“The way her letter reads,” the detective reminded him gruffly, “the thousand dollars is being paid me to convict you of her murder.”
There was a brief, heavy silence, then Timothy Rourke said, “You know you can’t prove Ralph murdered her, Mike, because I can prove he didn’t. It seems to me you’re ethically bound to turn her retainer down. Hell, Mike. Give the guy a break. You can do more with information like this in solving the case than the police can,” he continued persuasively. “Why drag Ralph through the mud when you know he’s innocent?”
“I’m not eager to drag anybody through the mud,” said Shayne angrily. “You’ve known me long enough to know that. It’s just that my hands are practically tied on this thing. I don’t see any chance of keeping the police out.”
“You mean you told them about coming here to Ralph’s place?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Will Gentry was there and he rubbed me the wrong way by disbelieving me when I said I didn’t know a damned thing about Wanda Weatherby except her telephone call.”
“Why tell him now?” Rourke urged. “He’ll just be sore because you didn’t bring him along. Let Ralph pay you the retainer, if you want to get legal about it, and have an out for keeping this letter quiet.”
“Please, Mr. Shayne,” Flannagan broke in earnestly, “I’d want to help find Wanda’s murderer, even if I weren’t involved as a suspect. Let me give you a check for a thousand dollars right now.” He had both hands on the arms of his chair, ready to spring up.
When Shayne hesitated, Rourke said in a cynical tone, “He can afford it, Mike. It only amounts to the next ten weekly payments that he won’t have to pay Wanda now.”
“I don’t like to have you put it on that basis, Tim,” Flannagan said swiftly and angrily. “You make it sound as though I’m glad Wanda is dead.”
Shayne apparently ignored both of them. He said soberly, “Even if I don’t turn this carbon over to the police, there’s the original arriving in the mail tomorrow morning. Gentry knows about that, and he’ll be waiting in my office to grab it when it’s delivered.”
“How did he know about it?” Flannagan asked.
“She told me about it over the telephone, and she also explained to my secretary that she was going to mail it when she called my office and couldn’t get me.” Shayne paused, then added, “Of course, Will Gentry has no idea what will be in her letter. Neither did I until I came here.” Again, the silence was heavy between them. Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and frowned thoughtfully. He glanced at his watch. The time was nearly midnight — and his appointment with Sheila Martin, from whom he hoped to learn more about Wanda Weatherby, was only a few minutes away. He drank his cognac and stood up, saying to his host, “May I use your telephone?”
Ralph Flannagan leaped to his feet. “Certainly. It’s right in here.” He led the way to open a door into a bedroom on the other side, switched on the light, and stepped aside, explaining, “I do all my homework here, so excuse the way things look. The telephone’s right there on the desk.”
Here was another long, narrow room, almost the length of the living-room. There was a double bed at one end, and built-in bookshelves on both sides, and a reading-light attached to the headboard. The other end of the bedroom was fitted up as an office with a large desk, and a standard model typewriter. There were neat stacks of typed scripts on the desk, and an oversize wastebasket beside the chair overflowed with crumpled sheets of paper.
The telephone was to the left of the typewriter and within easy reach. Beyond it stood a portable tape recorder equipped with a microphone that hung from a hook in the ceiling several feet from the desk and about five feet from the floor. On the right of the desk an open door revealed a bathroom with the lights on.
“It’s not a very fancy boudoir,” Flannagan apologized again as Shayne walked toward the desk, “but it’s handy if I want to jump out of bed at any time in the night when an idea or a bit of dialogue comes to me.”
Shayne glanced at the dangling microphone as he went by, and commented, “If you had the mike hanging over the bed, you wouldn’t even have to get up in the night.”
“Oh, I never dictate my stuff,” the producer assured him. “I’m conditioned to the typewriter. I use the microphone to record auditions and bits of rehearsal when I have some of my actors in.”
“This is a personal call,” Shayne said, and waited with his hand on the telephone. Flannagan flushed and immediately withdrew, closing the door firmly as he went out.
It was strange how the guy got on his nerves, Shayne thought wryly as he dialed Lucy Hamilton’s number. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but somehow Ralph Flannagan rubbed him the wrong way.
Lucy’s phone rang three times before she answered. Shayne asked, “Did I wake you?”
“Michael! No. I couldn’t get to sleep after Chief Gentry called me a while ago. He wants you to call—”
“Yeh. I know,” Shayne growled. “I was standing at his elbow when he went through that routine. Never mind that,” he went on swiftly. “What sort of type do you have on your portable typewriter there in the apartment?”
“Elite. Why? What’s up, Michael?” she asked anxiously. “Shouldn’t I have told Gentry about those telephone calls?”
“That was okay,” Shayne reassured her. “There’s nothing much up right at the moment except that Wanda Weatherby is dead and Gentry and I both wonder why she wanted to see me. Go back to sleep if you can. I may have to drop in on you later, but don’t wait up for me. What time does the first mail reach the office?”
“A little after nine, usually. If there’s anything I can do—”
“If there is, I’ll be seeing you. Good night.”
He hung up and went back to the living-room where his anxious host jumped up and asked, “Did you fix—”
“I’m not positive I can do anything for you,” Shayne told him soberly. “But you might write out that check for a thousand if you still want to. I won’t cash it unless I find a way to keep your name out of the murder investigation.”
“I want to thank you, Mr. Shayne. I’ll be right back with the check, and—”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Shayne said.
Flannagan hurried away, and Shayne crossed over to Rourke’s chair, scowled, and muttered, “When we get out of here, I want to know why you’re so willing to pass up a juicy story.”
Rourke said, “Okay,” and got up to stretch his stiff limbs.
Flannagan returned, waving a check in the air to dry the ink. He handed it to the detective, who folded it and put it in his pocket.
“I think I’ll go along with Mike, Ralph,” said Rourke. “I’ll be in touch with you, huh?”
“You bet,” Flannagan returned genially. “And I can’t ever thank you enough, Tim. And, Mr. Shayne, I don’t know how to tell you how much—”
“Wait until I cash this check,” Shayne advised. “And if I do cash it, an invitation to your wedding will be thanks enough.” He picked up his hat and went out, waited a moment for Rourke, and they went down the corridor to the elevator together.
“Ralph isn’t a bad guy, Mike,” Rourke said as he stretched his thin legs to keep pace with the rangy detective. “I’ve known him a long time and he really had talent when he went into radio work. Now, he’s all mixed up and frustrated on account of the drivel he has to write to hang onto his job.”
“His relation with Wanda Weatherby would make a swell headline for tomorrow’s paper,” said Shayne shortly. The elevator came up and they got in.
“But the guy’s innocent, Mike,” the reporter argued “Damn it — we know he is.”