Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

The bathroom was surprisingly large and beautifully appointed for a small bungalow. The sunken tub was fully six feet long, and there was a curtained dressing-alcove, and mirrors reflected his image everywhere. He didn’t have time for an inventory, but Shayne was impressed by the cleanliness and the luxury of expensive taste, from the silver-topped cosmetic jars, the huge fluffy towels monogrammed WW, and other appointments that didn’t quite fit into the pattern of disorder in the back bedroom where Wanda Weatherby apparently conducted whatever business she was engaged in.

The front bedroom confirmed his impression that the dead woman had done herself exceedingly well. The bed was an oversize Hollywood creation with a silk coverlet that touched the floor on both sides. The chests of drawers were large and seemed to be genuine antiques, and here, as in the bathroom, mirrors reflected the room from all available wall space. A chaise longue near the bed looked daintily feminine, covered in creamy silk to match the drapes and dotted with a pattern of blue flowers.

He heard a prowl car squealing to a stop as he opened the door of a large corner closet for a quick look. The smell of some exotic perfume floated out, and there was a neat array of dresses on padded hangers.

There was not the slightest sign anywhere of male occupancy, Shayne thought. He crossed the thick white rug to open the front door when he heard hurried footsteps approaching.

One of the uniformed men recognized Shayne. “Mike,” he exclaimed. “We got a flash.”

“I called in. She’s in there,” he said soberly. “I took a quick look around after I phoned,” he went on, “but didn’t make a thorough search. You want me outside?”

“Yeh, sure. Homicide’ll be here, and then—”

“I’ll stick around.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the open door of the living-room. The patrolman entered, and Shayne went out past two officers stationed at the front door. He lit a cigarette, and drew smoke deeply into his lungs.

Other official cars began racing up at top speed, and brakes screeched. The lights went on in two of the neighboring houses, and curious faces appeared at windows.

Detective Dickerson, in charge of the first detail, leaped from his car and approached Shayne. He was a tall, slender man with incredibly wide shoulders. He said quietly, “What’s the trouble here, Mike?”

“Murder,” Shayne told him grimly. “I found her dead on the floor at ten thirty-eight. When she didn’t answer her doorbell, I broke in the back door for a look. Then I phoned in.” He paused, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Have your men check the lawn from the first side window of the living-room to the hedge. Looks to me as though she was shot through the screen. Rifle, probably.”

“Okay, Mike.” Dickerson didn’t ask any other questions, but said, “Stick around. Chief Gentry is on his way.”

“I’ll wait around.” Shayne tossed his cigarette away and walked out on the lush green lawn, his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

The setup in Wanda Weatherby’s house disturbed him. The contrast between the bare, dingy back bedroom and the rest of the house, so neat and clean and expensively furnished!

“Hello, Mike,” a deep, rumbling voice interrupted his thoughts.

Shayne whirled around. “Oh, hello, Will.”

Chief Will Gentry was a big, solid man with graying hair and slightly protuberant eyes the color of granite. He was chewing on the stub of a cigar which he tossed away before he asked, “What’re you doing here, Mike?”

“When did you start chasing ambulances?”

“When they told me you called headquarters,” he rumbled. “Who’s the dame?”

“My guess is Wanda Weatherby. But you’ll have to get somebody else to identify the body.”

Gentry reached a pudgy hand to his hat and thrust it back from his forehead, rolled his crinkled lids up to study Shayne’s face shrewdly in the faint moonlight. “Tell me about it.”

“At ten o’clock tonight a woman called me. Said her name was Wanda Weatherby. I didn’t know her, but she said she’d tried to call me twice today at my office and couldn’t get me. She said she’d written me a letter I’d get in the morning. She was frightened and talked fast and didn’t give me a chance to say no. She begged me to come out right away, and hung up. I tried to find her number and call her back, but she isn’t listed in the telephone book. So I beat it out here. The house was lighted just as it is now, but she didn’t answer when I rang. I took a gander through the side window there and saw her on the floor. I broke in the kitchen door. It was locked and I had to break the glass. When I saw she was dead and I couldn’t help her, I phoned headquarters.” He spread out his hands and added, “That’s all.”

Chief Gentry said stolidly, “Let’s go in.”

They walked across the lawn in silence and through the open doorway. A police doctor was bending over the body, photographers were snapping pictures of the death room, and other experts were prowling about the house, searching for physical clues.

Detective Dickerson met them just inside, holding the small lump of metal in his hand. “A soft-nosed bullet from a high-power rifle,” he told the chief. “It was on the rug, about three feet from the body. Came through that open window across the room.”

Shayne went past them to peer over the doctor’s shoulder at the dead woman. The body had been turned over, and there was a small round hole just above the bridge of her nose where the bullet had entered. There was a trickle of blood from the hole, but otherwise her face was not disfigured.

She appeared to be in her early thirties, with smooth skin and carefully arched brows. The features were a trifle thin, nose and chin sharply outlined, and in life she probably possessed a serene and patrician beauty. In death, the face was pinched and tight, the jaw hanging laxly open and the inner portion of the lips showing blue beyond the line of crimson lipstick.

The police doctor rocked back on his heels and looked up as Gentry joined them. Then he came to his feet, yawned, and said, “They can take her away any time. Death was instantaneous and probably about an hour ago.”

Gentry asked Shayne, “What time did you say she called you, Mike?”

“A few minutes after ten.” His watch showed 10:53 now, and he nodded slowly. “That fits. She must have got it very soon after she hung up. Dickerson got anything else, Will?”

“Not much. A neighbor has identified her as Mrs. Weatherby. They’re working the neighborhood for someone who heard the shot or saw anything.

“She rented this place about six months ago,” the chief rumbled on. “Lives here alone. Has a cleaning woman come in every afternoon. Very unneighborly and reputed to have lots of money, and suspected of leading a gay life, but nothing definite. Now you give us something, Mike.”

“I told you I had this phone call from her at ten o’clock.”

“Was she terribly frightened?” Dickerson broke in. “As though she feared this?” he added, indicating the corpse.

“She was afraid, all right. Worked up and highly emotional. But I didn’t get the impression she knew a murderer was waiting outside to shoot her. In other words, she had no reason to believe she wouldn’t be alive to talk to me when I got here. At least, that’s my impression,” Shayne ended truthfully.

“What did she call you about today?” Gentry demanded.

“I have no idea. I was at the races and didn’t get back to the office. I can call Lucy and ask her.”

“I’ll call Lucy,” said Gentry. “I’ve got one hell of a hunch you’re holding out something, Mike. It smells like one of your stunts, damn it.”