Shayne was still standing, looking around. He shrugged, noncommittal, and turned to look at the bookshelf. Three brightly jacketed modern novels attracted his attention, along with a much-thumbed copy of Guyon’s The Ethics of Sexual Acts, two novels by Arnold Bennett, The New Way to Eat and Get Slim which didn’t appear to have had hard usage, and a bulky three-volume set of The Reminiscences of Carl Schurz.
Flannagan returned with a tray holding a full bottle of Martell and an empty four-ounce glass, some ice water, and a highball glass with just enough Scotch to faintly color the contents.
Shayne sat down on the couch, and his host set the tray on the small table at his right, remarking, “You see, I’ve heard and read a lot about you, Mr. Shayne, and know just how you like things.” He lifted the highball off for himself and sat down.
“Thanks,” said Shayne. He turned to Timothy Rourke and asked, “What was it you wanted to tell me about Wanda Weatherby, Tim?”
“It’s Ralph’s story.”
“Let’s have it,” Shayne suggested. He poured cognac in his glass, took a long drink, and chased it with ice water.
“By all means,” said Ralph Flannagan eagerly. Seated in his favorite chair, he stuffed tobacco in the bowl of his big pipe. “I’m going to be completely frank with you, Mr. Shayne. I know your reputation, and I know you’re a good friend of Tim’s. I have a feeling you’ll understand and won’t let me down.”
Shayne didn’t say anything. He took a drink of Martell and chased it with ice water.
“It goes back to a party about three months ago,” Flannagan began. “The first time I met Wanda. It was at a friend’s place over on the Beach. One of those informal, Bohemian affairs where people drift in and out for drinks and talk after dinner.”
He paused, puffed vigorously on his pipe for a moment, then resumed. “I don’t know how to describe Wanda. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something that hit a man right in the solar plexus when she looked at him. Something that came from deep within her, and was honest and strong.” He shrugged his thick shoulders and stared down at the door. “Call it sex appeal, if you like. We looked at each other across the crowded room — and there it was. Pulsing between us so you could feel it — so it was almost material. We hadn’t been introduced, but I remember crossing the room to her and holding out my hands.”
“Save the harrowing details of the seduction for your radio audience,” Rourke advised dryly. To Shayne he added, “Ralph writes and produces a daily radio serial for frustrated housewives, so don’t blame him too much for clichés. They’re his living.”
Flannagan smiled patiently and said, “It was hardly a seduction, Tim. God knows I had no thought of anything like that when I sat down beside Wanda and we introduced ourselves. I was engaged to Edna, and as much in love with her as a man can be. But this was different. It was something outside ourselves. Something that was meant to be. We both had quite a few drinks, of course.”
He paused again, then went on in an honest and man-to-man way. “I won’t say it was she who made the advances, though I will say she did her part to make things easy. I told her about Edna. I was very careful to explain that I was deeply in love with a wonderful girl for the first time in my life, and she understood perfectly. She told me she was married and in love with her husband, and suggested that the thing between us had nothing to do with love or with any other aspect of our individual lives.”
Shayne broke in sarcastically, “Okay. It has happened before. Then what?”
Flannagan frowned. “I’m telling you how it happened,” he protested, “so you won’t get any wrong ideas about Wanda. She was perfectly marvelous all the way through, and that’s why I don’t understand — well — But I’ll come to that later. We did break away from the party, and there was mutual understanding as we went out to my car. No questions and no coyness. I suggested coming here to my apartment, but she vetoed that. Said it put things on too personal a basis, and she’d feel she was intruding on my private life. She wanted it completely impersonal. Just a beautiful experience that we could hold in our memories forever. A meeting, a mingling, and separation.”
Shayne settled back more comfortably and emptied his cognac glass. It was easy to understand why Flannagan was a success at producing a radio serial. The man probably took himself seriously — actually believed the platitudes that were mouthed over the microphone every day. He was under thirty, Shayne guessed. Flannagan’s voice flowed on smoothly, and the detective listened while he refilled his glass, seeing Wanda Weatherby’s face in death as Ralph’s story brought her to life for him.
“She suggested a motel as being most discreet,” he was saying, “and we drove out the Boulevard to a nice one on the outskirts of the city. I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Albert Smith and we were assigned to a clean, attractive cabin. I got a bottle from a near-by liquor store, and some ice and glasses from the motel manager, and we had a few more drinks.” He stopped, reddening a little, and knocked out his dead pipe in an ash tray.
“I suppose this part won’t bother you much, Mr. Shayne, being a private detective, but the thing that happened was horrible. Absolutely horrible. I never felt so sickened and cheapened in my life.”
Flannagan drew in a deep breath, set his jaw, and went on rapidly. “I was just getting up when the cabin door opened. I could have sworn I’d locked it securely, but I guess I hadn’t. Naturally I turned to see who was coming in. Then, a sudden brilliant flare burst in my eyes, half blinding me, but I saw a man with a camera. He slammed the door and ran, and we heard a car pulling away in a hurry.
“Wanda was terribly frightened and upset, and — Well, I was, too, to admit the truth. Everything was ruined. The whole affair was suddenly dirty and vicious. Neither of us could understand how on earth anybody had followed us, or why. It was simply inconceivable, but there it was. We drove back to town fast, sobered and ashamed and without talking much.
“What was there to say?” the radio producer continued “She made me let her out on the Boulevard and wouldn’t even tell me where she lived. It was over — and we both knew the golden moment would never come again. Not for us. There would always be that nasty memory between us.”
“Did she make a telephone call,” Shayne demanded, “after you registered at the motel?”
“Why — yes. While I went for the bottle of liquor. You see, she was living here with her husband’s sister and had to call her to give an explanation for not coming home from the party until quite late.”
“Maybe,” Shayne said curtly, “And maybe that phone was made to an accomplice with a camera. It happens every day in Miami.”
“No — you’re absolutely wrong, Mr. Shayne,” said Flannagan flatly. “I confess thinking something of the sort after — what happened. But I learned the truth later. It was her husband, you see. He’s a businessman in Detroit and insanely jealous. When Wanda came down here to visit his sister, he had a private detective watching her. She told me about it a week later. This detective had come to her with the evidence. He had the picture and a Photostat of my signature on the motel register. He was one of the unethical members of your profession, Mr. Shayne, and was quite willing to sell out his employer for a price. He offered Wanda the evidence against her for a thousand dollars.”
“What was his name?” asked Shayne,
“She didn’t tell me. In fact, I doubt if she knew herself. She was terrified, of course, both for herself and for me. There was my engagement to Edna and her marriage both at stake. She felt exceedingly guilty about getting me into such a mess, and was very decent about the whole thing, I thought. She insisted on paying half the money if I would pay the other half. I wanted to pay the whole thing, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”