Brett Halliday - What Really Happened

MICHAEL SHAYNE HEARD his telephone ringing when he stopped in the corridor and put the key in the lock of his apartment door. The time was a little past nine-thirty, and he felt whipped down, ready for a nightcap and bed. He frowned at the insistent ringing as he walked in and switched on the light. His first impulse was to ignore it, but the boy at the switchboard had seen him come through the lobby, and Shayne knew he would keep ringing until it was answered.

As it was, he took his time. He tossed his hat on a hook near the door, yawned widely, and ran a big-fingered hand through coarse red hair as he crossed to the wall cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac. He filled a three-ounce glass, let half the liquor trickle warmly down his throat, and with bottle and glass in his hands he recrossed the room to his desk. Thumping the bottle down, he lifted the receiver, said, “Shayne speaking,” and took another sip of cognac.

The answering voice was a surly growl. “Is that Mike Shayne, the shamus?”

Shayne hesitated, scowling heavily and taking the receiver from his ear as though to return it to its prongs. Then he lifted one shoulder slightly and said, “This is Michael Shayne. Who’s speaking?”

“Never mind that. You wouldn’t know my name nohow, shamus. I got this here message and you better listen clost because it’s on the line.” There was a pause which Shayne assumed was intended to impress him with the seriousness of the message to follow. Then: “Lay off Wanda Weatherby.”

The rangy detective’s ragged red brows rose slightly. He said, “Who?”

“Wanda Weatherby. That dame’s dynamite — to you. Lay off her, see?”

“I can’t very well lay off her,” said Shayne easily. “I never heard of her. What in hell is all this about?”

“Wanda Weatherby,” the surly voice said. “A dame. You’ll be gettin’ a letter from her, but if you’re smart like they say, you’ll tear it up without readin’ it and stay clear of her.”

Shayne said, “Nuts,” and hung up. Again he yawned, and looked at his watch. The time was nine forty-two. He finished his cognac, loosened his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The telephone rang immediately. He let it ring twice before answering. The same voice complained, “We was cut off, I reckon.”

Shayne said, “I hung up.”

“I thought maybe you did.” The man sounded perturbed and slightly regretful. “The boss ain’t gonna like it if I tell him you didn’t get the whole message. God knows why he wants to give a lousy shamus like you a chance to keep on livin’, but he does. He’s funny that way. He says to tell you it’d worry his conscience if you got bumped off without askin’ for it. But if you ask for it you’ll get it, see?”

Shayne growled, “Tell your boss—”

“I’m tellin’ you.” The receiver clicked at the other end of the wire.

Shayne slowly replaced the receiver and absently tugged at the lobe of his left ear. Wanda Weatherby? The name was one that would stick in a man’s memory. He was quite sure he had never heard it before. He shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. What the hell? Miami was full of dames he didn’t know. Hundreds of thousands who came every year looking for thrills. A certain per cent was bound to get into trouble.

He strode into the kitchenette and took out a tray of ice cubes, ran warm water over them, dislodged half a dozen, and put them into a tall glass. He filled the glass with water and returned to his desk where he refilled a smaller glass with cognac. Settling himself in the ancient, creaky swivel chair, he leaned back and crossed his long legs comfortably. He lit a cigarette and blew out a long puff of smoke. Pleasantly relaxed now, he had forgotten about getting to bed early.

The telephone rang for the third time. Shayne grinned, This would be the boss, he told himself, with some more mysterious hocus-pocus about Wanda Weatherby — a woman he didn’t know. He hunched forward and picked up the receiver, then swiveled back to say curtly, “Mike Shayne speaking.”

“Hello. Is this Michael Shayne? The private detective?”

Shayne’s left brow went up. This was a woman’s voice. Sensuous and sultry and flowing over the wire. A brunettish sort of voice, he thought. He said, “Yes.”

“I’m Mrs. Martin.” There was a suggestion of a question mark in her tone.

Again he said, “Yes?” interrogatively.

“Sheila Martin, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne swore under his breath. She sounded as though she expected him to remember her. During the pause he rubbed his lean jaw with his free hand and realized that he had never met a woman named Sheila in the flesh. Only in books where they were green-eyed and lovely and improbably sexy. While he was wondering what color her eyes were, she continued.

“I guess you haven’t heard from Wanda?”

“No,” Shayne admitted. “I haven’t heard from Wanda.”

The catch in her voice came over the wire, and she said urgently, rapidly, “I have to see you, Mr. Shayne. Please. Tonight. It’s terribly important.”

He said, “I’ve just settled down with a drink.”

“Of your favorite cognac?”

Shayne sensed the effort to make her voice light, for he knew she was worried, and frightened. He glanced at his glass and said, “Croizet,” and took an approving sip.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour,” Sheila Martin said, her voice urgent again. “I can’t — get away right now — but would midnight be too late?”

“For what?”

“I can’t explain over the telephone, Mr. Shayne. It’s — well — risky. I might be overheard. I can’t get away right now. Would you mind dreadfully if I came there about twelve?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all, Sheila.”

“You’re wonderful,” she breathed. “I — You will be alone, won’t you?”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll see you then, Michael Shayne.”

From another woman the last words would have been a coo. From Sheila Martin they were provocative, promising.

She wasn’t young, he thought, as he hung up and swayed back in the swivel chair. Old enough to dispense with coyness. Young enough to use her sex appeal to get what she wanted from a man. He alternately sipped cognac and ice water, and idly hoped that she wanted something important from him. But in spite of his mood, he wondered whether she was the boss who wanted him to have no part of Wanda Weatherby.

Shayne slid down in the chair, rested his head on the hard back, and put his big feet up on the table, a glass in each hand. He closed his eyes between sips, and the telephone calls did slow somersaults in his relaxed mind. He was wondering who the devil Wanda Weatherby was when the telephone rang for the fourth time.

He jerked forward, swung his feet to the floor, and picked up the receiver fast. Before he finished saying, “Shayne speaking,” a woman’s voice broke in, high-pitched, hysterical. Her words rushed into his ear explosively, as though they had been long pent up.

“Mr. Shayne, this is Wanda Weatherby and you don’t know my name but I tried to call you twice today and then wrote you a letter you’ll get in the morning. I thought I could wait until then but now I’m just frightened to death and I’ll die if you don’t help me.”

Into the silence while she caught her breath, Shayne asked, “What are you afraid—”

“Please don’t interrupt me,” she screamed. “It’s a life-or-death matter, and I’ll be holding my breath until you get here. Please hurry! West Seventy-Fifth Street.” She gave him a street number not far from Miami Avenue and hung up before he could ask another question.