I’m tangled up with a case and don’t know when I’ll be in.”

“It concerns — ah — a letter you will receive in the morning post.”