Date with a Dead Man (3 page)

Shayne laid the
Herald
aside with a brooding and dissatisfied frown. He drank the last of his cognac and drummed blunt fingertips unhappily on the table top, while he tried unsatisfactorily to fit various fragments of unrelated information into place to form a complete pattern that would begin to make sense. He glanced at his watch and again dialed Timothy Rourke’s home telephone number which had not answered when he tried it in Jasper Groat’s apartment.

Again he waited for a number of rings before hanging up. This time he tried the
Daily News
number and got the City Room. But Rourke was not on tap and no one knew exactly where he could be reached. Shayne settled for the City Editor, and when he was connected said crisply, “Mike Shayne, Dirkson. I’ve been trying to get hold of Tim Rourke.”

He listened a moment and then broke in impatiently, “Okay. I’ll check with Tim tomorrow. In the meantime… who covered the story of those two rescued airline personnel this morning?”

Dirkson said, “Joel Cross interviewed them first. What’s up, Shayne?”

“I don’t know,” the redhead said honestly. He didn’t know Cross, but had heard Rourke mention his co-worker in somewhat derogatory terms. “Is Cross around now?”

Dirkson said, “Hold it a minute.” In less than a minute, his voice came back: “Joel’s out on a story. Is this important, Shayne?”

Again the detective said honestly, “I don’t know. I’m chasing down a rumor that the copilot of the plane, Jasper Groat, kept a diary while on the life raft… that the
News
may be planning to publish it… or excerpts from it.”

There was a slight pause, and then Dirkson’s voice purred, “Now, wherever would you have picked up a piece of information like that, Shayne?”

He said, “I get around. Do you confirm it?”

Dirkson said abruptly, “No.”

“Do you deny it?”

Dirkson said again, and more abruptly, “No.” He hung up.

So did Michael Shayne. He sat very still for a brief period, frowning at nothingness and tugging at his left ear lobe.

Then he went to bed.

3

At nine-thirty the next morning Shayne was smoking a cigarette and working on his second cup of coffee when his telephone rang.

Lucy Hamilton’s voice said, “Michael? I hope I woke you up.”

He said, “Not quite,” and managed to yawn into the mouthpiece.

“You have a client here in the office.” Lucy’s voice was crisply businesslike. “Can you get down right away?”

Shayne said, “It’s pretty early, angel. Can’t you…?”

She said, “It’s Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro and she has to get back home as soon as possible.”

Shayne said, “Right away. Uh… anything on Groat this morning?”

“Nothing. I’ll have Mrs. Wallace wait, Michael.” He finished his coffee fast and stubbed out his cigarette after hanging up. He was already shaved and dressed, and it took only a tie and a jacket to send him out of the apartment. Less than fifteen minutes after Lucy’s call he stepped out of the elevator in a downtown office building and long-legged it to a closed door marked MICHAEL SHAYNE. INVESTIGATIONS.

Lucy Hamilton was alone at her desk in the reception room when he entered. The door leading into his private office stood open, and she nodded toward it meaningfully as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Shayne. I asked Mrs. Wallace to wait inside.”

He tossed his panama on a hook beside the door and asked, “Have you talked with her?”

“Just briefly. Mrs. Jasper Groat suggested she come here. It’s something to do with her husband who is missing.”

Shayne frowned, “Mrs. Groat’s husband?”

“Well, he’s missing, too, as you know. But Mrs. Wallace is worried about
her
husband. I suggested she save the whole story for you so she wouldn’t have to repeat it.”

Shayne said, “Right,” and moved toward the open door. Over his shoulder he suggested, “Why don’t you bring your notebook and sit in, Lucy? You know more about the Groat matter than I do.”

A slender young woman arose from a straight chair beside Shayne’s desk as he entered his office. Her black hair was cut short, with tousled bangs lying across a high forehead, and she had a thin, intelligent face with a minimum of make-up, widely-spaced gray eyes that gave an impression of mature serenity at variance with her youthful appearance.

She wore a plain white blouse and a gray tweed skirt, serviceweight hose on her nice legs, and serviceable oxfords tied with neat bows. All of her clothing was of good quality, neat and worn without being shabby. There was an immediate first impression of reliability and strength about her slender figure, an exudation of good breeding and dignity which was strengthened by her modulated voice. “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Shayne.”

A pair of clean, white knitted gloves lay on the edge of Shayne’s desk, beside a sturdy handbag of good leather, designed to last for as many more years as it had already been in service.

She offered him a hand with well-shaped fingers and close-trimmed nails that were innocent of polish, and the flesh was firm inside his big hand, the grip strong without being masculine.

He said, “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Wallace,” and meant it. He held the chair for her to reseat herself, went around his desk to sit down while Lucy settled herself on the other side with notebook open in front of her.

Shayne said, “Start at the beginning and tell me why you’re here.”

“I live in Littleboro, Mr. Shayne, and I had a telephone call, long distance from Miami, yesterday afternoon. A man who said his name was Jasper Groat. It was the first time I had heard the name, although I read all about him on the bus coming in last night. He gave me his address and told me he had news about my husband, Leon. He promised to tell me everything if I would come to see him this morning, but refused to say anything else over the telephone. He wouldn’t even say whether it was good news or not. Just that he had important information about Leon that he’d tell me this morning.”

She leaned forward slightly, her fingers twisting together in her lap and the unnatural brightness of her eyes the only clues to the inner tension which she concealed so well.

“I came at once, of course, arranging with a neighbor to stay with the twins. And when I went to his address this morning, Mrs. Groat told me… that her husband is missing also. Since last night. She claims she doesn’t know anything about his telephone call to me and has never heard of my husband. And she suggested I talk to you about it.”

“You say your husband is missing too?”

“Yes. It’s been a little over a year now. I’d better start back at the beginning and tell you everything. I’ve held it in so long. I just didn’t know… I haven’t dared talk to anyone…” Her voice was still carefully modulated, but there was an undertone of rising hysteria that warned Shayne she was close to the cracking point.

He nodded encouragingly and got out a pack of cigarettes, leaned forward to offer her one and settled back to light one for himself when she shook her head and wet her lips desperately.

He said, “You can talk to me freely, Mrs. Wallace. Take your time and tell me everything you think may be important.”

“Leon and I were married a little over two years ago.” She dropped her gaze to her hands and slowly twisted a plain gold ring on her left hand. “Right after we both graduated from Agricultural College. We put all our money in a small truck farm near Littleboro and were completely happy. It’s what we both wanted to do. To live close to the soil and grow things and… raise a family.” She lifted her haunted eyes to Shayne’s and added breathlessly, “You must understand that. It’s important. We were in love and we were happy. There had never been anyone else for either of us after we first met when we were freshmen at college. Even when it was hard sledding on the farm and we had bad weather and two crop failures in succession. It was hard work, but we both loved hard work. We had a good farm and complete faith in ourselves. We knew there’d be crop failures and hard times, but we were prepared for that. But we were pinched for cash and Leon hated the idea of overextending his credit… and then suddenly I was pregnant. So Leon came to Miami to look for a job for a few months to get money enough to finance a new crop. And he was lucky. He found a fine job right away. Gardener for a rich family here in the city. The Hawleys.”

She stopped abruptly and Shayne narrowed his eyes and exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “The Hawleys? The same family…?”

She nodded briefly. “The same family that is written about in the paper in the story about the airplane wreck. I remember Leon mentioning a son named Albert in one of his first letters. I don’t think he liked Albert much, but it was a good job and paid well. He had been there about two months when I got a letter from him, Mr. Shayne.” She reached for her handbag and unclasped it with shaking fingers and lifted out a long envelope which she pushed toward him. “You’d better read it yourself. You’re the first one… well, you can see why I never showed it to anyone else.”

It was a pre-stamped envelope with an extra stamp pasted beside the printed one. It was addressed to
Mrs. Leon Wallace, Littleboro, Florida
in firmly inked letters, and there was a return address in the upper left corner:
Leon Wallace, c/o Hawley, 316 Bayside Drive, Miami, Florida.
The envelope was worn and somewhat gray with much handling. It was postmarked in Miami slightly less than a year previously.

As Shayne opened the flap and took out a single sheet of plain, white bond paper, folded three times, Mrs. Wallace said, “There were ten one-thousand-dollar bills folded inside his letter, Mr. Shayne.”

He paused to study her face. “Ten one-thousand-dollar bills?”

She nodded. “Read it and see what you think.”

He finished opening it and glanced at the salutation. “I’ll read it aloud, if I may, so Miss Hamilton can take it down.”

She nodded again. “Of course.” She leaned back stiffly and closed her eyes, compressing her lips as Shayne read aloud the words which he knew must be indelibly engraved in her memory:

“Darling:

“Don’t be frightened by all this money. I haven’t robbed a bank or done anything really wrong. And it isn’t ‘hot.’ Better go to Ft. Pierce and deposit it in the bank there where they won’t ask embarrassing questions, and draw it out as you need it.

“I have to go away, Myra, and I can’t tell you where. This will take care of you and pay for a new crop and the hospital bills for the baby. I can’t write you any more, and you’ll have to trust me.

“Try not to worry, and
don’t go to the police
or
anyone.
Don’t ask any questions or try to find out anything. If you do exactly as I say, I will send you another thousand dollars every three months, but I will be in bad trouble and there will be no more money if you upset the apple-cart.

“Believe me, darling, I have thought it all out and this is best for you and me, and for the baby. This is more money than I could earn in a year.

“You can tell people I’ve re-enlisted in the army or something. Or that I’ve gone out West to another job.

“Just don’t worry! And don’t try to find out any more than I’ve told you. I love you and I always will. You will understand when it is all over.

“Kiss the baby for me when he comes… and please try to trust me to know what’s best. Your loving husband.

LEON”

There was silence in the office when Shayne finished reading the letter. It was broken by the crackle of brittle paper as he carefully refolded the sheet into its original creases. Mrs. Wallace opened her eyes wide and swallowed. “Well? What should I have done, Mr. Shayne?” She turned to look at Lucy intensely. “You’re a woman, Miss Hamilton. What would you have done under those circumstances?”

Lucy shook her head slowly, her brown eyes warm with understanding. “If I loved my husband… and trusted him… I guess I would have done the same as you. But what does it
mean,
Michael?” she went on swiftly. “Ten thousand dollars! And another thousand every three months.”

He shook his red head at Lucy, asked Myra Wallace, “Did you hear anything further?”

“Only an envelope every three months, mailed from Miami and with another thousand-dollar bill inside.” Her voice trembled slightly. “It was addressed in his handwriting and had the same return address, but there wasn’t a scrap of writing inside. Just one bill. I’ve had three of them now. The last one about a month ago.”

Shayne replaced the letter in its envelope. “And last night Jasper Groat telephoned to say he had information about your husband… just before
he
disappeared?”

“That’s right. But he didn’t tell me what
sort
of information. Whether Leon was alive or dead.”

Shayne said, “I think it’s time you did some checking with the Hawleys.”

“I did! I telephoned out there this morning from Mrs. Groat’s apartment and asked for their gardener, Mr. Leon Wallace. Some servant answered. A Negro, I’m sure. And he said they hadn’t had any gardener for at least a year… and he didn’t know anything about my husband. That’s when I decided… I should come to you, Mr. Shayne. I’ve heard about you, of course,” she went on breathlessly. “Everybody in Florida has, I guess. I can pay you. I’ve saved most of the money Leon sent me. Just find him for me. I don’t care what he’s done. The farm’s doing fine now. We can pay all the money back.”

Shayne said, “I already have one client in this case, Mrs. Wallace. It seems to me that the disappearance of your husband and Jasper Groat are tied together somehow.” He hesitated, tugging at his left ear lobe and furrowing his forehead. “Have you kept those other envelopes the quarterly payments arrived in?”

“Yes. I have them at home. But they’re just like this one, Mr. Shayne. Addressed in ink in Leon’s handwriting. So I know he was alive and here in Miami just a month ago.”

Shayne said, “I’d like to have the envelopes, Mrs. Wallace. And a picture of your husband.”

“I have one at home I can send you.”

“Do that as soon as you get back. In the meantime, describe him to me.”

“He’s twenty-four. Just my age. He was a little late graduating because he elected to do his selective service between high school and college. He’s about five-ten, and slender and dark-haired. He…”

She broke down suddenly, bowed her face into her hands and her sobbing was loud in the silent office.

Shayne got up. He lifted one shoulder expressively at Lucy, jerking his head toward Myra Wallace, and, as she closed her notebook and hurried around to the young wife, he said, “Get her address and phone number, Lucy. And be sure she understands she’s to send us those other envelopes and a picture of her husband as soon as she gets home. You see she gets off all right. I think she said something about leaving a pair of twins at home in the care of a neighbor.”

“Of course, Michael. Where will you be?”

“Right now,” said Shayne grimly, “I have several questions to put to the Hawley family.” He walked out of the office angrily, wondering again, as he had so often wondered in the past, how any man could be so utterly obtuse as to suppose that a woman like Myra Wallace would prefer for one moment all the money in Fort Knox to her own husband and the father of her child.

Her children, damn it! Twins. And for a few thousand lousy bucks some goddam fool male human being calmly advised his wife to stop worrying about him and enjoy spending the money.