Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

Chapter One Men Overboard

Michael Shayne’s rangy body was comfortably settled on his living room couch. A glass of cognac and a tumbler of ice water were within easy reach on the end table. He was reading an early edition of the tabloid Morning Tribune which he had picked up on his way home. Has telephone rang.

He scowled at the instrument, ran knobby fingers through his unruly red hair, and wriggled to the other end of the couch to answer it.

The voice of Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, came over the wire. “Michael! Come over to my apartment right away. And no wise cracks. There’s a woman here who needs you desperately.”

“Fine time to be dragging a man out of bed,” he growled.

Lucy said, “I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes,” and hung up.

In twelve minutes Shayne strode into the small office of the apartment building on North Rampart Street bordering the French Quarter. A middle-aged woman sat near the switchboard, placidly knitting. She looked up at him incuriously as he went past her to the self-service elevator in the rear.

Lucy Hamilton was waiting for him outside her door on the third floor when he stepped from the elevator. She hurried to meet him and clutched his arm. “It’s Mrs. Groat from across the hall,” she said rapidly. “She’s terribly worried about her husband, Michael. You’ve got to help her.”

Shayne looked down at her flushed face and her dark, anxious eyes. She wore a chenille robe of blue belted tightly about her slim waist. Her brown hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders.

He gave her a crooked grin. “So, my clients are coming to you, eh? Why didn’t you tell her to come to my office tomorrow?”

“And spend a terrifying night wondering what’s become of her husband? She’s in an awful state, Michael.” Lucy urged him toward her open door and into the small living room.

A plump, middle-aged woman sagged against a pillow on the couch. Her hair was grayish and she wore a gray dress of snug-fitting design. She gazed up at Shayne mutely with washed blue eyes. Tears streaked her rouged cheeks and her rouge-smeared lips trembled as she dragged her body to a straight position.

“This is Mr. Shayne, my boss, Mrs. Groat,” said Lucy. “I know he’ll help you.”

Shayne gravely pressed her limp hand and turned to look at a swarthy man who had risen from his chair when Shayne entered the room.

“This is Mr. Cunningham, Michael,” Lucy said. “He’s a shipmate of Mr. Groat’s, and he’s awfully worried, too.”

Cunningham was of medium height, stocky, and thirtyish. His face was deeply bronzed, his hair a short black stubble, and he wore bell-bottomed blue serge trousers with a wide, tight waistband. He held out a small, stubby hand covered with black hairs and took Shayne’s in an iron grip. “Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Shayne,” he said, and showed incredibly large white teeth in a thick-lipped smile.

Shayne nodded. As Cunningham took his hand away, Shayne saw a purple and yellow anchor tattooed on it.

“Suppose you tell me about everything,” he said to Lucy. “You know what’s important and what isn’t.” He motioned her to sit beside Mrs. Groat on the couch.

“Well, Mr. Groat went out at eight o’clock, telling his wife he’d be gone not more than an hour. He didn’t tell her where he was going — just that he had to attend to something. By eleven o’clock she was becoming worried, and then Mr. Cunningham called to ask for her husband. He had had an appointment to meet him at nine o’clock and had been waiting for two hours. She asked Mr. Cunningham to come up to the apartment, and after they talked it over, she came across the hall to ask my advice. You see, she knows I work for you, and — well, she thought I’d know what to do.”

Shayne turned to Cunningham. “You say you and Groat are shipmates?”

“In the Merchant Marine. If you noticed yesterday’s papers—”

“Don’t you remember that feature story on the front page, Michael?” Lucy interrupted eagerly. “About the two seamen who were rescued from a lifeboat after their ship had been torpedoed near the Panama Canal?”

“Leslie Cunningham,” Shayne muttered, “and Jasper Groat You’re an able seaman and he—”

“Was the third engineer,” Cunningham supplied. “This was our first trip together and I didn’t know Jasper well until the ship was torpedoed, but I got to know him mighty well during the two weeks we were in a lifeboat together. You sure get to know a guy when a thing like that happens.”

Shayne said: “Two weeks in a lifeboat. You don’t look any the worse for it.”

“It wasn’t too bad. The boat was stocked with grub and water. The sun was the worst thing — and not knowing when...” He broke off with a shrug. “I reckon it was Jasper’s faith pulled us through.”

Mrs. Groat began to sob. “Jasper was always a pious man. But he was changed this time, Mr. Shayne. He was moody and worried. He wouldn’t talk to me about any of it. Something was bothering him. He kept saying that maybe we’d have a lot of money right soon, but he wouldn’t tell me how or why.”

“I reckon he meant his diary,” Cunningham said, looking down at his short, stubby feet. “Jasper kept a diary all the time we were afloat. Yesterday morning when the reporters were interviewing us, one of them asked him about publishing it. In a lot of newspapers, y’ know. He told Jasper it might be worth a deal of money and said he’d see him about it later.”

“Wasn’t there another man in the lifeboat with you?” Lucy asked.

Cunningham lifted his head slowly to look at her. He wet his pudgy cracked lips. “At first... there was. A soldier from off the troopship, name of Albert Hawley. He was hurt inside in the explosion and we pulled him out of the water. He lived four-five days. Jasper nursed him the best he could but it wasn’t any use. He died with Jasper holding him in his arms at night and we buried him at sea next morning.”

“Jasper talked about him a lot,” Mrs. Groat said. “He lived right here in New Orleans. His mother is that rich Mrs. Hawley. Jasper expected them to call him up after the newspaper story came out. He didn’t know whether he ought to call them or not. Seemed as though that was partly what troubled him.”

“You have no idea where he went tonight?” Shayne asked.

She shook her head despairingly. “But I know he made a telephone call when I was out this afternoon. He was just hanging up when I came back. He acted strange about it. He denied making any call and got mad when I insisted I’d heard him as I came in. I heard him say, ‘I’ll expect you first thing in the morning,’ and then he hung up.”

Shayne asked: “What about some friends he might have gone to see? He may have changed his mind after he went out.”

“No. He would’ve told me.” She wiped her eyes with a rouge-mottled handkerchief. “You see, we were going out to dinner to celebrate when he came back. We always do when he comes in from a voyage.” She began to sob, and moaned: “Oh, I know something awful has happened to him. I just know it.”

“She’s right,” Cunningham said soberly. “The dinner was going to be on me. We planned it all in the lifeboat. He called me up about eight o’clock to remind me of it. I know he wouldn’t run out on me.”

Shayne said: “There’s not much I can do tonight. Have you called the police?”

Mrs. Groat echoed, “The police?” faintly. Her eyes, dried of tears, stared tragically at Shayne.

“Of course,” he said. He went to the phone and dialed. After a brief conversation with the desk sergeant, he hung up and went toward the door, saying: “The police haven’t heard anything so far. They’ll call you if they do. I’ll have a look into things tomorrow.”

Cunningham stood up. “I might as well go along, Mrs. Groat. I’ll call you first thing in the morning, and I sure hope Jasper turns up all right.” He turned to Lucy, his black eyes running boldly over her slight figure. His lips made a sucking sound when he said: “Good night.”

Shayne had his hand on the doorknob. He sauntered back into the room and sat down.

When Cunningham went out, Lucy turned flaming cheeks to Shayne and flared: “Did you see the way he looked at me?”

Shayne chuckled. “He’s just been rescued after two weeks adrift in a lifeboat.” Then to Mrs. Groat: “If you haven’t heard from your husband in the morning, call me at my office.”

Mrs. Groat dragged herself up from the deep cushions. Lucy put an arm around her and accompanied her to her apartment across the hall.

Shayne let himself down in the elevator. In the office he stopped before the woman who was still placidly knitting and asked: “Do you keep a record of calls through the switchboard.”

She said, “Outgoing calls,” without looking up.

“Will you check a call about four o’clock this afternoon from 311? It’s police business.”

Her fingers stopped in the middle of a stitch. She glanced up at Shayne, startled. Without a word, she consulted a sheet of paper clamped to a board on the switchboard and said: “That was long-distance. To Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro.”

Shayne laid a dollar-bill on the desk and said: “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro.”

“You can take the call in there,” she stammered, indicating a booth in the comer of the small office.

Shayne waited a full five minutes before the booth phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said: “Hello.”

An operator said brightly: “On your call to Littleboro... there is no answer. Shall I keep trying?”

“Cancel it.” He hung up and went back to the anxious-eyed woman at the switchboard. “Do you know Mr. Groat in 311?”

“Yes. He and his wife have lived here for two years.”

“Did you see him tonight when he went out?”

She said: “He stopped and asked me the best way to get to Labarre Street.” She started to pick up her knitting but, instead, turned back to Shayne with a frown riding the gold bridge of her spectacles. “He made a phone call from the booth there before he went out.”

Shayne went back into the booth and thumbed through the names under H until he found Mrs. Sarah Hawley on Labarre. Then he walked out to his car parked at the curb.

A man moved forward from the shadows beside the building. “Just a minute, Mr. Shayne,” Leslie Cunningham said. “If you’ve got time I’d like to talk to you.”

The detective stopped. “It’s pretty late,” he said.

“This is important. It’s about Groat.”

“Why didn’t you do your talking upstairs?”

“I didn’t want to talk in front of his wife.” Cunningham made an important gesture. “No use getting her any more worried than she is.”

Shayne swung into a long-legged stride. “If you’ve got something to say, let’s find a place where we can sit down.”

Cunningham’s shorter legs fell into unrhythmic step. “There’s a place around the comer here on Toulouse,” he suggested. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” They tinned right on Toulouse and, halfway down the block, went into a barroom.

Jarring music from a rear room drifted through a heavy pall of smoke. Three men supported hunched shoulders with their elbows on the bar.

“Let’s go on back where we can sit at a table,” Cunningham muttered, waving his hand and saying, “Hi, Louie,” to the bartender as he passed.

The juke-box jive grew louder and the smoke heavier when they pushed through the swinging door into the rear room. They found a vacant booth and slid into it.

A pretty girl wearing a dirty apron came over and flicked a dirty rag across the table, then asked: “What’ll you gents have?”

Shayne said: “A double shot of the best brandy you can find in the joint.”

Cunningham ordered a double bourbon with plain water. The waitress slouched away, the music stopped, and when another record dropped into place, he leaned toward Shayne and said: “As I understand it, you ain’t hooked up with the cops, Mr. Shayne.”

“My letterheads say I’m a private investigator,” Shayne told him. “Tell me about your sea rescue.”

“It wasn’t much.” Cunningham made a deprecatory gesture. “Tough to get rolled out in the middle of the night with a ship breaking to pieces under you, but we came out all right. We had a sail rigged up and would’ve made it to land all right if the rescue ship hadn’t picked us up.”

The girl brought their drinks. Cunningham laid out a dollar-and-a-half and she took it away.

“If you come onto something not just right,” the sailor said slowly, “you can keep your mouth shut, huh? You don’t have to blab all you know? Like a lawyer — you got a right to protect your client?”

Shayne’s lips thinned a trifle against his teeth. He held the glass of brandy to his nose and scowled, set it down on the table and said gently: “Like a lawyer. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m plenty worried about Groat. Something bad’s happened to him. I know it. You know how it is when you think maybe you’re going to die. You plan to have a big celebration if you come out alive. I was gonna blow him to the dinner, and Jasper wouldn’t have passed it up.” Cunningham was watching Shayne intently. He was nervous and tight-strung.

“Any idea where he went tonight?” Shayne poured brandy into his mouth and swallowed it quickly, then chased it with water.

“Yeah. I think I have. I can’t go to the police, see?”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll ask too many questions. It’s a long story. Less you know about it the better it’ll be. It’s Jasper’s diary I’m thinking of.”

“The diary some reporter said he might buy from Groat for publication?”

“That’s it. He was writing in it all the time we were shipwrecked. Put everything down, see? Everything we said and what he thought. He was a great one for thinking.”

“What about the diary?”

“I want it. That is, if anything’s happened to Jasper I want it bad. It’s got — a lot of stuff about me in it.” The sailor took a big drink of bourbon and ran his tongue over his lips.

“Stuff you don’t want published?”

“That’s it. I told Jasper to lay off giving it to that reporter. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“What kind of stuff?” Shayne persisted.

Cunningham’s faint smile showed his big white teeth. His tone took on a lighter vein when he said: “You know how it is when a man thinks he might die. He tells all sorts of things he wouldn’t think of telling anybody otherwise. Things that wouldn’t look good in print.”

Shayne asked: “Did Groat turn the diary over to the reporter?” He finished his drink and thumped the glass down.

“Yeah. Yesterday morning, he did. You know how it was at the dock — a lot of excitement and all. The reporter high-pressured him, telling him how much money it was worth.”

“Has the reporter still got it?”

“I don’t know. He and Jasper may have got together later. That’s what I want to find out.”

“You want me to get it back for you?”

“I want to know where I stand.” Cunningham’s black eyes glittered. “If something’s happened to Jasper, like I think, could they go ahead and publish it anyway?”

“You mean if Groat is dead?” Shayne asked casually.

“Yeah.”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “That would depend on whether they had legally completed a deal, I suppose. Or whether the newspaper could make a deal with Mrs. Groat. It would become her property on her husband’s death.”

Cunningham sucked in his breath sharply. “Then I got to get it back.” His voice was harsh, and he pounded the table with his fist.

The waitress hurried to the table, glared at the sailor, started to say something, but Shayne stopped her by saying, “Two more, sister,” pushing his glass toward her.

“You can sue if they print anything libelous,” Shayne told him when the girl had swished angrily away.

“It ain’t that,” he grated. He ground his teeth together and added: “Suing wouldn’t do any good. I don’t want it published.”

The girl came with the drinks, slammed them on the table, slopping liquor over the rims of the glasses. “What the hell!” Cunningham yelled.

“I’m a lady, see?” she said, with arms akimbo. “Next time you want service, don’t go pounding on the table.”

Shayne chuckled. “He wasn’t pounding for you,” he explained. “It was — for another reason altogether.”

She looked down her nose at Shayne, said, “Huh!” and marched regally away.

Shayne asked sharply and suddenly: “Are the Hawleys mixed up in this thing?”

Cunningham’s lower jaw sagged and his black eyes stared at Shayne, frightened. “What makes you think that?” he stammered.

“Groat went out there at eight o’clock.”

“Look here, fella, how the hell do you know that?”

“I’m a detective,” Shayne reminded him.

“Maybe I got things wrong,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you came into the picture until your secretary called you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how — what do you know about the Hawleys?”

“I know he went out there at eight. He called you and told you he was going, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” snarled Cunningham. “The fool! I told him to lay off. I told him it was dangerous. But he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Dangerous?” Shayne lifted one bristly red brow.

“Albert Hawley told us about his folks before he died,” Cunningham muttered angrily. “They’re rich and the old lady’s plenty tough, I reckon. From what Albert told us I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“What about Leon Wallace?”

Cunningham’s glass was halfway to his lips. His arm jerked and liquor spilled on his hand. “You know about him, too?” he said slowly.

Shayne didn’t say anything. His gaunt feature were expressionless. He watched the sailor gulp the double shot.

“I don’t get it,” Cunningham said. “How do you fit in the picture? Was that whole thing a plant tonight? Pretending all of it was news to you when you come over to Miss Hamilton’s apartment?”

Shayne said: “It’s my business to know things.”

“From the reporter, huh? After he read the diary he knew what kind of dynamite was tied up in it. And you knew the whole story all the time.”

“I’m adding up as we go along,” Shayne told him placidly.

Cunningham lit a cigarette, squinted at Shayne through half-closed eyes as he puffed.

Shayne settled back, sipped his brandy with an expression of distaste and watched the sailor struggle with an unpleasant decision.

“So you’re cutting yourself a slice,” Cunningham said finally. “That’s all right. There’ll be plenty for both of us. Do you know where the diary is now?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“We got to get hold of it,” Cunningham said.

Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. Cunningham hunched his thick shoulders over the table and drummed his stubby fingers in spilled liquor.

“Publication is the surest way of ruining the blackmail value of the diary.” Shayne watched him closely.

Cunningham gave a surly grunt. “I don’t know how much Jasper told Mrs. Wallace over the phone. Damn him! If only he’d played along and let me handle it...”

“But he had to stick his neck out?” Shayne prodded.

“Too damned much religion,” Cunningham assented moodily. “When a guy gets fanatical like that, there’s no reasoning with him.”

“Do you think the Hawleys bumped him off tonight?”

“I don’t know what he walked into out there. I warned him about what might happen.”

“If he had the diary with him it may be too late to do anything about it,” Shayne said casually.

“I don’t see why. If he’s dead and it’s been destroyed, that’s all right, too. Just so we can keep it from being published.”

Shayne said: “I see.” He didn’t see at all.

“What’s your hook-up with the reporter?” the sailor demanded. “You admitted you got all the dope from him.”

“That was your idea.”

Cunningham turned a murderous glare upon Shayne’s tranquillity. “It must have been the reporter,” he growled. “Mrs. Groat didn’t act as if she even knew you tonight. Jasper wouldn’t go to a private dick about it.”

Shayne spun his empty glass round and round and made no reply.

“It must’ve been the reporter,” Cunningham argued. Then after a moment of frowning thought: “Unless it was the Hawleys.” He clamped his thick lips together and stared suspiciously at Shayne. “That could be it. They might’ve gone to a private dick. Maybe, by God, you’ve been stringing me along all this time!”

Shayne went right on keeping his mouth shut.

“Letting me spill my guts,” Cunningham muttered. “Pretending to be on my side while you’re working for them all the time.”

Shayne said pleasantly: “I’ll buy a drink.” He saw the girl across the room, beckoned to her, and said to the sailor: “You’ve got a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.”

After the waitress took the empty glasses away and brought their drinks, Shayne said: “You’re too jumpy for this sort of work, Cunningham. If the police get hold of you they’ll wring you dry in a couple of hours.”

Cunningham half-rose from his chair, his fist clenched. Shayne didn’t move from his relaxed position. The sailor slowly settled back and said: “Yeah. I reckon I’m on edge. What the hell! Arguing with Jasper in that damned lifeboat...” He let the sentence trail off.

Shayne emptied his glass and asked: “Where can I get in touch with you?”

“I don’t know if I want you to.”

“O.K.” Shayne got up. He gave Cunningham his apartment address and telephone number. “You’ll find my office listed in the directory.”

Chapter Two Missing Male

Shayne had just finished his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee royal when his telephone rang. He hastily consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock.

Lucy Hamilton’s reproachful voice answered when he picked up the receiver. “How long do you think I can keep a client waiting?”

“We haven’t any clients,” he protested.

“That’s fine, Mr. Shayne,” she answered brightly. “I’ll tell Mrs. Wallace you’ll be right down.” She hung up.

Half an hour later he was facing Mrs. Leon Wallace across his office desk. Although she was sitting perfectly still, she looked brisk. There was a hard slimness about the woman in spite of her broad hips, a weathered, healthy glow in her browned face. She wore a brown tweed skirt and a tan, mannish blouse. Her straight brown hair, cropped close, looked windblown, and a cloth hat lay in her lap. Her light brown eyes were grave and anxious, yet managed to give the impression that she was in a hurry.

Shayne said: “What is your trouble, Mrs. Wallace?”

“I want you to find a man for me, Mr. Shayne. I’m a stranger in New Orleans. That is, I live in Littleboro and don’t get in very often. I have a farm to look after and don’t have the time.” Her voice was deep, almost husky.

Shayne pushed a button on his desk and didn’t say anything while he waited for Lucy to come in.

“I can pay you,” Mrs. Wallace said. She put her purse on top of her hat and opened it. Her hands were rough, her nails broken to the quick.

Shayne made a swift negative gesture. Lucy came in and he said: “Since you’ve been discussing the case with Mrs. Wallace, you’d better sit in on this.” Then to his client: “Tell me about the man you’ve lost.”

“His name is Jasper Groat. He called me yesterday afternoon and asked me to come in and see him. I caught the midnight train and came right in. I went straight to his apartment this morning and he wasn’t there. His wife said he hadn’t been there all night. Then she advised me to see Miss Hamilton across the hall — that you might be able to help me.”

Smoke spiraled upward from Shayne’s cigarette. He frowned at the smoke and asked: “Did you have a definite appointment with Mr. Groat?”

“Yes. I told him what train I’d take and he told me to come to his apartment. I think something has happened to him. We’ve got to find him because it’s my only hope of finding Leon.”

“Leon?”

“My husband. He’s been gone for two years. Mr. Groat said he could tell me all about Leon, and now he’s vanished — just as Leon did two years ago.”

Shayne glanced at Lucy. She was leaning forward eagerly, cupping her chin in her palm. He said impatiently: “You’d better tell me about your husband. Start at the beginning.”

Mrs. Wallace bent toward him slightly, her back straight as a ramrod. “It happened two years ago in March. The farm wasn’t doing so well and Leon came to New Orleans to find a job. I had a couple of letters from him, cheerful letters. He got a job working as gardener with a wealthy family, the Hawleys. He sent me money for the children and myself to move to New Orleans. Before we could make arrangements to leave the farm, I had another letter from him.” Her cloth purse was still open. She took the letter out and handed it to Shayne.

“There were ten one-thousand-dollar bills in the letter,” she added.

Shayne slowly unfolded the two sheets of paper and read:

The old, brittle paper crackled loudly in the stillness of the office when Shayne stopped reading and refolded the letter.

Lucy’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. She said: “And she hasn’t heard another word from him, Mike. But the money has come every six months, just as he promised. A thousand-dollar-bill in an envelope without any letter.”

“They were mailed from New Orleans,” Mrs. Wallace supplied. “At first I was grieved and terrified, naturally. But I found out that crying and moping don’t go with running a farm.” Her manner was direct, forthright. She looked away from Shayne and added softly: “The worst thing was — I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing to the children.”

“Does he send the money?”

She nodded. “The handwriting on the envelope is Leon’s.”

Shayne leaned back and rubbed his angular jaw. “Did you make any investigation when it first happened?”

“No. I was determined to at first, but after reading that letter over and over, I was afraid of getting him into serious trouble. It seemed best for the children that I keep quiet.”

“And the money?” Shayne asked gently.

“I deposited the money in the bank. I did call up the Hawley house to ask about Leon. I didn’t let on that anything was wrong. But the man I talked to, the butler I imagine, said Leon had quit his job a few days before and hadn’t left any address.”

“Did he work for Mrs. Sarah Hawley?”

“Yes. On Labarre Street.”

“So you deposited the money and drew on it for living expenses?”

Mrs. Wallace bristled. “I put it in the bank, all right, but I didn’t use a penny of it. It’s still there. I’ve made out all right on the farm. I expected Leon to come back any time and was sure he’d need that money, fourteen thousand in all, to keep him out of trouble.”

Shayne drew in a long breath. After a moment of silence he asked: “What sort of a man was your husband?”

“Leon was a good man,” she answered promptly. “I never knew him to do anything wrong. That’s why I didn’t understand any of this. I’m sure he loved me and the children. Naturally, there have been times when I was bitter against him, and that helped me bear up under the strain. I would’ve been content just to go on waiting if Mr. Groat hadn’t phoned me. I begged him to tell me whether Leon was alive and all right, but he wouldn’t. It’s the uncertainty that has me upset, Mr. Shayne.”

“Did Groat say anything about money?” Shayne asked bluntly.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did you have a feeling that he expected you to pay him for his information? Did he intimate that was his reason for wanting to see you in person rather than telling you about it over the phone?”

“I can’t say. I was too excited, I guess, and he hung up right away.”

“How many people know about the money in the bank?”

“No one,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never told anyone about it.”

“The police are already looking for Groat,” Shayne said slowly. “Any information you have might help them.”

“No!” The word was a sharp cry. Fear was suddenly stark in her eyes. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Shayne,” she said rapidly. “Miss Hamilton said you wouldn’t have to go to the police. Don’t you see, I can’t tell them about Leon. I don’t know what he might have done two years ago — or what he’s been doing since then. Can’t you find out without going to the police?” Her brisk manner was gone, but there was no sign of tears.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight. Your only interest in having me find Groat is your hope that he’ll be able to clear up the mystery about your husband? And you want me to do it rather than the police so you’ll have a chance to get this information and prevent it from being made public?”

Mrs. Wallace recovered her poise and stiffened her spine. “That’s what I thought. I was thinking of the possible disgrace to the children.” She paused for a long moment, then went on calmly: “I want you to find Leon. No matter how much it costs. I feel that I can use some of that money he’s been sending me toward finding him.”

Shayne nodded. “Will you stay in town for a while?”

“I can’t do that. I left the children with a neighbor and I’ll have to take the afternoon train back.”

Shayne considered her answer. “That will probably be best,” he agreed. “I’ll get in touch with you the moment I have something to report. Give Miss Hamilton your telephone number.”

Lucy said: “Shall I—”

“There won’t be any retainer right now,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll check a few angles, and if I’m able to accomplish anything I’ll send you a bill.” He got up and stood behind his desk while Lucy and Mrs. Wallace went to the reception room.

Lucy’s brown eyes were dancing when she returned alone. “I’m going to expect a cut on this case, Mr. Shayne — after dragging you into it by your bristly red topknot.”

Shayne grinned. “Anything new on Groat?”

“Nothing. Mrs. Groat has practically collapsed.”

“Does Mrs. Wallace know about the sea rescue and Groat’s hook-up with Albert Hawley?”

“No, I’m sure she doesn’t. And Mrs. Groat doesn’t know anything about Leon Wallace except that he has been missing two years. Mrs. Wallace told her about Groat’s telephone call. What do you suppose it’s all about, Mike?”

“God knows,” he groaned. He rumpled his hair vigorously and drew a sheet of paper in front of him.

Lucy sat down and watched with interest the illegible marks Shayne made on the paper.

Shayne said: “We’ve got Groat and Cunningham marooned in a lifeboat with a wounded soldier who died after being adrift a few days. Groat was a religious cuss and nursed Albert Hawley the best he could, but he died in Groat’s arms. Hawley must have known he was dying and confided something that weighed on Groat’s conscience, so his wife thinks. Groat also talked about coming into a sum of money soon. Probably the diary, according to Cunningham. We can check on that. Groat secretly called Mrs. Wallace and asked her to come to New Orleans to learn the truth about her husband, then angrily denied the call to his wife. Groat went out at eight, promising to be back at nine, asked the switchboard operator how to get out to Labarre Street where the Hawleys live, then made a phone call and left. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

“Check,” said Lucy.

Shayne stopped making marks on the paper and flung the pencil across the room. He got up and strode over to pick up his hat.

“Where are you going?” Lucy asked.

“Right now I want to find out if Albert Hawley was at home two years ago when Leon Wallace took a runout powder and sent his wife that screwy letter with ten grand enclosed.” He stopped on his way out and turned to Lucy, frowning. “Do you know how to get hold of Mrs. Wallace before she goes back?”

“No. But I know when her train leaves.”

“Catch her at the depot. Have her paged. I want to know if she has any of those later envelopes containing the semi-annual payments. I want them. And I want the name of the bank where she claims the money is deposited, and a picture of her husband. If you don’t catch her at the depot, phone her at Littleboro as soon as she gets home.” He rammed his hat down and went out in long, driving strides.

Shayne went directly to the Missing Persons Bureau at police headquarters. Sergeant Pepper sat at his desk, a big, hulking man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair. He had been in charge of the Bureau for twenty years and carried more information in his head than in the filing cases behind him. He nodded solemnly to Shayne.

Shayne slid into a chair in front of the desk and asked: “Anything on Jasper Groat?”

The sergeant had no discernible sense of humor. He blinked his eyes and looked meditative. “Missing since last night. Nope. You in on that, Mike?”

“Friend of his wife,” Shayne explained casually. “I was over there last night and reported it for her. Here’s the only lead I could pick up. He may have taken a taxi from his apartment house out to the Hawley residence on Labarre at eight last night. Will you check that?”

A flicker of interest showed in the sergeant’s cold blue eyes. He rumbled: “Hawley? Son died in the lifeboat with Groat. Rich as all get-out.”

“That’s the one. Have you got him in your files?”

“Nope.”

“Or Leon Wallace?”

“Nope.”

“You may be able to find the cab driver who took Groat out there.”

“That’s our business,” Sergeant Pepper agreed drily.

Shayne said: “If you pick up anything, let me know.”

The sergeant nodded and Shayne went out to his car. He drove out to South Claiborne and angled out on the Jefferson Highway to Labarre just a short distance north of the levee.

Shayne drove between towering concrete gateposts onto a a curving gravel drive leading through a grove of moss-draped oaks to an aged two-story plantation house with stately columns supporting a broad second-story gallery. Magnolia and crepe myrtle trees pressed in close to the house, and to the left a sunken garden lay untended and desolate.

Silence enveloped the proud old mansion, and an atmosphere of decay pervaded the neglected exterior and the neglected grounds. The land was low, and luxuriant ferns grew rampant in the damp soil around the veranda.

Shayne parked directly behind a black sedan in the driveway. The air was hot and humid, heavy with cloying, tropical odors. He mopped his brow as he went up the steps and pounded on the door with a bronze knocker.

The door opened so silently it startled him. A bent old Negro said, “Yassuh,” softly.

Shayne said: “I want to see Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”

“Nossuh. Ahm sorry. Not ’thout you got a ’pointment.”

Shayne put his hand against the edge of the door and pushed. He strode past the servant into a wide, gloomy hall running the length of the house. He heard a murmur of voices from a room halfway down the hall and started walking in that direction. The old Negro shuffled along behind him, protesting loudly.

A tall man carrying a briefcase in one hand and a Panama hat in the other emerged from the doorway. His hair was a silvery mane flowing back from a strong, bony face, and he wore an outmoded suit of light gray.

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

“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, B. H. Hastings.

“I am legal counsellor 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,” Lawyer 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 whom 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 that 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 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, young man.”

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.”

Chapter Three The Hateful Hawleys

Beatrice hurtled 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 whiskey, 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 whiskey.

“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,” and started toward it unsteadily.

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 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. She started nibbling on her cuticle, watching him with stupid hopefulness.

“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 whiskey 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, I guess.”

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 rot-gut whiskey.

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 as soon as she gets home. Oh, yes, 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 and 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 rescue, 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 and 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 one of two closed doors marked PRIVATE.

Shayne opened the door without knocking. Mr. Hastings sat before an ancient rolltop 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 his palm. 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 there 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 whiskey after you left.”

“She’s a queer girl, all right,” 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 two-fold.”

“And Sarah Hawley has been dependent on Ezra since her husband died?”

“Generally speaking, yes. He has provided for her generously, I believe.”

“That run-down old house doesn’t look like it,” Shayne protested.

Hastings said: “Such matters have no bearing on the present situation.”

“Perhaps not. What I was getting at is this — will Mrs. Hawley and her daughter actually be left destitute if Ezra’s money goes to Albert’s divorced widow?”

“Practically speaking, yes. They have very little laid aside.”

“It’s rather peculiar, isn’t it, for a man not to change his will after a divorce?”

“Albert did change his will,” Hastings admitted stiffly. “He definitely specified that his ex-wife was to receive everything, even if she remarried.”

“Did his wife remarry after the divorce?”

“I believe she did, yes.”

“How long ago was the divorce?”

“A matter of some two years. Shortly before Albert’s induction into the armed forces.”

“And was Albert living at home when he was drafted?”

“He was. He — ah — had remained at home after his marriage.”

“And the date of his induction?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hastings said: “Albert was called into the army on March 18th, 1943.”

Shayne took from his pocket the letter Mrs. Wallace had given him that morning. It was dated March 10th. He asked: “Did you ever hear of a man named Leon Wallace?”

Hastings gave no noticeable reaction. “I don’t recall the name.” He added: “I believe you understand what is required in this case, Mr. Shayne.”

“You want me to locate Jasper Groat and Leslie Cunningham and get affidavits from them as to the exact date of Albert’s death.”

The lawyer put his glasses on, said, “Good day, Mr. Shayne,” and turned back to his desk.

“My fee will be five thousand if things turn out in your favor. I’ll take a retainer of two hundred now.”

Hastings was plainly irritated. He started to protest, drummed his fingers on his desk, then got up and took ten twenty-dollar bills from a black metal box and handed them to Shayne. He said: “I feel it will be best to make no written memorandum of our agreement.”

Shayne stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I don’t like written agreements, either. But I always collect. You’ll be hearing from me.”

A man and woman were entering the outer office when Shayne opened Hastings’ door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with arms as long as an ape’s. The women was young and smartly-groomed. She had a Mae West figure, an alert, intelligent face.

Shayne grinned at the man and said: “Hi, Jake.”

Jake Sims muttered, “Hello, Shayne,” and went on toward the desk of the gnomelike little man.

Shayne went out, whistling cheerily.

Chapter Four River Stay ’Way from My Corpse

Immediately upon entering his office, Lucy said: “Sergeant Pepper called a few minutes ago, Michael, and wants you to call him right away. And take a look at this!” She handed him an early addition of the afternoon Item.

Shayne’s gaze fell upon a boxed item on the front page. It was an announcement that Feature Writer Joel Cross of the Item’s staff was making arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s journal kept during those harrowing days he had drifted at sea in an open lifeboat after his ship had been torpedoed. The announcement contained such phrases as: “Authentic account of heroism on the high seas... Vivid first-hand narrative of danger and suffering... What do men say and think as they live with Death all around them?... A record of the last words spoken by one who did not come back, and the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heartstrings of every reader.”

He folded the paper and asked: “Anything new from Mrs. Groat?”

“She called a few minutes ago. No word from her husband. She said Leslie Cunningham had just left her apartment. He persuaded her to go through Jasper’s things to try to find the diary, but it was fruitless.”

Shayne thoughtfully massaged his left earlobe, then said, “Get Sergeant Pepper for me,” and went into his office.

He got a pint bottle of brandy from the desk drawer, poured some in a glass and walked around as he drank it. When his desk buzzer sounded, he picked up the telephone receiver. Lucy said: “Sergeant Pepper, Mr. Shayne.”

“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?” Shayne asked.

“That tip you gave me was all right, Mike. We picked up the cabbie who drove Groat out to that address on Labarre last night. He identified the photograph of Groat.”

“And?” Shayne’s throat was dry. He wet it with a sip of brandy.

“That’s all.”

“Did you check with the Hawleys about his arrival?”

“No soap. None of them admits seeing him. None of them admits knowing he was coming. They don’t know anything about a cab driving up at eight and letting a passenger out.” Deep disgust was added to the sergeant’s normally moody tone.

“How about the girl, Mrs. Beatrice Meany?”

“Her? She was drunk as a coot when I got out there. Passed out cold in bed.”

Shayne took a long drink while the sergeant was talking. A deep scowl trenched his forehead. He said, “You’d better start looking for Groat’s body,” and hung up.

He sat down and his gray eyes brooded across the room. He sat for a long time without moving. Lucy came in and perched on a comer of his desk. She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly at the glass at his elbow. “I don’t see how you ever solve a case the way you stay tanked up all the time.”

Shayne laughed shortly, picked up the glass and emptied it. “Always glad to oblige by removing the offending article. I’m going to have to get awfully drunk to figure this one out.”

“I listened in on your conversation with the sergeant,” she admitted. “Do you think someone at the Hawleys killed Groat?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised, angel.”

She frowned, her eyes thoughtful. “I can’t understand why the Hawleys wouldn’t be eager to see Mr. Groat and find out about Albert’s death. Most people would.”

“The whole thing is screwy,” he told her moodily. He chucked the empty glass in a drawer. “I’m going out to lunch. Go out whenever you want to.” He got up and stalked to the door.

Lucy intercepted him by saying: “Cunningham hasn’t called yet. Maybe I’d better stick around until you get back.”

“Be sure to find out where he’s staying. I could use a line on him.”

It was only a short walk from his office to that portion of Camp Street once known as “Newspaper Row” where there were a number of small restaurants still frequented by members of the Fourth Estate.

He tried Henri’s first, because he was fairly certain of finding Roger Deems there at noon. Henri was famous for a drink of his own concoction called a Lafitte, and long custom had conditioned Deems’ stomach to coping with a couple of them every day before lunch.

Shayne went down three concrete steps from the sidewalk and into a long room with a bar along one side and booths lining the other. Half a dozen men were at the bar, and some of the booths were occupied.

He saw Roger Deems’ saturnine face at once. He was long and loose-jointed, a sports writer for the Item, and an old-timer in the city. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the bar, looking down with a melancholy expression at a highball glass half-full of a greenish, bilious-looking mixture.

Shayne went over to him and said: “You don’t have to drink that thing, Roger. I’ll buy you something decent.”

Deems cocked one eye at him and said: “I love ’em, Mike. Mixture of rum and gin. Very healthy. Know what a Lafitte reminds me of, Mike?”

“Juicy green worms run through a wringer,” Shayne told him. He held up two fingers and Henri brought a double shot of cognac in a big-topped snifter glass.

“That’s why I love ’em,” Deems said. He sighed and lifted his glass, emptied it, and shuddered the length of his lanky frame. “Got anything for me, Mike?”

Shayne warmed the big glass between his palms. “Nothing right now. Do you know a guy named Joel Cross?”

“Good ol’ Joel. The literary light of the Fourth Estate. I’m proud to say, suh, I have the honor of his acquaintance.” He turned his head and called to one of the men sitting in a booth behind him. “You’re being discussed, Mr. Cross.”

A stocky, sandy-haired man with a bristly, reddish mustache and a square, aggressive face said: “Hi, Deems.”

Deems waggled a long forefinger at him. “Don’t know what you’ve done now, but here’s a hell-hound on your trail. The sleuth of the Everglades. Wherever you hid the body won’t be good enough once he starts sniffing.”

Joel Cross had been smiling, but now a curious mask of hardness replaced the smile on his face. His lips tightened and his jaw jutted. He said something to his companion in the booth in a low tone, then got up and came toward them. He held his shoulders consciously squared and walked with a precise stiffness that was almost a strut His voice was thin and metallic. “Who’s taking my name in vain?”

“Mr. Shayne.” Deems jerked a thumb toward the detective.

Cross said: “I’ve heard about you.” He held out a square hand. The flesh was hard and cold. He was a head shorter than Shayne, but his shoulders were as broad and he was built solidly from the floor up.

Henri set another greenish drink in front of Deems and laid Shayne’s change on the counter. Shayne gathered up his change and said to Cross: “I don’t want to interrupt you, but I have something I’d like to talk over with you.”

Cross said: “You’re not interrupting anything. There’s a vacant booth in the back.” He went toward it, his heels hitting the floor hard before the soles came down.

Shayne picked up his drink and followed him, slid in opposite the feature writer for the Item and asked: “Drink?”

“I never touch the stuff.” Cross’ bristly mustache lifted slightly. “Are you on a case?”

“Sort of. I’m interested in Jasper Groat’s diary.”

Cross peered at Shayne. “What about it?”

“Is the stuff any good?”

“It’s terrific. Raw, elemental emotion. It wasn’t written for publication. That’s why it’s good. We’ll publish it as is — no editing.”

“Do you have it?”

Cross didn’t answer at once. He coddled his mustache, first on one side, then the other, “I had to look it over to see if it was worth what Groat wanted,” he said cautiously.

“How much was that?”

“What’s your interest?” Cross parried.

“I have an idea a lot of people are going to be interested after reading the announcement in the Item.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “Frankly, I’d like to know how much it would cost to keep it unpublished.”

Cross stiffened, his eyes suspiciously alert. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the newspaper business, Shayne. That diary is a scoop of the first magnitude. You can’t measure the intrinsic value of something like that to a paper.”

“I’d like to have a look at it,” Shayne said idly.

“You can read it in the Item.”

“I mean a preview.”

Cross shook his head emphatically. “It can’t be done.”

Shayne took a drink of cognac and asked: “Do I understand that you’ve made final arrangements with Groat?”

“I don’t know why our arrangements with Groat should interest you.”

“I’m not at liberty to explain my interest right now. One thing you can tell me: If Groat should disappear — if he should die suddenly before you see him again — have you the legal right to publish his diary?”

“What is this?” Cross demanded. “Where is Groat?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Shayne reminded him.

“I’m not going to answer it, Shayne.” Cross was bristling all over. “I’ll give you the same answer I gave that shyster, Jake Sims, a little while ago. He phoned me at the office to ask the same question. I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Shayne mused, “Jake Sims... well, it’s nice to have met you, Cross,” and got up. He went back to the bar to rejoin Deems. Joel Cross returned to his seat in the booth where his friend waited.

Deems asked: “How’d you get along with friend Joel?”

“Not too well,” Shayne admitted.

“He’s a cold-blooded number,” Deems said cheerfully. “The kind who’d take a notebook with him on his honeymoon to record his bride’s emotions for a true confession magazine.”

“By the way, where does Cross live?”

“He’s got a room at the Corona Arms Hotel. Does all his work there. Too high-class to pound a typewriter at the office like the rest of us.”

Shayne looked across at the booth where Joel Cross sat. The waiter was just beginning to serve lunch. He said: “Well, so long, Roger. Be seeing you.” He stalked out the door, walked three blocks at a brisk pace, and turned into the lobby of the Corona Arms Hotel.

A young man at the desk looked up when he went past, but Shayne went on toward the elevator. He then turned, went back to the desk and said: “I’ve forgotten the number of Joel Cross’ room.”

The clerk said automatically: “Room 627, but I haven’t seen Mr. Cross come in.”

Shayne said: “He’s expecting me, but maybe I’d better call him to be sure.” He went to a house phone, lifted the receiver and said: “Room 627, please.”

He waited a moment, listening to the phone ring, then said: “Joel?... Swell. I’ll be right up.” He hung up, thanked the clerk, and went to the elevator.

The sixth-floor corridor was deserted. Shayne examined the lock on the door and selected three keys from a well-filled ring. The second key opened the door. He stepped in and closed it behind him. The shades were drawn, darkening the room. He switched on the lights and stood very still while his gaze went around the disordered room.

Bureau drawers had been pulled open and dumped on the floor. The mattress was turned back, disclosing bare springs. The typewriter-desk drawers were open and copy paper scattered on the floor.

Shayne went over and started to paw through the papers. He heard a faint click, and turned to see Joel Cross standing on the threshold. The reporter’s mustache bristled, his upper lip drawn back to show his teeth. He took a .32 automatic from his pocket and held it carelessly at his side, the blued muzzle pointing at Shayne.

Cross said: “Stand right where you are while I use the telephone.”

Shayne grinned and made a wide gesture around the room. “You think I did this?”

“I’ll let the police ask the questions.” Cross was sidling across to the telephone.

“I got here about a minute before you did. You know that,” Shayne expostulated. “You saw me leave Henri’s not more than five minutes ago. How in hell do you think I managed all this in that time?”

“It’s been more than five minutes.” Cross’ voice was cold. He reached for the phone with his left hand.

“Don’t be a damned fool!” Shayne said impatiently. “You don’t want the police in on this.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want the police. I’ve got you for feloniously entering my room, if nothing else.”

“I didn’t break in. I pushed the door open and walked in. Check with the desk clerk,” he urged. “I called your room from downstairs not more than two minutes ago. Someone answered and I assumed it was you. I came up and found the door ajar. The clerk’s story will just make a fool of you with the police.”

Cross lifted the receiver and said: “Desk clerk.” He waited a moment, then said: “This is Mr. Cross. A moment ago when I came in you told me someone had just come up to my room. Did he ask for me at the desk?”

He listened for a while, nodding slowly and frowning. He said, “I see,” and hung up. He put the pistol back in his pocket. “I guess you’re right, Shayne. The clerk did hear you talking to somebody in my room.” He sat down on the bed and asked: “Who was it?”

Shayne shook his head. “Whoever it was ducked out before I could get up in the elevator. Is the diary gone?”

“So that’s what you were after?” Cross’ face was pale with anger.

“Where was it?” Shayne asked impatiently. “If it’s been stolen—”

“You’d better come clean with me, Shayne. What’s this talk about Groat disappearing and maybe being dead? What are you and Jake Sims up to?”

Shayne looked around the room morosely. He said, “I don’t think it matters now,” and started toward the door.

Cross jumped up, bunching his right hand in his coat pocket. “You’re not leaving here until you do some talking.”

Shayne kept on going. He didn’t look at Cross. He went out the door and down the hall to the elevator, pushed the button and waited, keeping his back obstinately toward Cross’ door.

The elevator stopped and took him down to the lobby. He went out and walked back to his office.

Lucy was waiting impatiently to go out for lunch. “I’ve been waiting for hours,” she complained. “You’ve got company.” She indicated the closed door of his office.

Shayne said, “Run along now,” and opened his office door. Jake Sims was standing at the window with his hands clasped behind him. The young woman whom he had seen in Hastings’ office was sitting beside his desk. She looked up at him coolly, a cigarette in her left hand, her lips parted to let smoke flow out. He had that same impression of hard, alert intelligence, as when he had first seen her.

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 out 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.”

“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 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 very 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 out of the river half a mile below the point where Labarre Street 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.

Chapter Five Wine, Women and Death—

“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 that 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 Hawley’s, 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 ball 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. She sounded,” Lucy went on disdainfully, “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 her, 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 the 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 receipt 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 up-swept. 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 whiskey 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 whiskey. 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 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 afterwards, 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.”

Shayne said: “Because I’ve got to keep a date with a dame. She’s waiting in my apartment right now and I need to be sober to handle her.” He waggled his head and closed one eye in a wink. “It happens to be your ex-sister-in-law!”

“Not Beatrice!” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt.

“That’s right. We had quite a talk this morning. I suppose you know it was she who invited Groat out to the Hawleys to be murdered last night.”

“Did she murder him?”

“I don’t know. If I can keep her sober long enough, I’ve an idea she can tell me who did.”

“We haven’t settled anything,” Mrs. Meredith reminded him. “I don’t think I understand you, Mr, Shayne.”

Shayne was at the door and had hold of the knob when someone rapped. He turned to look at Mrs. Meredith, one eyebrow quizzically raised. She had half-risen from the divan and her eyes were wide. She shook her head at Shayne but didn’t speak.

The rapping sounded again. Shayne turned the knob and opened the door. He said, “Well, well,” and stepped back when he saw Leslie Cunningham standing on the threshold.

The sailor wore a double-breasted suit of blue serge, the snap-brim of a felt hat was pulled low over his bronzed forehead. His black eyes glittered with surprise when he saw Shayne. He jerked his gaze to Mrs. Meredith and muttered: “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Shayne said: “I get around a little.” He motioned Cunningham inside and added: “Mrs. Meredith is looking for another victim to drink one of her mint juleps. I have to leave to keep an appointment.”

Cunningham squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. His actions showed a strong trace of self-consciousness. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Meredith’s face as though he hoped to receive some signal from her, some hint as to what she expected from him.

She said smoothly: “It’s nice of you to drop in, Mr. Cunningham. I would like to mix you a mint julep since Mr. Shayne scorns them. Besides, my charming ex-sister-in-law is waiting in his apartment,” she added acidly.

Shayne said: “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk over.” He started for the door again, adding: “Just as I have with Mrs. Meany.”

“I’ve got some things to talk to you about,” Cunningham muttered. “I just heard Jasper Groat’s body has been found.”

“Didn’t surprise you, did it?”

“No. As I told you last night, I knew something had happened to him. What about the diary?”

“You still have that to worry about. You and Mrs. Meredith and the Hawleys, and Hastings and Sims — and maybe Joel Cross.” Shayne went out and closed the door.

In the lobby he went down the corridor behind the desk and stopped at a door marked PRIVATE. A voice said, “Come in,” when he knocked.

Kurt Davis was lounging in a chair smoking a cigar. He didn’t look the way a house detective is supposed to look, but at the St. Charles the job called for brains more than brawn.

He said: “Hello there, Shayne. Are you working?”

“Sort of.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can you get me the home address of Mrs. Meredith in Room 319?”

“I can get you the address she used when she registered.”

Shayne nodded. “I don’t expect an affidavit with it.”

Davis got up and strolled across the small room to a metal box affixed to the wall. He pressed a button and spoke into the box. Turning back to Shayne, he asked: “Anything we ought to have on her?”

“I don’t think so.” Shayne hesitated, then added: “You might keep an eye on the men she entertains in her suite.”

“A floozie?” the house detective asked.

“Not at all. The worst she’s likely to do is knock some guy out with one of her mint juleps. She’s mixed up in a case I’m working on. I don’t know how deeply. If there’s a pinch I’ll see that your dump is kept clean.”

The metal box buzzed. Davis turned to it, pressed a button and said: “Yes?”

Shayne took out a small memo pad and a pencil. He copied down the street address as Davis repeated it aloud. He promised, “If I get anything you can use, I’ll pass it on,” and went out.

It was getting quite dark as he walked up the street to a telegraph office and wrote out a message to Mr. Theodore Meredith in Chicago, Illinois. It read:

He completed the message with his own apartment address and signed it “Matie.” He sent it as a straight message, went back to his parked car and drove to his apartment.

When Shayne stepped out on the sidewalk he glanced up to see light in the front windows of his second-floor apartment. He knew he hadn’t left the lights on when he went out earlier in the day.

He thought he discerned movement inside the room, and watched the windows for a full minute. The movement was not repeated. He grinned wryly upon realizing that he might have been telling Mrs. Meredith the truth, after all, when he had said lightly that Beatrice Meany was waiting for him in his apartment. He started forward, hoping she hadn’t already got into his liquor. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask her.

He went up the front steps onto the veranda, passed through double entrance doors into a small dim-lit hallway with stairs leading directly upward. The small light bulb at the top of the stairway was out, leaving the upper hall in darkness. He turned toward the crack of light showing under his door.

As he brought his keys from his pocket his hand grasped the doorknob. It turned easily and the door swung open.

The crumpled body of Beatrice Meany lay in the middle of the brightly-lighted room.

Chapter Six Dipso Stiff

Shayne stood in the doorway taking in every detail of the scene. Beatrice was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed, her tongue protruded slightly from her lips and was turning bluish, her head was twisted in a manner indicating a broken neck.

Shayne whirled from the doorway and lunged down the hall. He halted briefly at the head of the stairs, reached up to touch the unlit light globe. The bulb was warm. He twisted it in, carefully touching it with two fingers near the neck of the globe. Light flooded the hallway.

He strode on to a narrow rear stairway, went swiftly down to the rear of the lower hall and found the back door opening onto the alley standing ajar. He stepped out and looked up and down the alley, but saw no one.

Back in the entrance hall he put a nickel in the wall telephone and called police headquarters. “This is Mike Shayne, and I’ve got a corpse for you.” He gave the address and hung up, turned and went to a door marked JANITOR, opposite the stairway.

He opened the door and called: “Jake.”

A voice said, “Yassuh,” and in a moment a wrinkled Negro came to the door. “What yo’ want, Mist’ Shayne?”

“Do you know how a woman got in my apartment?”

“Yo’ sistuh? Yassah. Ah let her in, Mist’ Shayne. She said ’twas a s’prise like.”

“What time did you let her in?”

“ ’Bout a hour ago, Ah reckon.” Jake scratched his kinky head. “Jest after sundown. Ah was rakin’ the front yahd an’ she druv up in a taxi an’ asks me was yo’ heah an’ then could Ah unlock yo’ door so’s she could wait.”

“Have you seen any strangers around here since you let her in?”

“Strangers? Sho now...” He scratched his head again, then said: “Ah reckon yo’ mean that gennnleman what come li’l while, later. He asks has a gal come heah to see yo’ an’ Ah tells him ’bout yo’ sistuh waitin’. He jest snorts an’ goes up.”

“How long did he stay?” Shayne asked sharply.

“Ah don’ rightly know. Did’n’ see ’im leave, Ah reckon. Ah got busy an’ did’n’ take no notice. Is suthin’ wrong?”

“The girl is dead,” Shayne said curtly.

He heard car doors slam outside and hurried to the front door to admit Inspector Quinlan and members of the homicide squad.

The inspector barked: “So it’s you, Shayne. The sergeant did get the right name. Where’s the body?”

“Upstairs in my apartment.” Shayne led the way upstairs to his open apartment door. “In here,” he said. “I touched the outside knob opening the door, but didn’t go inside.”

Quinlan nodded to his men to get to work, stepped back beside Shayne and asked: “Who is she?”

“Beatrice Meany, daughter of Mrs. Sarah Hawley. Lived out at the Hawley place with her husband and her mother.”

“Mixed up in the Groat case,” Quinlan said.

“She’s the girl who told me she’d asked Groat to come out last night, but denied seeing him arrive.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Shayne’s eyes brooded over the room. “She was too drunk to talk very straight when I was out at the Hawley house.”

“So you invited her here to finish the interview?”

“She invited herself.” Shayne told him about Beatrice’s phone call to his office to get the address of his apartment. “That’s all I know about it,” he ended bitterly. “She came here about an hour ago, evidently, and passed herself off as my sister in order to get in. A man came asking for me a little later.

“Jake told him I wasn’t in and only my sister was here, but he came up anyway. Jake didn’t see him leave.”

“Did the janitor give a description of him?”

“He hadn’t got that far when you arrived. Here’s one thing more, Inspector.” Shayne showed him the light bulb at the head of the stairs. “That was unscrewed and the hall was dark when I came up. It was still warm when I screwed it in. I was careful not to touch it except right at the neck with two fingers.”

“All right,” Quinlan grunted. “I’ll have it checked. Let’s talk to the janitor.”

Jake was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. He repeated the story he had told Shayne, for the inspector’s benefit.

When asked for a description, the Negro said: “He was sorta fat, an’ sorta young. He had on a gray suit, Ah reckon, sorta dark.”

“Was he wearing a hat?” Shayne asked.

“A hat? Yassuh. Ah reckon so. Ah jest don’ recolleck.”

“The description sounds like Mr. Meany,” Shayne told Quinlan. “The girl’s husband. He’s quite bald for so young a man, and you notice it if you see him bareheaded.”

Quinlan went to the telephone and talked to Headquarters. He dispatched men to the Hawley residence to pick up Gerald Meany and learn what they could about his movements that afternoon, hung up and turned back to Shayne. “I suppose Jake saw you come in just now?”

“No one saw me come in,” he answered cheerfully.

“Can you prove she was dead when you got here?”

Shayne frowned and admitted: “Depends on how long she’s been dead. I can account for my actions to within about fifteen minutes of the time I called Headquarters.”

Quinlan got out his notebook and said: “Let’s have it.”

“I went to Room 319 at the St, Charles Hotel about an hour ago. Took about half an hour drinking a mint julep. Dropped in on the house dick for a chat on my way out, fooled around a few minutes and drove straight back here.”

Quinlan went to the phone and called the St. Charles. He asked for the house detective, and after talking for a few minutes hung up.

Shayne said: “Call Room 319 now, and see if there are still two people in the room where I left them. Mrs. Meredith will probably answer. You ask for Leslie Cunningham.”

When the connection was made, Inspector Quinlan said: “Mrs. Meredith? I’d like to speak to Mr. Cunningham.” When the sailor got on the line, the inspector questioned him, jotting down the answers in his notebook. Presently he hung up and turned to Shayne.

“Davis and Cunningham check your story. Davis says you were there at seventeen minutes after six. Your report on the murder reached Headquarters at exactly six thirty-nine. That’s twenty-two minutes to account for from the time you left Davis, and it’s not more than a five-minute drive here. How much time did you waste after you got here before calling in?”

“Not more than five minutes,” Shayne told him.

“Don’t you know enough to report a murder as soon as you see it?”

“I thought I saw movement in my room when I got out of my car,” Shayne explained, “and watched the window for a while. When I found the dead woman, I thought the murderer might be just then getting out the back way, and I checked. Then I took time to turn on the hall light.”

“That puts you here at six-thirty-four. It didn’t take you seventeen minutes to drive here from the St. Charles.”

“How does Kurt Davis place the time so exactly?”

“Claims he looked at his watch. It’s a habit of his.”

Shayne grinned wryly. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I went window shopping for twelve minutes.”

Quinlan’s face reddened. He barked: “Window shopping!”

“Let’s go up and see what the boys have got,” Shayne suggested. “Maybe I’ll think of something better than window shopping.”

Doctor Matson’s assistant met them in the doorway of Shayne’s apartment. He said: “Death due to strangulation and possible fracture of the vertabrae. Not more than half an hour ago, and probably within the past fifteen minutes. The doc will have to give it to you closer than that.”

Shayne asked: “Could she have been strangled by a woman?”

The young assistant considered for a moment, then said: “It’s very doubtful. The contusions on her throat indicate a lot of strength in the hands that caused them.” He went on down the hall.

Shayne and Quinlan went inside the room where the photographer was putting away his equipment and the fingerprint men were finishing up their work.

Sergeant Donovan scowled at Quinlan. He said: “We haven’t got anything worthwhile. One set of prints everywhere, presumably yours, Mike. Her prints are on that brandy bottle on the table and on the arms of that chair behind her.”

“How fresh are any of my prints? The inspector is trying to hang the murder on me.”

Donovan looked apologetically at Quinlan and said: “We haven’t found a print of yours made later than noon, say.”

“How about the light bulb in the hallway?”

“Yours are plain enough at the top. Partial imprints on the bottom and sides,” Donovan said disgustedly.

“Try the back stairway and door for prints,” Shayne said to Donovan.

“You can call it quits if you don’t find anything worth reporting,” Quinlan said. He went over and sat down wearily on the sofa.

Shayne stood looking at the dead woman. Beatrice Meany did not look like a dipsomaniac as she lay there. Her naturally childish features had taken on a sort of dignity in death. There was a troubled expression on her face, as though she didn’t understand why this had happened to her.

Two men came up the stairs with a long wicker basket. They placed the body in the basket and took it away.

Shayne picked up the brandy bottle and squinted at it. “She’d helped herself to a couple of big slugs before she got it,” he said to the inspector. “Want a shot?”

“No, thanks. Why did she come up to your apartment?”

“She wanted to keep Ezra Hawley’s money away from her dead brother’s ex-wife. I suppose she wanted me to help her.”

“The woman in Room 319 at the St. Charles?” Quinlan asked, frowning deeply.

“That’s right — Mrs. Meredith.”

“I suppose she wants you to help her get the money.”

“That’s right.”

“And Leslie Cunningham, Groat’s companion in the lifeboat, was with Mrs. Meredith when I talked to them.”

“That’s right. Cunningham is the only one left now who can testify when Hawley died.”

“Is he working with Mrs. Meredith?”

Shayne hesitated, then said: “My impression of Cunningham is that he’s out for whatever he can get. Mrs. Meredith has quite a lot to offer, I’d say.”

“And you think she’s offering it to him?”

“She’s hard-boiled and she’s plenty smart. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get hold of a million dollars.”

“What about Groat’s diary?”

“That’s still the stumbling block. The hell of it is,” Shayne admitted irritably, “we don’t know which side the diary favors — the Hawleys or Mrs. Meredith. Cunningham pretends he isn’t sure whether Hawley lived four or five days. That may be the truth, or he may just be waiting to make sure the diary is out of the way before he comes forward with definite testimony. Both parties are anxious to get hold of it to substantiate their claim or to suppress it if it doesn’t substantiate their claim.”

“Doesn’t anyone actually know what’s in the diary?”

“Cunningham may, but he’s not saying. And Joel Cross should know, whether he realizes what it means or not.”

Quinlan blinked at him. “Cross must know plenty or he wouldn’t have advertised he was going to print the diary.”

“Yeah.” Shayne took a long drink from the brandy bottle. Cradling the bottle in his arm, his gray eyes brooded across the room. He sat down on the sofa beside Quinlan. “Cross could be playing a deep game,” he mused. “What have you done about alibis for Groat’s death?”

“Not much. I haven’t checked yours, for instance.”

Shayne grinned. “What time?”

“Matson puts the murder between eight and nine last night. If he’s right—”

“Let’s assume it’s correct,” Shayne suggested.

“He was murdered with the old familiar blunt instrument, and tossed in the river soon afterward,” Quinlan said heavily.

“Any way of telling how soon?”

“I asked Matson that. He grumbled about expecting miracles from a mere man of science and then admitted there were indications that it was not more than ten or fifteen minutes later.”

“Just about long enough to get from the Hawley house to the river.”

Quinlan nodded unhappily. “I got exactly the same information you did, except the old woman said the girl was nuts and that her saying she talked to Groat and invited him out wasn’t worth a damn as testimony. Which reminds me—” He went to the telephone.

There was a knock on the door. Shayne opened it. A girl in messenger uniform said: “Telegram for Mrs. Mer—”

Shayne said, “Sh-h,” and shoved her into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “Im Mr. Meredith. I’ll sign.” He fished out a half-dollar and put it in her hand, signed for the message and thrust it in his pocket.

Quinlan was just hanging up the receiver when Shayne returned. He asked: “Who was that?”

“Telegram for me.”

Quinlan grunted and said: “Gerald Meany is missing — since a little before five. From what my men learned out there it looks as though he may have followed his wife over here.”

“Followed her?”

“Here’s the way they got it,” Quinlan said. “Mrs. Meany called a taxi and left the house around four o’clock. Seems she had some sort of an argument with her husband before she left, and a short time later he came down from her room with a scrap of paper and asked the Negro butler and Mrs. Hawley if either of them knew whose address it was.

“They both claimed they didn’t know. The Negro did remember the street name, and told my men it was a number on Carondolet. It was on a sheet tom from the telephone pad in the Meanys’ suite. The butler testified that Meany went out to his car and drove away immediately afterwards. He hasn’t returned. I’ve got a pick-up out for him.”

Shayne said: “It adds up to fit Jake’s story. Funny — he didn’t act like the jealous type.”

“That does it,” Quinlan said briskly. “He got sore about the way she carried on with you when you were out there. He brooded about it all day. When she came over here this afternoon it was too much for him. So he let her have it when he found her waiting here.”

Shayne’s gaunt face was expressionless. He said: “It sounds O.K., but he was crazy if he was jealous of his wife on my account.” He grimaced at the memory of the few moments he had spent with her in her living room. Then he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read:

Shayne crumpled the yellow sheet and tossed it aside carelessly. He asked pointedly: “Anything else you want with me?”

“Not until we pick up Meany and find whether he’s got an alibi for this.” Quinlan went out, reminding Shayne as he went to the door: “You’re still got twelve minutes unaccounted for — and I don’t believe you were window shopping.”

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 earlobe 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 between them, 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 Ben 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 about midnight. 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’ 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 locked quickly at a closed door on the left. He got up, 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 a 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’ 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-questioned, 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’ 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’ 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 if 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 a 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 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 slick 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 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,” he burst out.

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 at 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 did’n’ 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’ 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 did’n’ say nothin’ lak dat. Nossuh.”

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

Chapter Seven Infamous Last Words

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

“Of all the God-blasted frauds!” Cross shouted.

“Remember I told you about him 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 you 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 his 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’ 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.”

Shane 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.”

Deems said: “Keep talking.”

“It’s that diary of Jasper Groat’s. It contains the proof of Cross’ innocence or guilt. He’s playing smart and keeping it hidden. Only that isn’t smart. If he’s guilty, he’d better arrange to have it destroyed quick before someone else gets hold of it. If he’s innocent, he’d better arrange to get it in a safer place before the real killer destroys it.”

“What’s your interest in this?” Deems asked suspiciously.

“The damned fool stuck his head in a frame that I only intended to frighten him with. The way things happened, I can’t retract now. If he’s innocent I’d like him to prove it by keeping the diary safe. If he’s guilty, he’d better get rid of that diary quick for the paper’s sake. There’ll be a hell of a lawsuit slapped on the Item if certain people can prove he kept possession of it for personal reasons.”

“What do you want me to do? He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Can’t you send him a mouthpiece? Doesn’t the paper have a lawyer who can see him and find out where the diary is hidden?”

“We’ve got Andrew Drake on an annual retainer,” Deems said. “He represents any of the boys who get caught off base.”

“Get hold of Drake and explain how necessary it is to convince Cross he should take possession of the diary immediately — before the night’s over. It isn’t safe where Cross has it hidden.”

“You talk as if you’ve got inside information.”

“I have. I’m giving it to you straight.” Shayne’s voice was strained and urgent. He hung up and mopped sweat from his face. He thought for a moment, lifted the receiver and called a friend in charge of a local detective agency.

He said: “Ned? You got a man you can put on a tailing job fast. This is it. There’s a lawyer named Andrew Drake. I expect him to visit a prisoner in city jail sometime this evening — reporter — for the Item named Joel Cross. I want to know if and when Drake goes into his cell. Got that?”

Shayne took a deep breath as he listened. “That’s right,” he said. “Plant a man inside where he’ll know who sees Cross. Have him call me at this number the moment Drake shows.” He gave Ned his telephone number and hung up. Things were beginning to break.

He mopped his face again, strode into the kitchen and came back with a freshly opened bottle of brandy and a glass of ice water. After taking a long swig of both, he called Lucy Hamilton’s apartment.

“How’s Mrs. Groat holding up?”

“All right,” Lucy told him. “I’ve been in with her tonight.”

“Either of you had dinner?”

“No. I thought I’d fix something for both of us here.”

“You’re clairvoyant,” he applauded. “I want you both standing by for a call. Keep her in your apartment all evening, angel. I may want to pick both of you up in a hurry.”

“Why... what’s happened?” she asked breathlessly.

He said: “I dug a hole this afternoon and pitched head first into it. Now I’ve got to dig myself out.” He hung up.

Shayne suddenly realized he was very hungry. He went to the kitchen and hurriedly warmed a can of soup. He scrambled eggs while the soup heated and made coffee. After gulping down the food, he returned to the living room with a mug of coffee royal. He had scarcely seated himself when the telephone rang.

The voice at the other end said: “Ned said I was to call you soon as a mouthpiece named Drake came to see Joel Cross.”

“That’s right. Is he there?”

“Just went in Cross’ cell.”

“Hang around the entrance till I get there. If he leaves before I get there, tail him and call Ned first chance you get. Do you know me?”

“I’ve seen you.”

“Right.”

Shayne hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton. He said swiftly: “I’m picking you and Mrs. Groat up in front of your apartment in five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He drank his coffee royal, grabbed his hat and went out. He got in his car and drove to Lucy’s apartment building, pulled up to the curb as Lucy and Mrs. Groat hurried out.

The rear car door was open. “Get in the back, Mrs. Groat. Lucy, get up front with me. You may have to do some driving.” He pulled away and headed back toward the city jail.

“Where are we going, Mike? Why did you want Mrs. Groat?”

“Don’t ask questions now, angel. We’re headed for the city jail. We’re going to pick up a man there when he comes out and follow him. If he’s walking, I’ll get out and follow him. You follow me in the car. If he’s driving, we’ll all stay together.”

He pulled a hundred feet back of the main entrance to the jail and stepped out. He strolled forward and was met by a toothy man wearing a faded sweater and cap. The man said: “Aren’t you Shayne?”

“Right.”

“I’m Tinkham — with Ned Frazier. Your man’s still inside. He came in a cab and got out here at the main door.”

Shayne nodded. “We’ll move back here and you can point him out to me when he comes out.”

They moved back and stood inconspicuously beside Shayne’s car. Tinkham muttered: “Gray mustache, Panama hat. Blue serge suit and a pot belly. Five-feet-ten, about a hundred-eighty.”

Shayne lit a cigarette. A man came down the steps under a bright light. Tinkham nudged Shayne, whispered, “That’s him,” and walked quietly away.

Andrew Drake walked to the curb and stood looking up and down the street for a taxi. Shayne said to Lucy: “He’ll probably take a cab.”

A cruising taxi pulled up and the lawyer got in. Shayne got in his car and took the wheel. He let the cab get into the street before starting his motor. He followed along a full block behind until the taxi swung into the curb in from of the Item building.

He cruised past slowly as the lawyer got out, then pulled in between two parked cars, nodding with satisfaction when the cab did not pull away.

“I think Drake will be out in a minute,” he told Lucy. “I’m going back to the cab and wait. As soon as you see him come out, bring Mrs. Groat with you. I’m going to need her.”

“I wish you’d tell me...” Lucy began, but Shayne shook his head and got out.

“There’s no time now. Just follow my lead.”

He went back to the cab and asked the driver: “Want a fare?”

“Sorry, bo. I’m taken. Party just went into the newspaper office a minute and asked me to wait.”

Shayne casually took out a pack of cigarettes and offered the driver one. He struck a match for both and asked: “Gas rationing bother you guys much these days?”

“It ain’t too bad. Can’t do much — here he comes now.”

Shayne hurried forward and got in the lawyer’s way. He asked: “Are you Drake?”

“I am.” Drake looked Shayne over and said: “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.”

Shayne said: “You don’t.” He saw Lucy and Mrs. Groat coming toward them, said: “It’s about a little matter of stolen property.”

“Stolen property?” Drake drew himself up. “I don’t know...”

“Belonging to Mrs. Jasper Groat,” Shayne said harshly. “That diary you just picked up. Mrs. Groat is here and she wants it.”

Lucy and Mrs. Groat stood a little aside, watching them.

The lawyer wet his lips and looked at them, bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s right here in your coat pocket,” Shayne snapped. He took a quick step forward and pinned Drake’s arms to his pouchy body with one hand, groped in his coat pocket and withdrew a leather-bound book which he tossed to Mrs. Groat. “Do you identify that as your dead husband’s property?”

“See here,” Drake wheezed indignantly, “you can’t get away with this. I’ll call an officer.”

“That’ll be just fine,” said Shayne, releasing him. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to call the police in on this. It’ll make a nice story — concealing stolen property and suppressing evidence in a murder case. Go right ahead. Is that it, Mrs. Groat?”

“Yes, oh, yes, This is Jasper’s.” Mrs. Groat was scanning the pages in the dim light, tears splashing her glasses.

“Hang onto it,” Shayne advised her grimly. “If Drake calls the police, all you have to do is prove it belonged to your husband. How about it?” he demanded of Drake. “Do you want to tell the police why you’re trying to keep Mrs. Groat’s property from her?”

“I... I didn’t realize...”

“Fair enough,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and we won’t make any complaint this time.” He turned away and took Lucy and Mrs. Groat by the arm, led them swiftly to his car and trotted around to get under the wheel.

“Michael!” Lucy gasped as he whirled away. “You can’t get away with it, can you?”

“I have, though.” He grinned at her. “Mrs. Groat is my client. You can’t arrest a man for protecting his client.”

He drove speedily toward the French Quarter and stopped in front of their apartment building. He turned to Mrs. Groat and said: “Let me have the diary for tonight. You stay in Lucy’s apartment tonight, and keep your door locked! Don’t open it for anyone!”

Lucy grasped his arm. “Mike! I’m frightened for you.”

Shayne leaned over and kissed her, gave her a little shove and said: “Beat it. I’ve got to go home and settle down to some solid reading.”

Back at his own apartment, he bolted the door and scowled curiously at the black book in his hands. His lips worked as though they tasted something good. He opened it to the fly-leaf and read, Property of Jasper Groat, Third Engineer, S. S. Okeechobee.

He removed his hat and coat, settled himself with a glass of brandy and balanced the diary on his knees. He flipped the pages swiftly until he came to the date of the torpedoing of the S. S. Okeechobee. Here he slowed down, reading each page carefully.

On the third day, Groat had written: H is bad today. Vomited some blood after breakfast. I prayed for him but he wouldn’t join me. Think he will die soon if not rescued. C sneaked some extra water at dawn. Pretended I didn’t see him...

Later that same day he noted: H weaker. He repeated Lord’s prayer with me. I think he will find God...

On the morning of the fourth day: H very bad. Feel sure he can’t live long. Something preys on his conscience. Trust he will turn to God before the end...

Late in the afternoon of that day: H knows he is dying. I read from the Psalms and he received comfort. He is burning with fever. I think he wishes to confide in me...

On the morning of the fifth day: (Shayne sustained himself with a long drink of brandy and a deep breath before reading this entry). H died quietly during the night. We held a simple service this morning and gave his body to the sea. C pretended to sneer, but I think he was affected. I have a great weight on my conscience and must struggle with it. C crept close to us last night as H passed on. Certain he heard a portion of dying man’s confession, but don’t know how much. He looked at me curiously this morning and has tried to draw me out. I must ask God to help me decide...

Shayne exhaled slowly and leaned back. Albert Hawley had died on the fourth night — before Ezra Hawley had passed on. Mrs. Meredith was not legally entitled to one penny from the estate.

He read on slowly. There were vague references to the “dying confession” and “arguments with C,” and a simple notation: C argues we would be fools to let this opportunity pass. I pray God for strength to withstand this temptation.

Groat had not trusted Albert’s secret to the pages of his diary. There was no mention of Leon Wallace, nothing to indicate what Albert Hawley’s dying statement had been.

Shayne reached the airport at 8:45 the next morning, and went into an immediate huddle with officials of the airline. By showing his credentials and talking fast, he managed to get reluctant consent to pick up the package from Ben Ames in Chicago.

The big airliner swooped in gracefully and on time, and at ten minutes after nine he had the parcel tucked securely under his arm.

He entered his office twenty minutes later. Lucy was walking up and down the front office. She whirled on him and said: “I’ve been trying to call you. Your phone didn’t answer. I worried all night — couldn’t sleep.”

Shayne patted her cheek. “We’re sitting in the driver’s seat,” he assured her heartily. “Morning mail in yet?”

She looked at her watch. “The first delivery is due now.”

Shayne threw his hat at a hatrack and began ripping the wax seals from the parcel. His eyes glowed hotly as he separated two heavy cardboard sheets and drew out a glossy print of a man standing in a doorway glaring at a camera.

Lucy wrinkled her forehead quizzically as Shayne laid down the photograph and explained to her: “This is a shot of Theodore Meredith in Chicago. He’s the man Mrs. Meredith married after divorcing Albert Hawley.” Shayne grinned. “What’s he got that would attract her?”

The picture showed Theodore Meredith to be a rather nondescript man. He might have been twenty or thirty-five, with the sort of plump features that would remain boyish-looking well up to middle age. Shayne regarded it with moody dissatisfaction, then picked up a terse typewritten report included by Ben Ames.

The report was singularly unenlightening. It told him that Meredith held a minor executive position with a garden seed concern, and his manner of living suggested some outside income beside his salary. The Merediths had moved to that address immediately after their marriage some two years previously, and in the short time allotted to him, Ames had been unable to locate anyone who had known either of them prior to their marriage. Ames ended his report by asking Shayne to wire if he wanted any more dope on Meredith.

The postman came with the early morning mail while Shayne was glancing over the report. Lucy took it and fished out a long envelope from Mrs. Wallace. She asked: “Shall I open it?”

Shayne said: “Hell, yes!” He gathered up the contents of Ames’ package and went into his inner office. Lucy followed him with the open envelope and laid it before him.

It contained four empty envelopes, all addressed in ink, to Mrs. Leon Wallace, and postmarked New Orleans at six-month intervals covering the past two years. There was also a faded photograph showing a man and woman standing close together with their arms interlocked. The man was tall and lean and dark. He hadn’t been more than twenty when the picture was taken. Shayne recognized the woman as Mrs. Wallace.

He studied it hungrily. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he glanced aside at Lucy with an odd grimace. He laid the picture beside the fresh one of Theodore Meredith and muttered: “No man can change that much in a few years.”

Lucy bit her lip and looked up from the photographs with wide eyes. “I didn’t know. Did you suspect that Theodore Meredith was really Leon Wallace?”

Shayne’s red brows were drawn down fiercely over questioning eyes. “It was a good hunch,” said Shayne, avoiding Lucy’s anxious gaze. “It would have explained a lot of things.”

He took a bottle of brandy from the desk drawer, poured a long drink and swallowed it. He sighed and reached for the four empty envelopes accompanying the photograph, then opened a drawer and brought out the original letter Wallace had written his wife at the time of his disappearance. He compared the handwriting with that of the other four and nodded gloomily. “The same handwriting and the same ink, by God, and all written at about the same time.”

He yanked his swivel chair forward and straightened up alertly. “This may be something, Lucy. I’m not an expert, but it’s my guess these envelopes were all addressed at the same time Wallace wrote that letter. Someone else has been mailing his wife those thousand-dollar bills in the pre-addressed envelopes. That means he hasn’t necessarily been around town to mail them. It means he isn’t necessarily alive. There’s no proof that he’s been alive for two years as the semi-annual payments seemed to indicate.”

Lucy stood silently beside his desk.

Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and a look of intense concentration settled over his face. He didn’t move for five full minutes. Then he said softly: “It could be.” He asked Lucy: “Have we still got a copy of the paper carrying the first story of the sea rescue — the day Cunningham and Groat were brought in?”

“I don’t think we have it here, Michael. There’s a copy in my apartment I’ve saved for the paper drive. Do you want—”

He cut her off with a swift gesture. “We’ve got other things to do first.” His doubled fist struck the desk. “That has to be it. It’s the only way things fit. We’re going to have bad news for Mrs. Wallace.”

“Is her husband dead, too?”

He nodded soberly. “I’m afraid he is.” His voice crackled with sudden energy. “Get me the St. Charles. Room 319.”

Lucy hurriedly called the number, asked for Mrs. Meredith’s room and handed him the instrument. “Mike Shayne talking,” he said briskly. “You’d better get over here in a hurry. Bring your lawyer if you want to.” He hesitated a moment before adding: “I have that diary — and it might be for sale.” He hung up and swung on Lucy. “Do you know how to reach Cunningham?”

“Yes. He gave me his telephone number yesterday.”

“Call him. Tell him I have the diary and we’re having a meeting in my office to decide what to do about it.”

Shayne sat back and thoughtfully rubbed his jaw while Lucy made the call from her desk. She came to the door and announced: “Cunningham is on his way over.”

Shayne said: “Get me Inspector Quinlan at Homicide.”

Lucy used her desk telephone. She buzzed Shayne who picked up his receiver and said heartily: “Good morning, Inspector.”

“What’s good about it?” barked Quinlan. “I was going to call you. What’s this about you assaulting a lawyer last night?”

“Drake?”

“He threatens to swear out a complaint against you.”

“Fine. Tell him to be sure he specifies what I took from him.”

“What’s it all about, Mike? I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“Have you charged Cross with murder yet?”

“No. I don’t know about that janitor’s identification. Cross swears you put him up to it. One of my men had another talk with the Negro this morning, and showed him a picture of Gerald Meany and got him all confused. Right off he said Meany was the man. Then he got confused and denied it. You’ve got things so damned balled up I don’t believe we’ll get anywhere in court.”

Shayne said: “That’s too bad, Inspector. Will it square things if I hand you the case all sewed up in a knot?”

“Which case? Groat or Meany?”

“Both,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “That is, they’re the same one. Why don’t you pick up Meany and bring him and Cross to my office in half an hour?”

“More rabbits out of your hat?”

“You’ll be surprised. Call Lawyer Hastings and ask him to come over to see that his client’s rights are protected.” He hung up before Quinlan could ask more questions.

Chapter Eight The Great Impersonation

The first to arrive were Mrs. Meredith and Jake Sims. Lucy ushered them in. Shayne said: “Get your notebook, Lucy.” Then he said, “Good morning,” to Mrs. Meredith, and nodded to Sims.

Mrs. Meredith was perfectly groomed and alert. She advanced toward him with narrowed eyes and asked sharply: “Where is the diary?”

He took it from his pocket and laid it on the table, waving her to a seat beside his desk. Lucy came in with her notebook and he said to his visitors: “Excuse me while I dictate a memorandum agreement. The date, Lucy. U-m-m...

“Agreement entered into this day between Mrs. Theodore Meredith and Michael Shayne relative to certain professional services performed and to be performed by said Michael Shayne in the matter of a legacy from the estate of the late Ezra Hawley which Mrs. Meredith claims and is desirous of acquiring.

“As payment for his professional services in substantiating her claim to the said estate, Mrs. Theodore Meredith hereby agrees to pay Michael Shayne the sum of ten thousand dollars if and when the estate legally comes into the possession of Mr. and/or Mrs. Theodore Meredith by due process of law.

“In the event that this claim is disproved and said estate does not accrue to Mrs. Theodore Meredith and/or her husband, it is further agreed that Michael Shayne’s fee for professional services in this matter shall be exactly no dollars and no cents.”

“What on earth makes you think I’ll sign that agreement?” demanded Mrs. Meredith.

Shayne said to Lucy: “Type it out in duplicate and bring it right in.” He turned to Mrs. Meredith. “You’ll sign it if you want to get your hands on a million or so dollars.” He opened the diary, flipped the pages to the entry concerning Albert Hawley’s death. “Hawley died the fourth night after the ship was torpedoed,” he pointed out. “Ezra Hawley died the next night. What does that do to your claim?”

Mrs. Meredith bit her underlip. She and Sims both leaned forward to look at the entry. Shayne held the book in his hands. He asked: “Do you think my services will be worth ten grand?”,

“What do you plan to do?” Sims asked. “Destroy the diary?”

“Let’s not go into details,” Shayne reproved him. “The least said about this diary, the better. If it disappears...” He shrugged and replaced it in his pocket. “According to the agreement Lucy is typing, I don’t collect a cent unless you get the estate.”

“What about Cunningham’s testimony?” Sims grated.

“I think he will play ball without the diary to contradict him. Let me worry about Cunningham.”

Lucy came in with two typed sheets. She closed the door and told Shayne: “Mr. Cunningham is outside.”

“Let him stay there until we get this thing signed. You and Sims can witness it.” Shayne passed his pen to Mrs. Meredith. “I’ve got you in a tight spot,” he reminded her. “I’ve been offered five grand to throw the estate in the other direction.”

She studied him coolly for a moment, read the document through, then signed her name. Shayne put his signature beneath hers. Lucy and Sims both signed as witnesses, and Shayne gave one copy to Mrs. Meredith. He folded the other and put it in his pocket.

He said to Lucy: “Now send Cunningham in. And you skip down to the newsstand and pick up a copy of the paper carrying the rescue story. He always keeps back copies for at least a week.”

Lucy went out. Leslie Cunningham strode into the office. He stopped on wide-spread feet and looked at the others.

Shayne said: “Let’s get this over fast before the others arrive. Quinlan is bringing two murder suspects with him and I’ve promised him enough to hang the guilty party. I’ve got Groat’s diary, Cunningham. As you know, it proves that Hawley died one day too soon for him to inherit his uncle’s estate. However, Mrs. Meredith is making it worth my while to see that she gets the money. Why don’t you and she talk the same sort of a deal over? Or maybe you already have an understanding.”

“Sure,” Cunningham said huskily. “We understand each other. You’ve got the diary, huh?”

“I’ve got it. And I’m going to see to it she gets the estate. Suit you?”

“Suits me.”

Shayne heard someone entering his outer office. He opened the door and said: “Come in, Mr. Hastings. I believe you know Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Sims. And Mr. Cunningham — the missing witness who is prepared to testify that Albert Hawley did not die until the fifth night after the ship was torpedoed.”

“Cunningham, eh?” Hastings took off his glasses and looked at the bronzed sailor. “Does he have Groat’s diary to back up his testimony? I understand it had disappeared.”

“It seems to have done just that,” said Shayne. “So that leaves Cunningham the only witness.” “By heavens, Shayne, I don’t—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a plain-clothesman with Gerald Meany in tow. Behind them were Quinlan and Joel Cross.

Shayne greeted them with a wide grin, saying: “I’m sorry there aren’t enough chairs to go around, but this won’t take long.” He brought in two chairs from the outer office. “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can and we’ll see if we can figure things out.”

“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Shayne?” Quinlan took the center of the floor and glared at the detective. “Who are all these people and how do they figure in murder?”

Shayne paused momentarily, then said: “I’ve been doing some more digging into this thing, Inspector. Remember the woman who came up to meet Groat the morning after he was murdered — Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro? Her husband disappeared two years ago while working as a gardener for Mrs. Sarah Hawley. He wrote his wife a curious letter telling her not to look for him and enclosing ten grand. He promised her an additional grand every six months if she kept her mouth shut and didn’t raise a stink about his disappearance. She didn’t, and every six months since she has received the money in an envelope addressed by her husband and mailed in New Orleans. I have those envelopes here. I think laboratory tests will prove they were all addressed to her by Wallace at the time he disappeared — just prior to Albert Hawley’s induction into the army and while Mrs. Albert Hawley was in Reno getting a divorce. Does that suggest anything to you?”

Quinlan said gruffly: “I recall Mrs. Wallace claiming she had a phone call from Groat. Claimed he had information about her husband and asked her to come to see him.”

“That’s right. So it was quite evident that Albert Hawley, who was at home when Wallace disappeared, had some guilty knowledge which he confided to Groat before he died. Right?”

“What has all this to do with a couple of murders?”

“I think it’s at the bottom of them,” Shayne told him calmly. “As you must have guessed, it was Groat’s diary that I got from Drake last night after Cross had told his lawyer where to find it. I’ve checked the diary carefully and I admit Cross told the truth — no material for blackmail, or murder.”

Mrs. Meredith sighed and relaxed in her chair.

Lawyer Hastings stepped forward and demanded: “Does the diary back up Cunningham’s story about Hawley not dying until the fifth day?”

Quinlan roared: “Sit down. We’re talking about murder. Are you saying it wasn’t Cross, Shayne?”

“I’m afraid his arrest was a mistake,” said Shayne pleasantly, “except it did provide a lever to bring the diary into the open so I could get my hands on it. And Cross was safer in jail.”

“I told you it was a frame-up,” Cross interjected angrily. “That janitor’s identification was a phony.”

“I’m afraid something like that did happen, Inspector. Not that I meant to frighten Jake. He didn’t understand me. Right now, I’m convinced Meany is the man who visited his wife in my apartment.”

Hastings got up again. “I protest that unfounded accusation, Inspector. You and I were present when the Negro positively identified this other man. He can’t change his testimony at Shayne’s whim.”

“He’s right,” Quinlan raged. “We’ll never be able to prove it was Meany now.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to. I think we can prove that Mrs. Meany’s murderer also killed Jasper Groat. That’s the only possible motive for her death. She was expecting Groat and must have seen the murderer attack him after he arrived by taxi at the Hawley house. The murderer thought she was going to spill everything to me, so he had to get rid of her before she did.”

Lucy came in with the newspaper. Shayne took the folded paper from her and placed it, front page up, on his desk. It carried big headlines proclaiming the rescue of the drifting seamen, with a picture of Groat and Cunningham taken at the dock. There was a photograph of Albert Hawley in civilian clothes, evidently dug out of the newspaper morgue for the occasion.

Quinlan grew restive. “Beatrice’s husband knew she was coming to see you,” he growled. “We know he found your address scribbled on a pad in her room, and followed her immediately.”

Shayne said: “But let’s get back to Groat’s diary and the secret confided by the dying soldier which weighed so heavily on his conscience.

“Unfortunately, Groat doesn’t tell us what that secret was. He doesn’t even mention Leon Wallace’s name. See for yourself, Inspector.” He took the book out and tossed it carelessly to Quinlan.

An audible gasp escaped Mrs. Meredith’s lips. She sat erect, her eyes blazing defiantly at Shayne.

Jake Sims wet his lips and frowned, glancing quickly from Shayne to Cunningham who stood back with arms stolidly folded, dark brows drawn down and lips clamped together.

Hastings uttered an exclamation of surprise and stepped forward to peer over Quinlan’s shoulder as the inspector flipped the pages after glancing hurriedly at the entries.

“There it is,” said Hastings triumphantly. He pointed a finger at the line. “There’s the death story in black and white. H died quietly during the night. That must be Hawley. He was buried on the fifth day. He died the previous night, before his uncle died.” He looked at Shayne sharply. “I understood you to say Albert did not pass away until after his uncle died.”

“I said that Cunningham was prepared to testify that way,” Shayne reminded him, and grinned crookedly. “I think Mrs. Meredith may have influenced him somewhat in that direction.”

“You dirty louse,” Mrs. Meredith said distinctly and with sharp emphasis. “I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know why you pulled that stunt on me a few minutes ago. If you’re going to accuse someone of accepting a bribe, maybe the inspector will like to see this.” She took the signed copy of the agreement from her purse and flung it on the desk. Contempt dulled her eyes when she faced Quinlan. “Just before you arrived he induced me to sign that by promising that the diary would not be produced as evidence.”

“Which merely proves my innate honesty,” Shayne said with a cheerful grin. “That little document shows my ability to withstand temptation. It should convince even the inspector, who has unjustly suspected me several times in the past.”

Quinlan’s cold eyes were glaring at him, frosty eyebrows drawn together in undisguised distrust.

“Let’s get down to a couple of murders.” Shayne went on harshly, ignoring Quinlan’s anger. “Since the diary contains no actual blackmail material, and no one connected with the case is presumed to have known the importance of the date of Albert Hawley’s death at the time Groat was killed, let’s see if we can figure out why he was murdered as he reached the Hawley house at eight o’clock and his body thrown into the river.”

Still glaring at Shayne, Quinlan slammed the book shut. “Let’s do that,” he agreed caustically. “All I get out this, so far, is that Hawley told Groat something when he was dying and that it disturbed Groat’s conscience greatly.”

“Something about Leon Wallace,” Shayne said. “I think the whole thing goes back to that day two years ago when Wallace disappeared. A couple of significant things happened about that time. Albert Hawley was coming up for induction into the army. His wife went to Reno to divorce him. Why did she do that?” He looked at Mrs. Meredith. She wasn’t looking at him. “It wasn’t a very patriotic gesture, to say the least. It couldn’t have helped Albert much.”

Mrs. Meredith stiffened. “Albert’s induction had nothing to do with it,” she burst out. “We decided on a divorce, that’s all.”

“But you wouldn’t expect a man to be too happy about his wife deserting him just when he was to be drafted,” Shayne pointed out. “Yet Hawley seems to have approved your action. So much so, in fact, that he made a new will leaving everything to you in case of death, even though you remarried after your divorce. That’s something that has stuck in my craw all along.” Shayne lit a cigarette and puffed on it rapidly.

“Albert loved me devotedly,” Mrs. Meredith said acidly, her chin high. “He willed me everything because he wanted me to have it rather than his devil of a mother and that—” she caught herself up quickly and ended — “that no-good married to Beatrice.”

Gerald Meany said meekly: “That’s a falsehood. Albert and I were friends.”

Shayne glanced at Gerald through half-closed eyes. He was relaxed in his swivel chair. He said impatiently: “Someone furnished Leon Wallace ten thousand dollars in cash for his wife to prevent her from going to the police about his disappearance. Who? Wallace didn’t have any such sum. He worked as a gardener to earn money for his wife to keep their farm going. What service did Leon Wallace perform that was worth ten grand to someone — and two thousand a year thereafter as long as she kept quiet?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about it,” Mrs. Meredith said. “I scarcely remember the man.”

Shayne opened his eyes wide. “Do you know, Meany?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meany muttered wearily. He was still standing. “I don’t know anybody named Leon Wallace. I don’t know the name of any of the servants except the butler.”

Shayne said slowly: “There’s only one answer that makes any sense and adds up to an explanation of Wallace’s disappearance, Albert’s willing his money to his ex-wife, and the secret that weighed on Jasper Groat’s conscience.”

He turned to Cunningham and said: “Come over here.” He pointed to the picture of Albert Hawley in the newspaper. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

Thick silence gripped the office. Cunningham licked his thick, cracked lips as he studied the photograph. He glanced at Mrs. Meredith before saying: “Sure. That’s Albert Hawley. Can’t you read what it says?”

“It’s a picture of Albert Hawley,” Shayne said grimly, “but I don’t think you ever saw him. How could you, when he’s living in Chicago under the name of Theodore Meredith?” Shayne disregarded the loud gasp from Mrs. Meredith. He pulled out a drawer and laid the photograph of Theodore Meredith which Ben Ames had sent him. “This was taken in Chicago last night,” he explained casually.

Quinlan stepped quickly behind Shayne and stared at the two pictures. The silence grew thick again. After a little while, the inspector fixed his cold eyes on Cunningham and asked: “How could the same guy have died in a lifeboat and still be in Chicago?”

“I... don’t know,” Cunningham stammered. “That picture in the paper looks like the soldier named Albert Hawley.”

Mrs. Meredith jumped up and started for the door. Quinlan made a gesture and his plainclothesman blocked the way. Quinlan said: “We’ll all stick around until this thing is cleared up.” He circled the desk and asked Shayne: “Are you suggesting that Hawley never entered the army? That he went to Chicago, took the name of Meredith and remarried his wife after she got a Reno divorce?”

“It’s the only answer that fits. Here’s a picture of the man who died in the lifeboat, Cunningham.” He brought out the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Leon Wallace. “Leon Wallace, for ten grand and promise of ample support of his wife and children, impersonated Albert Hawley in the draft, and entered the army under a false name.”

Quinlan cleared his throat loudly, started to say something.

Shayne went on inexorably to Cunningham: “You knew the truth all the time. You crept up close that night while Leon Wallace was dying and heard his confession to Groat. It was a beautiful opportunity to blackmail Mrs. Hawley because you thought she was rich — and Albert, if you could persuade Groat to go along with you. But Groat wasn’t a blackmailer. He was sincerely religious. He decided to make a clean breast of it, and called Mrs. Wallace to come in to see him. Then he called Beatrice Meany and told her he was coming out.

“But, he made the mistake of calling you immediately afterward and telling you what he had decided to do. You couldn’t have that. It would have upset your plans. You hurried out there and lurked in the shadows until the taxi was gone, and killed him. You were upset when you didn’t find the diary on him. You didn’t know exactly what he had written in it and you feared publication, even though at that time you didn’t realize the importance of the date of Albert’s supposed death.”

Cunningham growled, “Nuts,” through bared buck teeth. “You can’t prove a word of it. I’ve got an alibi.”

“If Beatrice were alive we could prove it,” Shayne told him quietly. “But you took care of that, too. When you heard me say, in Mrs. Meredith’s apartment, that she was waiting for me, you had to get there before I did and kill her. I made the mistake of killing time after I left Mrs. Meredith’s room. I talked for a few minutes with Kurt Davis and stopped by at the telegraph office. You were the only person involved who knew my home address and knew Beatrice was there, and had the opportunity. Don’t expect Mrs. Meredith to alibi you for that. I know you hurried back to her room after killing Beatrice, and together you planned to say you’d been there all the time. That was when she thought she was in the clear. She knows better now.”

Cunningham whirled to look at Mrs. Meredith standing near the door. The expression on her face was enough to tell him that Shayne had spoken the truth. His hand darted into his coat pocket for a gun, but Quinlan grabbed him first. The plainclothesman dived in, and came up with a frothing sailor handcuffed to his wrist.

“Take him along,” Quinlan said irritably. “All we need is Mrs. Meredith’s testimony that he was gone from her room long enough to have committed the murder. You’ll give us that!” It was a command.

“Of course.” She smiled with cold mockery. “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”

“Illegal?” sputtered Quinlan. “After divorcing Albert Hawley and remarrying him under a different name?”

“I didn’t break any law by doing that. He’s still alive as Mr. Shayne has proven. His uncle’s estate will come to us.”

“A hell of a lot of good that will do him,” Quinlan raged. “He’ll spend twenty years in jail for evading the draft.”

“But I won’t. I didn’t evade the draft.”

“You’re as guilty as he is.” Quinlan barked. “Come along.” He took her by the arm, said, “O. K., Shayne,” and went out.

Lawyer Hastings lingered. When he was alone with Shayne he said in a troubled voice: “A very clever series of deductions, Mr. Shayne. I have been most unhappy in the realization that something of this sort took place two years ago. I confess I was at a loss to understand Albert’s action in leaving everything to his ex-wife, but I assure you I didn’t know... I really didn’t know about the substitution of the gardener to take Albert’s place in the army.”

“The old lady was the key to the whole thing,” Shayne told him. “Her domineering personality and her idea that Albert was too good to serve as a common soldier. That, and the rundown condition of her estate. You assured me that Ezra Hawley had furnished them with plenty of money to get along on, but it certainly hadn’t been spent on the home. That explained where the money came from to pay Mrs. Wallace — and the added income Albert received in Chicago.”

Hastings sighed. “I daresay — a mother’s love...” He waved his hand and cleared his throat. “You understand this surprising turn of affairs nullifies the fee you were to receive. I’m sure you recall it was contingent on my client receiving the estate.”

“That’s right,” Shayne said carelessly. “Perhaps you feel I shouldn’t keep the two hundred-retainer.” He got out his billfold.

“No, indeed. You must keep that. I insist.” Hastings settled his Panama on his head and went out.

Lucy, who had been listening in a corner and taking notes, said: “I should say it’s little enough. I suppose you won’t even send Mrs. Wallace a bill.”

“For explaining to her that her husband is dead? No, angel.” He grinned broadly. “A strange case. Mrs. Wallace has fourteen grand in the bank. Mrs. Groat has her husband’s diary which she can sell to any newspaper for a small fortune.” He sighed. “I’ll try to be satisfied with the ten thousand I’ll collect from Mrs. Meredith-Hawley when the estate is probated.”

He patted the folded agreement in his pocket and poured himself a long drink.