Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac

by Brett Halliday

  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 worth while. 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 about the light bulb in the hallway?”

  “Yours are plain enough at the top. The imprints on the bottom and sides are smudged,” 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. 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 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 at the door. Shayne opened it. A girl in messenger uniform said, “Telegram for Mrs. Mere—”

  Shayne said, “Sh-h,” and shoved her into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “I’m Mr. Meredith. I’ll sign.” He fished out a half-dollar and put it in her hand, signed for the message, and thrust it into 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 torn from the telephone pad in the Meanys’ suite. The butler testified that Meany went out to his car and drove away immediately afterward. He hasn’t returned. I’ve got a pickup 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 okay, but he was crazy if he was jealous of his wife on my account.” He grimaced at the memory of the few moments spent with her in her living-room. Then he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read: You know utterly impossible for me to come. Call me tonight. Extremely anxious. Theodore.

  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’ve 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 ear-lobe when the phone rang. The operator said, “Ready on your call to Chicago, Mr. Shayne.”

  A reedy, nasal voice said, “Hello.”

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

  “Both,” said Ames.
“Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What for?”

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

  “When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you mean she was killed here?”

  “In that chair you’re sitting on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You admit you read it yesterday.”

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

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

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

  “Then you admit you’ve got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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