He picked up the microphone and set it on the floor near the door and directed Rourke, “Leave it there, and you watch the volume control. I’ll go out and close the door and talk to Lucy. Damned if I believe any mike is powerful enough to pick that up, but the guy swore this one would.”
He went out and closed the door firmly. He said to Lucy, “Make a note of these names. I want you to call each one of them and insist that they meet me at Ralph Flannagan’s apartment in the Courtland Arms at a quarter of eight tonight.”
He paused while she got a memo pad and pencil. “Donald J. Henderson — Mrs. Sheila Martin — and a guy named Prentiss.” He stopped abruptly and said, “No, I’ll call Prentiss myself. He knows all about these recording-machines, and I’ll need expert advice. You call those two, Lucy. If they give you any argument, tell them they can come willingly, or with a police escort. And I’ll pick you up about seven-thirty. On the way to Marilyn’s apartment I’ll explain exactly what I want you to do.”
He opened the door and went into the other room where Rourke was leaning over the machine, watching it anxiously.
“I didn’t hear a sound through the door, Mike, but the light kept flashing on and off.”
“Good.” Shayne turned a knob from Record, to Rewind, and the machine reversed itself, spinning the wire backward onto the original spool with tremendous speed while the hand of the timer moved backward from three minutes toward zero.
He turned the knob to Play when the timer was almost at zero, and again the wire reversed and wound slowly onto the drum. They waited expectantly, but nothing happened. No sound came from the machine. Shayne frowned and twisted the volume control to Full. Still, the machine remained silent.
Shayne studied the textbook again, frowning in deep concentration. “Look, Tim,” he exclaimed, “turn that other knob from ‘Record’ to ‘Wire.’ It says that if you run it on ‘Play’ with the knob on ‘Record’ it will wipe off whatever is on the wire.”
Rourke hesitated, and Shayne reached over and turned the correct knob to Wire position and the other to Play. Immediately there was a blast of sound. Both men jumped and stared at the machine in dismay. Swiftly, Shayne remembered to turn the volume down. Modulated, the voice became his own.
“… so the light flashes on and off but doesn’t stay on steadily.” There was a momentary pause, then: “Leave it there, and you watch the volume control. I’ll go out and close the door and talk to Lucy.”
His recorded voice faded as he continued, “Damned if I believe any mike is powerful enough to pick that up, but the guy swore this one would.” The final words were scarcely audible, and again the machine was silent. A moment later another faraway sound came, faint and indistinguishable.
Shayne scowled, reached for the volume control and turned it higher. Instantly the words he had spoken in the outer office, with the door closed, came through clearly:
“… insist that they meet me at Ralph Flannagan’s apartment in the Courtland Arms at a quarter of eight tonight.” They both listened tensely until the recording was finished. Shayne nodded triumphantly and turned it off, exclaiming, “Hell, this gadget is going to revolutionize the detecting business. Why hasn’t someone told me about it before?”
“You’re just away behind the times,” Rourke told him. “These machines have been on the market for years. But what about this party at Ralph’s tonight? Who’s going to be there?”
“Henderson, Sheila Martin, Jack Gurley, Prentiss, Will Gentry, and you and me.”
“How does Prentiss fit in?”
“He may get an idea for a Michael Shayne radio program,” Shayne told him with a grin. “Also, he’s the last man we’ve found thus far who saw Helen Taylor alive.” He answered the intercom buzzer, and Lucy Hamilton said, “I got Mrs. Martin and Mr. Henderson. They both agreed to come — Mr. Henderson under protest.”
“Good. One more thing, Lucy, then you can go home. Wait — Hold it just a minute.” He picked up the folded copy of the Nashville newspaper and consulted the radio page.
“Get me radio station WMAK in Nashville, Tennessee. I want to talk to the manager or program director, or someone else in authority.” He closed the connection and said cheerfully, “You can beat it before I make that call, Tim. The less you know about what’s in the book for tonight, the better you’ll play up when it happens.”
Chapter twenty
HAROLD PRENTISS WAS WAITING in the back seat of Shayne’s car when he brought Lucy Hamilton down from her apartment a little after seven-thirty. He introduced his secretary to the television director and explained.
“Prentiss has been giving me lessons on operating the recorder. He’ll go up to your friend’s apartment with you to get things set while I drop in on Flannagan.”
Lucy acknowledged the introduction as she got in the front seat. Shayne went around to the other side, settled himself under the steering-wheel, and no one spoke a word as they rode to their destination.
Shayne parked in front of the Courtland Arms and the three went in, with Harold Prentiss carrying the small recorder in its neat case. In the elevator, the detective punched the second-floor button, then the third. He got out at the first stop, grinned reassuringly at Lucy, and said, “It’ll be okay, angel. Just settle down in Marilyn’s apartment with a drink and let nature take its course. I’ll come up with a full report when it’s all over.”
The door closed and the elevator went up, and Shayne went down the corridor to Flannagan’s door with a lot more outward assurance than he felt, found it ajar, and pushed it open.
Donald Henderson and Sheila Martin were there, seated in chairs at opposite ends of the long room. Timothy Rourke and Ralph Flannagan were standing in the archway and talking together in low voices. They all turned to look at the detective, and Henderson came to his feet as Flannagan hurried to meet him, exclaiming, “Tim won’t tell me anything about this, Mr. Shayne, What has been happening, and what—”
“We’re still short two guests,” Shayne cut in. He consulted his watch and added, “They should be here any minute.” He brushed past Flannagan to nod at Sheila, then turned to Henderson and said pleasantly, “Very good of you to come. I think you’ve met Mrs. Martin.”
“Certainly. Mr. Rourke — ah — introduced us a moment ago. No one seems to know the purpose of this gathering,” he added with a noticeable lack of his usual oratorical intonation.
“Sit down and take it easy, Henderson,” Shayne told him, and turning to Sheila he added casually, “Thanks for the money you left with my secretary this afternoon — but I understood you were short sixty dollars of the full amount. I’ll expect the balance tomorrow.”
Sheila Martin bit her underlip and lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
Shayne wheeled away from her as Will Gentry escorted J. Pierson Gurley into the room. Gurley was immaculate in loose tweeds, his square face impassive as he stopped inside the door and surveyed each occupant of the room. He nodded curtly to Rourke, but gave no indication of recognizing any of the others.
Standing stolidly at The Lantern’s side, Will Gentry said, “Hello, Henderson,” studied Sheila’s face briefly, then glanced inquiringly from Flannagan to Shayne.
Shayne put his hand on Gentry’s shoulder and said, “I’m sure all of you are acquainted with our police chief, Will Gentry. Beside him is Jack Gurley who is under arrest on suspicion of having murdered Wanda Weatherby last night. And this is Ralph Flannagan, Will, who phoned you this morning about having seen Helen Taylor last night.”