“I don’t know.” Rourke studied him cynically and sighed. “I just don’t know, Mike. First you frame a guy, and then…”
“Look,” said Shayne virtuously. “I’m not asking you to get the diary for me. All I’m asking is that Drake, or someone like that, get to Cross in jail and convince him how important the diary is. Goddam it, I don’t want to be responsible for an innocent man being hung.” There was a ring of passionate sincerity in his voice that convinced Rourke despite his doubts.
He emptied his glass and stood up, saying, “I guess maybe you do mean it this time. I’ll talk to Drake myself.”
Shayne got up and went to the door with him. “There’ll be headlines for you tomorrow morning, Tim. I promise it. If you see nothing happens to the diary.”
Rourke promised, “I’ll do my best.” Shayne watched him go down the corridor and then closed the door with a feverish glint in his gray eyes. He went back to the telephone and asked for the number of a local detective agency, and when it answered, said, “That you, Ned? Mike Shayne. I’m tied up and need a tailing job done. Got a man available? Fine. Here it is: There’s a Daily News reporter in jail on a murder charge. Name of Joel Cross. Got that? Shortly, at least within an hour or so, I expect him to be visited in jail by the newspaper’s mouthpiece. A lawyer named Alfred Drake. I want to know if and when Drake sees Cross. Got all that?”
Shayne took a deep breath as he listened. “That’s right. Plant a good man inside where he’ll know who visits Cross. The moment Drake shows, have him telephone me here and then wait outside to finger Drake for me when he leaves.” He gave Ned his telephone number and hung up, and then immediately called Lucy Hamilton’s home number.
When she answered, he told her, “Things are beginning to break on the Groat case, angel, but I may need Mrs. Groat to help tie it up. Do you think you could bring her over to my place pretty soon to help me find her husband’s murderer?”
“I’m sure I can, Michael. How soon?”
“Better make it right away… though we may have a long wait. I just don’t know.”
Shayne hung up before Lucy could ask any questions, and suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He went into the kitchen to stir something up while he waited for Lucy and Mrs. Groat to arrive.
16
An hour later, Shayne was draining his second cup of coffee royal and Lucy Hamilton and Mrs. Groat were seated close together on the sofa. For perhaps the tenth time since arriving with the older woman, Lucy pleaded, “I do wish you’d give us some idea what we’re waiting for, Michael.”
“I told you… a telephone call.”
“From whom? And what happens then? If we only knew what to expect, we’d be prepared.”
“I’ve told you several times,” he reminded her patiently, “that you’re better off without knowing ahead. You’d only argue about it if you knew.” He glanced at his watch as he set the cup down. “Besides, it may not come off at all. If the call doesn’t come through pretty soon…”
At that moment the instrument at his elbow rang. He snatched it up and said, “Shayne speaking.”
A man’s voice said, “Ned Frazier told me to call you as soon as a lawyer named Drake came to visit Joel Cross.”
“Right. Is Drake there?”
“Just went in to see Cross.”
“Hang around the entrance until I get there. About five minutes. Do you know me by sight?”
“I’ve seen you around.”
“Good.” Shayne slammed the phone down and got to his feet, telling the two women, “Come along down to my car.”
He hustled them out of the apartment and down through the lobby to his sedan parked near the entrance. He put Mrs. Groat in the back seat, told Lucy, “Get in front with me. You may have to do some driving.”
As he drove rapidly toward the city jail, he explained to her, “I’m going to park in front of the jail and wait for a man to come out, and then follow him. If he goes on foot, I’ll follow the same way, and you mosey along behind in the car without letting me out of sight.”
“Who’s the man, Michael?”
“Alfred Drake. A lawyer. I don’t know what he looks like myself.”
He said no more, but concentrated on his driving, and a few minutes later pulled into the curb in front of the jail in a spot marked Official Parking Only.
As he got out under a street light, a toothy man wearing a faded gray sweater and a cap sauntered forward. “Aren’t you Mike Shayne?”
“Right.”
“I’m Tinkham. With Frazier. Your man’s still inside. He arrived in a cab.”
Shayne nodded, moving back to stand beside his car where his features were shaded. The private detective moved with him, and said, “Drake’s middle-aged. Gray mustache cut short and a panama hat. Blue serge suit and a potbelly. Five-ten. About a hundred-eighty.”
Shayne nodded and got out cigarettes. Tinkham took one from the pack, and they smoked quietly. Inside the car beside him, Lucy put her hand through the open window and touched his arm, and whispered, “Why did you want Mrs. Groat along, Michael? I don’t see…”
He said, “Just follow my lead and you will.”
A man came down the steps from the jail. Tinkham nudged Shayne and said, “That’s him,” and walked away briskly.
Drake stepped to the curb and looked up and down the street for a cab. Shayne unobtrusively circled around behind his car and slid under the wheel. A cruising taxi pulled up at the lawyer’s signal, and he got in.
Shayne started his motor and waited until the taxi started to turn the next corner, then swung out behind it and flicked on his lights. He followed along a full block behind until the taxi turned south on Biscayne Boulevard and stopped in front of the News Tower.
Drake was getting out as he cruised slowly past, and he edged in to the curb between two parked cars, nodding with satisfaction when he saw the cab did not pull away.
He cut his motor and told Lucy, “This is it. I think Drake will be coming back out in a minute. I’m going back to his cab and wait. As soon as you see him come out, bring Mrs. Groat back to me with you. I’m going to need her.”
He sauntered back to the cab with its flag down and motor idling, and asked the driver, “Want a fare?”
“Sorry, bo. I’m taken. Party just went into the News asked me to wait.”
Shayne leaned on the door and got out a pack of cigarettes and offered the driver one. He said, “Thanks, but I don’t smoke. Quit two months ago… just like that.” He snapped his fingers loudly. “I read this here book, see? How to Quit Smoking. By some guy named Breen, or something like that. You know what?”
“Sure,” said Shayne. “You quit smoking. Same man has recently written another How to Quit Drinking. That one I’m staying away from like poison.”
He heard footsteps on the concrete behind him. He turned and stood solidly in the lawyer’s way. “Are you Drake?”
“I am.” Drake looked him over and added, “I’m sorry but I don’t believe I know you.”
Shayne said, “You don’t.” He saw Lucy and Mrs. Groat coming toward them and said, “There’s a little matter of stolen property, Mr. Drake,” making his voice loud and hard.
“Stolen property?” The lawyer drew himself up stiffly. “I don’t know what…”
“Belonging to Mrs. Jasper Groat,” Shayne continued harshly. “That diary you just picked up in the News office. This is Mrs. Groat who demands the return of her property.”
The lawyer blinked at Mrs. Groat and looked bewildered. “I don’t understand at all.”
“The hell you don’t,” snarled Shayne. “It’s right here in your coat pocket.” He took a quick step forward and pinned Drake’s arms to his paunchy body, reaching down with his left hand to grab the top of a leather-bound book protruding from Drake’s side coat pocket.
He released Drake and shoved him back, handing the book to Mrs. Groat and asking her, “Do you identify this as being your dead husband’s property, Mrs.
Groat?”
“This is an outrage,” wheezed Drake. “The News has purchased publication rights in that diary. I have every right…”
“Not purchased, Drake. Nothing has been signed and not a penny has changed hands to validate the transaction. Do you identify it, Mrs. Groat?”
“Oh, yes. This is Jasper’s.” The widow was scanning the pages under the street light with tears in her eyes.
“You can’t resort to violence,” protested Drake. “I’ll call an officer and have you arrested.”
“That’ll be just fine,” said Shayne indifferently. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to have the police in on this. It’ll make a nice story… concealing stolen property and suppressing evidence in a murder case. Go right ahead and call a cop. And you hold onto that diary in the meantime,” he told Mrs. Groat. “It belongs to you and you have a perfect right to it. Are you calling the police?” he demanded of Drake.
“I’m afraid… I… I guess I didn’t fully realize…”
“Fair enough,” said Shayne, turning away and taking Lucy and Mrs. Groat firmly by their arms and leading them back to his car. He helped them in, then trotted around and got under the wheel and whirled away while Drake still stood on the sidewalk looking after him undecidedly.
“Michael!” gasped Lucy. “You can’t get away with it, can you? Mr. Groat did agree to let them publish it.”
“I have got away with it,” he told her cheerfully. “Don’t forget I just earned a thousand-dollar fee from Mrs. Meredith. That’ll help bail me out if Drake decides to prefer charges… which I don’t think he will.”
He made a U-turn on the Boulevard and drove back northward in the outer lane, glancing aside as he passed the News building again, and seeing Alfred Drake just getting into his taxi.
He stopped in front of Mrs. Groat’s apartment building, and said, “I need the diary just for tonight, Mrs. Groat. Do you trust it to me?”
“Of course, Mr. Shayne.” She put the book in his hand.
“You go in with her, Lucy.” Shayne put his arm tightly about her slender shoulders and grinned at the look of fright on her face. He bent to brush her lips reassuringly with his, and said, “See that she’s securely locked in before you leave, angel, and you keep your door locked tonight, Mrs. Groat. Don’t let anyone in on any pretext. If you have any phone calls or any callers, refer them to me.”
Back in his own sitting room, he double-locked-the door and laid the leather-bound book on the center table, staring down at it with pursed lips, working them as though he tasted something good. He opened it to the flyleaf and read in boldly legible script: The Private Journal of Jasper Groat.
Like a child prolonging the pleasure of a treat by putting it off as long as possible, Shayne firmly closed the diary and went into the kitchen where he put ice in a tall glass and filled it with water, poured out four ounces of John Exshaw in another glass and carried them back and set them side by side on the table. Then he settled himself in a chair and lit a cigarette, and took an appreciative swallow of cognac, chasing it with a sip of ice water.
Then he opened Jasper Groat’s diary and began reading the entries in the dead man’s handwriting.
The first entry in the journal was dated more than six months previously, and Shayne flipped the pages impatiently, noting the dates, until he came to the first entry written by Groat after the airplane went down in the ocean and the only three survivors were precariously afloat on the life raft.
It was a graphic account of the sudden failure of the plane’s engines and an expertly maneuvered crash-landing in a stormy sea, in which Groat gave unstinting praise to Peter Cunningham’s courage and physical strength and stubborn determination which had enabled the two of them to launch an inflated life raft while the others perished. It had been Cunningham, too, who had snatched the disabled soldier, Albert Hawley, from a watery grave and hauled him aboard the raft, and Groat paid tribute to his unselfishness by noting that a third person would diminish their slim chance of survival on account of the scanty rations of food and water aboard.
It appeared from the beginning that Hawley was badly hurt internally and that Groat had little real hope of keeping him alive for many days.
Shayne glanced at the entries with increasing interest, until on the third day, Groat had written: Hawley worse today. Vomited some blood after breakfast and is manifestly weaker. I prayed for him but he refused to join me in seeking solace in God. Pete sneaked some extra water at dawn. Pretended I did not know.
Later that same day, he noted: Hawley failing rapidly. Repeated the Lord’s Prayer with me. I trust he will find God.
On the morning of the fourth day, he wrote: Hawley very bad this morning. Feel sure he will not survive long. Something preys on his conscience. I have urged him to cleanse his soul before God but he stubbornly refuses.
And late that afternoon: Hawley realizes he is dying. Repeated the Twenty-Third Psalm with me, and am sure he received comfort. I do wish he would confess his sins before the inevitable end.
And on the morning of the fifth day! Shayne paused in his absorbed reading and took a deep drink. He stubbed out his cigarette and braced himself. This was the crucial entry.
His stomach muscles contracted as he read: The soldier died quietly during the night. I read a simple service this morning and consigned his earthly remains to the sea. Pete pretended to sneer, but think he was deeply affected. I have a great weight on my conscience and must struggle with it. Pete crept close to us last night and heard a portion of the dying man’s confession. I do not know how much. He acted peculiarly this morning and made several attempts to induce me to tell him what was confided to me as a death-bed confession. I must trust God to help me reach a just decision.
Shayne exhaled slowly and laid the diary down. So Albert Hawley had died during his fourth night on the raft. Before his Uncle Ezra had passed on.
Mrs. Meredith was not legally entitled to one cent of Ezra’s fortune!
He picked up the journal and glanced on slowly, seeking further reference to Hawley and to his deathbed secret. There were vague references to the Dying confession, and arguments with Pete who will not admit how much of the truth he heard from the dying man’s lips.
And there was a final notation a day before the two men were rescued from the raft: Pete argues strongly that we would be fools to let such a splendid opportunity for blackmail pass. He admits he overheard enough that night to realize the importance of the dead soldier’s secret. I pray God for strength to withstand this temptation.
Groat had not trusted Albert Hawley’s secret to the pages of his diary. Nowhere in the journal was the name of Leon Wallace mentioned.
Michael Shayne laid the leather-bound book aside with a deep sigh after he had convinced himself of this fact. Joel Cross had told the truth after all. But Shayne now knew that Peter Cunningham knew enough to plan a blackmail attempt on someone, and that Jasper Groat had vigorously opposed the plan.
That much Shayne had guessed before reading the diary. The one new fact he had learned was that if the diary were made public, the Hawley family and not Albert’s ex-wife stood to inherit Ezra Hawley’s estate.
He lit another cigarette and settled back with a blank look of concentration on his gaunt face, tugging at his left ear lobe and taking alternate sips of cognac and ice water while his mind went to work on the intriguing problem of how best to handle this new situation to enable Michael Shayne to make the most bucks out of it.
His cognac glass was empty by the time he had worked out a plausible line of action. The ultimate result depended on a lot of imponderables, but those were the chances a man had to take to make a living.
He lifted the telephone and called the Biscayne Hotel and got Mrs. Meredith on the line. He identified himself and said, “I’m at my place and I have Groat’s diary here, Matie. I’ve just finished reading it.”
He heard her quickly indrawn breath. “And… when did Albert die?”
He grinned
at the instrument and said, “I suggest you come over and read it for yourself. That way, there’ll be no question in your mind whether I’m telling the truth or not. Get hold of Jake Sims and bring him along,” he went on. “After you’ve both looked at the diary, I have a proposition to make you.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Her voice was low and furious. “He would have to die one day too soon.”
Shayne chuckled at the venom in her voice. “Come over and read it for yourself.”
He hung up and called Lucy Hamilton. “In bed yet?”
“Not quite. Just brushing my teeth.”
“I have need of the services of an efficient secretary,” Shayne told her. “In about half an hour. Bring your notebook prepared to take some dictation.”
“Michael! At this time of night?”
“It won’t wait until morning,” he told her cheerfully. “And I need you for a chaperon anyway. Mrs. Meredith is on her way over.”
Lucy snapped, “I’ll be right there, Michael,” and hung up. He poured another dollop of cognac and settled back to wait for his company.
17
Matie Meredith and Jake Sims were the first to arrive at Shayne’s apartment. Mrs. Meredith’s features were set, her full lips angrily compressed as she demanded, “Cut out the silly suspense and tell us the truth.”
Shayne closed the door behind the pair, and told her smoothly, “You’ll read it for yourself soon enough. Want a drink first for a bracer?”
“Never mind the drink, Shayne. How’d you get your hands on the diary? How many people have read it?” Sims moved toward the center of the room, his ferrety eyes searching about for the diary.
“I had to frame one guy on a murder rap,” Shayne told him, “and then assault a respected member of the local bar in order to earn a thousand-buck fee.” He went to the center table and brushed Sims aside, pulled a drawer open and paused with his hand on the leather-bound journal. “So far as I know, only Joel Cross has read the diary… and I don’t think he realizes the importance of the date of Albert Hawley’s death to Mrs. Meredith. Keep that fact firmly in mind as you read the crucial entry. Then I have a proposition to make Mrs. Meredith.”
Date with a Dead Man Page 12
