Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“What will you be doing and where can I reach you in the meantime — in case Chief Gentry wants you, Michael?”

“Checking on Sheila Martin’s alibi and satisfying myself that she really does love her husband enough that the threat of raking up a past mistake was sufficient motive for her to commit murder. But don’t tell Gentry that,” he added with a broad grin.

Rourke was walking out of the room with him. The reporter stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, and turned to Shayne with a wide, crinkled grin. “In all the confusion, there’s something I almost forgot, Mike. What’s this about you going on the radio?”

Shayne stopped, and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Or is it television? You know, one of those private-eye programs.” Rourke struck an attitude and declaimed: “Tonight, folks, we bring you another exciting adventure in the life of Michael Shayne, redheaded, hard-fisted private eye of Miami, Florida. Scourge of the underworld and the darling of gangsters’ molls, we bring you Michael Shayne in one of his most exciting adventures.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Shayne demanded irritably.

Rourke dropped his pose and said seriously, “It’s a swell idea, Mike. You could play the lead yourself. The only honest-to-God real-life detective on radio, with Lucy playing the part of your ever-loving secretary. You’d have everything the other shows have got, plus the fact that it would be real.”

Lucy came up behind them and said breathlessly, “I think it would be a wonderful idea, Michael. They could dramatize your cases from our files Are you realty thinking about it?”

Shayne looked from Lucy to Rourke, a puzzled frown between his eyes, “It’s news to me. Where did you get the idea, Tim?”

“Hasn’t anyone approached you about it?” the reporter asked seriously.

Shayne snorted. “No. What makes you think they have?”

Rourke searched his friend’s face, said, “You wouldn’t kid me, Mike?”

“I wouldn’t kid you,” he retorted, and again demanded, “Where did you get the idea?”

“Why — a girl I know who’s been doing some television work called me early this morning to ask me if there was any chance of her meeting you to see if she could get on the program. She knows I’m a friend of yours, and said she’s heard the program was being set up, and wanted an inside track.”

Shayne tugged at his left earlobe thoughtfully. “You say this girl is in television? I thought all the shows in Miami were on film.”

“Then there isn’t anything to it?” Rourke asked sadly. “This girl is a nice kid. She’s been in radio—”

“There isn’t anything to it,” Shayne cut in sharply. “I don’t know where she got the idea, but I’d like to know. What’s her name?”

“Muriel Davidson. I’ll give you her phone number, but I warn you she lives with her mamma and is what is known, euphemistically, as a good girl.”

Shayne snapped, “I’d still like to have her phone number.” He took a small book from his pocket and wrote it down as Rourke repeated it.

Lucy said, “Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, Michael. Tim is absolutely right. You’d be a lot better on radio or television than a lot of those guys. You could be realistic.”

Shayne whirled on her and demanded, “You aren’t in on this, are you, Lucy?”

“Me? Gosh, no. It’s the first I’ve heard of it, but I think it’s wonderful. Would they pay him for it, Tim?”

“We’ll stick to detecting, Lucy,” Shayne told her before the reporter could answer, “Here’s something I want you to do while I’m out.” He reached in his pocket and brought out the envelope containing the clipping he had picked up in Wanda Weatherby’s home. The name and address of the bureau was printed in the left-hand corner. He showed it to Rourke and asked, “Do you know how an outfit like this operates?”

“Sure. This New York concern is one of the biggest in the country. They cover every newspaper and periodical in the country, and will clip items on anything — at so much per clip.”

“On what basis?”

“I think you pay in advance for a certain number of clips. Fifty or a hundred, or something like that. When that quota is filled, you can either renew your order or not, as you wish.”

Shayne nodded and handed the envelope to Lucy. “Call them long-distance,” he directed, “and find out when Wanda Weatherby started getting clippings on Gurley. If they hesitate about giving out information, tell them their client is dead and that it’s a homicide investigation.” He turned and strode out of the office with Timothy Rourke a step behind him.

SHEILA MARTIN LIVED in a duplex apartment in the Little River section north of Seventy-Ninth Street. A little girl of four or five was playing on the front lawn when Shayne stopped his car and got out. As he went up the walk he saw a young woman sitting in a metal chair under a coco-palm just off the walk of the other entrance.

The woman stopped knitting and watched his approach with placid curiosity. She wore a neat cotton dress and had a thin, intelligent face.

Shayne took off his hat and said, “I’m looking for Mrs. Martin.”

“She’s out at the moment,” the woman said pleasantly. “Gone down to the corner for a can of coffee. She’ll be back in a few minutes if you’d care to wait.”

“Thanks, I will.” He dropped to his knees on the grass and smiled at the bright-eyed child who approached him with shy interest. He said, “Good morning. Do you live here?”

She put the knuckle of her forefinger between her teeth and nodded with a smile.

“Doris is shy with strangers,” the woman said. “Don’t be afraid of the nice man, darling, and take your finger out of your mouth. I’m Doris’s mother,” she volunteered, “and we live in this side of the duplex.” Her dark eyes appraised Shayne openly, as though trying to decide whether he was selling something or had come to collect an overdue bill.

Shayne said, “I’m with a credit agency, making a routine check. Do the Martins own or rent?”

“We both rent. They’re good neighbors,” she went on quickly, “Mr. Martin has a steady job and is a good man. He works nights and sleeps late in the mornings.” She hesitated as though about to say something else, but looking past Shayne down the street, she said, “There comes Sheila now.”

Shayne pinched the child’s tanned cheek gently and said, “’By, now,” stood up and said to the woman, “I’ll meet her outside so as not to disturb her husband,” He nodded to her, put on his hat, and went down the walk to wait for Sheila.

She was bareheaded and wore a peasant blouse and full skirt and tan sandals on bare feet. She carried a grocery bag and her pace slowed when she saw him waiting. She stopped close to him and said anxiously, “What is it, Mr. Shayne? Has anything happened?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he told her lightly. “Thus far, no one else has seen Wanda Weatherby’s letter accusing you. And insofar as I know, the police are not aware of your existence.”

“Thank God!” she breathed. “Do you know who did it?”

Shayne shook his head and suggested, “Let’s sit in my car for a minute. Your neighbor said your husband is asleep, and there’s no need to drag him into this. And don’t worry about what your neighbor will think,” he added as Sheila hesitated and glanced at the woman, “I told her I was a credit investigator on a routine job. She’ll expect me to ask you a few questions.”

Sheila looked relieved, and went with him, got in the front seat of his car, and said, “Jane is a grand neighbor, but she does have an awful streak of curiosity.”