Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“And you’re not telling me how you went about it.” the chief said sarcastically.

“No. But I’m giving you what leads I have. You’re better equipped to follow them up.”

“All right.” Gentry came heavily to his feet. “My department will do the work of convicting Gurley, and you’ll sit back and collect a fat fee for the job.”

“That’s the way it goes, Will,” he agreed blandly. “And thanks.”

Gentry strode stolidly from the room, leaving the door open. Rourke followed him, closed the door carefully, then returned to sprawl in the chair vacated by the police chief. He said, “Damned if you don’t do some fancy skating on thin ice, Mike. Tell me how in the name of God you fixed it to substitute a letter naming Jack Gurley for the one Wanda wrote accusing Ralph Flannagan.”

“Even a newspaper reporter should be able to figure that one out.”

“Damned if I can, Mike. I was standing right there watching you open the envelope. Even if you had Hank Black primed to make some sort of switch during the fracas with Calloni, I don’t see how he could have pulled it. And I don’t believe a man like Black could be hired to tamper with the mail.”

Shayne grinned and punched a button on the intercom. He said, “Is the coast clear, Lucy?”

“Chief Gentry went straight out.”

“Throw the lock on the front door,” he directed, “and bring any other important mail in here — if there is any.”

“There is, Michael,” she said excitedly. I’ll bring it right in.”

Shayne snapped the switch and swiveled back in his chair. Rourke compressed his thin lips in wordless bafflement.

Lucy came in with a square white envelope in her hand, placed it in front of Shayne, and confessed, “I was so scared I thought I would die when Chief Gentry almost got the mail first. And then when you waved that check in front of his face—”

“You were perfect, angel,” Shayne cut in. “Let’s see what Wanda wrote to me.”

He tore the bulky envelope open and shook the contents onto the desk. There were five sheets of folded note paper instead of two, and a check for a thousand dollars folded in the center. He glanced swiftly at the four letters, all identical except for the different names, and pushed them aside. He read the covering letter aloud to Lucy and Rourke.

“‘Dear Mr. Shayne: I’ve called your office twice this afternoon, but now it’s too late to reach you before tomorrow, so I’m writing this letter of explanation in case I am dead before you receive it.

“‘Someone is trying to murder me, has tried twice in the past week, and the police seem unable to do anything about it.

“‘There are four people whom I suspect equally, though I haven’t the faintest idea which one of them it is. I haven’t given their names to the police because then I would have to explain why I suspect them, and that’s my secret and will remain my secret.

“‘The only precaution I can think of which may frighten the guilty one into giving up his attempts is to write four separate letters, each naming one of the persons I suspect, and send a carbon of each letter by messenger to that person. In that way, each one will think the entire burden of suspicion will fall on him if I am killed, and will be frightened off — I hope.

“‘I enclose my check for one thousand dollars as your retainer to investigate my death if it occurs tonight, and to convict one of the four.

“‘If my plan works and I am still alive tomorrow morning, I will telephone you for an appointment.

“‘Sincerely hoping to make your acquaintance, I am very truly yours, Wanda Weatherby.’”

“FOUR OF THEM!” Timothy Rourke exclaimed as Shayne finished reading. “Our Wanda must have been quite a gal.” He scooped up the four enclosures and shuffled through them, muttering, “Here’s Flannagan. And a woman — Sheila Martin. And Jack Gurley, by God! He’s here, all right. And Donald J. Henderson! Why, the old whited sepulcher. What sort of game has he been playing behind teacher’s back?” His feverish, slaty eyes studied the notes spread out before him, then lifted to study the detective’s face thoughtfully. “You didn’t even bother to look at the names of her suspects,” he charged.

“I had already seen copies of three of those letters,” he answered dryly, “and I had every reason to believe Gurley was the fourth.”

“You’d seen three of them, eh? So the gal you were necking last night was Sheila Martin, and not the Sylvia you pawned off on Gentry.”

“It was purely impromptu,” Shayne told him, glancing at Lucy. “I had to explain her in some way so Gentry wouldn’t start digging.”

Rourke nodded thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to get it. If Ralph, or any of the three others, had realized Wanda had named the other suspects, none of the four would have been so worried.”

“That’s exactly what must have occurred to her when she wrote the four letters. She fixed it so that each one thought he was the only suspect — which would be a stronger deterrent than if each had known that he — or she — was only one out of four.”

Rourke whistled significantly. “She had a right to be worried, with four people after her blood. I take it that you fixed that other letter, Mike. Mailed it to yourself so you could hand it to Gentry. Wasn’t it kind of tough on Gurley to single him out for Gentry to work on?”

“I meant it to be tough on him,” Shayne growled. “The others at least came to me for help. Besides, he’s the only one of the four without an alibi. That is, I haven’t checked Mrs. Martin’s yet, but I have a hunch it will stand up.”

Rourke muttered, as if to himself, “Three out of the four have alibis.” He frowned and closed his eyes, considered for a moment, then said, “It looks almost like — collusion.”

Shayne nodded. “Could be. The trouble is, none of the three admits knowing the others.”

“Could they all have had the same reason?” Rourke asked.

“If Flannagan is telling the truth about that picture some guy snapped of them at the motel,” Shayne observed, “Sheila Martin certainly couldn’t have had the same reason. And I don’t think Gurley is the type to be taken in by a thing like the Flannagan deal. If he did shack up with Wanda and she had a picture of him, he’d just tell her to go to hell.”

Again there was silence. Lucy Hamilton, who had been standing and listening attentively, drew a chair back and sat down.

Rourke’s head was bent, his chin resting on his chest, his eyes closed. He straightened and said, “I’m wondering about Henderson. I like him for a suspect — the mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s just the type to fall for the Flannagan setup — only in more luxurious surroundings.”

Shayne shook his red head. “Henderson swears he never even heard of the woman.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No. But I have no proof to the contrary. And he has an alibi. That’s something you can check for me, Tim. Someone on your paper must have covered the Civic Association meeting last night where Henderson presided. Check to see if he was definitely there all the time between ten and ten-thirty.”

“Will do,” said Rourke cheerfully. “Wanda Weatherby must have been quite a femme fatale to have given four such widely dissimilar people reason for wanting her out of the way.”

“She evidently played the field,” Shayne agreed. “But what we need is someone who actually knew the woman before we can begin to guess why four people wanted her murdered.”

“What will Gentry do if he finds out you hoaxed him on Wanda’s letter?”

“Jerk my license,” he said soberly. “The only way I can justify covering up for those three is to prove them innocent.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Suppose you make a start, Tim, by checking Henderson’s alibi. Don’t just take the word of one reporter, but get hold of a couple of other people who were at the meeting. Then I’d like to meet you at the paper in about an hour and go through every damned thing in your morgue on Gurley.” He paused, turned to Lucy Hamilton, and said, “You can reach me there if anything comes up.”