She Woke to Darkness

by Brett Halliday

  Brett Halliday

  She Woke to Darkness

  Author’s Foreword

  In each of the twenty-four published adventures of Michael Shayne, the stories have necessarily come to you second-hand—written in third person by me from Mike’s notes and from talks with him after the case was ended.

  Thus, all descriptions of people involved, all the dialogue, incidents and bits of action, were channelled to my readers through me from Shayne’s memory after the case was closed.

  This may have been all for the best. I think it is quite true that later events do affect one’s precise memory of what has gone before, causing one’s subconscious to suppress certain things that may have been misinterpreted at the time, and to twist the memory of one’s thoughts and actions to make them appear a little more prescient than they may have actually been.

  As I say, this may have been all for the best. By going back and retelling a case to me after it was ended, Michael Shayne may well have subconsciously interpolated story values that were not actually inherent in the events as they progressed. True objectivity and absolute honesty of detail do not always make for good storytelling.

  This case is different. This story happened to me, Brett Halliday. For once, the truth was no stranger than fiction.

  I’ve enjoyed putting it down on paper, now that it’s all over and I’m still alive to do the telling, and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as the previous cases in which I was a mere onlooker.

  Brett Halliday

  1.

  It all began Thursday evening, April 23rd, 1953. I was spending a week in New York, seeing publishers and meeting old friends, and I had timed my visit to coincide with the annual Edgar Allan Poe Awards Dinner given by the Mystery Writers of America, of which I have been a member for many years.

  The dinner is held each year in the grand ballroom of the Henry Hudson Hotel in New York, bringing together several hundred mystery writers from all over the country who meet with distinguished fans and guests to honor the Father of the modern Detective Story. Ceramic busts of Poe (known as “Edgars”) are presented to winners of awards in the various mystery fields for the preceding year, and everyone has a few drinks and there’s much shop-talk.

  The bar was already well-crowded when I went in. Since I had been away from New York for many years, most of the people were strangers, with here and there the familiar face of a friend I had known in MWA from years ago. There were Ed Radin, Bruno Fischer, Clayton Rawson and Veronica Parker Johns, also Helen Reilly, the Grande Dame of the mystery field, who had just been elected the president of the Mystery Writers, and her four charming daughters (two already successful mystery authors on their own); there were editors like Frank Taylor of Dell, Cecil Goldbeck of Coward-McCann, Harry Maule of Random House, and many others, none of whom are important to this story.

  I went up to the bar for a brandy, and looked down the seating list for my own name. I had been placed at table Seven, with my old friend David Raffelock from Denver, Robert Arthur, who was slated to receive an Edgar for his radio program, and Dorothy Cecil, whose novels I had long admired and whom I had always wished to meet.

  When I reached the dining room, they and their wives were all circulating around the table, introducing themselves to each other. I said, “Hi,” to the Raffelocks, congratulated Bob Arthur on the Edgar he was receiving, and then began looking around for Dorothy Cecil.

  She had already seated herself quietly at the table.

  As soon as I saw her sitting alone, with her head slightly tilted and a faint smile on her lips, I knew she had to be the author of SERGEANT DEATH and TREASON FOR TWO—both favorites of mine. She had intelligent gray eyes, a wide, smooth forehead and soft brown hair brushed down over the temples. I suppose she was in her early thirties but there was a glint of gray in the brown hair, and it pleased me greatly to notice that she made no effort at all to brush it so the gray would be concealed.

  All this is unimportant except that it leads up inevitably to what happened later. I might not have gone out with Elsie Murray later if I had not sat beside Dorothy Cecil at dinner.

  I don’t know. That’s probably beclouding the issue. I did sit beside Miss Cecil, and I did go out with Elsie.

  Dorothy Cecil was looking at me as I stood there. I went to her at once. “I’m Brett Halliday. Do you mind if I sit here?”

  She smiled and said, “I recognized that black eye-patch from pictures I’ve seen. I’d love to have you sit beside me.”

  She had a low, vibrant voice. I looked at her squarely and said, “My, God! SERGEANT DEATH! Soporific candles made from the rendered fat of newborn babies.”

  Her face lit up and her eyes twinkled happily. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually read my books?”

  “Every one I could get hold of. Which I’ll bet is more than you can say of mine.”

  She cupped her chin in her left palm and looked thoughtful. “THE PRIVATE PRACTICE OF MICHAEL SHAYNE. Was that the first?”

  So, then we were off. On the favorite topic of all authors—our own books. She had read most of the Shaynes, and discussed them intelligently. But Bob Arthur sat on her right and he talked to her for a time while dinner was being served. I discussed old Denver friends with Raffelock. But all the time I was acutely conscious of Dorothy Cecil on the other side of me. I was alone in New York, and the night lay ahead. So far as I could judge she was alone at the Poe dinner also.

  There was no more than that. Just the delightful possibility of further acquaintance with a charming woman. Nothing one would try to force. Something that might happen if the Gods were good.

  The conversation became general and we were waiting for dessert when I was able to talk with Dorothy privately again. I saw waiters serving drinks to diners at other tables and tried to catch the eye of one, but failed. Somehow I never have achieved the technique of catching a busy waiter’s eye. So I pushed back my chair and told Dorothy I was going out to the bar to fetch a drink and would she like one?

  She said, “Bring me a cognac in honor of Mike,” and my hunch grew stronger that the Gods were going to be kind.

  But by the time I returned with my drinks, table-hopping had begun. Dorothy’s seat was vacant when I set her glass down, and I’d hardly seated myself when Dick Carroll of Gold Medal came by and dragged me over to his table to meet a couple of girls in the editorial department. While I was there I saw Dorothy come back to her chair and take one sip of the cognac I’d brought her, and then she was up enthusiastically talking to some man I didn’t know and going away with him to meet someone at his table. And that’s the way it went on for the next couple of hours while the Edgar winners got their trophies.

  Dorothy Cecil, I realized dismally as I tried to keep track of her in the crowd, was simply too popular a person for an outsider like myself to hope to get much of her time. One of the finest craftsmen in the mystery field, she was being passed from one table to another whenever I saw her. So, I gave up trying.

  Again, I’m afraid I’m saying all this badly. Making a great deal more out of it than it deserves. But it is what I recall most vividly of the evening. I still think Dorothy Cecil and I might well have had a pleasant evening together if so many other people hadn’t intervened. As it was, I felt a rather galling sense of disappointment when the stage show was over and I drifted out to the bar again with two or three hundred others. It was only a little past eleven o’clock, and a lonely hotel room waited for me. I knew I could attach myself without too much trouble to many of the small groups that were congregating and planning where to go for further drinks, but somehow I was not in the mood for that.

  I had no way of knowing I was going to meet a girl named Elsie Murray, but I realize I was definitely read
y for her when it did happen.

  2

  There was a lot of jostling around and coming and going at the bar. I knew less than a third of the people there, and was feeling lonely when Fred Dannay came up end shook hands and asked me when I was going to submit another short story to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine’s annual contest.

  I grinned and reminded him that he and Manny Lee turned down my last effort, and asked if the other half of Ellery Queen was there.

  He said three of Manny’s seven children were sick and he hadn’t been able to make it. Neither had George Harmon Coxe who was in Panama for a few days. “And I don’t know what happened to John Dickson Carr,” he added.

  “That’s easy,” a voice snickered behind me. “He couldn’t decide whether to come as Harper’s guest as John Dickson Carr; or as Morrow’s guest in the person of Carter Dickson.”

  I turned and saw it was Avery Birk speaking. He’s one of my less favorite competitors, bald and pudgy, with a porcine face and small eyes set too close together. He’s the sort who’s always patting the girls on their fannies and making snickeringly suggestive remarks, and his writing is atrocious. You probably know his character, Johnny Danger, the private eye who beds every blonde he meets within five minutes of being introduced. A compensation, I’ve always believed, for the author’s manifest inability to bed any dame, blonde, brunette or bald-headed.

  Avery insisted on pumping my hand and buying me a drink, and Fred Dannay eased away and I was lonely again. Avery asked me how my books were selling in hard covers and I told him, “Lousy,” and he nodded wisely and said I’d never learned to put enough sex in my books. His were selling over ten thousand copies in the first editions, he went on, and he had an offer from one of the houses doing original soft-cover books of a $15,000 advance for a book if he would guarantee them at least five hot sex scenes.

  I knew he was probably selling about three thousand copies in hard covers, and might possibly have been offered $2,500 for a soft-cover original, so I shrugged and drank his drink and turned back to the bar away from him to be lonely some more.

  I was pouring my third drink of cognac from the bottle I’d had the bartender leave in front of me when I heard a low voice on my left saying, “I’ll bet you it’s the guy that writes Mike Shayne. Uh… can’t think of his name just now, but that’s him all right.”

  The speaker was jammed up close beside me on my left side. My patch is on that eye and I couldn’t see who it was. I kept looking straight ahead and pretended not to hear, but there’s no author in the world who wouldn’t have listened.

  A second voice, beyond the first speaker, replied scornfully, making no effort to keep his voice low: “You mean Brett Halliday? Maybe it is. Who could care less?”

  “Sh-h-h, Lew. Maybe you don’t like his stuff, but he’s one of the real old-timers.”

  “That’s just it. His stuff is old hat. My God, I bet I outsell him four to one and I’ve only been writing three years!”

  I poured my drink down and then turned deliberately to look at the pair who were discussing me.

  The lad next to me had a fresh, round face and ingenuous blue eyes. His corn-colored hair was cut short. He caught my eye as I turned, and a flush spread over his face. He said eagerly, “You are Brett Halliday, aren’t you? I’m Jimmie Mason, a new member. I’ve only had a couple of shorts published, but I’m working on a novel now.”

  I shook hands with him. He had pudgy fingers but they pressed hard on mine. I said, “Good luck, Jimmie, but it’s a tough racket.”

  “I don’t see anything tough about it,” a voice sneered from beyond him. “What with reprints and all, any hack writer who’s got brains enough to know what the public wants can pick up ten or fifteen grand a year without half trying. Know what Matthew Blood got for his last twenty-five cent original?”

  I looked past Jimmie Mason at a dark, thin, angry face. He had a mustache that reminded me of Peter Painter’s in Miami Beach. Wavy black hair was parted carefully in the middle, and he wore a little red and white polka dot bow tie. I never saw a person I instinctively disliked more, and more easily at first sight.

  Of course, I should be honest enough to admit his attitude toward my writing wasn’t exactly calculated to make me love him. In eighteen years I’ve learned pretty well to laugh off criticism of my books, but it had taken me a good many years of hard work to reach the point where my income was over ten thousand a year, and it didn’t sit too well to be told by a young punk that any hack writer could do it without half trying.

  I said, “No. And I’m not particularly interested what Blood got for a slop-bucketful of sex and sadism.”

  “Cut it out, Lew,” begged Mason. “You’ve had one too many drinks. This is Lew Recker, Mr. Halliday,” he went on hastily. “He writes suspense novels. You know… THE WRITHING WORM. It got swell reviews.”

  “I doubt if he ever reads anything except his own stuff,” Recker put in. “And, God! What a bore that must be.”

  I set my glass down slowly on the bar. I know my face was stony, and I’ve been told my one eye gets a peculiar fixed glare when I’m really angry. At that moment I was really angry. I work damned hard on my books. I try to make each one individual and, with the varied material Mike Shayne’s cases provide, I think I succeed. If I wasn’t so particular, I could do four books a year and double my income. So now I was in a mood to start something.

  Jimmie Mason looked frightened and tried to push in front of me. I put my left hand on his shoulder and shoved him back from the bar. Then I felt a hand gripping my right shoulder hard, and heard a cool voice saying urgently, “Brett! I want you to meet someone.”

  I recognized Millicent Jane’s voice. Millicent has always been one of my favorite people. She not only writes extremely well, but she is poised and lovely and clever.

  How much Millicent had seen or sensed of what was going on between Lew Recker and me, I don’t know. But the interruption was opportune enough, and I set my teeth together hard and turned to see Millicent smiling coolly and holding the arm of a girl wearing a simple, black crepe dress. And she had pleasant, intelligent features, dark brown ringlets on her head and one of the most kissable mouths I’ve ever looked at.

  I said, “Hi, Millicent. I’ll buy a drink,” but she shook her head and stepped back a little and said in her rich voice, “I’ll take a rain-check on it, Brett. This is Elsie Murray, who’s here as a guest tonight and she’s been dying to meet you all evening. Why don’t you buy her a drink?”

  I said, “I will,” and “Hello, Elsie. Why should you be dying to meet a has-been like me? I’m not Matthew Blood, you know.”

  She said, “I know.” She was tall for a girl. Five-eight, I’d guess, and she held herself erect as though she were proud of her height. “I know all about you, Mr. Halliday. I’ve read every book you ever wrote. Not only that, but I actually went to the trouble of getting them all together and reading them in the order in which they were written, from DIVIDEND ON DEATH right through to ONE NIGHT WITH NORA.”

  She didn’t say it gushingly, but with a quiet sincerity that made it sound real. She moved up to the bar beside me and I looked down at the clean neck-line beneath the upswept brown curls, at the pleasant fullness of her body that was just right for her height. I took in a deep breath and she smelled good. No perfume that I could discern. Just a clean female fragrance that made me want to press my face against her hair and inhale it. Or against the back of her neck. Or her lips.

  Sure, that’s what I thought of the first moment as I looked down at her—fleetingly and without forming conscious thoughts on the subject. At the same time, I was saying jokingly, “That must have been quite a job… with Dell bringing out the old reprints right along with the new ones.” I nodded to a hovering waiter and as he stepped closer she said, “Can I have a drink of cognac? It would be silly to drink anything else with Brett Halliday, wouldn’t it?”

  I let out a deep, satisfied breath as the waiter brought her glass.
Everything had righted itself suddenly, and the evening was no longer a total loss. Avery Birk was still bellied up to the bar at the other side of Elsie, but even the smirk on his fat face as he looked at her didn’t bother me. I even forgot all about Lew Recker on my left as Elsie looked at me gravely.

  “That’s when I got started collecting your books so I could go through them in order,” she told me. “When it reached the point where one book I’d buy on the newsstand had Michael Shayne married to Phyllis and so very happy; and in the next one I’d find him flirting with a secretary named Lucy Hamilton; and then in the next he’d just be meeting Phyllis Brighton for the first time when she was afraid she’d murder her own mother.” She shook her head in dismay. “It was terribly confusing.”

  She had violet eyes, I guess. If there is any such thing as violet eyes. Maybe a deep, deep blue with lavender shadings. Her eyebrows were heavy and straight and unplucked. I guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She didn’t look virginal, but she looked—How do you say it? Virtuous? No, that’s too stern. Chaste? Too prim. Perhaps the word I want is fastidious. She didn’t look untouched or untouchable, but a man would take it slow with her and let her lead the way. You had a feeling she wouldn’t be coy about leading if she once decided that was what she wanted to do.

  But she would do the deciding.

  That was okay with me. I learned long ago that sex is pretty dull and uninteresting unless it is completely mutual between man and woman.

  She had a drink of straight cognac and didn’t bother to wash it down with anything. She didn’t gulp it, but she didn’t make any great pretense of inhaling the bouquet in preference to drinking it down.

  And we talked some, mostly about my books. She wanted to know all about Michael Shayne—whether there really was a private detective whom I’d patterned him after, or whether the whole series was just a figment of my imagination.