Shayne sat erect and very still after he cradled the receiver, a deep frown between his ragged red brows. He looked at his watch. The time was two minutes after ten.
Inured by frantic calls for many years from people of both sexes and all ages, Shayne was inclined to say to hell with Wanda Weatherby and settle back comfortably to await his midnight appointment with Sheila Martin. Apparently she knew what all the excitement was about and could explain it. When he had a few facts to go on—
He leaned back in his chair again and tried to relax, but the memory of the terror in the voice of his last caller brought him up sharply. She had put him on the spot by hanging up before he could refuse. Now he was committed, unless he could call her back and say that he had no intention of dashing out to Seventy-Fifth Street without some sort of explanation.
Leafing through the telephone book to the W’s, he realized that he had also been put on the spot by the first telephone call warning him to stay away from Wanda Weatherby. There weren’t many Weatherbys listed, and none at the address she had given him. He called Information, and finished his drink while she checked and reported no listing for a Weatherby at that address.
Shayne rebuttoned his shirt and adjusted his tie, and had his hat on and his hand on the doorknob when the telephone rang again. He whirled angrily, strode back to grab the receiver and bark his name into it.
Timothy Rourke, the Daily News reporter, answered. “Mike, this is Tim. Are you doing anything?”
“Just spending a quiet evening with my telephone,” he said ironically.
“Look, Mike, have you ever heard of a gal named Wanda Weatherby?”
“I haven’t heard anything else all evening. What sort of game is this?”
“Is it a game?” The reporter sounded confused. “How about coming over here if you’re not busy? Or, we can come over to your place. A friend of mine is in pretty much of a mess, Mike.”
“With Wanda?” Shayne asked grimly.
“Yeh. That is — Well, I think you’d better hear it from him, Mike. Shall we come over?”
“I’m on my way out. Where are you, Tim?”
“Here at Ralph’s place. Ralph Flannagan. Apartment twenty-six in the Courtland Arms.”
That was in the Forties, Shayne figured hastily, on his way back from the address Wanda had given him. He said, “Stay there, Tim, and I’ll drop in presently.” He hung up and got out of the apartment fast, before the telephone could ring again — with maybe J. Edgar Hoover calling to say that Wanda Weatherby was actually Mrs. Joseph Stalin in disguise. He slammed the door hard behind him as he went out.
In the hotel-apartment lobby he waved to the boy at the switchboard and said, “Take any messages until I get back, Dick. By midnight, I hope,” and strode on to the garage at the rear of the building.
As he drove northward toward Seventy-Fifth Street, the name of Ralph Flannagan bothered him. One of Tim Rourke’s friends, but that didn’t mean much. As a reporter on one of Miami’s leading newspapers, it was Tim’s business to make friends — particularly when his thin, twitching nose smelled a story in the air.
Shayne knew a moment of indecision, but once more the memory of Wanda’s tragic appeal kept him on a direct route, instead of veering off to Flannagan’s place. Traffic was light as he drove farther north, and he increased his speed. The moon was a little more than half full above fleecy clouds, and its faint light outlined the quiet residential section of the city as he turned west on Seventy-Fifth and crossed Miami Avenue.
The palm-lined subdivision was sparsely built, the streets empty of traffic, and the bungalows were dark and silent. Shayne drove slowly, counting the blocks as he passed. When he reached the one he sought, light shone from one house on the right. He pulled up to the curb, stopped in front of it, and sat for a moment looking around.
The one-story, stuccoed bungalow stood well back from the street with some fifty feet of smooth lawn on both sides leading away to tall hibiscus hedges separating the grounds from neighbors, and giving an unusual degree of privacy for so small a dwelling in Miami. The other two homes were in darkness, as were the two across the street.
The house number was easily discernible in phosphorous paint above a low stake at the edge of the lawn, confirming Shayne’s guess that this was the right address. He got out of the car and went up the concrete walk to the front door where a dim light outlined the electric button. He pressed it and heard the ringing inside.
He waited, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. There was no sound from within. As he smoked, the utter silence of the neighborhood grew oppressive, and Shayne caught himself straining to hear the sound of Wanda Weatherby’s footsteps inside.
He pressed the bell again, holding his finger on it for a long time. When he removed it and the ringing stopped, the night silence seemed more oppressive. He waited a long moment, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, then stepped back to look searchingly at the two big picture windows on either side of the door.
Thick, creamy drapes were carefully drawn across both, and it was impossible to see inside. He spun his cigarette to the lawn and followed a narrow concrete walk around to the side of the house.
The first window he reached was wide open to catch the night breeze, the shade rolled up and the drapes thrust aside. Only a copper screen was between him and a glimpse into the room.
Bright light from a floor lamp at the end of the couch outlined the body of a woman lying face down on the rug, some ten feet beyond the window. A mass of reddish-gold hair obliterated her features from the window view.
Something else reddish was visible in the light. A pool of it spread out around her head, and Shayne knew now why Wanda Weatherby had not answered the doorbell.
Instinctively, he looked at his watch. The time was exactly 10:38.
Chapter two
SHAYNE’S GRAY EYES were bleak, and a muscle twitched in his lean jaw. He stepped away from the lighted window and lit a cigarette. A feeling of revulsion came over him, followed by an outraged sense of disapproval and disappointment. He had been exceedingly curious about Wanda Weatherby — who she was and what she wanted from him, and what she meant to the other persons who had contacted him earlier.
Now she wouldn’t be able to tell him. She couldn’t answer any of the questions that had boiled up in his thoughts as he drove toward the address she had given him. It was now abundantly clear that she had good reason for the hysterical panic in her voice when she pleaded with him to come to her.
Thirty minutes had made the difference. She had said that it was a matter of life or death, he recalled grimly. But she could not have realized how close she was shading it, or she would certainly have made the appeal even more urgent. Yet, she had been just about as urgent as a woman could possibly be. She had hung up before he could argue with her, leaving it strictly up to him to get there in time to save her from the death she had reason to fear.
Standing there on the lush green lawn, he was conscious of the quiet, serene beauty of the moonlit night and the cool, humid breeze on his face. It seemed incongruous that a woman lay dead inside the house. His mouth tightened, and he berated himself for not being fast enough. He had wasted five, maybe ten minutes trying to check her phone number to call her back. And then there had been Rourke’s call. Another two or three minutes’ delay. At a time when minutes were precious!
He whirled suddenly as a thought struck him, dropping his cigarette to the grass. He knew, from long observation and experience that Wanda Weatherby was dead, but the urge to get in to her seized him, to see if there was anything that could possibly be done for her.
Going back to the screen, he reached out a big hand to rip it out. He stopped when he saw the small round hole in almost the exact center of the wire just above the frame. It was not necessarily fresh, and it wasn’t necessarily a bullet hole, but that’s what it looked like. He withdrew his hand before touching the frame, turned, and went swiftly around to the rear of the bungalow.