She Woke to Darkness

by Brett Halliday

  “Where did Elsie live before she moved to the smaller place?”

  Recker gave him the name of an apartment building lower down on Madison Avenue. “You haven’t told me how she died… anything about it.”

  Shayne said, “Haven’t you seen a paper this morning?”

  “Heavens no! I never look at a paper until I’ve finished my early writing stint and had lunch.”

  “Or turned on a radio for the news?” Shayne persisted.

  A look of pain crossed Lew Recker’s face. “I wouldn’t have a radio in the place. The news? My God! Who’s interested in a world that’s intent on self-destruction? One can withdraw to typewriter and find peace if not certitude. Are you through trying to trip me up by getting me to admit I already knew about Elsie?”

  “For the moment,” Shayne said indifferently. “You mentioned Elsie going around to parties and drinking. A lot?”

  “Plenty to remove small-town inhibitions.”

  “Did she handle it all right?”

  “Mostly. Sometimes she’d go overboard, I guess, and have to be helped home.”

  “That ever happen when you were with her?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Recker sniggered unpleasantly. “From what I heard around, she was really hot stuff when she actually passed out.”

  “Around?” asked Shayne.

  Recker wrinkled his forehead and looked at Shayne inquiringly. “What do you mean?”

  “From what you heard around,” Shayne stressed. “From whom in particular?”

  “I don’t recall any names. If I did I certainly wouldn’t repeat gossip about my friends.”

  “You intimated in the beginning that Elsie was a pushover,” persisted Shayne. “Exactly who did the pushing?”

  “I intimated no such thing.” Recker sat up very straight and brushed his thumbnail across his thin mustache in a gesture of righteous indignation. “She was basically a fine sweet girl who believed in equality among the sexes and in a girl’s right to have an affair if it pleased her to do so. I meant nothing derogatory about Elsie. For God’s sake, do you dicks have to go digging up filth about a dead girl?”

  “If it helps catch her killer,” Shayne said unemotionally. “About her drinking, again. You mentioned her being at the bar with this Miami writer last night. Was she drunk?”

  “N-n-o-o. He was plenty soused, and forcing drinks down her throat. She had a way of not showing it much when she was actually passed out, but if you knew her well you could tell. I’d say she was fairly sober last night. Another thing is: You haven’t told me this, but you can’t blame me for deducing that the Halliday character maybe killed her in a drunken rage when she resisted his advances. If so, you can be certain, she wasn’t too tight… because she wouldn’t have resisted if she had been.”

  Shayne shrugged and got up. His big hands itched to take the neck of the self-important writer and wring it thoroughly, but he resisted the impulse. Most of his two hours were up, and he was eager to compare notes with Ed Radin.

  Lew Recker got up and followed him toward the door, saying eagerly:

  “I do hope you feel I haven’t been uncooperative. I’ve honestly tried to give you every relevant fact without dragging the names of innocent people into the mire of a murder investigation. A gentleman owes a certain duty to his friends, I think. Perhaps a cop doesn’t see it that way, but I’m not a cop, thank God.”

  Shayne paused to say disgustedly, “When we decide we need further names from you, we’ll be around… and we’ll get them. In the meantime…”

  A telephone rang shrilly in the room, interrupting him. Recker turned aside to a small table with a wood inlay top and a silk fringe hanging down all around it. He stooped and pulled the instrument from a shelf behind the fringe and said, “Hello,” while Shayne waited with his hand on the doorknob.

  Recker said, “Yes, this is he.” He listened a moment and a puzzled look spread over his face.

  “Certainly, I’m home,” he snapped, “and I expect to remain here the rest of the morning, but I don’t see why I need to be bothered again. After all, goddamnit, my morning’s creative work has already been ruined by one of your men asking silly questions, and I simply don’t see why…”

  Shayne moved back swiftly. A big hand shot out to wring the receiver from Recker’s hand, and he stooped to replace it on its prongs behind the silk fringe.

  When he straightened, Lew Recker had stepped back and was surveying him intently, his thin face white with fear and sudden anger.

  “You’re not a cop!” he burst out. “That was a Detective Peters who’s in charge of the investigation. You’re a damned impostor. You… By God! I get it now.” He was trembling with indignation. “You’re the dick Halliday is always writing books about. Mike Shayne. Redheaded and tough.” His voice shook with rage. “How-come you’re stooging up here for him? That was mighty fast work, wasn’t it? Did he wire you he was planning a murder and needed your help to frame someone else so he wouldn’t be caught for it? Wait till I tell the real police that you came here impersonating an officer. That’s a criminal offense in New York if you don’t happen to know it.”

  Shayne grinned happily at the outraged man. “I told you I was a detective, bud. That’s all. I am. Want to see my license?”

  “You had no right to come here and pump me. It’ll take more than you to get your precious friend out of this one. You tell Brett Halliday for me…”

  Shayne snorted disgustedly and went out the door. He didn’t know where Peters had telephoned from, but he knew it would be just as well if he were gone from the premises by the time the precinct detective arrived.

  15.

  Ed Radin was seated at his desk disgustedly drumming slender fingertips against the bare wooden surface when Michael Shayne returned. He shook his head and shrugged when the detective arched ragged red brows inquiringly at him.

  “Not much luck, damn it. Those police files are supposed to be closed, of course, but I can generally get access to them. None of the right guys were on duty this morning, so I didn’t get to first base. Late this afternoon will be the best I can do. How’d you make out with Avery Birk?”

  Shayne grimaced and crossed to the filing cabinet where the whiskey bottle still stood. “What a lug! Is he really a writer?” He carried the bottle to the water cooler, fitted two cups together and half-filled them, diluted the whiskey with cold water and turned to replace the bottle.

  “He writes,” said Radin. “There’s quite a difference between the two, though he does sell to the cheaper markets. I guess he is pretty much of a bastard, though I don’t know him well. You get anything from him?”

  “One name.” Shayne sat down and crossed his long legs. “Lew Recker. Birk claims Elsie Murray was his mistress.”

  “That’s not hard to believe, though mistress is not exactly the word I’d use for one of Recker’s women. To me,” Radin added, “the word implies some degree of faithfulness on both sides. If Lew was sleeping with Elsie, you can be sure he was hopping into other beds at the same time.”

  Shayne nodded thoughtfully. “He goes to some trouble to give that impression.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I saw him,” Shayne said grimly. “He was at the banquet last night and saw Brett at the bar with Elsie, though he doesn’t claim he saw them leave together.” He paused a moment to take a sip, and a reminiscent grin spread over his rugged face. He imitated Recker’s voice: “Check up on an out-of-town writer named Brett Halliday. He writes those lousy books about a dumb redheaded private eye in Miami.”

  Radin laughed gleefully. “Lew Recker said that to you?”

  “That and more. He appears to hate Brett’s guts, and has the greatest contempt for his books. And for me.”

  “Lew has the greatest contempt for any writer more successful than he. I gather he didn’t recognize you.”

  “Not at first. I introduced myself as a detective and he assumed I was local. He did catch on at the last. Only real piece o
f information I got from him was about Elsie passing out sometimes from too many drinks and getting very loose in her morals when she did so.”

  “Exactly like Aline Ferris in her story,” Radin pointed out.

  Shayne nodded. “Which makes it look as though her manuscript was based on fact. Damn it, Ed, we’ve got to check further into the unsolved murder of Elbert Green three months ago. If we can find other points of resemblance, we’ll know better where we’re going. Late this afternoon may be too late for Brett. That is, I’m assuming he hasn’t turned up yet.”

  “He hasn’t,” said Radin moodily. “I checked by phone just before you came in. I did get this,” he went on slowly. “Ran into one of the detectives who covered the Green case and he remembered it somewhat. Not any names for sure, but he sort of inclines to believe the one woman who was questioned might have been named Elsie Murray.”

  “Somehow, I’m beginning to be sure of it.”

  “So am I. One thing he was positive about… the questioning of her was fairly routine. They didn’t have anything to go on except rumors from a couple of people that she had played up to Green at the party and might have left with him. When her escort alibied her on that, they dropped it. Though they did show her picture at the hotel without getting a yes or no identification.”

  “That indicates,” said Shayne, “that she was successful in putting over the deal with Ralph suggested to her by Dirk. She certainly must have persuaded Ralph to forget her phone call to Torn at midnight, otherwise the police wouldn’t have let up on her so easily.”

  “Definitely,” agreed Radin. “If they’d known that one fact, they’d still be questioning her. And don’t forget that when Dirk fixed it up for her, he was fixing himself an alibi at the same time. The telephone call would have ruined his story of spending those hours with her.”

  “I’m not forgetting that,” Shayne told him grimly. He drained his whiskey and water and crumpled up the paper cups. “Damn it, Ed! We’ve got to stop speculating and get some facts to chew on. We have one name out of the Green case so far. His room-mate. What was it?”

  “Alfred Hayes.”

  “That’s it. Does the clipping give the address where he and Green lived together?”

  “Probably.” Ed Radin picked up the clippings from his desk and looked at the second one. He read off a street address and told Shayne, “That’s pretty far up town. A good residential neighborhood.”

  Shayne made a note of the address. “Hayes has probably moved since his friend’s death, but I may get a lead on him there. One other possibility is the bar from which Aline Ferris is supposed to have made her midnight call. The bartender might recall something important that happened after her phone call.”

  “How can you hope to locate the right bar?”

  “I have Elsie Murray’s former address. The place she was living when Elbert Green was murdered. Your friend Recker gave me that. Assuming that the whole thing happened to Elsie much as she wrote it, I can check the bars near her old address and see if anyone knows her and recalls the incident.”

  He arose decisively as he spoke. “You want to come along?”

  “That’s more in your province. Can’t I do more by staying as close as possible to developments in the present investigation? Halliday may contact me.”

  “Let’s hope so,” agreed Shayne. “How can we keep in touch if something breaks?”

  “Tell you what. Let’s both check in every hour on the hour at the MWA office, or oftener if we have something important. I’ll give the executive secretary a ring so she’ll be alerted to take messages.”

  Radin lifted his phone and dialed it, said, “Dorothy? Ed Radin speaking. Look, I want you to… “

  He paused abruptly as though he had been interrupted, listened for a long moment while a look of incredulity and then of intense anxiety spread over his face.

  He nodded emphatically and said, “It’s probably damned important, Dorothy, and thank you for passing it on. I’m working with the police on the case, and Mike Shayne is in town from Miami working with me to clear Halliday.”

  He paused a moment, said with a grin: “That’s right. Michael Shayne in person. We’re separating now, and will be calling in to you from time to time to leave messages for each other. Can do?”

  He listened again, nodded and said, “Swell. I knew we could count on you.”

  He hung up and turned, shaking his head in puzzlement. “You figure this one out. Dorothy just heard a report that the police are looking for Halliday to question him about Elsie’s death. She immediately recalled that she was awakened at home about seven o’clock this morning by a man who said he was George Harmon Coxe, wanting her to tell him where Brett was staying in New York. George Coxe,” Radin went on flatly, “is a past president of MWA, a hell of a swell guy and a good friend of Brett’s. Naturally, Dorothy had no hesitancy about giving him the name of Brett’s hotel and room number, which she happened to remember.”

  “Might mean something.” Shayne frowned. “Could this Coxe have been tangled up with Elsie?”

  “Whether he could or couldn’t,” said Radin grimly, “is very much beside the point. George Harmon Coxe wasn’t in New York last night, though Dorothy was too sleepy last night to think of it. Both Dorothy and I know positively that he’s in Panama. That phone call was a phony, Mike. And it was made by someone inside MWA… who knew Dorothy’s home telephone number and enough about things to use a highly respected name like Coxe’s to get the information he wanted.”

  “Lew Recker?”

  “He’s one. Avery Birk. Fifty others, of course, who were around last night.”

  “Give it to the police.”

  “Dorothy has already done that.”

  “Good. What’s the number where I can reach her?”

  Radin gave it to him and Shayne jotted it down. Again, they left the building together.

  16.

  Michael Shayne’s first stop was at Elsie Murray’s former address on Madison Avenue. He paid off his taxi, went up a short flight of stone steps and through swinging doors to a small entry exactly like the one described in Elsie’s script. Beside the lock on the inner door was the bell she had mentioned with the brass plate beneath bearing the word SUPERINTENDENT.

  Shayne exhaled a sigh of satisfaction and went back out. So far, so good. The script appeared to be more and more factual all the time. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the avenue. A few doors away on his right was a canopy with the words RESTAURANT - BAR. There was nothing on his left to indicate a drinking establishment.

  Shayne went to the canopy and entered a long cool room with a bar on one side and small tables ranged against the wall. In the rear was a square space with a dozen or more dining tables. A few of the tables were occupied at this early lunch hour, and half a dozen of the bar stools were filled.

  He walked down the bar to the other end, found a telephone book chained there, and the phone booth was across the room. Again, Elsie’s description was perfectly accurate.

  A genial-faced and paunchy bartender came up to Shayne, and the redhead said, “Cognac. Martel or Monnet if you have it.”

  “We’ve got Martel. Drink or pony?”

  “A double drink, please. A little ice water on the side.” There was a second bartender at the front end of the bar serving the drinkers congregated there. He was tall and young, with a completely bald head.

  When Shayne’s drink came, he asked, “Either of you fellows been working here long?”

  “Don’t know what you call long, Mister. Six months for me, and Jack down there has been around a couple of years.”

  “Good enough.” Shayne put a five-dollar bill on the counter and said, “I wonder if either of you remember a girl named Elsie Murray who used to drop in quite often a few months ago. Lived right down the street.”

  “Say! That’s real funny. We was talking about her just a little while ago. Read in the paper about her getting killed last night. Damn shame. She was rea
l nice except when she’d had one too many which wasn’t often.”

  “Who is we?” asked Shayne.

  “Come again.” The bartender frowned his puzzlement.

  “You said we were talking about Miss Murray just awhile ago. Who were you talking with?”

  “Jack… that’s the man up front, and…” The paunchy bartender leaned closer and lowered his voice discreetly. “And the young lady sitting right back of you. She used to come in sometimes with Miss Murray a few months back… before she quit coming all of a sudden. We was talking about how funny that was.”

  Shayne took a long, slow drink of straight cognac, rolling it gratefully around in his mouth to wash out the taste of Radin’s whiskey, and asked patiently:

  “Who quit coming in suddenly? The young lady behind me or Miss Murray?”

  “Miss Murray. We never knew why, but then we heard she’d moved away from where she lived right down the street. What’s your angle, Mister?”

  “I’m working on the case.” Shayne turned on his bar stool slowly to glance along the row of tables against the wall behind him.

  There was a threesome of giggling shopgirls, a middle-aged couple intently absorbed with martinis and themselves, and a young woman seated alone on a bench against the wall facing Shayne across a table for two.

  She sat very erect with her shoulders squared against the wall behind her which made her look quite tall, and the effect was heightened by an upswept hair-do which showed off the clean lines of a somewhat thin neck above a severely plain white blouse and tailored gray suit.

  There was something of a haughty look about her face, with a nose that was a trifle too long and too sharp, and a short upper lip that drew away slightly from upper teeth. She was looking directly towards Shayne as his casual gaze slid down the row of tables and stopped to survey her. She didn’t avert her eyes as they met his, but continued to look calmly through him as though he didn’t exist. A thin-stemmed cocktail glass stood on the table in front of her, half-full of a yellowish liquid that looked like a side-car.