Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (5 page)

Sims said, “Glad to see you Shayne. This is Mrs. Meredith.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs. Meredith,” said Shayne, and sat down in his swivel chair.

Sims moved from the window and took a chair opposite Shayne. He said, “Mrs. Meredith is a client of mine from out of town.”

Shayne looked at her and didn’t say anything. She had her legs crossed and she smiled faintly. Her eyes were brown and calculating. She met Shayne’s gaze levelly, sizing him up as he imagined she did all men—to ascertain if she might use him and how best to handle him.

“I wondered,” said Jake Sims, “what sort of job you’re doing for Hastings.”

Shayne was still watching Mrs. Meredith. She made, a quick gesture with her left hand, as though she had come to a sudden decision.

“Where have you hidden Jasper Groat?” Her voice was strong and even, without impatience.

“You must be Albert Hawley’s divorced wife,” Shayne countered.

She nodded and leaned forward to stub out her cigarette in a tray on his desk.

“What makes you think I’ve hidden Groat?”

Jake Sims cleared his throat. “It’s fairly evident, Shayne. You’re working with Hastings to defraud my client of a fortune. You’ve got rid of the only witness who could testify that Hawley didn’t die until after his uncle passed on—until after he had legally inherited Ezra Hawley’s fortune.”

“The only witness?” Shayne asked mockingly.

“You know Cunningham either can’t or won’t make a definite statement,” Mrs. Meredith said. “He told us about talking with you last night. He’s convinced you know what’s happened to Jasper Groat.”

“But not the diary,” Shayne said gently.

“He thinks you’re working with the reporter who got the diary from Groat,” Sims put in.

“But you don’t”—Shayne swung about to face Sims—“else you wouldn’t have called Joel Cross to learn whether he had authority to publish the diary in the event of Groat’s death.”

“We know, of course, that you’re working for Mrs. Hawley,” Mrs. Meredith said coldly. “It doesn’t matter when or how you got hold of the diary. We want it—or assurance that it’ll be destroyed.”

“As soon as Cunningham is convinced it won’t turn up to prove him a liar, his memory will improve and he’ll know whether Albert Hawley lived four or five days in the lifeboat,” Shayne said.

“You can be sure the diary won’t do the Hawleys any good as evidence, even though it does seem to prove their point. If they introduce it in court, we’ll counter with Cunningham.”

“I don’t think he’ll testify until he’s sure the diary won’t pop up to prove him a liar,” Shayne said.

Sims scowled. “It’d be much better that way,” he agreed. “That’s why my client is willing to pay good money for it.”

“Were you in New Orleans when your ex-husband was inducted into the army?” Shayne asked her suddenly.

“I was in Reno getting my divorce.”

“But you were living here just prior to that?” he pressed her.

“Until I went to Reno, yes.”

“Did you know Leon Wallace?”

For the first time her superb equanimity was disturbed. She took time to get a cigarette out of her purse. Her hands trembled as she lit it. “The name sounds familiar,” she admitted.

“Was he the gardener at the Hawleys’ while you were there?”

“Perhaps. I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What’s this Wallace got to do with the present situation?” Sims demanded. “We’ve made you an open-and-shut offer, Shayne.”

“Leon Wallace has a lot to do with all this,” Shayne said slowly and emphatically. His eyes were bright.

Mrs. Meredith came up from her chair, clutching her bag with both hands, and giving Shayne a provocative look. “Perhaps we can talk about this further—privately.” Her slight hesitation before the last word was just enough to indicate she didn’t wish to discuss Leon Wallace before her attorney.

Shayne got up and said, “I’m at your service.”

“Suppose, then, I call you after you’ve had time to think things over.” She walked toward the door.

Sims hesitated, his loose lips drawn tight, scowling his dissatisfaction at the turn the interview had taken. He nodded to Shayne and followed his client out.

Shayne’s phone rang. Inspector Quinlan in charge of the homicide department was on the wire. He said, “Shayne. I’ve got a stiff over here who used to be named Groat.”

“Where did you get him?”

“Fished him out of the river half a mile below the point where Labarre Road hits the levee. Bopped over the head about eighteen hours ago.”

“Any papers on him? A diary or anything like that?”

“Nothing at all. Sergeant Pepper says you’ve got some dope on him, and I just finished talking to Mrs. Groat. You’d better come over to my office and give out.”

Shayne said, “Right away.” He hung up and gently massaged his left earlobe for a moment before grabbing his hat.

“And that’s all I know about it,” Shayne completed his recital half an hour later in Quinlan’s office, spreading out his big hands in an open gesture. He had told Quinlan everything he knew about Jasper Groat, withholding only the details of his private talk with Leslie Cunningham and the information Mrs. Leon Wallace had given him.

Quinlan had a high forehead and thin features, with frosty blue eyes. He was intelligent and hard-boiled, and he liked Shayne. He leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a pencil. “It looks as though Groat went out to the Hawley house at eight, was met there by someone who conked him and carried his body down to the river. Why, Mike? And who?”

Shayne said, “You know as much about it as I do.”

“The way you tell it,” summarized the Inspector, “no one knew the diary was going to be important in determining the exact time of Albert Hawley’s death until Ezra Hawley’s will was read to the family this morning.”

“That’s the way it looks. Except Hastings, of course—the family lawyer. He probably knew the will was drawn up in such a way that the ex-Mrs. Albert Hawley would receive the inheritance only if it could be proved that Albert outlived his uncle.”

“Why did the Hawleys act the way they did about not seeing Groat?” demanded the Inspector irritably. “You’d think they’d want to talk with the men who were with Albert when he died.”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Sarah Hawley. She’s a tough old dame. I gather she blames them for saving their own lives while her son died.”

“Who’s this Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro who showed up at Groat’s apartment this morning?”

“Her husband has been missing for two years,” Shayne said slowly. “He was employed as the Hawley’s gardener at the time. It seems that Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace yesterday afternoon saying he had information about her missing husband, and asked her to come in to see him.”

“Information he must have got from Albert Hawley while the boy was dying.”

“That’s a good guess,” Shayne agreed.

“Then that may be the motive behind Groat’s death. To prevent him from turning that information over to Mrs. Wallace. Do you think there was some dirty work involving the Hawleys?”

“I—don’t know.” Shayne hesitated. “Let’s not forget the newspaper reporter Joel Cross. He had all day yesterday in which to read Groat’s diary. He’s smart. If it contained material for blackmailing the Hawleys, he’d realize at once that Groat’s religious scruples would prevent such usage of the diary. With Groat out of the way, the coast would be clear.”

“But he plans to publish the damned thing,” groaned Quinlan. “That doesn’t sound like blackmail. Stuff like that remains valuable only as long as it remains secret.”

“Sure. He prints a big item in the paper announcing publication of the diary. That’s to put the screws on. Remember, he has sole possession of the diary and he’s the one who will decide what is printed and what is withheld. That makes it a perfect blackmail setup for him—with Groat out of the way.”

“What about this fellow Cunningham? He must know what’s in the diary, too.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m not too sure about that. Remember, it was Groat who nursed Hawley in the lifeboat. I imagine Cunningham suspects the truth, though he may not know it all. Anyhow, he’d play with Cross for a split.”

“It’s too damned balled up,” Quinlan snorted. “We’re guessing at everything. We don’t even know whether the entry in the diary will throw Ezra Hawley’s money to the family or to Albert’s ex-wife.”

“That’s right,” Shayne agreed. “We don’t know anything for sure. We don’t even know who has the diary now.”

“Groat’s murderer.”

“Only if Groat had it on him when he was killed. We don’t know whether he ever got it back from Cross or not. If he did, he may have given it to someone or hidden it before he started to keep his eight o’clock appointment last night.” Shayne got up with a wide grin. “Should you talk to Joel Cross, don’t pay any attention if he accuses me of stealing the diary from his room. I didn’t, but someone else may have.” Shayne sauntered out with an infuriating wave of his hand.

Lucy was at her desk when he got back to his office. She looked up with a sardonic glint in her brown eyes and consulted a memo pad.

“Two women called,” she told him primly. “One of them wants you to call her and the other wanted your home address.”

“Who were the ladies?”

“I didn’t say either of them were ladies. One was a Mrs. Meredith. She’s at the St. Charles. Room 319. She’s the one who wants you to call her. The other one wouldn’t give her name. She giggles,” Lucy ended insinuatingly.

“Does she also nibble on her finger?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Lucy went on disdainfully. “She sounded like a mentally retarded, man-crazy she-wolf.”

Shayne nodded gravely. “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 address of your apartment. You told me once 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. You can take the rest of the afternoon off,” he went on abruptly. “I think Mrs. Groat could use some company. They pulled her husband out of the river a short time ago.”

“Oh, Michael! Dead?”

“Since last night around eight.”

“Who did it? Has it anything to do with Mrs. Wallace, who was to have seen him this morning?”

He nodded soberly. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Sort of keep an eye on Mrs. Groat, angel. She may be in danger as long as her husband’s diary is missing. If the killer didn’t get it off Groat last night, he’s still after it.”

“Why is this diary so important, Michael?”

“I’m not just sure yet. Run along home and comfort Mrs. Groat. And if Leslie Cunningham should drop in with his consolations, comfort him, too—but in an impersonal sort of way.” He patted Lucy on the hand and went on into his private office where he called the St. Charles Hotel and asked for Room 319.

He heard the telephone buzz twice before Mrs. Meredith answered it.

He said, “This is Mike Shayne.”

“Have you had time to think things over, Mr. Shayne?”

“Enough to give me a headache,” he growled.

“You poor man.” Her voice was lightly mocking. “Perhaps a drink would help.”

“It’s an idea.”

“I’ll be happy to fix you a special recipe all my own if you’d like to come over.”

Shayne said, “In ten minutes,” and hung up.

Mrs. Meredith was waiting for Shayne in the living room of her two-room suite. She was wearing a clinging hostess gown of gray satin, and her brown hair, quite obviously brightened with a reddish hair-tint, was upswept. The gown and the hair-do gave her height and dignity. She put her hand in his and drew him into the room.

Shayne’s gray eyes held an odd look. She tilted her head and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

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

She gave his hand an extra pressure and released it. “I like that. It’s every woman’s secret desire to be dangerously alluring.”

“You’re intelligent along with it,” he told her. “I should get out of here while I can.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“You know I’m not.” He prowled 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 mint leaves floated in the bowl on top of a syrupy mixture of granulated sugar dissolved in a small quantity of bourbon.

She came over and sat down on the divan. “This is the headache medicine I mentioned.” She poured half the mixture into each glass of shaved ice, tilted the whisky bottle, and filled the glasses to the brim with straight bourbon. She looked up and smiled at the mild amazement on Shayne’s angular face. “That’s the secret of a true New Orleans mint julep.”

“You didn’t spare the horses when you poured those,” he said.

“But wait.” She decorated each glass with mint sprigs from the vase, then held out a glass to him.

Shayne moved over to a deep chair, sank into it, stretched his long legs out comfortably, and buried his nose in the mint. He took a long, slow drink. “This,” he said, “is the only civilized way to drink whisky. You are a charming hostess.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, as though accepting his statement not as flattery but as one with which she agreed.

“I’m beginning to understand how you induced your ex-husband to make a new will leaving everything to you after you had divorced him. That’s one of the angles that’s bothered me. It just didn’t make sense.”

She said, “Oh? And it does make sense now?”

“It’s beginning to. You had Hawley wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you?”

“Albert loved me,” she said softly.

Shayne took a sip from his glass. “What about Leon Wallace?”

“What do you know about him?” she countered.

“I know he went to work as a gardener on the Hawley estate about the time you decided to go to Reno and divorce your husband.” He looked steadily at her as he spoke. “And I know he disappeared soon afterward, placating his wife and children with a payment of ten thousand dollars. He has continued to send them a thousand dollars every six months—in envelopes mailed from New Orleans.”

Mrs. Meredith met his eyes levelly, an interested expression on her face. She said, “You do get around, don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”

“I also imagine that Albert Hawley knew the secret of Wallace’s disappearance and told it to Groat when he was dying in the lifeboat,” Shayne continued relentlessly. “Groat was an honorable man and the secret weighed on his conscience until he phoned Mrs. Wallace to come and see him. I’m inclined to believe,” he went on slowly, “that Jasper Groat was murdered last night to prevent that meeting from taking place.”

“Murdered!”

“His body was pulled out of the river a couple of hours ago.”

“Was his diary found?” she asked sharply.

“That’s damned important to you, isn’t it?”

She said impatiently, “You know what the exact date of Albert’s death means to me.”

“But who knew how important it was last night?”

Her face was blank for a moment. Then her eyes brightened and she nodded her head slowly. “I see now why you think his death had some connection with Leon Wallace rather than with the estate. Uncle Ezra’s will supposedly hadn’t been read when Groat was killed.”

He said, “That’s the way it was told to me.”

She was silently thoughtful, then said harshly, “Perhaps Groat got in your way, Mr. Shayne. You’re working for Cunningham, aren’t you? You look like someone who’d kill a man if he got in your way.”

Shayne grinned and rubbed his jaw. “I haven’t picked my client yet. I’m still shopping around for the best offer.”

“I think I’d like to be your client.”

“What’s your offer?”

She moved restively under his hard gaze. “In dollars and cents?”

“I’m not interested in anything else.”

“After I collect Ezra Hawley’s money I’ll be able to pay you any fee you want.”

“For what?” he demanded.

“Helping me to collect it—seeing to it that I collect,” she amended.

“Is Mr. Meredith in town with you?”

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

“Where do you live?” Shayne probed.

“How can that possibly concern you?”

“What’s your husband’s business? What’s 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. She sat up stiffly, reached for her drink, drank the last of it, and sucked at the shaved ice.

“There you are.” Shayne spread out his big hands and scowled. “One man has been murdered. If I stick my neck out, I’m going to know what I’m sticking it into.”

Mrs. Meredith lit a cigarette. She asked, “What have my private affairs to do with your sticking your neck out?”

“I don’t know yet. But I can’t help thinking about Leon Wallace deserting his wife and children mysteriously—at the same time you dashed off to Reno for a divorce.”

She said, “My husband’s name is Meredith, not Wallace, Mr. Shayne. His first name is Theodore, not Leon. And I assure you he isn’t a gardener. I went to Chicago immediately after my divorce was granted. I met Theodore there. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” Shayne said with blunt impatience. “Men have disappeared and changed their names before this—and married under the assumed names.”

“Really though!” She stiffened again and said, “A gardener!” Her voice was harsh with indignation.

“I didn’t know Wallace,” Shayne growled. “Maybe he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he had a lot of sex appeal. Women have fallen in love with gardeners before this.”

“And I suppose you think I furnished the money he sent his wife to keep her quiet? Or maybe you think Albert sent it, so I could run off with the gardener?” Her tone was mocking.

“There’s something screwy about what happened two years ago—Wallace disappearing, you divorcing Albert, Albert willing everything to you Afterward, Albert being inducted into the army. I don’t know what it is, but by God I’m going to find out!”

Shayne hunched forward and glared at the toe of his big shoe.

“Why keep harping on that when there’s a million-dollar estate waiting to be settled?” she asked calmly.

Shayne asked abruptly, “When did you first talk with Cunningham?”

After a slight hesitation she said, “This morning, shortly before lunch. After Mr. Sims and I heard the terms of the will from Hastings.”

“Did you discuss the Wallace affair with him?”

“Certainly not.” Her voice was taut and angry. “Can’t I convince you that I’m not interested in Wallace?”

“I am.” Shayne finished his drink, got up, and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

“Let me fix you another one.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m hard to get along with when I get a pint of liquor in me.”

“I could get along with you.” She patted the divan. “Why are we wasting time? And you can call me Matie.”