Mr. Hastings was disturbed. He hadn’t looked at Shayne during his lengthy and rapid discourse. The lawyer jerked around in his creaking swivel chair, took off his glasses with an unsteady hand, and glared at the detective. “I’m sure I don’t know how you’ve gathered this information,” he said testily, “or why you’ve wasted your time gathering it.”
Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I always try to familiarize myself with every aspect of a case when I’m called in on it.”
“But you haven’t been called in on this case,” Hastings said angrily.
“You were too anxious to get rid of me at the Hawleys’ even to learn my name. You called me in on the case not more than half an hour ago.”
“And now I’m dismissing you,” said Hastings. Purplish color showed in his thin face.
“I’m in and I’m staying in,” Shayne said hotly. “Mrs. Hawley is your client—Albert Hawley’s divorced wife, I take it, is not. It’ll mean a couple of millions to your client and a nice fat fee for you to persuade Groat and Cunningham to testify that Albert Hawley died on the fourth night in the lifeboat. You’ve got to reach them before Albert’s ex-wife does, because she might even go so far as to bribe them to say it was the fifth night. If there’s any bribing done—well, you want to have the first crack at it. That’s why you need me.”
Hastings was nervously tapping his glasses against the palm of his hand. The purplish color heightened in his face. “Young man,” he said austerely, “the mere mention of bribery is repugnant to me.”
Shayne said, “Fair enough. That’s why you need someone else to do the dirty work and spare you the details.” Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.
Hastings played a little game with his long, thin fingers, his pale eyes studying Shayne’s gaunt face and relaxed figure. He said, “Humph,” finally.
Shayne asked casually, “Do you know the police are looking for Jasper Groat?”
The lawyer stiffened. “Eh? What’s that?”
“Groat has been missing since about eight o’clock last night, the time Beatrice Meany invited him out to the Hawley house.”
Hastings sat very still and didn’t say anything.
“Beatrice Meany,” Shayne went on, “is a queer one. It wouldn’t surprise me if she lured him out in order to bop him off if she couldn’t persuade him to testify the way she wanted.”
The lawyer ran the edge of his tongue over his tight lips. “Do you know Miss Beatrice well?”
“Fairly well. I had a session with her in her room with a bottle of whisky after you left.”
“She’s a queer girl,” Hastings acknowledged moodily.
“She’s a dipsomaniac. Was Albert cut from the same cloth?”
“No, indeed. That is—no. Albert was weak, perhaps. His mother—ah—I’m sure you observed her domineering personality.”
“Did Ezra Hawley actually steal all his brother’s money?”
Hastings darted a sharp look at Shayne. “Good heavens, no! Where did you get that idea?”
“Something Beatrice said.”
“It wasn’t that way at all. John Hawley was a poor businessman. He made bad investments and wasted his portion of the family inheritance while Ezra increased his more than twofold.”
“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 this 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 Albert was 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 18, 1943.”
Shayne took from his pocket the letter Mrs. Wallace had given him that morning. It was dated March 10. 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 a woman were entering the outer office when Shayne opened Hastings’s door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with arms as long as an ape’s. The woman 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 cheerfully.
CHAPTER FOUR
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 edition 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 accounts 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… 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 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 corner of the 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 into 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 “Newpaper 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’s 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’s 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 and bilious-looking mixture.
Shayne went over to him and said, “You don’t have to drink that thing. 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 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 hellhound on your tail. 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.
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’s 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 me 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’s 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 drew 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?”
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