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 beside the picture of Albert Hawley. “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 plain-clothes man 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 come clean and called Mrs. Wallace 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 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 plain-clothes man 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, “Okay, 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 dare say—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.
A TASTE FOR COGNAC
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Shayne hesitated inside the swinging doors, looked down the row of men at the bar, and then strolled past the wooden booths lining the wall, glancing in each one as he went by.
Timothy Rourke wasn’t at the bar and he wasn’t in any of the booths. Shayne frowned and turned impatiently toward the swinging doors.
A voice called, “Mr. Shayne?” when he reached the third booth from the end.
He stopped and looked down at the girl alone in the booth. She was about twenty, smartly dressed, with coppery hair parted in the middle and lying in smooth waves on either side of her head. She didn’t wear any make-up, and her small face had a pinched look. Her eyes were brown and shone with alert intelligence. Her left hand clasped a glass half filled with dead beer as she smiled at Shayne.
Shayne took off his hat and stood flat-footed looking down at her. Lights above the bar behind him cast shadows on his gaunt cheeks. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and asked, “Do I know you?”
“You’re going to.” The girl tilted her head sideways and looked wistful. “I’ll buy a drink.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Shayne slid into the bench opposite her.
A waiter hurried over and the girl said, “Cognac,” happily, watching Shayne for approval.
The Miami detective said, “Make it a sidecar, Joe.” The waiter nodded and went away.
“But Tim said cognac was your password,” the girl protested. “He said you never drank anything else.”
“Tim?” Shayne said, surprised.
“Tim Rourke. He thought you might tell me about some of your cases. I do feature stuff for a New York syndicate. Tim couldn’t make it tonight. He’s been promising to introduce me to you, so I came on to meet you here. I’m Myrna Hastings.”
Shayne said bitterly, “When you order cognac these days you get lousy grape brandy. California ’44. It’s drinkable mixed into a sidecar. This damned war…”
“It’s a shame your drinking habits have been upset by the war. Tragic, in fact.” Myrna Hastings took a sip of her flat beer and made a little grimace.
Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the pack on the table between them. Joe brought his sidecar and he watched Myrna take a dollar bill from her purse and lay it on the table. Shayne lifted the slender cocktail glass to his lips and said, “Thanks.” He drank half of the mixture and his gray eyes grew speculative. Holding it close to his nose, he inhaled deeply and a frown rumpled his forehead.
Joe was standing at the table when Shayne drained his glass. “I’ve changed my mind, Joe. Bring me a straight cognac—a double shot in a beer glass.”
Joe grinned slyly and went away.
Sixty cents in change from Myrna’s dollar bill lay on the table. She poked at the silver and asked dubiously, “Will that be enough for a double shot?”
“It’ll be eighty cents,” Shayne told her.
She smiled and took a quarter from her purse. “Tim says you’ve always avoided publicity, but it’ll be a wonderful break for me if I can write up a few of your best cases.”
The waiter brought the beer glass with two ounces of amber fluid in it, took Myrna Hastings’s eighty-five cents, and went away.
Shayne lifted the beer glass to his nose, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the bouquet, then began to warm the glass in his big palms.
“Tim thinks you should let yourself in on some publicity,” the girl continued. “He thinks it’s a shame you don’t ever take the credit for solving so many cases.”
Shayne looked at her for a moment, then slowly emptied his glass and set it down. He picked up his cigarette and hat and said, “Thanks for the drinks. I never give out any stories. Tim Rourke knows that.” He got up and strode to the rear of the bar.
Joe sidled down to join him and Shayne said, “I could use another shot of that. And I’ll pour my own.”
Joe got a clean beer glass and set a tall bottle on the bar before Shayne. He glanced past the detective at the girl sitting alone in the booth, but didn’t say anything.
The label on the bottle read: MONTERREY GRAPE BRANDY, Guaranteed 14 months old.
Shayne pulled out the cork and passed the open neck of the bottle back and forth under his nose. He asked Joe, “Got any more of this same brand?”
“Jeez, I dunno. I’ll see, Mr. Shayne.” He turned away and returned presently with a sealed bottle bearing the same label.
Shayne broke the seal and pulled the cork. He made a wry face as the smell of raw grape brandy assailed his nostrils. He said angrily, “This isn’t the same stuff.”
“Says so right on the bottle,” Joe argued.
“I don’t give a damn what the label says,” Shayne growled. He reached for the first bottle and poured a drink into the empty beer glass. Keeping a firm grip on the bottle with his left hand he drank from the mug, rolling the liquor around his tongue. His gray eyes shone with dreamy contentment as he lingeringly swallowed the brandy, while a frown of curiosity and confusion formed between them. “Any more of the bar bottles already open?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. We don’t open ’em but one at a time nowadays. I’ll ask the barkeep.” Plainly mystified by Shayne’s request, Joe went to the front of the bar and held a low-voiced conversation with a bald-headed man wearing a dirty apron that bulged over a potbelly.
The bartender glanced at Shayne, then waddled toward him. He looked at the two bottles and asked, “Whassa trouble here?”
Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “No trouble. Your bar bottle hasn’t got the same stuff that’s in the sealed one.”
The hulking man looked troubled. “You know how ’tis these days. A label don’t mean nothin’ no more. We’re lucky to stay open at all.”
Shayne said, “I know it’s rough trying to keep a supply.”
The bartender regarded Shayne for a moment with his pale, puffed eyes. “You’re private, huh? Ain’t I seen you ’round?”
“I’m private. This hasn’t anything to do with the law.”
“If you got a kick about the drink, it’ll be on the house,” the bartender said magnanimously.
“I’m not kicking,” Shayne told him earnestly. “I’d like to buy what’s left in this bottle.” He indicated the partially empty one which he had moved out of the bartender’s reach.
The man shook his head slowly. “No can do. Our license says we gotta sell it by the drink.”
Shayne held the bottle up and squinted through it. “There’s maybe twenty ounces left,” he calculated. “It’s worth ten bucks to me.”
The big man continued to shake his head. “You can drink it here. Forty cents a shot.”
“Maybe I could make a deal with the boss,” suggested Shayne.
“Maybe. I’ll find out.” He waddled around the end of the bar and preceded Shayne to an unmarked door to the left of the ladies’ room. Shayne saw Myrna Hastings still sitting in the booth, watching him.
The bartender rapped lightly on the door, turned the knob, and motioned Shayne inside.
Henry Renaldo was seated at a desk facing the doorway. He was a big, flabby man with a florid face. He wore a black derby tilted back on his bullet head and an open gray vest
revealed the sleeves and front of a shirt violently striped with reddish purple. He was eating a frayed black cigar that had spilled ashes down the front of his vest.
The bartender stood in the doorway behind Shayne. He said heavily, “This shamus is kickin’ about the service, boss. I figured you might wanna handle it.”
Renaldo’s black eyes took in the brandy bottle dangling from Shayne’s fingers. He wet his lips and said, “Okay, Tiny,” and the bartender went out.
Renaldo leaned over the desk to push out his right hand. “Long time no see, Mike.”
Shayne disregarded the proffered hand. “I didn’t know you were in this racket, Renaldo.”
“Sure. I went legal when prohibition went out.”
Shayne moved forward, set the bottle down with a thump, and said mildly, “This is a new angle on me.”
“How’s that?”
“Prewar cognac under a cheap domestic label. Monnet, isn’t it?”
“You must be nuts,” Renaldo ejaculated.
“Either you or me,” Shayne agreed. “Forty cents a throw, when it would easily bring a dollar a slug in the original bottle.”
Henry Renaldo was beginning to wheeze heavily. “What’s it to you, Shayne? Stooging for the Feds?”
Shayne shook his head. He lifted the bottle to his lips, let the cognac gurgle down his throat, then murmured reverently, “Monnet. Vintage of ’26.”
Renaldo started. Fear showed in his bulging eyes. “How’d you—” He paused, taking the sodden cigar carefully from his lips. “Who sent you here?”
“I followed my nose.”
Renaldo shook his head. He said huskily, “I don’t know how you got onto it, but why jump me?” His voice rose passionately. “If I pass it out for cheap stuff, is that a crime?”
“You could make more selling it by the bottle to a guy like me,” Shayne told him casually.
Renaldo spread out his hands. “I gotta stay in business,” he wheezed. “I gotta have something to sell over the bar to keep my customers. If I can hang on till after the war—”
Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac Page 10
