Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

“Sometimes I guess I’m not very smart.”

“How right you are. I can have you run out of Miami, shamus.”

“I doubt that.”

“Or carried out feet first.”

“I doubt that, too.” Anger blazed in Shayne’s gray eyes. He leaned forward and doubled one hand into a fist. “Do you want to talk about Wanda Weatherby before I read her letter — or afterward?”

Gurley said, “You’re making a big mistake.”

“Nuts to that!” Shayne shoved his chair back and stood up, leaning over the desk with both hands flat on the desk. “You and your cheap trigger boys. Keep them off my tail, Gurley. If any of them mess with me, I’ll hold you accountable.”

Jack-The-Lantern Gurley leaned back comfortably and clasped both hands behind his head. “Sounds to me,” he drawled, “as though you’ve been reading some of your own publicity. Get wise to yourself and don’t let the Weatherby bitch suck you into anything. If I hadn’t thought you knew how to add two and two I’d never bothered tipping you off. If you want money,” he added indifferently, “I’ll pay you five times what she offers.”

“She hasn’t offered me anything yet.”

“There’ll be a grand in her letter tomorrow. Mail it back to her and the next morning there’ll be an envelope with five thousand in it.”

“In payment for what?”

“For not snooping into things that don’t concern you, Look,” the club proprietor continued persuasively, “we’re both businessmen. So we make a deal. I admit it was probably a mistake to have Nick telephone you. But hell! I don’t know you very well. I can see now that you’re a lot like me. I’d get sore, too, and stick my neck out if I was given the office to lay off. So you didn’t scare. Okay. It would have been cheaper if you had, so you can’t blame me for trying.”

“What has she got on you?” Shayne demanded.

“Nothing,” said Gurley promptly. “But I don’t like stinks. Somebody,” he added darkly, “is going to bump that dame off some day, and I don’t want to be involved. That’s all. You know how it is when a man’s name gets mixed up in a murder investigation.”

“Yeh. I know. That’s why I came for your side of it first,” Shayne stated flatly. He paused, holding his breath to see whether Gurley would rise to the bait. If he had ordered the rifle shot that sent a bullet into Wanda’s brain, he must realize that she was already dead. And that was the only way he could possibly know so soon.

But the gambler either didn’t know or was too smart to fall into the trap. He said casually, “I’ve got nothing to tell anybody about Wanda Weatherby. And you can make five grand in one day — and stay healthy on top of that by staying clear of that dame.”

Michael Shayne jerked himself erect and picked up his hat from the desk. He said, “I hear your daughter is being married soon. Congratulations.”

“What does that crack mean?” Gurley stiffened and his voice was abruptly cold with anger.

Shayne shrugged. “Is it a crack to congratulate a girl’s father on hooking a husband like Thomas Marsh the Third; of the Nashville Marshes, isn’t he?”

He knew he had struck pay dirt by the expression on Gurley’s normally impassive features. But all the gambler said was, “Get out, Shayne.”

“Sure. I don’t like stinks, either.” He turned and walked out deliberately, went down the stairs and into the small anteroom.

The doorman said, “I’ll have your car for you at once, Mr. Shayne.” He turned and spoke into the mouthpiece of an intercommunication set.

Shayne brushed past him and went out the door where he strode to the end of the canopy and waited. He knew he had been a fool to lose his temper with Jack-The-Lantern Gurley. That wasn’t the right approach to a man like that. And he hadn’t learned anything except that his hunch as to the source of the mysterious telephone call had been correct.

There was still Timothy Rourke’s friend on Fortieth Street. And a woman named Sheila Martin who had promised to see him at twelve. Between them, he might be able to learn something about Wanda Weatherby and why she had been murdered.

THE COURTLAND ARMS was located on East Fortieth Street, one of the newer and larger apartment houses in the city. A severely utilitarian building with the entrance near the sidewalk. The lobby was small, equipped with a long, narrow table centered by a tall potted plant, and two large ash trays; there were three leather chairs, an information desk on the left, and a switchboard behind it.

An elegant white-haired lady sat at the switchboard. She turned to look Shayne over with impersonal disinterest as he approached.

He said, “Flannagan? Number twenty-six, I believe.”

“Yes. Is Mr. Flannagan expecting you?”

Shayne said he was, and she told him that the apartment was on the second floor to the right of the elevator.

The cage was waiting on the ground floor, and the detective tramped over, pushed the button to open the door, and went up He pressed the button of Apartment 26, and the door was opened almost immediately.

Ralph Flannagan said, “Mr. Shayne? Come right in. My God, am I glad to see you!”

His hand was well-fleshed, but his grip was hard, and he wrung Shayne’s with an effusive heartiness that seemed a trifle out of place under the circumstances.

In fact, the immediate and over all impression conveyed by Flannagan was that he was working hard at being hearty and masculine and vital. His heavy black hair was cut too short, and his features were plump; his body thick and stocky. He gripped a bulldog pipe between his teeth, and managed to look tweedy and outdoorish, though he wore a shabby smoking-jacket over a white shirt with the two buttons open to reveal a tanned and hairy neck. Walking behind him as he led the way through the small foyer, Shayne noted that his rump was exceedingly fat, and it jiggled with each step.

Through the archway, and over Flannagan’s head, Shayne saw Timothy Rourke’s emaciated body sprawled in a deep chair. He had a highball glass in his right hand. On his left, atop an end table, a deep ash tray was heaped with cigarette butts.

The reporter raised his glass and said, “Hi,” as his host hustled the detective through the archway into the living-room. Low bookshelves along one wall were crammed with much-handled volumes, and an imposing radio-phonograph combination was flanked by two tall, well-filled record cabinets. The couch and three comfortable chairs were covered with maroon slipcovers, and all were equipped with convenient end tables and ash trays. A room where a man could relax with smokes and drinks and good books.

But, he thought wryly, it was a little too much for the room. It was as though the effect had been carefully calculated instead of merely accumulative through the normal course of living. As though the occupant was aggressively determined to prove himself the sort of man who would have such a room. A tenuous impression, he told himself, and probably unfair to Ralph Flannagan.

“Hi, Tim,” Shayne greeted Rourke. He grinned widely and added, “The body looks natural — with a tall glass in one hand.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Shayne,” Flannagan said. “Make yourself comfortable. I don’t have to ask what you’d like to drink,” he went on effusively. “Cognac, eh?” His white teeth flashed in a smile that would have been a simper on a less masculine face.

“About three fingers in a washtub,” Shayne told him. “With a glass of ice water on the side. I see that my reputation has preceded my visit,” he added, glancing at Rourke.

Flannagan chuckled and went toward the kitchen. Shayne’s gaze followed him, curiously, until he disappeared through a door at the far end of the room.