Date with a Dead Man (9 page)

“Who else knew about it?”

“Joel Cross, for one. He read the diary yesterday. I’d check and see what he was doing at eight o’clock last night.” Shayne turned to the door again, and kept on going this time.

Lucy Hamilton looked up with a grimace when he entered his office half an hour later. “A woman called just a few minutes ago and insisted that I give her your home address when I told her you weren’t in.”

Shayne ruffled his red hair and grinned at her. “Who was the lady?”

“I didn’t say she was a lady,” said Lucy primly. “She giggled when I asked her, and refused to give her name.”

“Did she also nibble on her finger?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Lucy replied disdainfully. “She sounded mentally retarded and man-crazy.”

Shayne nodded grave approval. “You’re developing quite a knack for character analysis over the telephone. I suppose you gave this charming maiden the information she wanted.”

“I gave her the name of your hotel. You once told me I was never to refuse it to a female inquirer.”

Shayne said, “That’s swell. My liquor supply won’t be safe from now on. Anything else?”

Lucy was shaking her head when her telephone buzzed. She lifted it and said dulcetly, “Michael Shayne’s office.”

She listened and said, “One moment, please. I’ll see if Mr. Shayne is in.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Another female. This one doesn’t giggle, and I bet she doesn’t nibble on her finger either. But I’ll also bet she just loves to chew on redheaded he-man detectives.”

“Mrs. Meredith?” Shayne asked with a grin.

“You’re so smart to guess, Mr. Shayne,” Lucy said with a bitter smile.

“I’ll take it inside.”

Shayne went through a door into his private office and lifted the phone there. “Hello.”

“Matie… Michael.” There was a slight pause, and Mrs. Meredith went on rapidly, “How is the headache?”

“Better, but… not good.”

“I’m so sorry,” she purred seductively. “I just happen to have a terrific headache remedy here. My own private recipe.”

Shayne said, “At the Biscayne Hotel.”

“Suite twelve hundred A,” she told him matter-of-factly.

Shayne said, “It’ll take me ten minutes,” and hung up.

He sauntered out to the reception room and Lucy looked at him with snapping brown eyes as he unhooked a panama from a rack near the door.

“I’ll just bet she’s got a private brew for headaches. A mixture of absinthe and benedictine and… and every aphrodisiac in the book.”

Shayne said, “Tut, Lucy. You shouldn’t listen in on private conversations. I’ve warned you before.” He settled the hat carefully on his throbbing head and went out.

12

Mrs. Meredith was waiting for Shayne in the living room of her hotel suite. She had changed to a clinging hostess gown of gray satin and her hair was brushed out in tiny ringlets that gave her a more youthful appearance. She took his hand warmly between both of hers and drew him into the room.

Shayne held back a trifle, looking down at her with an odd look in his gray eyes. She tilted her head and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’ve decided I had better be afraid of you,” Shayne told her bluntly.

She gave his hand an extra pressure between her soft palms, and released it. “I like that very much. It’s every woman’s secret desire to be considered dangerously alluring. I assume that
is
what you meant, Michael Shayne?”

“I suspect you’re intelligent along with the allure,” he told her. “Which warns me that I should get the hell out of here while I can.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“You know I’m not.” He prowled past her across the room to a low table in front of the divan. It held an ice bucket, a bottle of bonded bourbon, a small bowl with a teaspoon, two tall glasses full of shaved ice, and a squatty vase holding a bouquet of mint sprigs. Green crushed mint leaves floated in the bowl on top of a syrupy mixture of sugar dissolved in a small quantity of bourbon.

She moved over and sat down in front of the table. “This is the headache remedy I mentioned.” She poured half the syrupy mixture into each glass of shaved ice, tilted the whisky bottle and filled both glasses to the brim with straight whisky. She looked up with a smile as she caught a look of mild amazement on Shayne’s angular face. “That’s the secret of a true mint julep. Don’t spare the horses when you pour the whisky.”

“No aphrodisiacs,” muttered Shayne.

She frowned slightly, decorating each glass with a sprig of mint. “I don’t understand.”

“Just a little private joke between my secretary and me.”

“She’s a charming girl,” Matie Meredith told him, offering him a glass with a direct look. “I’m sure you and she must have many private jokes. I’m afraid she doesn’t approve of me,” she added placidly.

Shayne buried his nose in the mint and took a long, slow swallow of the liquid. He moved back to a deep chair and sank into it, stretching his long legs out comfortably. “This is the only civilized way to drink whisky. You are an excellent prescriber for headaches, Mrs. Meredith.”

She said, “Thank you,” simply, as though accepting his statement not as flattery but as praise to which she was entitled. “Have you any idea who gave you the headache?”

“Does that mean you decided to believe my story?”

“I certainly don’t believe you knocked yourself out in Joel Cross’s room. Whether you searched the room or someone else did the job seems immaterial to me. I’m quite sure neither of you found the diary there.”

“Why are you sure?”

“Joel told me so, for one thing. But I was already certain by the way he acted when he first came in. He wasn’t worried about the diary at all.”

“Did he tell you where it is?”

“No.” She leaned back against the cushion and crossed her nice legs, taking a long drink and regarding him soberly over the rim of the glass.

“Or what was in it?” Shayne persisted.

“He refused to discuss the diary with me. I found Mr. Cross an insufferable young man.”

“Did you explain your interest in the diary? Tell him why the exact date of Albert Hawley’s death is important to you?”

“Certainly not. The fewer people who know that, the better.”

“Did you get any impression that he may guess or know the importance of the diary to you?”

“It’s difficult to get any sort of impression from him,” she parried coolly. “Do you think he knows?”

“Probably not. Assuming that the terms of Ezra Hawley’s will are not general knowledge. And even then,” added Shayne thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose many people know that you are still Albert Hawley’s heir even though you divorced the guy just before he went into the army.”

“Probably not,” Matie Meredith agreed indifferently.

“It certainly isn’t normal procedure,” mused Shayne. “In fact it’s one of the angles that’s bothered hell out of me from the beginning of this screwed-up affair. It just didn’t make sense… now it’s beginning to.”

She said, “Oh?”

He took another long drink. “I mean, I’m beginning to realize how a woman like you could have a man like Hawley wrapped around your little finger.”

“Albert loved me,” she said softly.

“That’s what I mean. Enough to change his will so you’d inherit all his money after you divorced him and remarried.”

“Albert was generous,” she said calmly. “And he had no one else he cared to leave it to. He hated his family,” she added in the same flat tone.

“What did he think of Leon Wallace?”

She leaned forward carefully to set her glass down on the table and, watching closely, Shayne detected a tremor in her hand. She remained leaning forward and her eyes were very wide and direct on him as she asked slowly, “What do you know about Leon Wallace?”

“I know this much, Matie. He was working as a gardener at the Hawley estate when you decided to go to Reno and divorce your husband. I know he disappeared soon afterward after writing a curious letter to his wife enclosing ten grand in cash and instructing her not to worry or attempt to trace him. In addition, she has received another thousand quarterly since then with no message whatever, mailed to her in a plain envelope from Miami.”

She held his gaze steadily with an interested expression on her face. She said, “You do get around, don’t you, Michael?”

“I’m a detective,” he reminded her, as he had reminded Cunningham the previous evening.

“So you are,” she murmured.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“What do
you
know about Leon Wallace?”

“A great deal more right now than I did two minutes ago,” she told him evenly. “I knew nothing about his strange disappearance.”

“Perhaps not. But I have a strong hunch that your divorced husband knew all about it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because Jasper Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace long distance last night and told her that if she would come to Miami this morning he would tell her about her husband.”

“I see. You’re assuming that Albert told him about Leon Wallace while he was dying on the life raft.”

“And that Groat was murdered last night to prevent him from meeting Mrs. Wallace this morning and telling her the truth,” said Shayne sharply.

She frowned and closed her eyes slowly. She opened them with a little shake of her head and said, “I’ve been assuming he was killed by some of the Hawleys… or someone hired by them… to conceal the real date of Albert’s death.”

“Who knew that date was important last night?” Shayne pressed her. “They supposedly didn’t know the terms of Ezra’s will until Hastings read it to them this morning. You knew, of course,” he added quietly. “Else you wouldn’t have hurried to Miami to claim your inheritance.”

“I think they must have known, too. After all, Mr. Hastings is their family lawyer.”

“We’ve gotten off the subject of Leon Wallace,” Shayne reminded her. “How well did you know him while you were married to Albert and living there?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been racking my brain to remember and I simply can’t. I know there
was
a gardener around the place, but that’s about all.”

Shayne knew she was lying. He asked abruptly, “Is Mr. Meredith in town with you?”

She was obviously disturbed by the sudden question. “No.”

“Where do you live?” probed Shayne.

“How can that possibly concern you?”

“What’s your husband’s business? His first name? When and where did you meet him? What sort of man is he?” The questions came swiftly and angrily.

She didn’t answer any of them. She sat forward stiffly and lifted her glass to bury her face in the mint leaves while she drew liquid from the shaved ice.

“I want some answers.” Shayne spread out his big hands and scowled bleakly. “One man has been murdered. If I stick my neck out any further, I’m going to know what I’m sticking it into.”

Matie took a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it with steady fingers. She blew out a plume of smoke, stretched back languorously with ankles crossed and regarded Shayne through half-closed eyes. “How are you sticking your neck out?”

Shayne emptied his glass and set it down hard on the table beside his chair. He got to his feet and began striding up and down the room. “By taking you on as a client. By trying to help you prove that your ex-husband was still alive when his uncle died.”

“What have my private affairs to do with that?”

“I don’t know yet. But I can’t dismiss the coincidence of Leon Wallace’s mysterious disappearance at the same time you took off for Reno to get a divorce.”

She said coldly, “My husband’s name is Meredith, not Wallace, Mr. Shayne. His first name is Theodore, not Leon. He is not a gardener, I assure you. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” Shayne said with blunt impatience. “Men have been known to disappear and change their names before this… marry and raise families under assumed names.”

“Really though!” She stiffened erect and her eyes opened wide and there was withering scorn in her voice. “A gardener!”

“I never met Wallace,” growled Shayne. “I understand he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he reeked of sex appeal. Women have been known to fall in love with their husband’s gardeners before this… and chauffeurs and houseboys.”

“And I suppose you think I gave him the ten thousand dollars he sent his wife to keep her quiet. Or perhaps you think Albert furnished the money so I could divorce him and elope with the gardener.” Her voice was icy.

“I don’t know where the money came from. I’d still like to meet your present husband.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Michael. You and he have nothing in common.” She relaxed back against the cushions and smiled seductively. “How is your headache by this time?”

“I’ve just about forgotten it.”

“So my remedy did work,” she purred, patting the cushion beside her. “So why don’t you stop striding up and down and glaring at me and imagining all sorts of ridiculous things and sit down here and let me run my fingers through that red hair of yours and find out for myself exactly how different you are from dear Theodore?”

Shayne stopped at the end of the divan and looked down at her with a sudden grin. “Don’t tempt me, Matie.”

“Why not?” Her red lips parted and she gazed up into his face boldly. “You do things to me, Michael. I could do things to you, too. Pour some more whisky in your glass and bring it over.”

Shayne sighed and shook his red head reluctantly. “One more of your drinks and I’d never leave this room.”

“Why should you, Michael?”

“Because I’ve got to keep a date with another dame. She’s waiting for me at my hotel right now, and I need to be sober to handle her.”

“Another dame, darling? When you can have me?” Matie pushed the tip of her tongue out between her full lips and her eyes were wondrously soft and appealing.

Shayne said, “This is business… sort of.”

“Isn’t pleasure more important? Besides, I
am
your client. Remember?”

Shayne said, “This dame happens to be your sister-in-law.”

“Beatrice?” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt as she spoke the name, and then she relaxed and began laughing softly. “You and Beatrice. Oh, my God in heaven. Have you actually met her?”