Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (3 page)

He stopped in front of Shayne and asked, “Sir, what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”

“And who are you, sir?”

“A detective.”

“May I see your credentials?”

“Who are you?” countered Shayne.

The man extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. It read:
Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law.
Engraved in the lower right-hand corner was the name,
B. H. Hastings.

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

Shayne said, “I’m private and my business is with Mrs. Hawley,” and moved forward.

“Mrs. Hawley is—ah—overcome with grief,” Hastings appealed, moving beside the detective. “Her son was recently lost at sea and I have just completed the sad task of reading the will of her brother-in-law, who died unexpectedly only ten days ago.”

Shayne said, “I know about her son. Brother-in-law, too, eh?” He went through the open doorway.

The room was large and gloomy. Heavy drapes shut out the light from long French windows, the rugs were faded and worn, the upholstery of the antique furniture in need of repair.

A tall woman rose from a spindle-legged chair and stood very erect. Everything about her came to a peak—her long, thin nose, the high mound of white hair, her cheekbones, and her prominent, pointed chin. Her eyes were cavernous and glowing beneath heavy gray brows. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that came down to the pointed tips of small black shoes. She looked at Shayne who stood in the doorway and said harshly, “Well, who is it?”

An overstuffed young man lounged on an antique sofa. He wore a velvet smoking-jacket and dark trousers. He was partially bald and his lips pouted sullenly. He didn’t look up at Shayne.

The third occupant of the room was long and lanky and shapeless. She wore clinging silk slacks and slouched on a horsehair sofa. Her black hair was short with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. Except for a short upper lip, she was a replica of Sarah Hawley. She made no move at Shayne’s entrance except to turn her head slightly in his direction to survey him with half-closed eyes.

Shayne went over to the group, followed by the family lawyer. He asked, “Are you Mrs. Hawley?”

“Suppose I am,” she snapped.

“Did Jasper Groat come to see you last night?”

“You’re not required to answer that, Mrs. Hawley,” Hastings said hastily. “This man has forced his way into your home. He has no legal standing whatsoever.”

“Nonsense,” snorted Mrs. Hawley. “Why shouldn’t I answer him? I don’t know any Jasper Groat. No one came here last night.”

“Did you expect him?” Shayne persisted. “Did he telephone you yesterday to say he was coming?”

“Why should he? I don’t know the man.”

“Do you read the newspapers?”

“I know who he’s talking about.” The girl’s voice was languid and she spoke with almost no movement of her lips. “Jasper Groat is one of the men who was in the lifeboat when Albert died.”

“He didn’t come here,” Mrs. Hawley persisted.

Shayne shrugged. “Most people would have looked Groat up under the circumstances. It was reasonable to suppose he might have brought a dying message from your son.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady said fiercely. “No Hawley would make a confidant of such riffraff.”

The girl lazily drew herself to a sitting position. “Groat called here on the phone yesterday,” she said. “I asked him to come out at eight last night.”

“Beatrice! I told you I wanted no contact with those ruffians who allowed Albert to die while they saved their own skins.”

“I know, Mother.” Beatrice smiled unpleasantly.

“Yet you deliberately invited the man here against my wishes.” Sarah Hawley’s eyes blazed with anger. She lifted one clawlike hand in a threatening gesture.

“Perhaps you wish now he had come—after what Mr. Hastings just told us,” Beatrice said languidly.

There was silence in the big room. The fat young man stirred, sat up, leaned forward, and dropped his chin into cupped palms. He scowled into space.

Hastings said to the girl, “This man is a private detective. I don’t think he’s interested in the family’s affairs, Mrs. Meany.”

“It’s time someone got interested,” she retorted.

“That will be quite enough, Beatrice,” her mother said. She turned to dismiss Shayne. “You may go.”

Shayne turned to Beatrice Meany. “Are you quite sure Mr. Groat didn’t reach here last night?”

She lowered her eyelids, caught her underlip between her teeth, let go of it, and said, “I’m quite sure I didn’t see him.”

Shayne stood for a long moment looking at the young man on the sofa. Beatrice giggled and said, “Believe it or not, that’s my husband, Gerald Meany, Mr.—”

“Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

Without moving a muscle, Gerald Meany muttered, “Don’t pay any attention to that drunken hussy.”

“Gerald!” the old lady screeched in a menacing voice.

Shayne’s upper lip drew back from his teeth in a distasteful grimace. He whirled on his heels and stalked to the door.

In the hallway he felt a grip on his arm and turned to see Beatrice just behind him. She gestured for silence, walked along until she reached the stairway, then, with surprising strength, urged him up the steps. “I’ve got a drink up in my room—and I’ve got to tell you something.

Beatrice hustled Shayne into an attractive upstairs sitting room. The walls were freshly papered with a light, gay pattern and the furniture was covered with bright chintz.

She closed the door and moved with a swinging stride to a small bookcase. She removed two books and brought out a pint bottle half full of whisky, pulled the cork with her teeth, and held the bottle out to Shayne. “We’ll have to take it straight. It’s too much trouble to sneak ice and mixers up here.”

Shayne put the bottle to his mouth, swallowed twice without letting much liquor pass down his throat. He handed it back to the girl. She drank half of it, set the bottle on a table, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and said, “More damn fun!” delightedly.

Here in the light from windows, she looked much older. There was an abrasive hardness about her that startled Shayne. In the gloomy room downstairs, she had seemed childish and defiant. Now, her slate-gray eyes burned with hot intensity. She said, “If I didn’t have a bottle to hit once in a while I’d go nuts.”

Shayne sat down in a comfortable chair, looked up at her and asked, “Are you and Albert the only two children?”

“That’s right.” She stood a few feet away from him with her feet too far apart for grace. She waved her cigarette toward him and said, “Mother’s a tough old witch to live with. Gerald’s sort of precious, but he bores hell out of me.”

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

“Couple of years. Waiting for Uncle Ezra to die so I could get my share of the estate.”

“Can’t your husband support you?”

“He could, but why should he?” She shrugged her thin shoulders and flopped down on an ottoman beside the table. She reached for the bottle, took another drink, and said, “Uncle Ezra’s got millions. He stole it all from Dad and now he just gives Mother and me enough to keep this damned old house going.”

“How did your Uncle Ezra steal your father’s money?”

“They were in business together. When Dad died ten years ago there wasn’t anything left. Mr. Hastings explained it. He explains things like that very well.”

“And now your Uncle Ezra is dead?” Shayne prompted.

“Yeah. He left everything to Albert,” she said angrily.

“But Albert is dead,” Shayne reminded her.

“That’s the whole trouble.” Her voice was getting thick and she stared vacantly at the detective.

“Did Albert leave the money to someone else?”

“Every damn cent of it. To his wife, and after she’d divorced him, too. What a dope!” She took another swig of whisky.

“When did Albert join the army?”

“He didn’t join. Not Albert. They had to drag him in. That was Mother’s fault. She always babied him, made him think he was too good to go to war like the common people.”

“When was he drafted?”

“Couple of years ago. What’s it matter?” She got up, toed the ottoman over close to Shayne and plopped down again.

Shayne said, “What if your husband comes in?”

She said slyly, “I can lock the door.”

The door opened and Gerald Meany came in. He stopped when he saw Shayne, but showed no surprise. He said, “I saw that your car was still in the driveway.”

“How dare you come in here without knocking?” Beatrice stormed at him. “Get out!”

He said, “All right, but you’d better lock the door. Mrs. Hawley is on her way up.”

“See?” She swung triumphantly toward Shayne as Gerald left, and sat down. “You needn’t worry about Gerald. He doesn’t care what I do. He just married me because he thought I was rich.”

“And now you’re not?”

A look of cunning came into her eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“You’re a private detective, aren’t you? Don’t you go around finding people and things like that?”

Shayne nodded.

“Well, you’ve got to find those two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert. Don’t you see? The newspapers said four or five days.”

Shayne’s gray eyes brightened. He waited for her to go on. She didn’t.

“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 this morning,” she added. “We didn’t know before that, you see. Not until he read Uncle Ezra’s will.”

“Leaving everything to Albert?”

She took the last of the whisky and said thickly, “That’s right. You know all about it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about anything,” Shayne said. “Take your finger out of your mouth and say what you have to say if you want me to help you.”

She pouted her lips around the tip of her finger, then took it out. “It makes all the difference in the world whether we get the money or that hellion of an ex-wife of Albert’s gets it. God, but you’re dumb. Uncle Ezra died ten days ago.”

Shayne said slowly, “Do you mean it’s important whether your brother died before your uncle or after—on account of the will?”

“Sure. That’s what I told you. It can’t be five days. That’d be too long. His wife would get the money even if she is divorced from him and married again. And she’s right here in town, too. You can bet on that. The way she twisted Albert around her little finger!”

Shayne got up and said impatiently. “You don’t need me.”

She sprang up from the ottoman, swaying a little, and caught his arm. “We do need you. Somebody’s got to get the men to say it was four days. To prove Albert was dead first. Then the money stays where it belongs instead of going to her.”

“Are you suggesting a bribe?”

“Why not? There’s plenty. Couple of millions.”

Shayne went to the window, stood staring out for a moment, then stalked out the door. He drove directly to his apartment, went up and showered, dressed from the skin out in fresh clothes. He took a long drink of cognac, and felt cleansed of the humid stench of the Hawley estate and Beatrice’s rotgut whisky.

Lucy Hamilton was seated at her desk in the reception room when he reached his office an hour later. “Any progress?”

“Not unless Sergeant Pepper called,” said Shayne.

“He didn’t.” She studied him disapprovingly. “Are you just sitting around letting the police hunt for Mr. Groat?”

Shayne grinned and tossed his hat on the rack. “They’re the ones to do it. Mrs. Groat hasn’t any money to pay a fee, has she?”

“She’s terribly upset, Michael. She’s depending on you to do something. I promised you would. And there’s Mrs. Wallace,” Lucy went on. “She’s got plenty of money.”

“To pay for finding her husband.”

“Isn’t it the same, thing? Find Mr. Groat and you’ll find out about Mr. Wallace.”

“A reasonable assumption. Did you get in touch with Mrs. Wallace?”

“At the depot. She saved those envelopes. She’s going to mail them to you when she gets home. I got the name of the bank, too.”

“Good girl.” He went into his inner office, sat down in the swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, and settled back.

The telephone rang in the outer office. He heard Lucy answer it. His telephone buzzer sounded. He called, “Who is it?” without opening his eyes.

“Answer your phone and see,” she called back.

He picked up the receiver and said, “Shayne speaking.”

“I have need of the services of a competent private detective, Mr. Shayne,” a precise and resonant voice told him. “You have been recommended to me as capable and—ah—discreet.”

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Hastings, of Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law, in the Downtown Building. If you could call at my office at once we will discuss the assignment.”

“I’ll be right over.” Shayne hung up, an oddly speculative grin lighting his angular face.

Lucy came to the door and asked hopefully, “Another client?”

Shayne said, “A lot of people are becoming interested in the whereabouts of Jasper Groat.” He swung his feet from the desk and asked, “Do you know how to get in touch with Cunningham?” He grinned and added, “The one who looked at you last night.”

Faint color came to her face. “He called me early this morning to find out if we had any word of Mr. Groat.”

“And—”

“He said he’d call again this evening. I’ll find out where you can reach him.”

Shayne got up and yawned. “Get hold of all the papers telling about the sea rescues, Lucy. Try to get the names of all the reporters who interviewed the two men. Call the papers if the stories don’t carry by-lines.”

She went to her desk for a shorthand pad, made the notations in it, and asked, “Is that all?”

“What I want,” he explained, “is the name of the reporter who was interested in buying publication rights to Jasper Groat’s diary. Remember Cunningham mentioning that last night?”

She nodded.

“That’s all. Just get his name and try to arrange an appointment. I’ll be back presently.”

The offices of Hastings & Brandt were on the fourth floor of the Downtown Building. The dingy front office was presided over by a gnomelike little man wearing a shiny alpaca coat. He was humped over a huge legal volume. He peered at Shayne with near-sighted irritation and said, “Yes, yes. What is it?”

“I’m Michael Shayne. I think Mr. Hastings expects me.”

“I guess it’s all right for you to go in,” he said, after consulting a memo pad. He pointed to a door marked
Private.

Shayne opened the door without knocking. Mr. Hastings sat before an ancient roll-top desk. He looked up as Shayne entered and said, “It’s you again.”

“Didn’t you expect me?” Shayne crossed over to an armchair beside the desk.

Mr. Hastings was confused, “Certainly not. I have no idea why you’re here and I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m Michael Shayne, the private investigator who was recommended to you as being ah—discreet,” Shayne told him. “I introduced myself at the Hawley house.”

Mr. Hastings grew more confused. He fussed with some papers on his desk, said, “I’m sure I didn’t catch the name.”

“You need a private detective, don’t you?” Shayne stretched his long legs. “You’re on the spot with that will of Mrs. Hawley’s brother-in-law leaving everything to Albert Hawley, but not to his heirs and assigns if the young man predeceased his uncle. In that case, as I understand it, his entire estate goes to Mrs. Hawley and her daughter.”

“I don’t care to discuss it with you, sir. I don’t know what you’re after or where you got hold of this information. I shall arrange for another investigator at once.” He turned back to the legal forms on his desk.

Shayne said, “You’ve got to get hold of the two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert when he died and find out the exact date. The newspaper reports were vague on that point. The men reported that Hawley was alive either four or five days. I’ve checked back on the dates and find that Uncle Ezra died on the fifth day after young Hawley’s ship was torpedoed. If Albert died on the fourth night, Ezra Hawley’s estate goes to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sarah Hawley, and her daughter. But if he didn’t die until the fifth night after his ship was torpedoed, he was alive at the time of his uncle’s death, and his subsequent demise will turn the entire fortune over to his divorced wife, according to the terms of the will. Am I correct thus far?”

Mr. Hastings was disturbed. He hadn’t looked at Shayne during his lengthy and rapid discourse. The lawyer jerked around in his creaking swivel chair, took off his glasses with an unsteady hand, and glared at the detective. “I’m sure I don’t know how you’ve gathered this information,” he said testily, “or why you’ve wasted your time gathering it.”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I always try to familiarize myself with every aspect of a case when I’m called in on it.”

“But you haven’t been called in on this case,” Hastings said angrily.

“You were too anxious to get rid of me at the Hawleys’ even to learn my name. You called me in on the case not more than half an hour ago.”

“And now I’m dismissing you,” said Hastings. Purplish color showed in his thin face.

“I’m in and I’m staying in,” Shayne said hotly. “Mrs. Hawley is your client—Albert Hawley’s divorced wife, I take it, is not. It’ll mean a couple of millions to your client and a nice fat fee for you to persuade Groat and Cunningham to testify that Albert Hawley died on the fourth night in the lifeboat. You’ve got to reach them before Albert’s ex-wife does, because she might even go so far as to bribe them to say it was the fifth night. If there’s any bribing done—well, you want to have the first crack at it. That’s why you need me.”

Hastings was nervously tapping his glasses against the palm of his hand. The purplish color heightened in his face. “Young man,” he said austerely, “the mere mention of bribery is repugnant to me.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough. That’s why you need someone else to do the dirty work and spare you the details.” Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.

Hastings played a little game with his long, thin fingers, his pale eyes studying Shayne’s gaunt face and relaxed figure. He said, “Humph,” finally.

Shayne asked casually, “Do you know the police are looking for Jasper Groat?”

The lawyer stiffened. “Eh? What’s that?”

“Groat has been missing since about eight o’clock last night, the time Beatrice Meany invited him out to the Hawley house.”

Hastings sat very still and didn’t say anything.

“Beatrice Meany,” Shayne went on, “is a queer one. It wouldn’t surprise me if she lured him out in order to bop him off if she couldn’t persuade him to testify the way she wanted.”

The lawyer ran the edge of his tongue over his tight lips. “Do you know Miss Beatrice well?”

“Fairly well. I had a session with her in her room with a bottle of whisky after you left.”

“She’s a queer girl,” Hastings acknowledged moodily.

“She’s a dipsomaniac. Was Albert cut from the same cloth?”

“No, indeed. That is—no. Albert was weak, perhaps. His mother—ah—I’m sure you observed her domineering personality.”

“Did Ezra Hawley actually steal all his brother’s money?”

Hastings darted a sharp look at Shayne. “Good heavens, no! Where did you get that idea?”

“Something Beatrice said.”

“It wasn’t that way at all. John Hawley was a poor businessman. He made bad investments and wasted his portion of the family inheritance while Ezra increased his more than twofold.”