She said, “Thank you,” simply, as though accepting his statement not as flattery but as praise to which she was entitled. “Have you any idea who gave you the headache?”
“Does that mean you decided to believe my story?”
“I certainly don’t believe you knocked yourself out in Joel Cross’s room. Whether you searched the room or someone else did the job seems immaterial to me. I’m quite sure neither of you found the diary there.”
“Why are you sure?”
“Joel told me so, for one thing. But I was already certain by the way he acted when he first came in. He wasn’t worried about the diary at all.”
“Did he tell you where it is?”
“No.” She leaned back against the cushion and crossed her nice legs, taking a long drink and regarding him soberly over the rim of the glass.
“Or what was in it?” Shayne persisted.
“He refused to discuss the diary with me. I found Mr. Cross an insufferable young man.”
“Did you explain your interest in the diary? Tell him why the exact date of Albert Hawley’s death is important to you?”
“Certainly not. The fewer people who know that, the better.”
“Did you get any impression that he may guess or know the importance of the diary to you?”
“It’s difficult to get any sort of impression from him,” she parried coolly. “Do you think he knows?”
“Probably not. Assuming that the terms of Ezra Hawley’s will are not general knowledge. And even then,” added Shayne thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose many people know that you are still Albert Hawley’s heir even though you divorced the guy just before he went into the army.”
“Probably not,” Matie Meredith agreed indifferently.
“It certainly isn’t normal procedure,” mused Shayne. “In fact it’s one of the angles that’s bothered hell out of me from the beginning of this screwed-up affair. It just didn’t make sense… now it’s beginning to.”
She said, “Oh?”
He took another long drink. “I mean, I’m beginning to realize how a woman like you could have a man like Hawley wrapped around your little finger.”
“Albert loved me,” she said softly.
“That’s what I mean. Enough to change his will so you’d inherit all his money after you divorced him and remarried.”
“Albert was generous,” she said calmly. “And he had no one else he cared to leave it to. He hated his family,” she added in the same flat tone.
“What did he think of Leon Wallace?”
She leaned forward carefully to set her glass down on the table and, watching closely, Shayne detected a tremor in her hand. She remained leaning forward and her eyes were very wide and direct on him as she asked slowly, “What do you know about Leon Wallace?”
“I know this much, Matie. He was working as a gardener at the Hawley estate when you decided to go to Reno and divorce your husband. I know he disappeared soon afterward after writing a curious letter to his wife enclosing ten grand in cash and instructing her not to worry or attempt to trace him. In addition, she has received another thousand quarterly since then with no message whatever, mailed to her in a plain envelope from Miami.”
She held his gaze steadily with an interested expression on her face. She said, “You do get around, don’t you, Michael?”
“I’m a detective,” he reminded her, as he had reminded Cunningham the previous evening.
“So you are,” she murmured.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“What do you know about Leon Wallace?”
“A great deal more right now than I did two minutes ago,” she told him evenly. “I knew nothing about his strange disappearance.”
“Perhaps not. But I have a strong hunch that your divorced husband knew all about it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because Jasper Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace long distance last night and told her that if she would come to Miami this morning he would tell her about her husband.”
“I see. You’re assuming that Albert told him about Leon Wallace while he was dying on the life raft.”
“And that Groat was murdered last night to prevent him from meeting Mrs. Wallace this morning and telling her the truth,” said Shayne sharply.
She frowned and closed her eyes slowly. She opened them with a little shake of her head and said, “I’ve been assuming he was killed by some of the Hawleys… or someone hired by them… to conceal the real date of Albert’s death.”
“Who knew that date was important last night?” Shayne pressed her. “They supposedly didn’t know the terms of Ezra’s will until Hastings read it to them this morning. You knew, of course,” he added quietly. “Else you wouldn’t have hurried to Miami to claim your inheritance.”
“I think they must have known, too. After all, Mr. Hastings is their family lawyer.”
“We’ve gotten off the subject of Leon Wallace,” Shayne reminded her. “How well did you know him while you were married to Albert and living there?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been racking my brain to remember and I simply can’t. I know there was a gardener around the place, but that’s about all.”
Shayne knew she was lying. He asked abruptly, “Is Mr. Meredith in town with you?”
She was obviously disturbed by the sudden question. “No.”
“Where do you live?” probed Shayne.
“How can that possibly concern you?”
“What’s your husband’s business? His first name? When and where did you meet him? What sort of man is he?” The questions came swiftly and angrily.
She didn’t answer any of them. She sat forward stiffly and lifted her glass to bury her face in the mint leaves while she drew liquid from the shaved ice.
“I want some answers.” Shayne spread out his big hands and scowled bleakly. “One man has been murdered. If I stick my neck out any further, I’m going to know what I’m sticking it into.”
Matie took a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it with steady fingers. She blew out a plume of smoke, stretched back languorously with ankles crossed and regarded Shayne through half-closed eyes. “How are you sticking your neck out?”
Shayne emptied his glass and set it down hard on the table beside his chair. He got to his feet and began striding up and down the room. “By taking you on as a client. By trying to help you prove that your ex-husband was still alive when his uncle died.”
“What have my private affairs to do with that?”
“I don’t know yet. But I can’t dismiss the coincidence of Leon Wallace’s mysterious disappearance at the same time you took off for Reno to get a divorce.”
She said coldly, “My husband’s name is Meredith, not Wallace, Mr. Shayne. His first name is Theodore, not Leon. He is not a gardener, I assure you. Does that satisfy you?”
“No,” Shayne said with blunt impatience. “Men have been known to disappear and change their names before this… marry and raise families under assumed names.”
“Really though!” She stiffened erect and her eyes opened wide and there was withering scorn in her voice. “A gardener!”
“I never met Wallace,” growled Shayne. “I understand he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he reeked of sex appeal. Women have been known to fall in love with their husband’s gardeners before this… and chauffeurs and houseboys.”
“And I suppose you think I gave him the ten thousand dollars he sent his wife to keep her quiet. Or perhaps you think Albert furnished the money so I could divorce him and elope with the gardener.” Her voice was icy.
“I don’t know where the money came from. I’d still like to meet your present husband.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Michael. You and he have nothing in common.” She relaxed back against the cushions and smiled seductively. “How is your headache by this time?”
“I’ve just about forgotten it.”
�
�So my remedy did work,” she purred, patting the cushion beside her. “So why don’t you stop striding up and down and glaring at me and imagining all sorts of ridiculous things and sit down here and let me run my fingers through that red hair of yours and find out for myself exactly how different you are from dear Theodore?”
Shayne stopped at the end of the divan and looked down at her with a sudden grin. “Don’t tempt me, Matie.”
“Why not?” Her red lips parted and she gazed up into his face boldly. “You do things to me, Michael. I could do things to you, too. Pour some more whisky in your glass and bring it over.”
Shayne sighed and shook his red head reluctantly. “One more of your drinks and I’d never leave this room.”
“Why should you, Michael?”
“Because I’ve got to keep a date with another dame. She’s waiting for me at my hotel right now, and I need to be sober to handle her.”
“Another dame, darling? When you can have me?” Matie pushed the tip of her tongue out between her full lips and her eyes were wondrously soft and appealing.
Shayne said, “This is business… sort of.”
“Isn’t pleasure more important? Besides, I am your client. Remember?”
Shayne said, “This dame happens to be your sister-in-law.”
“Beatrice?” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt as she spoke the name, and then she relaxed and began laughing softly. “You and Beatrice. Oh, my God in heaven. Have you actually met her?”
“We had a long and private talk in her bedroom this morning,” Shayne told her, straight-faced. “Chaperoned only by a bottle of whisky she had hidden up there.”
“That must have been something.”
“It was.”
“Enough so you’d rather go to her than stay with me?”
“She’s the one who invited Jasper Groat out to the house to be murdered last night.”
“Did she murder him?”
“I don’t know. If she didn’t, I think she knows who did. If I can keep her sober long enough I think she will tell me. So I’d better get over there before she drinks up all my liquor and passes out.”
He turned away from the divan and started for the door. Someone rapped on it from the other side. Shayne stopped in mid-stride and turned to frown at Matie, one ragged eyebrow lifted inquiringly.
She shrugged resignedly and shook her head and mouthed the words, “I don’t know. Open it.”
Shayne went to the door and opened it. He said, “Well, well,” and stepped back when he saw Cunningham on the threshold.
The steward’s eyes glittered with surprise when he recognized Shayne. He jerked his gaze to Matie and muttered, “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
Shayne said, “I manage to get around.” He stood aside, holding the door wide open and motioned for Cunningham to enter. “Mrs. Meredith is looking for another mint julep customer. I’m on my way out.”
Cunningham squared his shoulders self-consciously and stepped into the room. His gaze remained fixed on Matie’s face as though he waited to receive some signal from her, some hint as to what she wanted him to do.
She said smoothly, “It was nice of you to drop in, Mr. Cunningham. I would like to mix you one of my juleps since Mr. Shayne scorns them. Besides, he’s in a hurry to lay my charming ex-sister-in-law who’s waiting impatiently for him.”
Shayne said, “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about,” starting through the door. “Just as I have with Mrs. Meany.”
Cunningham’s voice stopped him. “I’ve got some things to talk to you about. I just heard Jasper was murdered last night.”
Shayne turned with his hand on the knob. “Did it surprise you?”
“Not much.” Cunningham shook his head doggedly. “Like I told you last night, I figured something had happened to keep him from our dinner together. What about his diary?”
“You still have the diary to worry about. You and Mrs. Meredith and the Hawley clan, and Hastings and Sims… and maybe Joel Cross.” Shayne turned again to go out, but hesitated for some reason he could not fathom when he heard the telephone ring in the room behind him.
With his back turned and while holding the door slightly ajar, he heard Matie answer the phone: “Yes? Mr. Shayne? Just a moment and I’ll see…”
He went back into the room and Matie held the telephone out to him with a shrug. “I think it’s your delightful little brown-haired secretary.”
He took the instrument and said, “Yes?”
“Michael.” It was Lucy’s voice. “A woman who says her name is Beatrice Meany just telephoned. She didn’t giggle this time, but said to tell you she was waiting in your hotel room… and how soon could you get there.”
Shayne said cheerfully, “Call Mrs. Meany back, Lucy, and tell her to keep her lace panties on and the corks in my liquor bottles. Tell her I’m just leaving here but have one stop to make on my way back to the hotel. If she can stay sober for twenty minutes, I’ll be seeing her.”
He hung up before Lucy could offer any acid comments, said, “Thanks,” to Matie and strode out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him this time.
Downstairs in the lobby, he turned to the left from the desk and went down the corridor to a door marked Private. He knocked and then opened the door and went in. Kurt Davis was lounging in a chair behind a wide, clean desk, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. He didn’t look the way a hotel detective is supposed to look, but none of them in better-class hostelries do. He said, “Hi, Mike. Are you working?”
“Sort of.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can you get me the home address of Mrs. Meredith in twelve hundred A?”
“I can get you the address she wrote down when she registered.”
Shayne nodded. “I don’t expect an affidavit with it.”
Davis pressed a button on his desk and spoke into a metal box in front of him. He looked up at Shayne and asked, “Anything we ought to know about her?”
“I don’t think so.” Shayne hesitated. “You might keep an eye on the men she entertains in her suite. Excluding one Mike Shayne, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Kurt Davis gravely. “A floozy?”
“Nothing like that. The worst she’s likely to do is knock some guy cold with one of her mint juleps. She’s mixed up in a case I’m working on, but I don’t know just how. I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
“Do that, Mike.” The metal box buzzed and Davis turned to it, pressed the button and said, “Yes?”
Shayne got out a memo book and pencil. He wrote down a street address in Chicago as Davis repeated it aloud. He thanked the house detective and went out of the office to a branch telegraph office in the lobby. There he wrote out a message to Mr. Theodore Meredith in Chicago, Illinois. It read:
Dangerous complications demand you here immediately. Wire me at once but not at this hotel because am watched. Send message to this address.
He completed the message by giving the name of his own hotel, signed it, Matie, and paid cash for it to go as a straight message.
It was twenty minutes later on the dot since leaving Mrs. Meredith’s suite when he swung into the lobby of his hotel. The desk clerk motioned to him urgently as he strode toward the elevators, and Shayne swerved aside to stop at the desk and ask, “What’s up, Dick?”
“Thought you’d like to know there’s a girl waiting up in your place, Mr. Shayne,” the clerk told him importantly. “You always told me it was all right to let a client go up and wait.”
“If they were female and passable,” Shayne agreed.
“This one’s that,” the clerk told him. “She put a call through to your office half an hour ago… and Miss Hamilton called her back, so I know it must be okay.”
Shayne said, “Fine.” He started away and then turned back. “Make a note of this, Dick. A telegram may be delivered here from Chicago, addressed to Mrs. Theodore Meredith… or maybe Mrs. Matie Meredith. It will actually be for me. See that i
t’s accepted and delivered to me.”
“You bet, Mr. Shayne.” Dick was scribbling on a sheet of paper with a conspiratorial grin. “Working on a big case?”
“Could be.” Shayne went on to a waiting elevator and got in.
As it carried him to the second floor, the operator told him, “There was a gentleman inquiring for your room number ten minutes ago, Mister Shayne. I told him I sure didn’t think you was in, but he got off at Two anyhow. I never did see him go back down.”
Shayne said, “Maybe they’re having a ball in my place.” He got out and went down the corridor, getting out his key and whistling cheerfully.
Light showed through his transom, and he knocked on the door and waited for a moment. When there was no response, he inserted the key and opened it.
The crumpled body of Beatrice Meany lay in the middle of the brightly lighted room.
13
Shayne reached the body in two long strides and dropped to his knees beside her though he knew she was dead before he felt for a pulse. He couldn’t detect any trace of a pulse beat but the flesh felt still normally warm to his fingers, and he knew she hadn’t been dead many minutes.
His face was deeply trenched when he stood up and stepped over her body to the telephone on the center table. He gave Will Gentry’s private number and when the chief’s gruff voice answered, said, “I’ve got a murdered woman in my room, Will. Beatrice Meany.”
Gentry wasted no time with questions over the telephone. He said, “Sit on it, Mike,” and hung up.
Shayne replaced the telephone and turned to look down at Beatrice Meany with bleak eyes.
The girl’s eyes were open and glazed, her tongue protruded slightly and looked faintly bluish, her head was twisted in a way to indicate a broken neck. Yet her naturally childish features had taken on a sort of dignity with death. She did not look like an immature dipsomaniac as she lay there. There was a troubled expression on her face as though she did not understand why this had happened to her.
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