Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“From Wanda Weatherby?” Shayne demanded.

“How did you — Then you’ve been in touch with her?” Henderson’s tone took on a note of aggrieved asperity. “I have no idea what she may have told you, but I assure you there is not a word of truth in it. Why, I don’t even know the woman, Mr. Shayne. This is the most preposterous—”

“Hold it until I get there,” Shayne snapped. “Within half an hour, I hope.”

He hung up and growled, “Another one, Lucy. One of our most esteemed civic leaders this time. Donald Henderson. My God! The woman must have sent out her letters wholesale. Henderson claims he doesn’t even know her.” He paused, his hand on the receiver, started to ask his secretary the number she had dialed for Ralph Flannagan, then remembered the digits he had called to her. He lifted the instrument and dialed.

The radio producer sounded much relieved to hear his voice. “Mr. Shayne! The most extraordinary thing has happened. I thought you should know at once. I’ve been trying to get you.”

“What is it?” he asked, grinning at Lucy.

“A short time ago I had a telephone call from some woman who claimed she was Helen Taylor and who insisted she wanted to talk to me about Wanda. I do know a girl named Helen Taylor — in a business way. She’s an actress who has done bit parts on my show occasionally, and I’m certain it wasn’t her voice. She refused to say anything more except that she wanted to talk to me about Wanda. I hung up and checked by calling Miss Taylor’s number.

“A man answered the phone, Mr. Shayne.” Flannagan’s voice trembled with excitement and fear. “He sounded — well — gruff and official. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought it was a policeman. He demanded to know who I was when I asked for Miss Taylor, and kept on asking questions when I wouldn’t tell him, and I had a feeling he was trying to keep me on the line while the call was traced. So I hung up.

“What do you suppose has happened? What connection can there be between Miss Taylor and Wanda? And who could the woman be who called me?”

“How positive are you that it wasn’t Miss Taylor?” Shayne asked casually.

“Voices are my business, Mr. Shayne. I suppose one can’t be absolutely positive over the telephone, but there’s the added fact that Miss Taylor was here for an audition this evening, and I listened to her very carefully, evaluating the quality, the timbre and nuances—”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne sharply. “You say she was at your place this evening?”

“Yes. She and two other actresses. I told you—”

“What time?” Shayne interrupted. “It may be very important.”

“Why — about eight, I think.”

“After the letter from Wanda arrived by messenger? Are you quite sure you didn’t mention it to her, Flannagan?”

“Positive. I don’t discuss personal affairs with girls who come for auditions,” he said stiffly.

“Is it possible she could have seen the letter without your knowledge?”

“Why I — think it extremely unlikely, it may possibly have been lying about while she was here, but she didn’t impress me as the sort of girl who would surreptitiously read my personal mail.”

“What time did she leave your place?”

“About eight-twenty, I should say.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. See here, Mr. Shayne, what do you think—”

“What sort of mood was she in?” the detective cut in sharply.

“Excellent,” Flannagan assured him. “You see, the audition went well, and I practically assured her she would get the part.”

“You’ll have to report this to the police,” Shayne told him, “as soon as you read about her death in the morning paper.”

“Helen — Taylor’s — death?” The radio producer’s voice was inexpressibly shocked. “Good Lord! What possible connection could there have been between her and Wanda? And who could have phoned me?”

“My secretary,” said Shayne grimly, “and you can leave that fact out of the story when you talk to the police. That is, if you still hope to avoid being involved in Wanda Weatherby’s murder.”

“Certainly, Mr. Shayne. And you do think we can avoid it, don’t you?”

“I’m going to do my best,” Shayne told him wearily. “I have to get started right now. You’d better get some sleep.” He hung up abruptly and went back to the couch, his thumb and forefinger tugging at his left earlobe.

“What do you think now, Michael?” Lucy asked eagerly.

“It’s all just a little bit more tangled than before,” he answered absently. “Helen Taylor was at Flannagan’s apartment between eight and eight-twenty. At midnight she dies in convulsions, moaning something about me and Wanda Weatherby. If Gentry sees that letter in the morning, he really will tear into Flannagan.”

“But you’ll have to let him see it, Michael,” Lucy insisted. “You told me you promised him you would.” Shayne picked up his drink, took a long sip, set it down, and leaned his head back on the couch. He closed his eyes and thought for a long moment, then jerked himself erect and gave Lucy a crooked smile.

“Look — what I promised Will, in his own words, was that I would not make any trouble about his reading my mail in the morning. Get out your portable,” he went on cheerfully, “and some feminine notepaper — the kind that folds. Preferably white, with square envelopes, if you have it.”

“I received three boxes for Christmas presents,” she told him. “One of them was white, if I remember correctly. But what on earth—”

“Be ready when I get back, angel,” he said. He came swiftly to his feet, tossed off his drink, and taking his glass with him strode into the kitchenette for a refill.

When he returned, Lucy Hamilton had the portable on her lap and a sheet of white notepaper rolled in. She held a square envelope up and asked, “Will this do?”

“Fine.” He sat down beside her and began dictating: “Dear Mr. Shayne: I enclose one thousand dollars and the original of another letter to you which will be self-explanatory. The thousand is for your retainer in case something happens to me before I am able to talk to you. Very truly yours, Wanda Weatherby.”

Lucy shook her head worriedly, but her eyes sparkled when she finished typing and looked at him. “Is that all, Michael? I don’t understand why Chief Gentry could find anything in a note like—”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said, a wry smile spreading his wide mouth. “Add a postscript.”

Lucy rolled the paper down, wrote, P.S., and he dictated:

“I wish to retain you because I have absolutely no faith in the Miami police department which has a reputation for being the most corrupt and inefficient in the United States.”

Lucy Hamilton gasped, stopped short of finishing the sentence, and exclaimed, “Michael Shayne! If you’re planning to do with this letter what I think you are, Will Gentry will have kittens all over the office when he reads it.”

“Finish it,” Shayne told her blandly. “Will deserves just that — for suspecting me of holding out on him.”

Lucy finished typing the postscript, rolled the sheet from the portable, laid it on the table, and started to pick up an envelope.

“Hold it,” Shayne ordered. “Put in another sheet of paper,” and when she complied, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the exact wording of the two letters Ralph Flannagan and Sheila Martin had showed him. He dictated slowly:

“Dear Mr. Shayne: I tried to call you at your office two different times today, but you were out and it is five o’clock now so I am going to write you instead. I enclose one thousand dollars as a retainer for you in case anything happens to me tonight, and that will be your fee for convicting Jack Gurley at the Sportsman’s Club of my murder, because he will be the guilty one. He has tried to murder me twice already, and I am desperately afraid he will try again tonight.