Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

He turned oft the avenue and drove past the side hotel entrance to the driveway that led to a row of wooden garages maintained for the use of permanent guests. The double doors of his garage stood open. He slowed and made a wide turn, heading into the opening smoothly and without conscious thought.

There wasn’t time for conscious thought as the long hood went through the doorway and headlight beams sprayed out to reveal momentarily the two men hugged against the front wall on either side of the opening.

There was a flash of reflected light from metal on the right, and close beside the car on his left Shayne glimpsed the figure and face of a masked man with a short-barreled shotgun held at approximately the position of port arms.

That was all. There was a split second between the realization that he had driven into a perfect ambush and the moment when his car would halt with its bumper against the rear wall. Shayne’s foot was on the brake and his motor was idling. There was no time for calculation or thought. There was only that instant between life and the certainty of death.

It was probably well for Shayne that his mind was numbed with fatigue and practically in a subconscious state. His reaction to danger was wholly reflex and due to a lifetime of training in the specialized art of staying alive in the midst of danger.

His big foot slid from the brake to the throttle. The ultra-modern Hydromatic gear shifted as swiftly into low gear and the powerful motor roared thunderously.

There was a splintering crash of ripped wood and the screech of protesting nails from two-by-four joists and flimsy clapboards as the heavy car charged through the wall and into the alley beyond.

Protected by unbreakable glass and a steel body, Shayne was hunched over the wheel and fully conscious as he went through. His foot left the throttle to brake the car as he wrenched the wheel to the right with all his strength, grazing the rear of another garage on the opposite side of the alley. There was the blast of a shotgun behind him and the sharper barking of a heavy automatic.

Then his car was racing down the alley, and there was silence behind him. Not more than two seconds could have elapsed since he first sighted the lurking gunmen.

Shayne’s mouth was set in grim lines as he slowed a trifle for the alley exit. He swung sharply in the wrong direction on a one-way street for a block, and again in the wrong direction at the next intersection which took him back to the hotel entrance.

He slid to the curb on screaming tires and leaped out, went through the open door with long strides to confront the white-faced clerk at the desk who exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mr. Shayne, did you hear that noise? Sounded like a building falling down — and then shooting.”

“Right.” Shayne’s eyes were bleak and the lines were deep in his cheeks. “Get the police on the phone.”

As the clerk whirled to the switchboard, a portly man arose from a deep chair near the elevator and came toward him, saying petulantly, “Shayne? I’ve been waiting here for hours—”

“You can wait a little longer,” Shayne snapped. He strode to a phone booth at a gesture from the clerk, picked up the receiver, and barked, “Mike Shayne talking. Corner of Second and Third. Two hoods just tried to blast me. It’s probably too late, but put out a call to pick up any of Jack Gurley’s boys that may be wandering around and give them a frisk. Gentry still around?”

Upon being told that the chief had gone home, Shayne hung up. He left the booth and said to the openmouthed clerk, “Don’t bother me if cops come around asking questions. Just tell them I said the city owes you for a new back to one of your garages.”

“Was that what it was, Mr. Shayne? Good Lord, I heard that terrible crash and then the shooting, and I didn’t know what it was.”

Shayne grinned slowly and took out a handkerchief to mop sweat from his face. “They were waiting for me inside the garage, and I had to keep on going. Maybe you’ll have a chance to back my car around into the drive after a while.”

“Sure. Gee, you are lucky, Mr. Shayne.”

“Yeah. And right now I need a drink.”

He turned away to be intercepted by Donald Henderson who told him importantly, “I hope I may have a word with you now, Shayne. I’ve wasted the entire evening trying to contact you.”

Shayne said pleasantly, “That’s too damned bad. Come on up and waste some more time if you’re in the mood.” He went to the elevator, and Henderson followed him.

Upstairs, Shayne went down the corridor without speaking and unlocked his door. He switched on the lights, tossed his hat at a hook on the wall, and sauntered toward the liquor cabinet, saying over his shoulder. “I need a drink. Have one?”

“No thank you,” Henderson said stiffly. He walked to the center of the room and watched disapprovingly while the detective poured four ounces of cognac and lifted it to sniff the bouquet approvingly.

“Really, Shayne,” Henderson complained, “I hope you don’t intend to drink all that. I have an extremely important matter to discuss with you, and I suggest that you retain a clear head to discuss it.”

Shayne grinned, drank half the cognac, and said happily, “Nothing like a small snifter to give a man a clear head.” He sank down in a chair, indicated another near by, said, “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind, Henderson.”

“It’s this — this letter.” He took a square white envelope from his breast pocket, and his plump hand trembled when he held it out to Shayne. “It was delivered by special messenger this evening. I didn’t know what to make of it at first. Most extraordinary, as you will note. A hoax of some sort, was my first thought. Perhaps an ill-considered practical joke. A man in my position does receive many crank letters.”

Shayne noted that the address was in the same type as that on the letters received by Ralph Flannagan and Sheila Martin. He removed the folded sheet of paper and glanced at the contents with disinterest. The wording appeared to be an exact duplicate of the others. He yawned widely, and said, “So what?”

“I don’t think you read it carefully,” Henderson protested. “It practically accuses me of planning to murder a woman who is a complete stranger to me. A woman whose name I don’t even recognize.” He leaned forward with both palms on his knees. “You can readily understand how upsetting it was.”

Shayne shrugged and smothered a yawn. “If you didn’t plan to murder her, why should it upset you?”

“That’s what I told myself,” said Henderson quickly. “I had a meeting to attend and I put it aside, thinking I might check with you later to see if you could explain it. Then afterward, while driving home, I turned on my car radio for the eleven-thirty newscast. I was absolutely horrified. It was ghastly. I kept thinking it was some weird coincidence, but then I began to realize the really awful position I was in. Because the woman is dead — murdered, Shayne. Just as her letter prophesied. And I stand accused of killing her.”

“Didn’t you?”

Donald J. Henderson looked properly horrified at the suggestion. He snapped, “Definitely not. I’ve told you I don’t even know a woman named Wanda Weatherby.”

Shayne said wearily, “I know. A lot of people have told me a lot of different things tonight. This meeting you claim you attended. What was it?”

“Our Civic Betterment Association. We had an important agenda tonight, and I presided. I must say that I don’t care for your attitude, Shayne,” Henderson ended stiffly.

“The door is right behind you.” Shayne took a big sip from his glass. Henderson compressed his lips and was silent.

Shayne asked, “What time was your meeting?”