A hot glow showed in Shayne’s gray eyes. “I think the right sort of offer would persuade Cunningham to testify to anything… if he could be certain that an entry in Groat’s diary wouldn’t prove him a liar.”
“That’s the crux of it,” said Sims bitterly. “That diary! Do you know what date it gives for Albert’s death?”
Shayne shook his red head. “I haven’t seen the diary.”
“Can you find out?” Sims leaned forward eagerly. “You’re very close to Timothy Rourke on the News. He must know… or can find out easily enough from that other reporter.”
Shayne nodded. “Probably.”
“You know how important it is to Mrs. Meredith to prove that Ezra predeceased his nephew. You could earn a fat fee by finding out what the diary says before it’s published.”
“It’s just as important to the Hawleys to prove that Albert died before his uncle,” Shayne pointed out.
“Have they retained you?” demanded Sims swiftly.
“No. At the moment I’m open to any reasonable offer.”
“How much?”
“How much for what?” asked Shayne cheerfully.
Jake Sims hesitated, working the thin cigar around in his mouth and glancing surreptitiously at his client and then back at the redhead. “You understand the position as well as I do. If the diary proves that Albert died on the fifth day… we’re in. Even if the Hawleys offered Cunningham a million-dollar bribe to say it was the fourth day, he wouldn’t dare accept it because the diary would prove him a liar.”
“But he isn’t saying which day it was,” Shayne guessed sardonically, “until he knows the diary won’t pop up to make a liar out of him.”
“That’s about it. Which poses another question, Shayne. You say Groat is dead. Does the News still have the right to publish his diary?”
Shayne said, “You’d better ask their lawyers that question.” He turned his attention back to Mrs. Meredith whose fingertips were still resting lightly on his wrist. “I should think you might be able to make a private deal with a man like Cunningham.”
She smiled slowly and her fingers pressed harder against his flesh. “I imagine I could. In fact, he suggested as much this morning. But I’d much rather make a private deal with a man like you, Michael Shayne.”
“You’ve already pointed out,” Sims broke in, “that Cunningham’s testimony is valueless if the diary contradicts him. On the other hand, it’s also valueless if the diary confirms it. Either way, he has nothing to sell either side so long as the entries in the diary are to be published in a newspaper. That’s what I explained to Mrs. Meredith this morning.”
“But if the diary should disappear before it is published… or the salient entry be deleted from it before publication… then Cunningham’s testimony would be worth a couple million dollars to… someone,” mused Shayne.
“Precisely.” Sims leaned back and puffed vigorously on his cigar. “That’s why it’s so important for us to learn what it does say.”
“How important?” asked Shayne with alert interest. “In terms of actual dollars?”
“That depends a great deal,” hedged Sims, “on what it says. If the entry is in our favor the information won’t be worth a great deal. But if it isn’t…”
He paused and Shayne said curtly, “… and if you can find a way to suppress it, that would be worth a fortune. Assuming, as I am, that in that contingency Cunningham is prepared to swear Albert Hawley survived for five days.”
“I think we can assume that,” said Mrs. Meredith evenly. “I don’t think we should be so crude as to offer you a bribe, Mr. Shayne, but…”
“Go right ahead,” said Shayne harshly. “Be just as crude as you like.”
“Let us not be too hasty,” interposed Sims. “Until we read the entry in the diary we have no way of knowing whether it will have to be suppressed or not. Making an offer at this point is just like buying a pig in a poke.”
“But how will we know unless Mr. Shayne manages to get hold of the diary for us? I insist that we retain him, Mr. Sims. What will the fee be?” She turned a hopeful smile on Shayne.
“In dollars and cents?”
“What other medium of exchange will you consider?” Her eyes were bold and her smile provocative.
Shayne studied her gravely for a long moment. “Perhaps we could discuss that privately some other time, Mrs. Meredith. Right now… just to put me in a legal position… let’s agree that I am representing you in my efforts to learn what the diary says before it is published… and if I succeed you will pay me a thousand dollars for my services.”
“I agree,” she said promptly, still holding his gaze. “And if it should state in the diary that Albert died before his uncle… what then, Mr. Shayne?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” He got up and went to the door. “I’ll have my secretary type up a brief memo for you to sign.”
As he entered the outer office Lucy Hamilton snapped off the inter-com over which she had been listening and looked at him with an angry flush on her face.
“Exactly what medium of exchange do you and Mrs. Meredith have in mind, Michael Shayne?”
He grinned and told her, “A nice girl like you shouldn’t have the faintest idea what Mrs. Meredith and I have in mind, Lucy. Type up a memo retaining me to try and get a preview of the diary, and have her sign it.” He took a panama from a rack near the door and strode out while Lucy glared at his retreating back.
9
At The Steakhouse on Northeast 3rd Avenue, Shayne pushed in at the busy bar beside Timothy Rourke who was nursing a rye highball. Rourke glanced obliquely at him and shifted his weight to the other hip to make a couple more inches of room, and asked with interest, “How’d you make out with the Hawley clan?”
“I met them all… including Beatrice.” Shayne caught the bartender’s eye and lifted one ragged red eyebrow.
Rourke said, “U-m-m. I’ve heard rumors.”
“They’re all true,” Shayne told him flatly. The bartender set a four-ounce glass and an open bottle of cognac in front of him, and turned away for a glass of ice water. Shayne splashed liquor into the glass and asked, “Is Joel Cross around?”
“I saw him come in a few minutes ago.” Rourke twisted around to survey the crowded room and nodded toward a heavy-set young man with an aggressive crew-cut, wearing thick-lensed tortoiseshell glasses, who leaned against one of the booths, talking to four men eating lunch.”
“That’s our white hope of journalism, God help us. He’ll be completely insufferable if that pilot’s journal turns out to be as hot stuff as he thinks it is.”
“You don’t like Cross?”
Rourke shrugged thin shoulders and turned back to his drink. “He’s young,” he said indifferently. “He’ll learn.”
“I take it you haven’t read Groat’s diary.”
“No one has. It’s Joel’s very own exclusive scoop. He’s guarding it like the Kohinoor for fear some advance quotes will get printed.”
“One thing I wonder about it, Tim,” Shayne mused, taking a long appreciative sip of cognac and keeping his voice carefully casual. “What sort of arrangement has he made with Groat for publishing it? Specifically,” he went on quickly, “whether the rights have been signed, sealed and delivered… formally and irrevocably.”
A glint of interest appeared in Rourke’s eyes. He recognized Shayne’s carefully casual tone, and reacted to it. “He must have made some sort of arrangement with Groat else he wouldn’t have splashed that announcement over the front page today.”
Shayne took a swallow of ice water. “But I wonder whether it’s been formalized by the business office. Boil it down this way, Tim. Groat hasn’t been seen alive since seven-thirty last night. Has your paper a definite commitment from Groat, giving you legal publishing rights to the diary?”
The glint became more pronounced in Rourke’s eyes. “Hypothesizing that something has happened to Groat?”
“Keep this
under your hat,” Shayne said quietly. “Groat is dead. Has been since about eight o’clock last night when he was supposed to show up at the Hawley place to keep an appointment with Beatrice. The simple question is: Does the News have authority to go ahead and publish the diary without further ado?”
“Does Joel know he’s dead?”
“It hasn’t been officially announced. Whoever knocked him over the head and threw his body in the Bay last night knows he’s dead.”
“Joel?” The glint in Rourke’s eyes had become a fervid glow.
Shayne shrugged. “You know him better than I do. Would he murder a guy for a scoop? Here’s what I mean,” he went on hastily before Rourke could reply. “Suppose Groat changed his mind about allowing publication of the diary yesterday afternoon… and told Cross it was all off. How would Cross react?”
“Joel would strangle his grandmother if she got in his way,” Rourke said grimly.
“But is the diary important enough?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it. Why don’t you ask Joel?”
“I will,” said Shayne, “in a minute.” He lifted his glass and studied it for a long moment. “Before I do I’d like to know one more thing about Cross.” He hesitated, frowning at the cognac to clarify his thoughts. “How important is money to Joel Cross? Per se? That is: If he had the choice of a good hunk of cash in hand as opposed to making a big splash journalistically… which way would he jump?”
Rourke shrugged. “It would depend, I suppose, on how big a piece of money and how important the journalistic splash. Why not lay it on the line, Mike? I suppose you’re wondering how much cash would induce Joel to give up his plan to print the diary?”
“Something like that.”
“Why, Mike?” Rourke clutched his forearm with talon fingers that bit into the redhead’s flesh. “Why do you want the diary suppressed? What’s your angle on it?”
“I didn’t say I wanted it suppressed. I happen to know there are certain parties who might be willing to pay a lot of money to prevent the diary from being printed. I’m wondering whether money or fame means more to Cross.”
Rourke said thoughtfully, “I don’t think there can be a positive answer to that. How much money… what degree of fame? For a million bucks, for instance, you can buy a damned newspaper.”
“Yeah,” Shayne muttered, “I know there are too many imponderables.” He sighed and finished his cognac, drank two gulps of water and pushed back from the bar. He looked back and saw that Cross had left the four men with whom he had been talking and was now seated alone at the rear booth where a waiter was setting a luncheon place for him. “Want to introduce me to your buddy?”
“Sure.” Timothy Rourke moved toward the back of the bar beside him, and asked in a low voice, “Shall I sit in?”
“I don’t think so, Tim. I’ll tell you the whole damned story as soon as I’ve got my finger on it.” He held back a little to let Rourke precede him to Joel Cross’s booth, where he stopped beside the younger reporter and said, “You’re being paged, Joel. If you’ve got any guilty secrets, clam up tight because this here individual is Mike Shayne.”
Cross turned a square aggressive face toward the detective and his upper lip lifted a trifle as he said, “I’ve heard about you,” in a tone that indicated the things he’d heard weren’t good. He had pale blue eyes behind the thick lenses, and he hesitated momentarily when Shayne grinned goodnaturedly and held out his hand, explaining, “I asked Tim to introduce me.”
Cross said, “Why?” and reluctantly held out a square hand. The flesh was hard and cold. Shayne let go of it quickly and slid into the seat opposite Cross without waiting to be asked. He didn’t answer the question, but asked instead, “Have a drink with me?”
Cross said, “I never touch the stuff,” and persisted, “Why did you want to meet me?”
Shayne settled his forearms on the table and hunched heavy shoulders forward, glancing obliquely up at Rourke who still hesitated there.
Rourke raised one eyebrow expressively and said, “You two have fun together,” then turned and strolled back to the bar.
Cross sat solidly erect across from Shayne with his shoulders precisely squared, his myopic eyes studying the redhead with open hostility.
Shayne said quietly, “I’m interested in Jasper Groat’s diary.”
“What about Groat’s diary?”
“Is it any good?”
Cross’s eyes glittered behind the thick glasses. “It’s a terrific documentary. Raw, elemental emotion torn from the very heart of an unlettered man. Groat had no thought of writing for publication, and that’s why it’s so gripping. We’ll publish it exactly as is… with no editing whatsoever. What’s your interest, Shayne?”
“Is the diary in your possession?”
A curious light flickered momentarily in the reporter’s pale eyes. He hesitated, obviously choosing his words carefully: “Naturally, I had to check it out to see if it was worth what Groat wanted.”
“How much was that?”
“I can’t conceive how that could be any of your business,” Cross parried. “Once more, I’ll have to insist on knowing exactly why you’re interested before I discuss it with you.”
Shayne said grimly, “I have a hunch that several people are going to be interested after reading your announcement in the News today.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Frankly, I’d like to know precisely how much money it would take to prevent its publication.”
Cross became even stiffer than before. “I’m afraid you don’t know very much about the newspaper business, Shayne. That diary is a scoop of the first magnitude. You can’t measure the intrinsic value of a thing like that to a newspaper… not in dollars and cents.”
“I’m talking to you… not to a newspaper.” Shayne’s voice was challenging.
“The News pays my salary and my first duty is to them,” Cross told him pompously.
Shayne said, “I’d like to have a look at it.”
“You can read it in the News. Beginning tomorrow.”
“I mean a preview.”
Cross shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance.”
“You say you’re starting to print it tomorrow. Does that mean you’ve made final financial arrangements with Groat?”
“We could hardly print it if we hadn’t.”
“That,” said Shayne, “is what I was thinking.”
“So?”
“It boils down to this,” Shayne explained flatly. “If Groat should disappear suddenly… if he should die before you contact him again… has your paper the absolute legal right to publish his diary?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Cross, shaken out of his smug stiffness for the first time. “Where is Groat?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do you know where he is right now?”
“I have no intention of answering it, Shayne. But I am interested to know why Jake Sims asked me exactly the same question half an hour ago. Perhaps you can tell me.”
Shayne said, “There’s never any telling what a man like Sims will be up to. Did he make you an offer for the diary?” he added casually.
Cross shook his head with a suggestion of a smirk on his broad face. “I don’t think that’s any of your business either.”
“Probably not,” agreed Shayne. He got up and said, “I’ll be seeing you around,” and sauntered back to the bar as a waiter came to the booth with a loaded luncheon tray which he placed in front of Cross.
Timothy Rourke grinned wickedly as Shayne stopped beside him and slopped liquor into a glass from the open cognac bottle which still stood beside Rourke.
“How’d you make out with friend Cross?”
Shayne shook his red head in angry disgust. “I didn’t.”
“Nobody does,” Rourke assured him happily. “He’s the kind of cold-blooded bastard who’d stash a tape recorder under his bed o
n a honeymoon and sell the result to a true confession magazine.”
Shayne twirled his glass between his big fingers and asked, “Where does he live?”
“The Corona Arms. Does most of his stuff at home on account he’s too highbrow to pound a typewriter in the City Room with the rest of us.”
Shayne tilted his glass to his mouth and emptied it. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and lifted one hand to the bartender, told Rourke, “I wish you’d interview Mrs. Groat about her murdered husband and try to find out for sure whether the payoff for the diary was ever completed. With Groat dead, your paper will have to go to her for the publishing rights to it unless the deal was completed with him. And tell her to get in touch with me before signing anything if it does stand that way.”
“Sure,” said Rourke. “Any more errands I can run for you?”
Shayne grinned widely and promised, “I’ll let you know if any occur to me.” He glanced back at the rear booth to see that Joel Cross was just beginning to eat his lunch, and then went out briskly.
10
The Corona Arms was a quiet residential hotel near the bay. Shayne drove there and parked his car half a block away, went into the telephone booth in a drugstore and looked up the hotel’s number. He dialed it, and when a pleasant female voice answered he asked for Joel Cross. She said, “Of course,” and he listened to the phone ring five times in Cross’s empty room before she said regretfully, “Number four-seventeen doesn’t answer. Would you care to leave a message?”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and hung up. He walked down the street to the Corona Arms and entered a quiet, air-conditioned lobby and walked briskly past the desk to a waiting elevator at the rear. It was operated by a trim youth in a crisp blue and white uniform who let him off at the fourth floor. He went down a wide, carpeted hall to a door numbered 417, getting out a crowded key-ring as he approached. He studied the keyhole for a moment, selected a key without haste, and tried it.
The first key refused to enter the lock, the second one went in smoothly but would not turn, the third unlocked the door. Shayne turned the knob and pushed it open, stepped over the threshold, catching a momentary glimpse of a disordered sitting room at the same moment that he sensed a blur of movement on his left and felt excruciating pain at the base of his skull below and slightly behind his left ear.
Date with a Dead Man Page 7
