Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac

by Brett Halliday

  “You didn’t tell Chief Gentry about them?”

  He shook his red head in slow negation.

  “Isn’t that against the law? Concealing murder evidence? Who’s John Grossman and why was the old sea captain interested in the clipping about his parole?”

  Shayne said, “I remember Grossman. He was one of our bigtime bootleggers with a clientele willing to pay plenty for high-class imported stuff. Like Monnet. I don’t know why the Captain was interested in Grossman’s release.”

  “What’s it all about, Mike?” Myrna leaned forward eagerly. “It began back in the tavern with something odd about those drinks, didn’t it? Why did you go back to the proprietor’s office and come out with a bottle, and then drive straight out to the scene of the murder?”

  Shayne said softly, “You’ve done me two good turns tonight. One, when you knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office, then out at the Captain’s house when I didn’t see how in hell I was going to explain my presence there without telling the truth.” He hesitated, then admitted, “You deserve a break. You’re in it now because you lied to Gentry and he’ll probably discover you lied.”

  He began at the beginning and related what had happened in Renaldo’s office. “You know what happened after I drove out to the house.”

  “Then this is real prewar cognac?” Myrna lifted her glass to study it, and her voice was incredulous.

  “Monnet 1926,” Shayne stated flatly. “The Captain sold Renaldo a case of it for a hundred dollars, and was tortured to death immediately afterward. Renaldo admits he had his men follow the Captain to try to persuade him to tell them where they could get more, but they claim he was dead before they got to him.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  Shayne shook his head. “It doesn’t do to believe anything when murder is involved. Their story sounded all right, but that wire and those torn fingernails could very well be their idea of gentle persuasion. And if the Captain did fool them by dying before they got the information they wanted, they’d hate to admit it to Renaldo and might have made up that story about his being murdered by an unknown visitor.

  “And there’s another angle. Maybe Blackie and Lennie are playing it smart and did get the information before the Captain croaked. If they decided to use it themselves and cut Renaldo out—” He paused and shrugged expressively.

  “What makes you and Renaldo so sure there’s more cognac where that first came from?”

  “I imagine it was just a hopeful hunch on Renaldo’s part. And I wasn’t sure until I found this clipping indicating a connection between the Captain and an ex-bootlegger.”

  “Would that be sufficient motive for murder? At a hundred dollars a case?”

  Shayne made a derisive gesture. “A G-note for two dozen bottles of Monnet is peanuts today. That’s what got Renaldo so excited. It shows that the Captain knew nothing about the present liquor shortage and market prices. It could retail for twenty or twenty-five dollars a bottle if properly handled today.”

  Myrna Hastings’s eyes widened. “That would be about five hundred dollars a case!”

  Shayne’s eyes were morose. “If Grossman had a pile of it cached away when he was sent up in ’30,” he mused, “that would explain why it stayed off the market all this time. But Grossman would know what the stuff is worth today.” He shook his head angrily. “It still doesn’t add up. And if the Captain knew about the cache and had access to it all the time, why wait until a week after Grossman’s parole to put it on the market? Did you notice the condition of the Captain’s body?” he asked abruptly.

  Myrna shuddered. “I’ll never forget it,” she vowed.

  “He looked like an advanced case of malnutrition,” said Shayne harshly.

  “Who was the white-haired man who brought the police—that Mr. Guildford?”

  “He’s a lawyer here. Very respectable.”

  Myrna said hesitantly, “His story about waiting at the house half an hour for Captain Samuels to keep an appointment—Do you think he could be the man the gangsters saw drive away from the house just before they went in and found the Captain dead?”

  “Could be. If there was any such man. The timing is screwy and hard to figure out. Guildford claims his appointment was for nine, and he waited half an hour. It was well past ten when the mugs got back to Renaldo’s office. That leaves it open either way. Guildford could have waited until nine-thirty and then driven away just before the Captain returned with Blackie and Lennie trailing him. Or Guildford may have deliberately pushed the time up a little. Until we know why Guildford went there—” Shayne threw out his hands in a futile gesture.

  He poured himself another drink and demanded, “Where’s that logbook you mentioned, and the clipping about the shipwreck?”

  She reached for her handbag and unsnapped the heavy gold clasp. She drew out an aged, brass-hinged, and leatherbound book with Ship’s Log stamped on the front in gilt letters.

  Shayne opened it and looked at the flyleaf. It was inscribed: Property of Captain Thomas Anthony Samuels. April 2, 1902.

  “The clipping is in the back,” Myrna told him. “Lucky I saw it and made up a story that Chief Gentry would swallow.”

  Shayne said, “Don’t kid yourself that he swallowed it. He knows damned well it wasn’t coincidence that put me at the scene of the murder.” He turned the logbook upside down and shook out a yellowed and brittle newspaper clipping from the Miami Daily News dated June 17, 1930. There was a picture of a big man in a nautical uniform with the caption: SAVED AT SEA.

  Shayne read the news item swiftly. It gave a dramatic account of the sea rescue of Captain Samuels, owner, master, and sole survivor of the auxiliary launch Mermaid which was lost in a tropical hurricane off the Florida coast three days before the Captain was rescued by a fishing craft. He had heroically stayed afloat in a life preserver for three days and nights.

  “Where,” asked Shayne, “was the book when you found it?”

  “In a small recess in the rock wall at the head of his bed. The bedding was all mussed up as though the room had been hastily searched, and the bed was pulled away from the wall. That’s how I saw the logbook. Normally, the wooden headboard must have stood against the wall, hiding the recess.”

  Shayne began thoughtfully flipping the pages of the log. “This seems to be a complete account of Captain Samuels’s voyages from—”

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He got up and answered it. The voice of the night clerk came over the wire:

  “The law is on its way up to your apartment, Mr. Shayne. You told me once I was to call you—”

  “Thanks, Dick.” Shayne hung up and directed Myrna tersely: “You’d better get out—through the kitchen door and down the fire escape. Take your two glasses to the kitchen and close the door behind you. The key’s on a nail by the outside door.”

  Myrna jumped up. “What—?”

  “I don’t know.” Shayne heard the elevator stop down the hall. “Better if Gentry doesn’t find you here. He’s already suspicious. Go home and go to bed and be careful. Call me tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shayne breathed a sigh of relief when Myrna went out quietly. Most women would have argued and asked questions. He opened a drawer and thrust the logbook, clipping, and ticket stub inside. A loud knock sounded on the outer door of his apartment and Will Gentry’s voice rumbled, “Shayne.”

  Shayne darted a quick glance behind him and saw that Myrna had closed the door as she went into the kitchen. He sauntered to the outer door and opened it, rubbed his chin with a show of surprise when he saw Gentry and the tall figure of Mr. Guildford waiting in the hallway. He said, “It’s a hell of a time to come visiting,” and stepped aside to let them enter.

  Will Gentry moved slowly and steadily past him to the center table to look with suspicion on the two glasses. He went to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped inside, turned on the light, then looked in the bathroom.

  Shayne grinned as Gentry doggedl
y went on to the kitchen door, opened it, and turned on the light. He stalked heavily back and sat down across the table from Shayne.

  “Where is she, Mike?”

  “I told her she’d better go home and get some sleep. She was quite upset, you know. Seems she was rather fond of the old sea captain—though she’d known him only a couple of days,” he added hastily.

  “She isn’t in her room. Hasn’t been all evening.”

  “How did you know where to look for her?” Shayne asked.

  “I called Tim Rourke. He told me she was stopping at the Crestwood, but she’s not in.”

  Shayne said, “You know how these New York dames are. Why come to me?”

  “I hoped I’d find her here,” Gentry admitted, “knowing how New York dames are, and knowing you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Will.”

  Mr. Guildford said, “May I?” He cleared his throat and looked at Gentry.

  The Chief nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Knowing your reputation, Mr. Shayne,” Guildford said in a professional tone, “I suspect you withheld certain information tonight.”

  Shayne said, “It’s illegal to conceal murder evidence.”

  “To hell with that stuff,” Gentry put in impatiently. “What did you and Miss Hastings find before we got there?”

  “You know I wouldn’t hold out on you, Will, unless there was something in it for me. And who could possibly profit by the death of an old man like that? He looked to me as though he’d gone hungry for weeks.”

  “That’s true,” Guildford said. “I happen to know he was in dire straits. Our appointment tonight was to discuss a payment long overdue on his mortgaged house.”

  “But the poor devil was obviously tortured,” Gentry said. “Death resulted from shock due to his poor physical condition. Torture generally means extortion.”

  “Which makes us wonder if he harbored some secret worth money to someone,” Guildford explained. “We found none of his private papers, but we did find evidence that the house had been burgled.”

  “So you think I did it?” Shayne fumed.

  “Wait a minute, Mike,” Gentry rumbled soothingly. “You see we found that the bed had been pulled back and there was a sort of hiding-place exposed. Mr. Guildford suggested that you may have discovered the cache and taken the papers away to examine them privately.”

  Shayne snarled, “The hell he did! What’s his interest in it?”

  “As Captain Samuels’s attorney and now his executor, I have a natural interest in the affair,” Guildford snapped.

  “Come off it, Mike,” said Gentry wearily. “If you’ll tell me what you were doing there I won’t be so sure you’re holding out.”

  “I told you—rather Miss Hastings did.”

  “That doesn’t wash, Mike. Rourke told me she didn’t hit town till this afternoon. How could she have met Samuels and learned about the shipwreck story?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I can’t find her. I’m asking you. Did you get any stuff from the bedroom?”

  “I didn’t go in the bedroom.”

  “But Miss Hastings did,” said Guildford triumphantly. “And I suggest she found his papers and looked through them while we were in the other room with you and the body. I further suggest that was how she learned about the shipwreck and her agile mind framed the excuse she gave us for your presence there.”

  Shayne stood up and balled his big hands into fists. “I suggest that you get out of that chair so I can knock you back into it.”

  “Lay off, Mike,” Gentry groaned. “You’ve got to admit it’s good reasoning.”

  Shayne swung around and faced Gentry. “I don’t admit anything,” he said angrily. “Is a two-bit shyster running your department now?”

  Guildford said, “I resent that, Shayne.”

  Shayne laughed harshly. “You resent it?”

  Gentry said, “I’m running my department, but I don’t mind listening to advice. Are you willing to swear you and Miss Hastings just dropped in on the dead man by accident?”

  Shayne said, “Put me on the witness stand if I’m going to be cross-examined.”

  Gentry compressed his lips. He started to say something, but instead, tightened his lips further and got up. He and Guildford went out of the room.

  Shayne stood by the table until the door closed behind them, then strode to the telephone and asked for the Crestwood Hotel. He frowned, starting across the room, and tugged at his left earlobe while he waited. When the hotel answered he asked for Miss Myrna Hastings. Without hesitation the clerk said, “Miss Hastings is not in.”

  “How the hell do you know she isn’t?” Shayne growled. “You haven’t rung her room.”

  “But I saw her go out just a moment ago, sir,” the clerk insisted.

  Shayne said, “You must be mistaken. I happen to know she just went to her room.”

  “That’s quite right, sir. She came in and got her key not more than five minutes ago, but she came downstairs almost immediately with two gentlemen and went out with them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, sir. I saw them cross the lobby from the elevator to the front door.”

  “Wait a minute. Did she go with them willingly?”

  “Why, I certainly presumed so. She had her arms linked in theirs, and I didn’t notice anything wrong.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “No. I’m afraid I didn’t notice—”

  “Was one of them short and the other one tall?”

  “Why, now that you mention it, I think so. Is something wrong? Do you think—?”

  Shayne banged up the receiver and stalked into the bedroom. He got a short-barreled .38 which he dropped in his coat pocket. Then he went to the kitchen and tried the back door. Myrna had locked it after she slipped out.

  He turned out the kitchen light and strode across the living room, jammed his hat down on his bristly red hair, and went out.

  Ten minutes later he parked in front of Henry Renaldo’s tavern. He shouldered his way through the swinging doors and found half a dozen late tipplers still leaning on the bar. Joe was in the back with a mop bucket, turning chairs up over the tables, and the paunchy bartender was still on duty in front.

  Shayne went up to the bar and said, “Give me a shot of Cognac—Monnet.”

  The man shook his head. “We got grape brandy—”

  Shayne said, “Monterrey will do.”

  The bartender set a bottle and glass in front of the detective, his eyes secretively low-lidded. Shayne poured a drink and lifted it to his nose. “This stuff is grape brandy,” he said angrily.

  “Sure. Says so right on the bottle.” His tone was placating.

  Shayne shoved the glass away from him and said, “I’ll have a talk with Henry.”

  “The boss ain’t in,” the bartender told him hastily.

  “How about his two ginzos?”

  “I dunno.”

  Shayne turned and went along the bar to the back. Joe pulled the mop bucket out of his way and turned his head to stare wonderingly at the set look on Shayne’s face.

  He knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office and then tried the door. It opened into darkness. He found the light switch and stood on the threshold looking around the empty office. He went to the rear door through which the two gunmen had entered earlier, and found it barred on the inside. It opened out directly onto the alley.

  Back at the bar, he found the bartender lounging against the cash register. He said, “I tol’ you,” and backed away in alarm when Shayne bunched his hand in his coat pocket over the .38.

  “Where,” asked Shayne, “do Blackie and Lennie hang out?”

  “I dunno. I swear to God I don’t. I never seen ’em in here before tonight.” He was frightened and he sounded truthful.

  “Where will I find the boss?”

  “Home, I reckon.”

  “Where?”

  The bartender hesitated. He pouched his lower lip bet
ween thumb and forefinger and said sullenly, “Mr. Renaldo don’t like—”

  Shayne said, “Give it to me.”

  The bartender hesitated briefly, his eyes wary. Then he wilted and mumbled an address on West Sixtieth Street.

  Shayne went out and got in his car, sat there for a moment, got out, and went back into the tavern. The bartender looked at him with naked fear in his eyes and put down the telephone hastily.

  “Don’t do it, Fatty. If Renaldo has been tipped off when I get there I’ll come back and spill your guts all over the floor. The name is Shayne, if you think I’m kidding.”

  He went out again and swung away from the curb. He drove north a dozen blocks and stopped in front of a sign on Miami Avenue that read: CHUNKY’S CHILI. The place was crammed in between a pawnshop and a flophouse.

  He went in and said, “Hi, Chunky,” to the big man behind the empty counter.

  Chunky said, “’Lo, Mike,” without enthusiasm.

  “Any of the boys in back?”

  “Guess so.”

  Shayne got out his wallet, extracted a ten-dollar bill and folded it twice lengthwise, and held it toward him. “Blackie or Lennie in there?” he asked.

  Chunky yawned. He took the bill and said, “Nope. Ain’t seen either of ’em tonight.”

  “Working?”

  “I wouldn’ know. Gen’rally hang out back when they ain’t.”

  Shayne nodded. He knew that. Chunky’s chili joint was a screen for a bookie establishment in the back that served as a sort of clubroom for the better known members of Miami’s underworld. He asked, “Seen John Grossman around since he was paroled?”

  “A guy what’s on parole don’t hang out much with the old gang. Not if he’s smart,” Chunky told him.

  “Have you seen him around?” Shayne persisted.

  Chunky picked up a toothpick and chewed on it placidly. Shayne got out his wallet again and Chunky watched him fold another bill and hold it out. He took the bill and suggested, “Might ask Pug or Slim. They usta work for John some.”

  “Are they in back?”

  Chunky shook his head. “Went out ’bout an hour ago.”