Shayne said, “So you got the picture and Photostat back and felt damned lucky to get out of it for only five hundred.”
“I gave her the money and she got them back. Yes. She called me two days later to say it was all right and I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t hear from her again for almost a month.”
Ralph Flannagan got up abruptly and began to pace up and down the room, thumping the bowl of his pipe into the palm of his left hand. His brow was corrugated.
“She telephoned to say she was going to have a baby. I met her in a bar and we talked it over. She had been to a doctor and there wasn’t any doubt. And she hadn’t seen her husband for more than two months. It was a terrible mess. Even then she was wonderful and courageous about it,” he went on doggedly. “After learning what a swine her husband was in having a detective follow her, she was determined not to go back to him. She was equally determined not to break up my life, either. She wanted nothing at all from me except some help to support herself until the baby came, and until she was well enough to support herself.
“I felt like a complete heel about it,” he went on huskily. “I offered to break my engagement with Edna and marry her at once. She wouldn’t even consider it. She said quite calmly that it was as much her fault as mine, and that my life mustn’t be ruined by that one moment of giving way to madness.
“And she was completely reasonable and realistic about the financial arrangements, too.” He chewed on the stem of his pipe, and his face was gloomy. “Sometimes I think women are a lot more realistic than men about such things. We didn’t love each other, she pointed out, and it would be foolish for me to throw everything up and marry her just to be quixotic. She had learned more about Edna by then, and insisted that I go right ahead with our wedding plans next month.” He sank heavily into his chair and sighed.
“What Ralph has neglected to explain,” Tim Rourke said into the brief silence, “is that his fiancée is the daughter of the guy who sponsors his radio program. To put it crudely, Wanda preferred a steady income to a husband who couldn’t support her.”
“That was only part of it,” said Ralph with dignity. “We did discuss that aspect. Why not? I admitted I’d likely lose my program sponsorship if the truth came out, or if I jilted Edna without a good explanation. After all, that wouldn’t have made things easier. Keeping things as they were meant that I could earn enough so I could afford to give Wanda what she needed. And why shouldn’t she have security at such a time?”
“How much?” Shayne asked.
“How much do I earn?”
“How much did she want?”
“Oh. A hundred a week. You see, she had to move away from her sister-in-law’s and get a place of her own where she wasn’t known.”
“And you paid her that?” Shayne queried.
“Of course I did. What else could any decent man do? I was glad to. It was definitely my responsibility.” Flannagan leaned forward and thrust his jaw out pugnaciously, as though challenging Shayne to disagree.
Shayne nodded and said mildly, “What’s the latest development?”
“That’s what I simply cannot understand.” Flannagan twisted his pipe around and around in his big, boyish hands.
“I was working here on a script about six o’clock, and expecting some actors in to audition for some new parts in my show. A messenger brought me a letter. Show it to him, Tim.”
Timothy Rourke took a square white envelope from his pocket and handed it to the detective. Then he got up and asked, “Mind if I mix myself another slug, Ralph?”
“Of course not. You know where things are.” The producer was watching Shayne anxiously. “When you read the enclosure you’ll understand what a thunderbolt it was to me and why I called Tim Rourke to come over.”
The envelope was addressed to Ralph Flannagan on a typewriter with elite type. There was no return address. Shayne took out the single sheet of plain white notepaper and found a carbon copy of a letter addressed to him:
Dear Mr. Shayne:
I tried to call you at your office twice today, but you were out, and now it’s five o’clock and I suppose I can’t reach you tonight. So I’m going to put this in the mail with $1000 as a retainer and if anything does happen to me tonight you’ll know that Ralph Flannagan, Apt. No. 26, the Courtland Arms, is guilty. The $1000 will be your fee for convicting him of my murder. He has tried to murder me twice in the last week and I’m desperately afraid he is getting ready to try again.
I am going to send Ralph a carbon of this letter by special messenger so he’ll know there’s no use his doing it tonight, hoping he’ll go unsuspected. It’s the only way I see to protect myself until I can talk to you.
I will telephone you for an appointment first thing in the morning if I’m alive.
The signature, Wanda Weatherby, was typed on the carbon.
Rourke sauntered back from the kitchen with a fresh drink and resumed his sprawled position as Shayne laid the letter aside.
Flannagan said rapidly and in an anguished voice, “You can see how I felt when I read what Wanda had written to you. My God! I didn’t know what to think. I thought she had suddenly gone mad. Everything had been perfectly straight between us. I’ve sent her a hundred every week. And I certainly have not threatened her — or had any notion of doing so.”
“She says here,” Shayne reminded him. “that you’ve tried to kill her twice in the last week.”
“It’s fantastic! I haven’t seen her or had any communication with her for over a month. If anyone tried to harm her, it certainly was not me. Do you think she’s suddenly gone crazy, Mr. Shayne? Some sort of persecution complex? I’ve heard that some women act funny and get all sorts of ideas when they’re pregnant.”
Shayne said, “Her letter sounds quite sane — well reasoned out.” He paused, recalling Wanda’s voice as she had spoken to him over the telephone such a brief time before she died. Highly emotional, yes, but sensible enough. And the bullet in her head was proof enough that she had sufficient reason to fear for her life.
He said to Flannagan, “You got this by messenger about six o’clock. What did you do?”
“First I tried to telephone her. She has an unlisted number, and it didn’t answer. Then I recalled the name of your hotel and tried to call you. But you were out. I didn’t know what to do. Then I called Tim Rourke. That was about seven o’clock, I guess.” He glanced inquiringly at the reporter.
Rourke nodded. “A little after seven,” he told Shayne. “Ralph gave me an idea of what was up, and I agreed to come over and read the letter and maybe help him get hold of you.”
“I had some important audition appointments,” the producer went on, “and asked Tim if he could come about a quarter of ten. I thought if I could get in touch with you and explain things before you opened that letter from Wanda in the morning, you might be willing to help me by finding out what in hell she meant without dragging my name in,” he ended unhappily.
“What time did you get here?” Shayne asked Rourke.
“About ten of ten. I was only a few minutes late. Ralph was just finishing a shower, and he gave me the letter to read. We talked it over briefly. Then I called you.”
“About five after ten,” the detective agreed, “What did you do then?”
“We sat here and talked about life and Wanda Weatherby,” the reporter told him with a grin. “And had a few drinks and waited for you to show up.”
“Can you swear that Flannagan was right here from ten o’clock on?” Shayne asked. “He didn’t go out to mail a letter — or for any reason?”