“I left the clips for you,” said Shayne dryly.
“How did Gurley explain them to you?”
“He didn’t.”
“What did he say about them?”
“Why, just like you, Will, I didn’t think it was good business to spring them on him right then.”
“How else did you explain your interest in the Weatherby woman—your reason for going to him?”
“That wasn’t included in the trade,” said Shayne calmly. “But I assure you I didn’t put anyone else on the spot by intimating that he had sent me around.”
Gentry opened his mouth to reply, but checked himself with an effort. He set his half-emptied highball glass down and heaved his bulky body up from the couch, asking gruffly, “You coming along, Tim?”
“I think maybe I’ll stick around a few minutes,” Rourke answered slowly, avoiding Shayne’s eyes. “I’ll finish this drink and find out if his blonde has a friend.”
Gentry snorted and started for the door. The telephone rang, and the police chief stopped and turned back to listen while Shayne answered.
A girl’s excited voice came over the wire. “Is this Michael Shayne? The detective?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t know me, Mr. Shayne, but I’m Mary Devon. Helen Taylor’s roommate.”
“Yeh?” he repeated when she paused. He glanced sardonically at the reporter and police chief who were listening intently.
“Something terrible has happened,” the girl’s voice resumed and grew panicky as she hurried on. “Helen—I’m afraid she’s dying, Mr. Shayne. I’ve called a doctor, but she keeps mumbling your name over and over. And something about Wanda Weatherby. I can’t understand it at all, but maybe you’ll know. You’d better hurry over here because I’m afraid—oh—that must be the doctor now.”
“Where are you?” Shayne demanded.
She named a small hotel on Miami Avenue, gave him the room number, and Shayne said, “Right away.”
He slammed the receiver down and leaped to his feet muttering angrily, “This is a hell of a mess. Sylvia’s husband. He’s on his way here now. You two guys can stay if you want, but I’m getting out of here fast.”
CHAPTER NINE
Michael Shayne straightened his tie, grabbed his jacket, and shrugged into it on his way to the bedroom. He jerked the door open and said to Sheila, “We’ve got to get out of here in a hurry, babe,” in a loud, excited voice. “Your husband’s on his way here with blood in his eye.”
She was lying on the bed, fully clothed. “Wh-at?” She sat up slowly, her eyes round and staring in disbelief.
Shayne knew the two men were listening with amusement, and he made his voice angry. “Come on, for God’s sake! Pete just phoned to tip me off.” He caught her by the arm and rushed her out, stopping to snatch up her fur jacket from the couch.
Gentry and Rourke were at the door. Rourke grinned evilly and suggested, “Want me to smuggle her out, Mike? You can wipe that lipstick off your face and try to convince the guy you’ve been spending the evening with a good book.”
“Thanks,” Shayne snapped. “I’d rather be out when he gets here.” He pushed past the two men, dragged Sheila along with him to the elevator, jabbed impatiently at the elevator button, saying harshly, “Damn it, you told me he was all tied up for the night.”
Having no idea what the detective was talking about or why he was making this pretense, Sheila played up to him by looking as frightened and disconcerted as possible. She said, plaintively, “I don’t know how on earth he knew I was here, darling. I just don’t understand it, but please let’s hurry.”
The elevator came and the quartet got in and stood in awkward silence as it went down. Shayne got out first and strode swiftly across the lobby with his arm linked firmly in Sheila’s, calling over his shoulder, “See you at the office in the morning, Will.”
His car was parked at the front entrance. He pushed Sheila in the front seat, trotted around, and got in and sped away before Chief Gentry and Rourke emerged from the doorway.
“Had to do it that way,” he explained before she could start asking questions. “That call was from a dying woman—something about Wanda Weatherby, and I had to get out fast and shake Will Gentry at the same time. Only thing I could think of was the outraged-husband gag.”
Sheila sighed with relief. “You did it very efficiently,” she told him. “As though you’ve had practice. And neither of them seemed surprised.”
“Sorry to have to characterize you as an adulterous female,” Shayne muttered, swinging north onto First Avenue.
“Don’t be.” Her voice was light—almost gay. “For a little while back there I’m not sure I would have minded dreadfully being one.”
“There’s Henry,” Shayne reminded her, his tone as light as hers.
“I know. And I do love him. I guess I’m awful. I guess all women are—at times.”
“Not awful. Just honest enough to admit sometimes that monogamy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A very interesting topic of discussion. But right now I’m chasing down a murderer and I suggest you hop out here at Flagler.” He slowed for the main street of the city, and Sheila agreed in a subdued voice.
“I guess I’d better. But you didn’t take my money for a retainer.”
“Forget the money right now.” Shayne reached past her to open the door as he braked the car. “After I check your alibi will be time enough for that. I’ve got a green light,” he pointed out.
Sheila Martin bit her underlip and slid out. She started to say something, but Shayne gunned the motor to slide across Flagler as the light turned yellow. He drove north eight blocks, then swung left to one-way Miami Avenue and back half a block to pull up in front of the shabby Metro Hotel.
He entered a smelly, empty lobby. The desk was deserted, but a printed sign propped upon it read: Ring Bell for Clerk. Shayne strode to the stairs, went up two flights and down a narrow corridor searching for the number Mary Devon had given him over the phone.
Number 32 was next to the rear and the door stood ajar with light streaming through. Shayne tapped and pushed it open upon a small bedroom.
A girl reclined on the bed, crying quietly. A man stood beside her with a doctor’s bag in his hand. He wore bedroom slippers and a gray bathrobe over seersucker pajamas, and Shayne realized that the call had, indeed, been urgent.
The slim, balding doctor blinked nearsightedly at the detective and said to the girl in a weary, nasal voice, “I will have to report this to the police, of course. Leave everything just as it is until they arrive.”
Shayne stood blocking the doorway. He said, “Miss Devon?”
The girl gazed at him through her tears and nodded listlessly. “Are you Mr. Shayne? Helen is—The doctor says—”
“Michael Shayne?” The doctor lifted his brows expressively and looked relieved. “As you see, I came as quickly as I could, but it was too late. The young lady was—ah—D.O.A. You understand the importance of leaving everything untouched for the police. I’m Doctor Brinstead. The body is in the adjoining room.”
Shayne acknowledged the introduction, then asked, “Poison?”
“Indubitably. Definitely an alkaloid, and almost certainly strychnine.” He turned to the weeping girl. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Miss Devon. I’m afraid nothing could have saved your friend at the time you discovered her condition. I’ll make a full report to the police.”
“Suicide?” Shayne demanded, still blocking the doorway as the doctor made a tentative move to leave.
“Probably. Most deaths by strychnine poisoning are. It’s possible it was taken accidentally, though Miss Devon insists there were no medicines at hand containing the poison.”
“Could it be murder?”
“That’s a matter for the police to determine, Mr. Shayne. It would be my guess that at least half a grain was ingested sometime between one and four hours prior to death. Analysis of the stomach contents is very important, and this should be rep
orted at once.”
Shayne nodded and stood aside to let the doctor pass. He crossed over and sat down beside the girl and said quietly, “Please tell me everything you can before the police get here. We won’t have any chance to talk after that. First, what exactly did your friend say about me and about Wanda Weatherby?”
“Nothing, really. That is, nothing I could understand. Oh, it’s so horrible, Mr. Shayne!” she wailed. “I just can’t realize Helen is dead. She was delirious and sort of incoherent when I came home about twelve—and having convulsions. Oh! It was awful! And in between convulsions she would moan your name—and that woman’s. Wanda Weatherby. I never heard of her before, but I did know you were a famous detective. So I called Doctor Brinstead first, and then telephoned you to come. I guess she was actually dying when I was talking to you.”
“Who was Helen Taylor?” Shayne asked. “And who are you? Tell me about yourselves—and make it as fast as you can. You see,” he added bitterly, “Wanda Weatherby was also murdered tonight—before I could reach her.”
His last words struck through Mary Devon’s grief. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes terrified. “Then you really think Helen was—was—”
“Murdered,” Shayne supplied for her. “Unless she killed Wanda and then committed suicide. Perhaps that’s what she wanted to tell me. Try to remember every word she said so we can judge whether that could be it.”
“I just don’t know,” Mary said helplessly. “But Helen wouldn’t murder anybody. Not ever. She was sweet and nice—and so full of fun—” Her voice choked up, and Shayne got out a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand.
“Blow your nose and get hold of yourself,” he urged. He got up and restlessly crossed the bedroom to an open door at the rear leading into the bathroom. The connecting door was closed. He opened it onto a duplicate of the other.
A figure lay on the bed with a coverlet drawn over it. There was some disorder here, with clothes and towels strewn about on chairs, and Shayne’s face was masklike as he went around to the side of the bed and drew back the spread.
Helen Taylor was young, and had probably been an extremely attractive girl. Now, her body was arched rigidly in a final convulsion and her features were horribly contracted, the skin a characteristic dark blue shading to gray on the throat and breast.
He replaced the coverlet and returned somberly to the other room. Mary was sitting erect, wiping her eyes, and she managed a smile when the redhead re-entered her room.
“I just don’t know what to tell you,” she burst out. “I saw Helen about seven-thirty when I had to go out, and she seemed exceptionally cheerful. We’ve been roommates here for almost six months, and the best of friends. I had no premonition of anything like this. I knew she was going out later, but when I left she said she’d probably be home before I came in. When I did come back, she was—”
“Do you know where she went?” Shayne interrupted.
“No.” Mary hesitated a trifle. “It was something that came up unexpectedly—just before I went out, I think. She had a telephone call while I was dressing, and before that she had planned to spend the evening at home. The call made her happy, and I had the impression that it was—well, a man. But she didn’t tell me anything except that she would be going out, and I didn’t question her.”
“Any particular man?”
“No—not that I know of. Helen was popular and had lots of dates, but I didn’t know about anything serious. You see, we’ve been in radio quite a while, and we meet lots of people at the stations and on different programs.”
“In radio?” Shayne pounced on that small crumb of information. “Actresses?”
“Yes. That’s how we met. And it made it pleasant to share these two bedrooms.”
“Do you know Ralph Flannagan?”
“Oh, yes.” Mary looked at him in surprise. “He produces the show I’m on regularly. ‘Fragments From Life.’ It’s just a daytime serial, but really quite well written and produced.”
“Did Miss Taylor work on his show?”
“No. That is, not one of the regular roles. She did do bit parts on it now and then.”
“So she knew Flannagan?”
“Yes.”
“How well? Did she ever date him?”
“Ralph? I don’t think so. He never—that is, I never heard of him showing any interest in any of the girls on his show. I think he’s engaged to marry his sponsor’s daughter. That’s what they say. Some of them think that—well, that’s the reason he’s got a sponsor. But it is a good program with a high rating, and most of that talk is just jealousy.”
“Do either of you do any television work?” Shayne asked abruptly.
“We haven’t yet. There actually isn’t much television here. Some film companies come down on location, but no live shows.”
“Do you know if Flannagan did any television?”
“I don’t think so. Everybody in radio is interested in it, of course, and wants to get a foothold, but there isn’t much opportunity here yet.”
“Have you heard any rumors of anyone going in for making pornographic kinescopes for private showing? Anyone being approached for that sort of thing?”
“No.” Mary Devon wrinkled her brow and appeared to be answering honestly. “I certainly haven’t been. And Helen never mentioned anything like that.”
“And you have absolutely no idea where she was between the time you went out at seven-thirty and your return about midnight?”
“No, I haven’t, Mr. Shane.”
“Did she receive a letter by special messenger this evening?”
“Not while I was here. And I had the impression she was leaving right after I did.”
“Try once more,” Shayne urged her, “to remember if you haven’t ever heard the name of Wanda Weatherby before.”
Mary shook her head slowly. “I’ve been racking my brains ever since Helen started mumbling her name. But I just don’t know.”
“The police will be here in a very few minutes,” Shayne warned her. “Tell them the truth—just as you’ve told me. Don’t try to hide anything. And if you remember anything important—or learn anything at all, please telephone me.”
He started for the door. She stopped him to ask in a troubled voice, “Shall I tell them you were here?”
“You’ll have to. The doctor will, and it’s all right. You had every reason to telephone me. I’ll be in touch.” He waved a big hand reassuringly and hurried out, down the stairs, and into the empty lobby. A police car pulled in to the curb behind him as he got into his car and hurried away.
CHAPTER TEN
Michael Shayne parked on a quiet side street just east of the Boulevard in front of his secretary’s apartment building. Glancing up at the second-floor windows as he got out he saw that they were dark.
In the small foyer he pressed her button three long rings and waited with his hand on the doorknob. He turned it when her buzzer released the latch, went in and up the stairs two at a time and down the hall where Lucy Hamilton waited for him in the doorway.
She wore a quilted robe over flowered pajamas, and her brown hair was brushed back neatly from her face and caught with a ribbon in the back. Barefooted and with no make-up, she looked absurdly childlike as she stepped back inside exclaiming, “I’d just got back to sleep, Michael. What’s been happening?”
“I’ll bring you up to date in a minute.” He ruffled her hair and dropped a light kiss on her lips. “But here’s something first,” he added, striding to the telephone stand. He lifted the directory and began leafing through it in search of Ralph Flannagan’s number. He found it listed, a direct line that did not go through the building switchboard.
Lucy stood beside him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What on earth?”
“Here—take the receiver and dial this number. I’ll call it off for you. And start talking fast when a man answers,” he directed. “Say, ‘This is Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard over the radio about Wanda Weather
by and I have to see you at once.’ That’s all. Make your voice sound excited and worried. Don’t answer any questions except to insist you’re Helen Taylor and must see him. Got it?”
“Let’s see—I’m Helen Taylor and I’ve just heard about Wanda Weatherby over the radio and have to see him at once. Who, Michael?”
“His name is Ralph Flannagan, but I don’t know whether Helen would call him Ralph or Mr. Flannagan or darling, so try to skip it.” He called the numbers as she dialed, then stepped aside to light a cigarette.
Lucy waited a moment, then spoke rapidly and excitedly into the mouthpiece. He watched her face tensely when she finished, heard the faint crackle of Flannagan’s voice over the wire.
“I am Helen,” she insisted after a moment. “And I must talk to you at once.” She listened again for a moment, then hung up. “My voice must have sounded all wrong,” she said ruefully. “He simply didn’t believe I was Helen Taylor, and acted as though he didn’t know what any of it was about. He said he would call me back to check, and then hung up. He sounded frightened and angry, Michael. Does that help?”
“It might.” Shayne stood for a moment rubbing his angular jaw, his gaze remote and withdrawn. At this moment, only one person other than the police, Dr. Brinstead, the girl’s roommate, and himself could possibly know that Helen was dead—or had reason to suspect she was so ill from poison that it was unlikely she could be using the phone.
Shayne said slowly, “Try exactly the same thing on Jack Gurley at the Sportsman’s Club, Lucy. You’ll know better what to listen for when I tell you that Helen Taylor died about twenty minutes ago from strychnine. If she was murdered, the person who fed her the poison is the only one who knows about it.”
Lucy nodded uncertainly. “Your Mr. Flannagan seemed awfully certain I wasn’t Helen Taylor. On the other hand, he was going to call her back. Would he do that if he knew she was already dead?”
“He might. If his nerves were steady enough and he thought fast enough. On the other hand, it’s what an innocent man would normally do if your voice didn’t sound right. Try it on Gurley, anyway. Those are the only two strings I’ve got right now. Shall I mix you a drink?”
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