Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (7 page)

Shayne jumped up and rummaged in the top drawer of a chest of drawers, returned to the sofa with a memorandum book which he hadn’t used in many years. After taking a big drink from the brandy bottle, he settled himself and slowly turned the yellowed pages of the book.

Halfway through the memo pad he nodded with satisfaction. Holding the pages open with his thumb, he reached for the telephone and rang long-distance.

When the operator answered he said, “I want to place a person-to-person call to Chicago to Benjamin D. Ames, private detective, formerly associated with World Wide Detective Agency. He has a home in Chicago, I think. This is urgent police business. Please rush it.” He gave his name and telephone number, hung up, took another drink, and settled back to wait.

He was staring into space and massaging his left ear-lobe when the phone rang. The operator said, “Ready on your call to Chicago, Mr. Shayne.”

A reedy, nasal voice said, “Hello.”

Shayne said, “Ben Ames? This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.” After a few brief explanations, Shayne said, “Here’s a little job I need whipped up in a hurry. Got a few hours free and a pencil and paper to take this down?”

“Both,” said Ames. “Shoot.”

“Theodore Meredith.” Shayne gave him the street address. “I need a picture of him. He won’t give you one, if my hunch is right, so you’d better take along a photog to steal one. But get it, Ben! And get all the dope about him you can pick up in a hurry. Here’s your in to get at him. He’s in the headlines in New Orleans as husband of the ex-wife of Albert Hawley, soldier recently lost at sea, and through Hawley, Meredith’s wife is in line to inherit a million or so left to Hawley by his uncle, Ezra Hawley. A Chicago reporter could be interested in the story.”

“Sure. I’ll get to him, Mike. How fast and how much do you want to lay on the line?”

“There’s a plane leaving Chicago tonight. Get the pic and anything else you can on that plane and you’ll be a C-note richer.”

“Can do,” Ames assured him. “Air express to you in New Orleans?”

“Right.” Shayne gave his address and hung up.

There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He recognized the sign. He took a drink of brandy as an antidote. He was beginning to move now. The plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive about nine in the morning. If his hunch was right—

He heard a strong, authoritative knock on his door. He opened it, and Joel Cross blinked at him in surprise. Cross’s bristly mustache and square jaw appeared more aggressive than ever.

Shayne said, “Come in and have a drink.”

Cross walked swiftly into the room, darting suspicious glances everywhere. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Who?”

Cross said, “Mrs. Meany.” He sat on the edge of a chair and planted both hands on his knees.

Shayne sat down leisurely and asked, “What do you know about Mrs. Meany?”

“Very little. I know she’s Mrs. Sarah Hawley’s daughter.”

“If you knew anything about her,” Shayne said casually, “you’d look in the bedroom. She always goes to bed when she passes out.”

“In there?” Cross looked quickly at a closed door on the left. He got up and said, “I think you’re lying, Shayne,” walked stiffly to the door, and opened it. He stood hesitantly on the threshold, then snapped on the light. He turned back to Shayne and said angrily. “What have you done with her?”

“What makes you think she’s been here?” Shayne countered.

“She told me she was coming and asked me to meet her here.”

“What for?”

“Something about the Groat diary. She seemed quite upset over the telephone.”

“When?”

“Around four-thirty. See here, Shayne, if she isn’t here—if this was just at trick to get me over here—”

Shayne slowly came to his feet. He was between Cross and the outer door. “I’ll take the diary for her.”

“I don’t have it with me.” There was a trace of a smirk in Cross’s voice. “I’m not admitting that it’s in my possession.”

Shayne remained standing. He said, “It’s almost seven o’clock. What took you so long to get here?”

“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined by you.”

“You’re going to be.” Shayne’s voice was inflexible. He moved backward to the door, leaned against it, and folded his arms. “Two hours and a half, Cross. Did you think she’d wait for you all night?”

“I was busy and didn’t realize how much time had passed. Are you going to tell me where she is?”

“In the morgue.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed fiercely.

Joel Cross’s face went lax for a second. He stared at the detective and repeated, “In the morgue?”

“Sit down. It’s time you and I did some talking.”

Shayne waited until Cross sat down before going to the couch. He asked harshly, “Where were you this evening between five-thirty and six?”

“In my room working. Good heavens, do you think I killed her? I didn’t even know the girl.”

“You knew she was coming here to see me.”

“Do you mean she was killed here?”

“In that chair you’re sitting on.”

Cross jumped involuntarily, stared at the floor, wet his lips, and said, “Suppose I did know she was coming here?”

“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to spill what she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder,” Shayne mused. “You fit. You had a motive for killing Groat before he reached the Hawleys and told his story. You’d read the diary and knew the value of the entries concerning Albert Hawley’s death. And whoever killed Groat also killed Beatrice Meany this afternoon. You had the opportunity. She practically invited you over to kill her.”

Cross’s sandy mustache no longer bristled. His voice was shaky when he said, “I didn’t. I was working, I tell you. I’ve never been in this room before.”

Shayne shrugged. “I can place you here between five-thirty and six,” he warned. “The Negro janitor let a man in while Mrs. Meany was waiting for me. You fit the description all right. Of course,” he went on pleasantly, “the old man’s eyesight isn’t very good and he might not be too positive about making an identification unless I tell him what to say.”

“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” Cross snapped.

“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I don’t like you. Inspector Quinlan is checking your alibi for last night. If you haven’t a better one than your story about this afternoon—and I have a little talk with the janitor—”

“Damn you,” said Cross passionately, “you can’t get away with anything like that. I still don’t know what all this interest in the diary is about.”

“You admit you read it yesterday.”

“Sure I read it. But I still don’t understand why people are being killed on account of it.”

“You’d have a hell of time convincing a jury of that,” Shayne snarled. “It’s right there in black and white, isn’t it?”

“I studied it this afternoon after the girl called—”

“Then you admit you’ve got it.”

Cross smiled unpleasantly. “In a very safe place.”

“You know what the diary says about Leon Wallace, don’t you?”

“I don’t recall any such name or person,” Cross returned. He was becoming stiff and aggressive again.

Shayne groaned and took another drink. Maybe he was all wet. Maybe he didn’t know a damned thing about anything. Maybe he wasn’t all wet, by God! Maybe Cross was doing a good job of lying.

Shayne said harshly, “Are you willing to back up what you say by letting me read the diary?”

“No. I’m not interested in whether you believe me or not. Why should I prove anything to you?”

“To keep yourself out of a murder frame.” His face was taut and grim. He got up and went to the wall speaking-tube, lifted it, and said, “Jake—this is Shayne. Come up here at once.”

“Yassuh, Mist’ Shayne. Ah’ll be right up.”

Shayne whirled to face Cross. “Men have burned on less evidence than I can produce against you.” He sat down again. “Get smart, Cross. The Inspector is looking for a murderer who answers your general description. If Jake decides you’re the man, all hell won’t change his identification.”

Cross fidgeted in his chair. “This is preposterous.”

Jake knocked timidly on the door. Shayne stayed in front of him so that he couldn’t see Cross. He said, “You let a man into my room this afternoon, Jake, and a girl was murdered. If you identify this man now, the police won’t do anything to you for letting him in.”

“You’re coaching him,” shouted Cross. “You’re telling him to say it was me.”

Jake rolled his eyes at Cross when Shayne stepped aside. His old eyes sidled to Shayne, then back to Cross. “Looks lak him all right. Yassuh, sho does. Ah reckon thass him. How come you-all kotch him so fast, Mist’ Shayne?”

“This is an outrage,” Cross began, stopped when he heard a loud rap on the door.

Shayne said softly, “Turn the diary over to me—” then opened the door.

Inspector Quinlan strode in, followed by Lawyer Hastings. Quinlan shot a quick glance at Cross and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Jake, standing close to Shayne, said in a quavering voice, “Dat’s him, Mist’ Policeman. Ah seen ’im come up heah jest lak I done told.”

Shayne gritted his teeth and shook his head at Jake, but the aged Negro had his cue and was determined to clear himself by identifying Cross as the afternoon visitor.

“Ah didn’ mean nothin’ wrong lettin’ ’im in heah dis afternoon, boss,” he told the Inspector earnestly. “Ah sho didn’ know he was gonna kill dat gal.”

“What’s all this about?” Quinlan demanded of Shayne.

“It’s a frame-up.” Cross’s voice trembled with anger. “Shayne put that janitor up to saying he saw me here this afternoon. It’s a lie. I wasn’t here. I don’t know a damned thing about the woman who was murdered!”

“A frame-up, eh?” Quinlan scowled at Shayne. “I’ll book you, so help me God, if you’re pulling a fast one. And you, too.” He whirled on the janitor. “Do you know you can go to jail for this?”

“Nossuh. Yo’ ain’ gonna do nothin’ to me now after Ah done said it’s him. Kin he, Mist’ Shayne?”

Shayne said gently, “Don’t worry, Jake. The Inspector just wants to be sure.”

“This is excellent,” said Hastings, stepping forward briskly. “Most fortunate that you have apprehended Mrs. Meany’s murderer, Mr. Shayne. You’ll release my client at once,” he demanded of the Inspector.

“Looks as though we haven’t much on him now,” Quinlan admitted. He said to Shayne, “We’ve got Gerald Meany downstairs. Brought him over to see if the janitor could identify him. He was picked up half drunk in a joint not far from here. He swears he didn’t come here this afternoon—doesn’t remember it, anyway. He admits he started out to follow his wife, but stopped for a drink and doesn’t remember anything else very clearly. If your man has already identified this fellow—”

“But it’s a lie! He didn’t actually identify me. Not until Shayne told him to. Ask him yourself,” Cross challenged.

“How about it?” Quinlan turned to Jake. “Give it to me straight. Did Mr. Shayne tell you to say this was the man?”

“Nossuh,” Jake said earnestly. “He didn’ say nothin’ lak dat. Nossuh.”

“All right,” said Quinlan shortly, turning to a plain-clothes man lounging in the doorway. “Go downstairs and release Meany. He’s in no condition to drive. You’d better take him home.”

Inspector Quinlan said to Shayne, “Now give me what you’ve got on this bird.”

“Of all the damned frauds!” Cross shouted.

“Remember I told you about his planning to publish Groat’s diary in the
Item,”
said Shayne.

“That’s right, you did.” Quinlan looked at Cross with new interest. “You pointed out that he was one of the few who might have had a motive for killing Groat because of the diary.”

“You’ll have to do some work,” Shayne told him. “I’m handing him to you on the Meany murder. I presume he had to get rid of her because she knew too much about last night.”

“Is that the way it was?” Quinlan threw at Cross.

The reporter said stiffly, “I’ll have a nice case of false arrest if you go ahead with this. I never saw Mrs. Meany. She asked me to come here this afternoon, but was apparently murdered before I got here.”

“Don’t forget,” Shayne reminded him, “to explain about her calling you at four-thirty and your not getting here until seven.”

“I’ve already told you I was busy with some work.”

Quinlan raised his frosty eyebrows. “Do you still claim you aren’t the man the janitor let in?”

“I not only claim I’m not, but deny it emphatically.”

“That’s your story,” Shayne said blandly, “but you can’t prove it. Frankly, Inspector, I like him for both jobs a lot better than Gerald Meany.”

“He is more the type,” Quinlan agreed. “Meany seems pretty much of a weakling. And there won’t be any unwritten law to mess up this case.”

“Dammit,” Cross protested, “stop discussing me as though you were deciding on which horse to back in the fifth.”

“Where were you at eight o’clock last night?” Quinlan asked.

Cross scowled and tightened his lips. He didn’t reply.

“Did you follow Groat out to the Hawley home, or did the girl call you ahead of time to warn you he was coming?”

Cross continued his stubborn silence. Quinlan made an angry gesture toward the door and gave an order to one of his men. “Take him in and book him on an open charge.”

When Cross was out of the room, Quinlan said, “I don’t like this too much. If your janitor messed up this identification and it was Meany who was here, we’ll never prove it now. Hastings will tear down any story Jake might tell in court.” He got up and picked up the brandy bottle, gauged the meager contents, and emptied it. He set it down and said soberly, “Frankly, I think you’re pulling one on him. I think the janitor is saying what you told him to say.”

Shayne started to protest, but Quinlan waved for silence. “I’ve worked with you before, Shayne. Cross may be our man. But if he isn’t,” he went on wearily, “and if you did fix that janitor’s testimony to place him here, you’ve practically handed Meany his freedom on a silver platter. And God help you if you’ve done that.”

“If he isn’t the killer he’ll be safer in jail tonight,” Shayne argued, “Because someone who’s already pulled two murders is still after Groat’s diary. And he suspects Cross has it.”

“I’d like to have a look at it,” Quinlan muttered. “Any idea where Cross has it stashed?”

“All I could get out of him was that it’s in a safe place.” Shayne got up and stretched. “Aren’t you ready to call it a day with Cross locked up?”

Quinlan studied his face for a long time. “You’re up to something,” he growled. “I’ve seen you like this before.”

“At the moment I’m interested in finding more evidence against Cross,” Shayne admitted readily. “I gave him to you, and now by God it’s up to me to make it stick.”

“I won’t stand for a frame,” Quinlan warned him.

Shayne said, “Close the door on your way out. I’m headed for the bathroom.”

He turned and went through the open door into his bedroom.

After getting rid of the Inspector, Shayne looked up Roger Deems’s telephone number and called it. When Deems growled, “Who is it?” Shayne said, “Mike Shayne. One of your colleagues is in trouble. Joel Cross. Quinlan just locked him up on suspicion of murder.”

“Good enough. Who was the victim?”

“I’m not sure he did it. I thought you might want to help him out.”

“Why should I help him? I don’t like the guy.”

Shayne said soberly, “This is serious, Roger. It isn’t going to do the
Item
a bit of good. In fact, your paper is riding straight toward a damage suit.”

“That’s different,” Deems agreed. “What’s it all about?”

“Mostly a diary that Cross has in his possession illegally. I feel badly about it, Roger, because I put Cross on the spot. I don’t know whether he’s guilty or not. At the same time, I put your paper on the spot and I wanted to give you the tip-off.”