Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“It was called to order promptly at nine-thirty.”

“And the members present can swear you stayed at the meeting how long?” Shayne asked.

“Until we adjourned shortly after eleven o’clock. I didn’t come here to be cross-questioned, Shayne.”

“Why did you come?” the detective asked bluntly.

“To put this matter fairly before you and ask you to use discretion after you open your mail in the morning and read this absurd charge against me. It’s a fiendish plot to ruin me, that’s clear,” he continued sharply. “As soon as I heard that the woman had actually been murdered tonight, I realized that was the only answer. A dastardly plan to smear my reputation.”

“Do you mean to say you believe the Weatherby woman was murdered simply to throw suspicion on you, and thus harm your reputation?” asked Shayne incredulously.

“What other answer is there? I’m afraid you don’t fully understand the vicious elements behind the interests I have opposed in taking an outspoken stand against the misuse of public funds to subsidize housing. I have publicly stated time and again that this is the downward path to Socialism — or worse. Communism, sir.” His voice was rich and rolling now, as fanatical as any soapbox orator in Union Square. “I have been marked for purging. This is exactly the sort of Russian tactics those scoundrels would employ. They are sneaky and treacherous and un-American. If you believe in Democracy and are a true citizen of our free republic, you will not hesitate to stand beside me in this fight.”

Shayne crushed out his cigarette and asked mildly, “What do you expect me to do?”

“Isn’t your duty clear? Presumably, you will receive the original of this letter in the morning mail, with a thousand dollars to bribe you to play an unwitting role in their plot to ruin me. By refusing to be taken in by these underhanded tactics, you will strike a resounding blow against the enemies of your country and mine.”

“In fewer words,” said Shayne, “you want me to disregard the evidence against you.”

“Evidence?” snorted Henderson. “That letter signed by a dead woman isn’t evidence. It’s base calumny. Observe the devilish ingeniousness of their plan. Quite likely the letter itself is a forgery. Yet the woman whose name is signed to it is dead and cannot deny authorship. There it stands as mute evidence against me. Once this letter or a hint of its contents becomes public, I am automatically branded as a murder suspect, despite all my denials, despite all the evidence I can put forward to prove my innocence.”

“So I’m to tear up the letter from Wanda Weatherby merely on your say-so, and forget about it?” asked Shayne. “What do you suggest I do with her thousand dollars?”

“Keep it,” snapped Henderson. “If she did actually send it herself — which I seriously doubt — she will never know. And if the whole thing is a forgery, those who did send it will certainly not dare to come forward and claim it.”

Shayne laughed shortly and finished his drink. “And some people,” he marveled, “have an idea that private detectives are crooks. You’d better get the hell out of here, Henderson. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, loosened his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

His visitor’s mouth sagged open. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Surely you can realize the importance—”

“Of keeping faith with my clients,” Shayne cut in angrily. “If someone pays me a thousand dollars for investigating you as a murder suspect, by God, you’re going to be investigated a thousand dollars’ worth.”

“Even if it’s dirty Communist money?” demanded Henderson.

“Even if it’s dirty Communist money,” Shayne told him flatly. He turned on his heel, stripping off his shirt.

“Suppose,” Henderson suggested doubtfully, “I were to counter with an offer of double that amount not to investigate me?”

“I’d throw you out of here,” Shayne told him, striding toward the bedroom and unbuckling his belt. He slammed the door shut, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and got into pajamas.

When he returned to the living-room, it was empty, and the outer door was closed. Shayne sighed gratefully and poured a final, small drink, then draped one hip on a corner of his desk and picked up the receiver to call a number.

He listened to it ring several times before Henry Black’s sleepy voice came over the wire.

“Mike Shayne, Hank,” he said briskly. “You got anything on tomorrow morning?”

“You mean this morning? My God. Mike “

“This morning,” Shayne agreed.

“Nothing but a lousy hang-over.” Black told him.

“Mathews still with you?”

“My checkbook says he is, but sometimes I wonder.”

“You and Mathews have a job,” Shayne broke in. “Get around to the post office early — before any mail deliveries start out — and get on the tail of the postman who makes the early delivery to my office building. Stay on his tail, Hank, until he reaches my office.”

“Wait a minute. Which postman is he? How’ll I know?”

“If a smart dick like you can’t get that information,” said Shayne, “it’ll probably be all right, because a couple of would-be hijackers shouldn’t be able to get it, either. In that case, you and Mathews better be hanging around the street outside close to nine o’clock, because that will be their best chance.”

“Hijackers? Is this a gun job. Mike?”

“Wear everything you’ve got,” Shayne advised him grimly “They tried to use a riot gun on me tonight, so don’t spare the ammunition if anything breaks.”

“Hey! Why ring me in on a deal like that?” demanded Black in alarm. “If you know who they are—”

“I don’t. But they do know me, and I might spoil the try by being around. Besides,” he added happily, “I’ll be paying you for the job while I get a little sleep.”

He hung up, grinning over Henry Black’s loud protests, and went to bed knowing he had done everything possible to make certain the mail would reach his office intact.

FOR ONE OF THE FEW TIMES since opening a downtown office in Miami, Michael Shayne opened the door precisely at nine o’clock the next morning. He was clear-eyed and jaunty, and he grinned at the sight of Chief Will Gentry seated stolidly in one of the straight chairs in the small outer room, and at Timothy Rourke lounging against the low railing talking to Lucy Hamilton, who was seated at her desk.

He said, “Greetings. You’re up and about early this morning, Will. Hi-ya, Tim. Good morning, Lucy. Have these guys been bothering you?”

She smiled faintly. “Tim isn’t quite his usual self on account of being chaperoned by Chief Gentry. They’ve been asking about the mail delivery.”

“Oh, yes. I expect an important letter, Lucy. From a woman named Wanda Weatherby.”

“Oh — yes.” Lucy puckered her brow, as though just remembering. “She’s the woman who telephoned you twice yesterday, Michael. Said she was writing you a letter.”

Shayne said briskly, “That’s the one we’re all interested in. I promised Will a look at it, so bring it right in to us as soon as the mail arrives.” He turned toward the inner office, adding over his shoulder, “The chairs are softer in here, Will.”

“I’ll stay right here until the mail comes,” rumbled Gentry. “If there is a letter, I don’t want Lucy holding out on me.”

“Lucy wouldn’t do that,” Shayne protested. “And I promised you last night, remember?”

“I know,” said Gentry placidly. “I’ve also seen some of your stunts in the past to wriggle around verbal promises. I’ll sit right here by the door. Come on back, Mike. I want to ask you some questions.”