Date with a Dead Man (11 page)

The uniformed cop appeared in the doorway, officiously holding the arm of the elevator operator who had brought Shayne up, an elderly man who held himself very erect with conscious dignity, but whose eyes sought Shayne’s in frightened appeal after they first caught a glimpse of the dead body on the floor.

Shayne said quickly, “It’s all right, Matthew. These gentlemen just want to ask you about the man you let off the elevator after he asked for my room. Remember telling me about that?”

“Of course, Mister Shayne.” He spoke with deference but without subservience. Some of his dignity deserted him as he stammered, “You reckon he the one that do
that?”
He fluttered one hand toward the body.

“That’s what Chief Gentry wants to find out.”

“Can you describe the man?” asked Gentry.

“Sort of… I guess. I didn’t pay too much mind, you understand. He was young, seems like. Twenty-five, maybe. Heavy built.” He hesitated. “I see them going up and coming down all day long. You know how it is.”

“Just concentrate and do your best,” Gentry encouraged him. “Notice what he wore?”

“Just a plain suit, I guess. Sort of gray-like. You know… there wasn’t nothing special I noticed.”

“Wearing a hat, Matthew?” Shayne interposed.

“I think he was… now you mention it, Mr. Shayne.”

“Reason I asked that,” Shayne told Gentry before he could comment, “is because Mr. Meany is quite bald in front for so young a man, and it’s something likely to be noticeable without a hat. Gerald Meany is also a well-cushioned young man,” he went on thoughtfully.

“The girl’s husband?” snapped Gentry. “You think he was sore about her coming here to see you, and strangled her. Jealous type, huh?”

“I’d hardly say that,” Shayne grinned wryly at recollection of the scene that morning in Beatrice’s bedroom. “However, she did make a very obvious pass at me in front of him, and he may have got the idea she was coming here for an assignation.” He shrugged. “You never know how a husband will react.”

Gentry nodded and turned to the detectives who had completed their work and were waiting for instructions. “Anything from the prints?”

“Nothing good, Chief. The place has been thoroughly cleaned today and we got Shayne’s and another set, probably the maid’s in places you’d expect. Those of the girl on the refrigerator handle and sink, and the bottle and glass in here.”

“Pick up Gerald Meany and bring him in,” Gentry directed them. “Find out where he’s been this afternoon. Get all the information you can at the Hawley residence about his and his wife’s movements this afternoon. Whether there was any quarrel… all that.” He waved the three men away, turned back to the elevator operator. “I hope you’ll be able to identify the man who asked for this room if we show him to you, Matthew.”

“Well, sir, now…” The operator paused and wet his lips, a frown of intense concentration on his face. He glanced appealingly at Shayne, and, following his glance, Rourke saw the detective nod his red head in an emphatic affirmative.

Matthew swallowed hard and said firmly, “I do believe I can. Yes, sir. I can’t rightly just describe him good, but it comes to me I’ll surely know him if I see his face again.”

“That’s exactly what we need. You stay around on tap, and I hope we’ll call on you for an identification.” He nodded a dismissal, and told the patrolman, “Go down with him and tell the boys to bring up the basket. You got anything further for me, Mike?” he asked as the others left.

“Not right now, Will. God knows,” he added strongly, “I want the guy who messed up my living room as badly as you do.” He turned his angry eyes on the body again. “I drank with that gal this morning… halfway smooched with her. If she’d only stayed sober and come clean with me then…”

Gentry clapped him on the shoulder and said gruffly, “There’s other gals for drinking and smooching. Coming, Tim?”

“I think I’ll hang around and get a little more background from Mike,” the reporter told him. “What’s that stuff in your glass, Mike?”

“This?” Shayne looked at the cognac as though he had forgotten he held it, and then tossed it off. “I’ve got a bottle of rye for you, Tim.”

Gentry went out, and as they turned back to the kitchen together, two white-coated young men appeared in the doorway carrying a long wicker basket. They looked at the body and one of them asked cheerfully, “This the place?”

“That’s a silly damned question,” Shayne said bitterly over his shoulder. “Of course this isn’t the place. I don’t feel that my living room looks lived in without at least one corpse cluttering up the floor. Grab a bottle of rye, Tim, and come on out.”

14

When the two men returned to the living room ,with their drinks a few minutes later, all traces of Beatrice Meany had been removed, the detectives having taken her hat and handbag with them.

Rourke and Shayne settled down comfortably, and the reporter took a long drink of his highball before asking irritably, “In the name of God, Mike, when are you going to start filling me in on this case?”

“You know just about as much as I do,” said Shayne cautiously.

“Just hints and oblique references,” said Rourke. “About, for instance, different people who don’t want Groat’s diary published… and how much cash Cross might accept for quashing it.
Why,
Mike?”

“There may be two reasons.” Shayne told him first about Ezra Hawley’s will and how a fortune depended on whether Albert Hawley had predeceased his uncle or had not died until his fifth day on the life raft.

“That’s one angle,” he explained, “with the Hawley clan on one side and Mrs. Meredith on the other. Neither side
knows
what the diary says as yet, and so neither side actually knows whether they want it suppressed or publicized.”

“Of course, there’s still Cunningham who should be able to testify as to the exact date of Hawley’s death.”

“True enough. But Cunningham, I think, is waiting to see which way the cat jumps. Without the diary to either back him up or refute him, he would be in the enviable position of inviting the highest bid from either side to testify the way they want him to. But he’s afraid to commit himself either way so long as the diary is around.

“And there’s still another angle that bears thinking about,” Shayne went on. “The mysterious disappearance of a gardener named Leon Wallace from the Hawley employ about a year ago… just when Albert’s wife was getting her divorce… and just before Albert was inducted into the army. Jasper Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace last evening and promised her information about her missing husband, and was murdered before he could give her that information.”

He went on to sketch in the details of his talk with Mrs. Wallace that morning while Timothy Rourke listened with intense concentration and made notes on his copy paper.

When Shayne completed his account, Rourke said thoughtfully, “Then if the Hawleys did connive, somehow, to get rid of Wallace… for some unknown reason… and paid Mrs. Wallace ten grand to keep her from making an investigation… they had a further motive for murdering Groat before he passed the dope on to Mrs. Wallace.”

“That’s about it,” Shayne agreed gloomily. “And that may explain Beatrice’s murder. She was unstable as hell, and liable to spill her guts any time to any man who condescended to stroke her hand gently while she was tight.”

“Which one Mike Shayne did condescend to do only this morning,” guessed Rourke with a grin.

“In a manner of speaking. Did you talk to Mrs. Groat?” Shayne changed the subject abruptly.

“Yeh. Running errands for you,” growled Rourke. “The situation regarding sale of the diary seems to be this: Jasper Groat made a verbal deal with Cross to accept two thousand dollars for publication rights… but nothing was actually signed between them. There seems no doubt that Cross has physical possession of the diary, and Mrs. Groat feels morally bound to go through with the deal her husband made… besides not being averse to seeing the thing printed and also picking up an easy two grand.”

“Two thousand dollars,” ejaculated Shayne. “With a fortune of a couple of million riding in the balance. She could probably get twenty times that much for suppressing it from whichever of the two parties that stands to lose when the truth is known.”

“She doesn’t know that,” Rourke reminded him. “And, like her late husband, I gather that she has a strict code of ethics. I don’t believe a hundred times two thousand would tempt her to do anything dishonest.”

“Which is exactly why Groat was murdered,” sighed Shayne. He sat very still for a moment, sunk into morose thought. “My hands are absolutely tied until I find out what the diary says about the date of Hawley’s death and Leon Wallace. Damn it, Tim, we’ve
got
to persuade Joel Cross to give us a look at it.”

Rourke grinned saturninely and took a long drink. “He’s stubborn as a piebald mule about being persuaded.”

Shayne got to his feet and stalked up and down the room, tugging angrily at his left ear lobe. “Perhaps the reason he’s so cagy is that
he’s
playing both ends against the middle… waiting to see which side makes the best offer before destroying the diary. In the meantime, we’ve got two murders on account of the damned thing.”

He halted in mid-stride at the sound of a knock on the door, strode to it and pulled it open. He stepped back with a look of surprised pleasure on his face, and said, “Come right in, Mr. Cross. We were just discussing you.”

“Who’s discussing me? Oh, it’s you, Rourke,” he said unpleasantly as he stepped inside the room. “Where is Mrs. Meany?”

“Did you expect to find her here?” asked Shayne.

“Why, yes. I agreed to meet her here. I confess I got held up and am a little late, but I assumed she would wait. She insisted it was extremely important that I should come.”

“And bring Jasper Groat’s diary with you?” asked Shayne with assumed casualness, closing the door and leaning his shoulder blades against it.

“Certainly not. Did she leave any message for me?”

“Where is the diary, Cross?”

“In a safe place where you won’t find it.” Cross started toward the door with his jaw thrust out belligerently. “If Mrs. Meany isn’t here there’s no reason I should stick around.”

Shayne remained with his back against the closed door. “I can think of several reasons, Cross. I want to know more about your appointment with Beatrice Meany here. When did she make it?”

“She telephoned me about three o’clock… if it’s any of your business,” blustered Cross.

“I think it’s very much my business when a female makes an appointment to meet a man in my apartment. That’s more than two hours ago. Why did you wait so long?”

“I told you I got tied up.” Joel Cross stopped on flat feet directly in front of Shayne and with his face not more than four inches from the redhead’s. “Are you going to get out of my way?”

Shayne said, “No. Where were you tied up, Cross?”

“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined. Certainly, not by you.” Cross was glaring angrily at Shayne, and his fists were tightly clenched by his sides. He turned his head to Rourke and demanded, “Why are you both acting so peculiarly? Where is Mrs. Meany?”

“In the morgue,” Shayne said harshly.

Cross’s head pivoted back to him. “The morgue? But… when… how was she killed?”

“I think maybe you know.” Shayne put the flat of his right palm against Cross’s chest and pushed hard, growling, “Sit down. We’ve got some talking to do.”

Cross staggered back, his face livid. He caught his balance and collapsed into a chair, looking up with frightened eyes as Shayne towered over him and demanded, “Where were you this last hour?”

“In my room working.”

“Anyone able to back up your alibi?”

“My alibi? Good God, do you think I killed her?”

“I think it quite likely. You’re the only one who knew she was coming here to see me.”

“Do you mean she was killed here?”

“Not more than half an hour ago,” Shayne said inflexibly.

“I had no reason. I didn’t even know the woman.”

“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to tell me everything she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder. I’m just beginning to realize you fit like a glove for that one, too. You’re the only person who had read the diary at eight o’clock last night and knew its value as an instrument of blackmail. A value that vanished as soon as Groat reached the Hawleys and told his story. Sure, you fit, Cross.” Shayne’s eyes were beginning to glow hotly. “Will Gentry is already checking your alibi for last night. If it isn’t any tighter than the one for this afternoon, you’re a swell candidate for a hangman’s noose.”

“He must be crazy,” Cross appealed to Rourke. “He can’t be serious.”

Timothy Rourke was studying Shayne’s face quizzically. “I think he’s damned serious,” he confided to his fellow reporter.

“Here’s something you don’t know, Cross. I can place you right here on the spot at the time of the murder. You fit the description of the murderer given by the elevator operator perfectly, and he’s all set to make an identification if I give the word. On the other hand, he trusts me enough so if I say the man wasn’t you, he’ll swear it wasn’t.”

“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” asked Cross incredulously.

“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I like you for the job more and more. Without an alibi you’ll have a hard time going against an eye-witness identification.”

“Damn you, shamus!” cried Cross stridently. “You can’t get away with anything like that. I still don’t know what all this interest in the diary is about.”

“You admit you read it yesterday.”

“Sure, I read it. But I still don’t know why people are being killed on account of it.”

“You’d have one hell of a time convincing a jury of that,” snarled Shayne. “It’s written down right there in black and white, isn’t it? In Jasper Groat’s handwriting.”

“What’s written down in black and white?”

“The story of Leon Wallace’s disappearance.”

“I don’t recall any such name in the diary.” Joel Cross was becoming stiff and aggressive again.

Shayne said, “I don’t believe you. Prove it by letting me read the diary.”