Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

Shayne closed the car door on her side and went around to seat himself on the other side.

Sheila asked desperately, “Do you think you can prevent the police from finding out — and coming here to question Henry and me?”

“If your alibi is okay, I’ll do my best. A lot depends on your friend, Betty Hornsby. I have to establish exactly where you were between ten and ten-thirty last night.”

“Oh, Betty’ll give you my alibi, all right. I called her this morning and told her you might be around. She lives just three blocks from here — on Eighty-Fourth.” She gave him the number, and added, “She’ll remember all the places we went last night.”

“I hope it works out,” said Shayne absently.

“It will,” she told him, catching his hand and squeezing it tightly. “But tell me what happened after you left me last night. You were in a hurry to get to a dying woman to find out something about Wanda. Was it important?”

Shayne drew his hand away from hers and said, “I don’t know. She was dead before I got there. Do you know a couple of radio actresses named Mary Devon and Helen Taylor?”

Sheila thought for a moment, and said, “No.”

“Do you know a radio producer named Ralph Flannagan?”

“N-No. I don’t think so.”

“How well do you know Henderson?” he asked abruptly.

“Henderson?” She hesitated, sucking in her underlip. and her eyes were round and questioning.

“Donald J. Henderson. One of the local big shots.”

“Oh.” Her expression cleared. “I thought I recognized the name. I’ve seen it in the newspapers.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Okay, Sheila. I’ll talk with Betty Hornsby. If your alibi stands up, I’ll do my best to keep you out of the mess.”

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly. “I’ll do anything, if you can.”

Shayne looked at her speculatively and she met his gaze without flinching. A pulse throbbed in her smooth throat from some inner tension.

He nodded and said gruffly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He reached a long arm past her, unlatched the door, settled himself behind the wheel, and started the motor. Sheila Martin got out, hugging her grocery bag in her arm.

Shayne drove the three blocks with a frown of concentration on his face. He stopped in front of a small, homey cottage where purple bougainvillea and flame vine intertwined on either side of the door and ran rampant over the roof. The lawn was freshly cut and the property line was gay with blooming hibiscus.

The outward appearance left Shayne totally unprepared for Betty Hornsby when she opened the door to his ring.

Instead of the neat housewife he had pictured, with a couple of tots clinging to her skirts, he looked down upon a frowsy, fattish blonde with loose lips lavishly rouged. Her hair was rolled in metal curlers, and she wore a wraparound kimono of flowered silk that accentuated her uncorseted figure.

She said, “Come right in,” with a simpering smile. “Everything’s in an awful mess, but I haven’t had time to clean up after the party last night. You know how those things are.”

Shayne sternly reminded himself of the job he had to do, and went into the hot dimness of a shade-drawn and cluttered living-room. The stench of overflowing ash trays and the dregs of last night’s drinks filled the air. He took off his hat and dropped it in a chair, and politely declined Betty Hornsby’s effusive offers of a drink.

He said, “Please sit down. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course,” she said. “I know who you are now. You’re Michael Shayne, the famous detective. Sheila said you were just terribly good-looking, with red hair and all.” She sat down on a small sofa directly across from him and crossed her plump legs carelessly, letting the kimono fall away on both sides. “And she told me not to dare make a pass at you. As if I would,” she added with a silly giggle, “looking like this.” She touched the curlers with her finger tips. “But if you have a teeny bit of time, it’ll just take me a jiffy to fix you a little drink.”

Shayne tried to look genuinely sorry when he said, “I’m in a hurry right now. Maybe another time, now that I know the way. Right now I want to know about you and Sheila — what you did last night.”

“It was terribly exciting,” she told him. “Sheila was in a dither, but she wouldn’t tell me anything about it except that she just had to raise a lot of cash before midnight. I had some people invited in for later, but Henry had their car, so I took mine and just left the front door open and the lights on and the liquor set out so they could help themselves. Then I drove Sheila around to everybody I knew well enough to ask for a loan. She finally told me this morning that she needed the money to pay you for a retainer, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”

She paused, caught her breath, and leaned toward Shayne, her pale-blue eyes greedy, her lids puffed. “It isn’t her and Henry, is it?” she asked. “They’re not busting up?”

Shayne said gravely, “It’s a confidential matter, Mrs. Hornsby. What time did Sheila get here last night?”

She sank back and said, “She told me you’d want to know that. She came over at ten o’clock. I know for certain because I was waiting for the Helter-Skelter Boys to come on. Do you ever listen to them, Mr. Shayne? They’re just a riot some nights. They come on at ten o’clock and the announcer was just introducing them when Sheila came in. So, I went right out to help her raise the money, because she’s awfully sweet and I’d do anything for her.”

“Where did you go first?” Shayne queried.

“To Mamie Eldon’s. That’s over near the Boulevard and Ninetieth. John, that’s her husband, was asleep, but Mamie went through his pants and found forty-two dollars and gave it to Sheila. Then we stopped at the Crocus Bar on the Boulevard, and I borrowed ten from the bartender who is a real good sport.

“The Helter-Skelter Boys were just going off when we left the bar. They really should have more than a half-hour program. They are a scream, really, Mr. Shayne. There’s this fat one—”

“I really must be going, Mrs. Hornsby,” Shayne said firmly, and stood up.

“Miss Hornsby,” she corrected him with a simpering smile. She got up and followed him to the door. “I was going to tell you all the other places we went, and—”

“I’ll be back,” Shayne promised, “if I need any more information.”

“You do that anyway, and let me know next time and I’ll have some cognac. Sheila told me what you like to drink.”

“I’ll do that.” He stepped outside and breathed deeply of the fresh, sun-laden air.

He went down the walk without looking back, conscious that Betty Hornsby was standing in the doorway simpering after him, and wondering angrily how a woman like Sheila Martin could claim a floozie like Betty as her best friend.

He shrugged away his irritation, reminding himself that Sheila’s friends were no concern of his, and drove back to the Little River business section where he stopped at the first sign indicating a pay telephone.

He went in and dialed the number of the television actress Rourke had given him.

A pleasantly husky voice came over the wire in answer to his inquiry

“This is Muriel Davidson. Who’s calling?”

“Michael Shayne, Miss Davidson. Tim Rourke gave me your number this morning. I’d like to see you.”

“Michael Shayne!” She sounded breathless and a little disbelieving. “The detective?”

“Yes. Tim told me about your telephone call to him, and I’d like to discuss it with you.’

“I see. Certainly.” She turned off her excitement and her tone took on a businesslike quality when she said, “When would be convenient for you, Mr. Shayne?”