Shayne pinched the child’s tanned cheek gently and said, “By, now,” stood up and said to the woman, “I’ll meet her outside so as not to disturb her husband.” He nodded to her, put on his hat, and went down the walk to wait for Sheila.
She was bareheaded and wore a peasant blouse and full skirt and tan sandals on bare feet. She carried a grocery bag and her pace slowed when she saw him waiting. She stopped close to him and said anxiously, “What is it, Mr. Shayne? Has anything happened?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he told her lightly. “Thus far, no one else has seen Wanda Weatherby’s letter accusing you. And insofar as I know, the police are not aware of your existence.”
“Thank God!” she breathed. “Do you know who did it?”
Shayne shook his head and suggested, “Let’s sit in my car for a minute. Your neighbor said your husband is asleep, and there’s no need to drag him into this. And don’t worry about what your neighbor will think,” he added as Sheila hesitated and glanced at the woman. “I told her I was a credit investigator on a routine job. She’ll expect me to ask you a few questions.”
Sheila looked relieved, and went with him, got in the front seat of his car, and said, “Jane is a grand neighbor, but she does have an awful streak of curiosity.”
Shayne closed the car door on her side and went around to seat himself on the other side.
Sheila asked desperately, “Do you think you can prevent the police from finding out—and coming here to question Henry and me?”
“If your alibi is okay, I’ll do my best. A lot depends on your friend, Betty Hornsby. I have to establish exactly where you were between ten and ten-thirty last night.”
“Oh, Betty’ll give you my alibi, all right. I called her this morning and told her you might be around. She lives just three blocks from here—on Eighty-Fourth.” She gave him the number, and added, “She’ll remember all the places we went last night.”
“I hope it works out,” said Shayne absently.
“It will,” she told him, catching his hand and squeezing it tightly. “But tell me what happened after you left me last night. You were in a hurry to get to a dying woman to find out something about Wanda. Was it important?”
Shayne drew his hand away from hers and said, “I don’t know. She was dead before I got there. Do you know a couple of radio actresses named Mary Devon and Helen Taylor?”
Sheila thought for a moment, and said, “No.”
“Do you know a radio producer named Ralph Flannagan?”
“N-No. I don’t think so.”
“How well do you know Henderson?” he asked abruptly.
“Henderson?” She hesitated, sucking in her underlip, and her eyes were round and questioning.
“Donald J. Henderson. One of the local big shots.”
“Oh.” Her expression cleared. “I thought I recognized the name. I’ve seen it in the newspapers.”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Okay, Sheila. I’ll talk with Betty Hornsby. If your alibi stands up, I’ll do my best to keep you out of the mess.”
She grabbed his arm and squeezed it tightly. “I’ll do anything, if you can.”
Shayne looked at her speculatively and she met his gaze without flinching. A pulse throbbed in her smooth throat from some inner tension.
He nodded and said gruffly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He reached a long arm past her, unlatched the door, settled himself behind the wheel, and started the motor. Sheila Martin got out, hugging her grocery bag in her arm.
Shayne drove the three blocks with a frown of concentration on his face. He stopped in front of a small, homey cottage where purple bougainvillea and flame vine intertwined on either side of the door and ran rampant over the roof. The lawn was freshly cut and the property line was gay with blooming hibiscus.
The outward appearance left Shayne totally unprepared for Betty Hornsby when she opened the door to his ring.
Instead of the neat housewife he had pictured, with a couple of tots clinging to her skirts, he looked down upon a frowsy, fattish blonde with loose lips lavishly rouged. Her hair was rolled in metal curlers, and she wore a wraparound kimono of flowered silk that accentuated her uncorseted figure.
She said, “Come right in,” with a simpering smile. “Everything’s in an awful mess, but I haven’t had time to clean up after the party last night. You know how those things are.”
Shayne sternly reminded himself of the job he had to do, and went into the hot dimness of a shade-drawn and cluttered living-room. The stench of overflowing ash trays and the dregs of last night’s drinks filled the air. He took off his hat and dropped it in a chair, and politely declined Betty Hornsby’s effusive offers of a drink.
He said, “Please sit down. I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” she said. “I know who you are now. You’re Michael Shayne, the famous detective. Sheila said you were just terribly good-looking, with red hair and all.” She sat down on a small sofa directly across from him and crossed her plump legs carelessly, letting the kimono fall away on both sides. “And she told me not to dare make a pass at you. As if I would,” she added with a silly giggle, “looking like this.” She touched the curlers with her finger tips. “But if you have a teeny bit of time, it’ll just take me a jiffy to fix you a little drink.”
Shayne tried to look genuinely sorry when he said, “I’m in a hurry right now. Maybe another time, now that I know the way. Right now I want to know about you and Sheila—what you did last night.”
“It was terribly exciting,” she told him. “Sheila was in a dither, but she wouldn’t tell me anything about it except that she just had to raise a lot of cash before midnight. I had some people invited in for later, but Henry had their car, so I took mine and just left the front door open and the lights on and the liquor set out so they could help themselves. Then I drove Sheila around to everybody I knew well enough to ask for a loan. She finally told me this morning that she needed the money to pay you for a retainer, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”
She paused, caught her breath, and leaned toward Shayne, her pale-blue eyes greedy, her lids puffed. “It isn’t her and Henry, is it?” she asked. “They’re not busting up?”
Shayne said gravely, “It’s a confidential matter, Mrs. Hornsby. What time did Sheila get here last night?”
She sank back and said, “She told me you’d want to know that. She came over at ten o’clock. I know for certain because I was waiting for the Helter-Skelter Boys to come on. Do you ever listen to them, Mr. Shayne? They’re just a riot some nights. They come on at ten o’clock and the announcer was just introducing them when Sheila came in. So, I went right out to help her raise the money, because she’s awfully sweet and I’d do anything for her.”
“Where did you go first?” Shayne queried.
“To Mamie Eldon’s. That’s over near the Boulevard and Ninetieth. John, that’s her husband, was asleep, but Mamie went through his pants and found forty-two dollars and gave it to Sheila. Then we stopped at the Crocus Bar on the Boulevard, and I borrowed ten from the bartender who is a real good sport.
“The Helter-Skelter Boys were just going off when we left the bar. They really should have more than a half-hour program. They are a scream, really, Mr. Shayne. There’s this fat one—”
“I really must be going, Mrs. Hornsby,” Shayne said firmly, and stood up.
“Miss Hornsby,” she corrected him with a simpering smile. She got up and followed him to the door. “I was going to tell you all the other places we went, and—”
“I’ll be back,” Shayne promised, “if I need any more information,”
“You do that anyway, and let me know next time and I’ll have some cognac. Sheila told me what you like to drink.”
“I’ll do that.” He stepped outside and breathed deeply of the fresh, sun-laden air.
He went down the walk without looking back, conscious that Betty Hornsby was standing in the doorway simpering after him, and wonderin
g angrily how a woman like Sheila Martin could claim a floozie like Betty as her best friend.
He shrugged away his irritation, reminding himself that Sheila’s friends were no concern of his, and drove back to the Little River business section where he stopped at the first sign indicating a pay telephone.
He went in and dialed the number of the television actress Rourke had given him.
A pleasantly husky voice came over the wire in answer to his inquiry.
“This is Muriel Davidson. Who’s calling?”
“Michael Shayne, Miss Davidson. Tim Rourke gave me your number this morning. I’d like to see you.”
“Michael Shayne!” She sounded breathless and a little disbelieving. “The detective?”
“Yes. Tim told me about your telephone call to him, and I’d like to discuss it with you.”
“I see. Certainly.” She turned off her excitement and her tone took on a businesslike quality when she said, “When would be convenient for you, Mr. Shayne?”
“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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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.”
“I’d like that very much.” He looked at the check while she finished her coffee and the last crust of dry toast, laid two bills and some change on it, and got up with her, suggesting, “My car is outside.”
“It’s quite far out on West Flagler,” she told him. “They have temporary offices there in an old building, and have fixed up a small studio for shooting interiors.”
They went out together, and Shayne swung into the flow of traffic on Biscayne Boulevard southward.
The improvised television studio proved to be an old three-story wooden mansion near Coral Gables. Shayne parked in the spacious front yard beside a dozen other cars and went with Muriel Davidson up the rickety front steps and into a hallway which opened onto what had once been the ballroom. Now, it was a huge, bare space with electric cables overhead and underfoot, spotlights suspended from the ceiling and mounted on heavy metal stands. There were four large cameras on rollers, and standing at one side of the room there were two flats at right angles to each other, simulating the corner of a room, with a sofa and two overstuffed chairs intimately and cozily arranged. Two girls and a man lolled on the sofa and in the chairs which were surrounded by brilliant spotlights and cameras. A dozen or so men moved about them, gesticulating and arguing in what seemed to Shayne a babel of confusion.
Muriel said, “I’m afraid I’m late, and I’m not even made up, so please excuse me. I have to hurry. You’ll find Harold in his office on the second floor—up those stairs and the first door to the right. And do explain to Harold why I sent you to him.” She hurried away and disappeared through a doorway on the left.
What Really Happened Page 12