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’s 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-months 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 fiercely over questioning eyes. “It was a good hunch,” said Shayne, avoiding Lucy’s 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 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 semiannual 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. 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 cracked 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 around toward 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 Gross 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 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 disapproved 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, dipped the pages to the entry containing 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 s
aid 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 widespread 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 the 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 sank.”
“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 has 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-clothes man 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, 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 influenc
ed 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 of 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.”
Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac Page 9
