Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“Right now.”

“I’m on my way to breakfast. Then I have to go on to the studio.”

“Have breakfast with me,” suggested Shayne.

“That would be wonderful. I’m near the Boulevard and Twelfth. You name the place.”

Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “Meet me at Cramer’s. Do you know the place?”

“Oh, yes.”

“In fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

Her voice had a hopeful lilt as she said good-by, and Shayne scowled when he hung up, realizing that she would keep the appointment, expecting to be offered a part in a radio show that existed only in someone’s mind. He hated himself for not disillusioning her over the phone, but that would have required a lot of explanations that were better left until he could make them in person.

SHAYNE TOOK A VACANT BOOTH at the front of the bar after checking to make sure Muriel Davidson wasn’t waiting. He ordered a double sidecar from the waiter, asking him to go easy on the Cointreau and heavy on the cognac, and telling him to set a place opposite him for an expected breakfast guest.

Muriel and the cocktail arrived at the same time. She was young and slender and astonishingly beautiful, with a well-boned face, lustrous dark eyes, and an outward air of demure composure which could not conceal the excitement seething within her.

Shayne half rose and smiled as she hesitated on the threshold. She saw him immediately and came to the booth, asking in a nicely modulated voice, “Are you Mr. Shayne?”

“I am. Miss Davidson?” She said she was Muriel Davidson, and when she was seated across from him, Shayne settled back with his sidecar.

She ordered orange juice, black coffee, and dry toast, explaining with a wry smile, “TV is lots harder on a girl’s diet than radio.”

“I’ve heard that TV is tougher on performers than radio in a lot of ways. How long have you been working in it?”

“Oh, I’ve just started recently. Is your new show going to be on TV or just radio, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne hesitated a moment. He liked the girl’s clear eyes and the youthful honesty of her manner. He made up his mind swiftly and said, “That’s what I want to talk about, Muriel. Frankly, the first time I heard of such a plan was when Tim Rourke mentioned your phone call this morning.”

She blinked in astonishment. “You mean they haven’t made arrangements with you yet?”

“I don’t even know who they are,” he explained.

“But that’s impossible. They’d certainly have to have your consent, wouldn’t they?”

“I should think so.”

“I don’t understand at all.” Muriel hesitated, and it was evident that she was bewildered and terribly disappointed. “I was told it was all settled, and that they were casting the show and getting ready for rehearsals.”

“Who told you that?”

She said, “I’m sorry, but I gave my word of honor not to tell, but the information should have been authentic. I understood that the girl who was chosen to play the lead would be unable to do it, and that there was a definite opening for someone. That’s why I phoned Tim so early this morning. Things move fast in this business, and I thought if I could arrange to meet you and you liked me for the part—” Her voice faltered self-consciously, but she managed a smile. “It seemed such a good idea for a program. It is a perfectly wonderful idea,” she went on strongly. “With your reputation and all the publicity you’ve had. It’s a natural, Mr. Shayne. It couldn’t possibly miss. Perhaps the producer who dreamed it up is holding back from contacting you until he gets an audition script ready and a show in rehearsal. That would explain why it’s all so hush-hush. It’s an idea that could be stolen by anyone. And it really is terrific. Any of the networks would grab it. A real detective in real-life cases,” she ended, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement,

Shayne smiled at her enthusiasm. “Maybe. Suppose I promise you this, Muriel. If such a program does materialize in the future, I’ll do my best to see that you are engaged for the job. In exchange for that promise, you tell me who told you about it.”

The eagerness faded from her young face, and she shook her head despondently. “I can’t do that, Mr. Shayne. I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why did your informant exact such a promise?”

A frown creased her forehead and smoothed away. She said, “I don’t know exactly. I imagine he was violating a confidence to give me the tip. You don’t know how jealous and secretive everything is in radio and television.”

“Was it Ralph Flannagan?”

“Oh, no.” Her answer came forthrightly and without hesitation, “I know Ralph, of course, but just casually. Do you think he plans to produce it?”

Shayne shrugged. “He just happens to be the only person I know in Miami who is actively engaged in radio.” He paused while the waiter set Muriel’s frugal breakfast before her, then asked, “Does the name Wanda Weatherby mean anything at all to you?”

“That’s — the woman who was shot last night.”

Shayne nodded. “Have you ever met her — heard her name mentioned before in any connection?”

“No. I’m quite sure I haven’t. It isn’t a name one would easily forget. Why, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne emptied his cocktail glass before replying. “I’m going to be absolutely frank with you, and this is confidential. I don’t know how this hooks up, but it’s definitely possible that the story you heard about me going on radio has something to do with Wanda Weatherby’s death. Every move I make in my investigation brings me into some sort of contact with radio and television. That’s why I’m going to ask you to break your promise and give me the name of the person who tipped you off about my program.”

Again she frowned, and her eyes were puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I don’t understand myself,” he said irritably. “It’s a possible lead. That’s all. And I have damned few of them thus far. Did you know Helen Taylor?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. Quite well. I was terribly sorry to read about her sudden death in the paper this morning. I saw her only a few days ago, and she seemed perfectly healthy.”

“The morning paper didn’t carry the full story,” he told her gravely. “Helen Taylor was poisoned.”

“You mean — murdered?”

Shayne nodded. “This is also confidential. I have reason to believe she was murdered by the same person who shot Wanda Weatherby. The person whom you may be protecting by keeping your promise.”

“Oh — no!” Her reaction was instantaneous and positive. “He couldn’t have — No, Mr. Shayne. It just isn’t possible.”

“I’m not saying your friend is a murderer,” said Shayne. “On the other hand, would you protect him if he were? If he had killed Wanda Weatherby and your friend, Helen Taylor?”

“No. Certainly not. But nothing would ever make me believe that about him.”

“If he can inspire such loyalty in a nice person like you,” Shayne said persuasively, “he must be all right. But I need to know where he heard the rumor he passed on to you. That’s all. It may be very important.”

“But, Mr. Shayne, I’m positive he had no idea of anything like that when he phoned me,” she said earnestly.

“Of course not. If he realized it might be important information in a murder investigation, don’t you think he would want to tell me?”

“I suppose so.” She sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Yes. I’m sure he would. It was Harold Prentiss who phoned me. He’s assistant director on the show we’re shooting now. He’ll be at the studio if you’d like to go with me and talk to him right now.”