Date with a Dead Man (5 page)

Shayne said, “I think it’s time someone intruded.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“A detective.”

The bony face in front of him tightened with disapproval. “May I see your credentials?”

“Who are you?” Shayne countered bluntly.

He stopped to set the briefcase beside him and extracted a card from his breast pocket. It read:
Hastings A. Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law.
Engraved in the lower right hand corner was the name,
B. H. Hastings.

“I am legal counselor to the Hawley family. I’ll have your credentials and hear your business.”

Shayne said, “I’m private and my business is with Mrs. Hawley.” He started to move forward impatiently, but the lawyer did not give an inch. Shayne halted with his face inches from Hastings’, who told him coldly, “Mrs. Hawley is in seclusion and seeing no one. Perhaps you are not aware of the tragedy that recently befell her only son.”

Shayne said stubbornly, “I know all about Albert Hawley’s death. More than she does, I think. That’s one of the things…”

“In addition to that bereavement,” the lawyer interrupted him, “I have just this moment completed the sad task of reading the will of her brother-in-law who died very recently. Surely you can state your business to me without disturbing the family.”

“Can you answer some questions about Leon Wallace?”

“I’m sure I don’t understand…”

“Neither do I,” said Shayne. He sidestepped past Hastings and went toward the curtained archway, deliberately making his heels loud on the uncarpeted floor. The lawyer hurried after him with a smothered imprecation, and caught hold of his arm just as Shayne parted the curtains on a large square room that without artificial light was darker than the hallway. There were four French windows at the end of it, but heavy draperies were drawn to effectually seal out the sunlight. A small fire blazed in the fireplace in the center of the right-hand wall, incongruous when one had just entered from the midday heat of Miami, yet sending out welcome heat and light into the gloomy room. An oriental rug on the floor was faded and worn, and the heavy antique furniture was dark and depressing.

There were three people inside the room who lifted their heads and looked with wordless surprise at Michael Shayne when he unceremoniously parted the curtains.

The dominant personality was an old lady who sat in a high-backed fireside chair facing him. She was tall and spare, and held her desiccated body very erect with tiny feet planted solidly on the floor, leaning forward slightly from the waist with both withered hands clamped on the knob of a heavy cane with a brass ferrule at the bottom. Everything about her came to a point—her long, thin nose, the high mound of white hair, her cheekbones and the prominent, jutted chin. Her eyes were cavernous, a slaty blue that reflected lights from the dancing flames beside her. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that swirled down to the tips of tiny black shoes and she had a ruffle of white lace at her throat. Her voice was unexpectedly harsh and strong as she croaked, “Who is it, B.H.?”

An overstuffed young man lounged back on a horsehair sofa on her left with both arms spread away from him on the back of it and legs outstretched. He wore a velvet smoking jacket and dark trousers. He was partially bald and his lips pouted sullenly. He lowered his petulant gaze to the tips of his shoes after a brief glance at Shayne.

The third occupant of the room was lanky and shapeless in a dark chemise dress, slouched in a leather-upholstered chair opposite the fireplace. Her black hair was cut short with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. She had a short upper lip that showed slightly protruding front teeth, and her eyes remained half-closed as she indolently surveyed the detective.

Shayne shook off Hastings’ arm and stepped inside the room as the lawyer started to reply to Mrs. Hawley. He said, “I’m a detective with some questions to ask all of you.”

“He has no legal standing whatsoever, Mrs. Hawley,” Hastings interposed. “He forced his way into your home, and I suggest we should call the police to remove him.”

Mrs. Hawley lifted her cane and thumped it loudly on the hearth. “Don’t be an old fool, B.H. Who are you, young man, and what do you want?”

“My name is Michael Shayne, Mrs. Hawley. Did Jasper Groat come here last night?”

“You are not required to answer his questions,” Hastings put in swiftly. “I’ve explained…”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hawley with another thump of her cane. “Why shouldn’t I answer him? I don’t know any Jasper Groat,” she told Shayne. “No one came here last night.”

“Did you expect him to come?” Shayne persisted. “Did you ask him to come and see you?”

“Why should I? I don’t know the man.”

“Do you read the newspapers, Mrs. Hawley?”

“I know who he means.” The girl in the leather chair spoke languidly with almost no movement of her lips. “Jasper Groat was one of the men on the life raft when Albert died.”

“Why should I ask a man like that to my house?” demanded the old lady.

“Most mothers would have been eager to see him under the circumstances,” Shayne pointed out. “It was reasonable to suppose he might bring a dying message from your son.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady said harshly with another emphatic thump of her cane. “No Hawley would make a confidant of such riffraff.”

The girl said lazily, “He did call here on the telephone late yesterday afternoon. I told him I’d see him if he came at eight last night.”

“Beatrice! After I expressly stated I wanted no contact with either of those ruffians who allowed Albert to die while saving their own skins.”

“I know, Mother.” Beatrice’s upper lip lifted in an unpleasant smile that gave her face a perverse look of childishness. “But Gerald and I had talked about Uncle Ezra’s will that we knew Mr. Hastings was going to read this morning, and I thought it might be smart to talk to Mr. Groat.” She paused, regarding her mother with unblinking animosity. “Don’t you wish now that I had?”

Hastings cleared his throat loudly. “Please be quiet, Beatrice. This man is a stranger.”

Shayne stepped past him to look down at the girl. “Are you saying that Groat didn’t come?”

“Don’t answer the man, Beatrice.” The cane thumped again. “Address your questions to me, young man.”

Shayne stood looking down at the girl and didn’t turn his head. Her lids opened, disclosing sooty black eyes, and she caught her underlip between her teeth and gnawed on it as though it tasted good.

Suddenly she giggled and pushed herself out of the chair. She walked past Shayne without looking at him, and went out of the room.

Shayne transferred his attention to the young man who had not moved on the sofa during the interchange between mother and daughter.

“Do you know anything about Groat coming here?”

He lifted his gaze to Shayne’s, and then his eyes flickered away evasively toward Mrs. Hawley. “I think your questions are insolent, old boy.”

“Here’s another one,” Shayne said flatly. He half turned to the matriarch. “Where is Leon Wallace?”

Her eyes glittered at him and her hands clutched the top of her cane fiercely. “Who is he?”

“A gardener whom you employed here about a year ago.”

She said, “I don’t make a practice of keeping track of the names of my servants. Gerald is right. You are insolent.” She thumped her cane commandingly. “Eject this young man, B.H.”

Shayne grinned bleakly at the lawyer as he stepped forward hesitantly. He said, “The police will be around asking the same questions,” and turned his back and stalked out through the curtains.

The Negro was waiting at the door and he drew it open as Shayne approached. There was a scurry of feet in the hallway behind him as Shayne stepped out onto the veranda and thankfully drew a deep breath of clean, sunladen air.

Hastings joined him as he started down the steps, clamping his panama tightly onto his head. “Mrs. Hawley is under a great strain,” he said nervously. “I… ah… think we had best discuss certain matters in the privacy of my office. Will you meet me there, Mr.… ah… Shayne, isn’t it?”

Shayne said, “I’ll be glad to,” and the lawyer hurried down the steps ahead of him and got into the black sedan parked in front of Shayne’s car.

He started the motor and pulled away as Shayne circled around to the left side of his car and opened the door.

A shrill, penetrating, “Eeewee,” from the house made him pause and lift his gaze over the roof of his car. It was a sound he hadn’t heard since he’d played Indians as a child, and it was repeated as he stood there.

Then he saw Beatrice. She was leaning over the ornamental iron railing of a second-floor balcony, beckoning to him eagerly with one hand while she held her finger tightly against her pursed lips.

His ragged, red brows came down in a frown and he hesitated as she pointed to the outside stairway leading up to her balcony and beckoned urgently again.

He shrugged and closed the door of his car, crossed around to the iron stairs and climbed up to the balcony where Beatrice waited for him.

5

She caught hold of his hand excitedly as he reached the top, pulled him back with her through an open French door into a large bedroom that was childishly girlish in its appointments. It was all pink and white, with delicate rosebuds on the wallpaper, ruffled skirts on the vanity table matching the cretonne bedspread and window curtains.

Beatrice stopped in the center of the room and turned to look at him, cocking her head on one side and demurely inserting the tip of the little finger of her left hand into her mouth. She said, “You know what?”

Shayne asked gravely, “What?”

“You make me feel all gurgly inside.” She giggled naughtily and turned aside to a low bookcase where she pulled out two books and groped in the back to bring out a pint whisky bottle a little more than half full. She worried the cork out with her teeth and presented the bottle to Shayne in much the manner of a little girl offering a playmate her favorite doll.

“You’ll have to take it straight,” she told him matter-of-factly. “It’s too much trouble to sneak ice and mixers up here.”

Shayne put the bottle to his mouth and swallowed a couple of times without letting much liquor trickle down his throat. He passed it back to her and she drank deeply, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and said delightedly, “More damn fun.”

In the light from the open window behind her there was an abrasive hardness about her features that surprised Shayne. He realized, of course, that she was older than her brother Albert, and had been married for several years to the unpleasant-looking young man whom he had encountered downstairs, but in the half-light below he had gained the impression of retarded physical development. Now a hot light gleamed in her slate-gray eyes and she moved closer to him to confide, “If I didn’t keep a bottle stashed away where I could hit it once in a while I’d go nuts cooped up here.”

Shayne moved back from her to a slipper chair at the foot of the wide bed and sat down. He said casually, “You’re Albert Hawley’s sister, aren’t you?”

A faint frown creased her forehead. “I was. But Albert’s dead.” She sat on an ottoman a few feet in front of him with her feet placed too wide apart for grace and with the whisky bottle dangling from her hand. “Mother’s a tough old witch to live with. Gerald’s sort of precious, but he bores hell out of me sometimes.”

“Your husband?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long have you been living here with your mother?”

“Couple of years now. Waiting for Uncle Ezra to die so I could collect my share of the estate.” She giggled unexpectedly and for no good reason that Shayne could discern.

He asked gravely, “Can’t your husband support you?”

“I guess he could but why should he bother?” She took another drink from the bottle, held it out toward Shayne but he shook his red head. “Uncle Ezra had millions,” she went on indifferently. “He stole it all from Dad and now he doles out just enough to Mother to keep this damned old monstrosity of a house going.”

“How did your uncle steal your father’s money?” Shayne asked patiently.

“They were in business together. When Dad died there wasn’t anything left of his share. Mr. Hastings explained all about it to us. He explains things like that very well.” She tilted her head to one side and thrust the tip of her tongue out between her lips. “You want to kiss me?”

“Not right now,” Shayne told her. “So now your uncle’s dead and you get all those millions he stole from your father?”

“That’s just it.”

“What’s just it?”

“Why I wanted to talk to you. He left every damned cent of it to Albert.”

“But Albert is dead.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” She was getting impatient with him. “After all these years of waiting we get cut off without a cent. It isn’t fair,” she ended sadly like a little girl who has been denied a piece of candy.

“You mean his wife will inherit?”

“That’s right. Believe it or not he left a will giving her everything even after she divorced him just because he was being drafted into the army.”

Shayne sat up very straight. “I didn’t know Albert was divorced.”

“Didn’t you? They kept it mighty quiet because it didn’t look good. Like maybe they just got married in the first place to try and keep him out of the draft and then got divorced when it didn’t work. Which is probably just about the way it was, but then I don’t see why he turned right around and made out a will leaving her everything even with the stipulation that it didn’t matter whether she remarried or not. Sure you don’t want to kiss me… or a drink?”

Shayne said, “Let’s get our talking done first.”

“Then I’ll take one.” She tilted the bottle to her mouth again, and when she lowered it this time there was little of the half-pint left.

“But when he made that will, I assume he didn’t know Ezra was going to leave everything to him.”

Beatrice said, “Maybe not. I never thought about it before.”

“Did she remarry?”

“Of course she did,” said Beatrice scornfully. “Right after she got her divorce in Reno. With the hot pants she always wore, you can bet she needed a man after being married to Albert for a few months.” She emptied the bottle and dropped it on the floor beside her and stood up, swaying a little. “Why don’t we lie down on the bed? I know just how it was with Matie because Gerald and Albert are two of a kind if you know what I mean.” She moved close to him and held down both her hands to his.

Shayne looked toward the bedroom door and said, “Suppose your husband comes in and finds us?”

She giggled and said, “I can lock the door if you’re afraid of that.” She started toward the door and stopped when it opened and Gerald walked in. He stopped when he saw his wife and Shayne together in the bedroom, but evinced no surprise.

He said, “I saw your car still parked in the driveway and thought you might be up here. Mother won’t like it… you talking to him this way,” he added reprovingly to Beatrice.

“How dare you barge in my bedroom without knocking?” she demanded. “Get out and stay out.”

“It’s my bedroom too,” he told her mildly. “Mother will be angry if…”

“Get out!” she stormed at him, advancing with clenched fists.

“All right. But you’d better lock the door behind me.” Gerald Meany turned around and went out.

“You see?” she said triumphantly to Shayne. “I told you he didn’t care what I do. He just married me in the first place because he thought I was rich.”

“And now you’re not?”

A look of cunning came into her eyes. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. That’s why I went out of the room first and waited on the balcony to call to you.”

“Then let’s talk while we have the chance,” suggested Shayne, “instead of lying on the bed.”

“But now you’re here,
that’s
what I want to do,” she pouted.

“I think we should finish our talking first. What’s really on your mind?”

“As if you can’t guess,” she giggled. Then she sobered and slitted her eyes at him. “Well, you are a private detective, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You do go around finding people and things like that?”

“Many things like that,” Shayne agreed.

“Well then. You’ve got to find those two men who were on the life raft when Albert died. I know one of them was that man Jasper Groat who didn’t come to see me last night after I invited him. And there was another one, the newspapers said.” She put her little finger in her mouth and sucked on it. “Can you find him?”

“I might. Why?”

“Don’t you see? Because the newspapers said
four
or
five
days, that’s why. But they didn’t say
which.”

“Four or five days what?” Shayne asked gently.

“Before Albert died in the boat. Don’t you see how important it is? Mr. Hastings explained it all very carefully this morning. We didn’t know that it really mattered before that, you see? Not until he read Uncle Ezra’s will this morning and explained it all to us.”

“Exactly what did he explain?”

“How it is because Uncle Ezra died ten days ago… five days after the airplane went down with Albert on it. If he only lived four days on the raft, then he was already dead when Uncle Ezra died and the money comes to us. But if he was still alive when Uncle Ezra kicked the bucket, then that means he legally inherits everything and then that bitchy ex-wife of his gets it all. Everything depends on whether Albert lived four or five days on the life raft.”

“And you want me to get hold of the two witnesses and find out from them definitely whether it was four or five days?” said Shayne slowly, adding things up in his own mind and finally coming up with an answer that made sense.

“Well… get hold of them at least and get them to say it was only four days. You could do that, couldn’t you? If I was your client? If they understood how important it was…?”

“You mean bribe them to say it was only four days even if Albert really did survive for five days?”

Beatrice caught her lip between her teeth and chewed on it, tilting her head calculatingly at Shayne. “What’s wrong with that? The money really belongs to us. Certainly not to Matie… after she divorced him and went off and married another man… even if he was damn fool enough to fix it that way in his will. You can offer them plenty to say it was four days. There’s a couple of million altogether, I guess.”

Shayne shrugged and kept his face impassive. He said, “It’s a thought. Of course, you don’t know yet whether a bribe is needed. Maybe it
was
only four days… and all they’d have to do is tell the truth.”

“That’s what Mr. Hastings said this morning. But before they find out how important that extra day is, suppose they come right out and say five? Don’t you see why I want you to fix it for us? There’s no use talking to Mother or Gerald about it,” she went on disdainfully. “They don’t understand about things like this. They’d have
ethics
or something.” She practically spat out the word “ethics.” “But I can tell you’re not like that.” She sidled close to him, stood rubbing her hip against his shoulder and looking down at him with her mouth half-open.

Shayne said, “Maybe we can make a deal.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“Maybe I can help you out if you’ll do something for me.”

She giggled and rubbed her hip harder against his shoulder. “You know I’ll do anything you want, Michael Shayne.”

“Then tell me about Leon Wallace.”

She stopped moving her hip and her mouth closed slowly. “Leon Wallace?” she repeated stupidly. “You mean the gardener?”

“Who worked here on the grounds about a year ago,” Shayne amplified. “What became of him?”

A look of cunning replaced the stupidity on her face. “I never did know… really. Something funny, though. He just wasn’t here at work one morning. That’s really why I wanted to talk to Mr. Groat last night.”

“Why?”

“Because he said he knew all about Leon Wallace. I’ve always wondered, so I told him to come out and tell me. But he never did.”

Shayne considered this a moment, wondering whether to believe her or not. “Then you didn’t ask Groat out just to find out when Albert died?”

“I didn’t know how much it mattered then,” she explained patiently. “Not until this morning when Mr. Hastings explained it.”

“What sort of man was Leon Wallace?”

She pouted her lips consideringly and put the end of her little finger in her mouth. Her hip began moving back and forth rhythmically against Shayne’s shoulder. “He was pretty,” she said with sudden enthusiasm, as though she had just remembered.

“Did you like him?”

“Sure I did. Who wouldn’t? But he wouldn’t hardly look at me. Not with Matie chasing after him the way she did.”

“Albert’s wife?”

“Uh-huh. It was right after he went away that she went off to Reno to get her divorce.”

Shayne considered this bit of information for a moment. “Was Albert jealous of them?”

“Him?” Her voice became venomously scornful. “If he was he certainly never dared show it in front of Matie. She had him right under her thumb, I can tell you. Now why don’t we just go to bed for a little while?” she ended plaintively.

Shayne sighed and stood up. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Not here in your house, Beatrice. As much as I’d like to,” he lied. “Give me a raincheck, huh?”

“You’re mean,” she pouted as he released her and turned away to the balcony.

He said grimly over his shoulder, “It’s just that I never did like to foul another man’s bed.” He stepped out into the hot sunlight and hurried down the iron stairs to get into his car and leave the decaying old mansion behind him.