Brett Halliday - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

“Really, though!” She stiffened again and said: “A gardener!” Her voice was harsh with indignation.

“I didn’t know Wallace,” Shayne growled. “Maybe he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he had a lot of sex appeal. Women have fallen in love with gardeners before this.”

“And I suppose you think I furnished the money he sent his wife to keep her quiet? Or maybe you think Albert sent it, so I could run off with the gardener?” Her tone was mocking.

“There’s something screwy about what happened two years ago — Wallace disappearing, you divorcing Albert, Albert willing everything to you afterwards, Albert being inducted into the army. I don’t know what it is, but by God I’m going to find out!”

Shayne hunched forward and glared at the toe of his big shoe.

“Why keep harping on that when there’s a million-dollar estate waiting to be settled?” she asked calmly.

Shayne asked abruptly: “When did you first talk with Cunningham?”

After a slight hesitation she said: “This morning, shortly before lunch. After Mr. Sims and I heard the terms of the will from Hastings.”

“Did you discuss the Wallace affair with him?”

“Certainly not.” Her voice was taut and angry. “Can’t I convince you that I’m not interested in Wallace?”

“I am.” Shayne finished his drink, got up and said: “Thanks for the drink.”

“Let me fix you another one.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m hard to get along with when I get a pint of liquor in me.”

“I could get along with you.” She patted the divan. “Why are we wasting time? And you can call me Matie.”

Shayne said: “Because I’ve got to keep a date with a dame. She’s waiting in my apartment right now and I need to be sober to handle her.” He waggled his head and closed one eye in a wink. “It happens to be your ex-sister-in-law!”

“Not Beatrice!” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt.

“That’s right. We had quite a talk this morning. I suppose you know it was she who invited Groat out to the Hawleys to be murdered last night.”

“Did she murder him?”

“I don’t know. If I can keep her sober long enough, I’ve an idea she can tell me who did.”

“We haven’t settled anything,” Mrs. Meredith reminded him. “I don’t think I understand you, Mr, Shayne.”

Shayne was at the door and had hold of the knob when someone rapped. He turned to look at Mrs. Meredith, one eyebrow quizzically raised. She had half-risen from the divan and her eyes were wide. She shook her head at Shayne but didn’t speak.

The rapping sounded again. Shayne turned the knob and opened the door. He said, “Well, well,” and stepped back when he saw Leslie Cunningham standing on the threshold.

The sailor wore a double-breasted suit of blue serge, the snap-brim of a felt hat was pulled low over his bronzed forehead. His black eyes glittered with surprise when he saw Shayne. He jerked his gaze to Mrs. Meredith and muttered: “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Shayne said: “I get around a little.” He motioned Cunningham inside and added: “Mrs. Meredith is looking for another victim to drink one of her mint juleps. I have to leave to keep an appointment.”

Cunningham squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. His actions showed a strong trace of self-consciousness. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Meredith’s face as though he hoped to receive some signal from her, some hint as to what she expected from him.

She said smoothly: “It’s nice of you to drop in, Mr. Cunningham. I would like to mix you a mint julep since Mr. Shayne scorns them. Besides, my charming ex-sister-in-law is waiting in his apartment,” she added acidly.

Shayne said: “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk over.” He started for the door again, adding: “Just as I have with Mrs. Meany.”

“I’ve got some things to talk to you about,” Cunningham muttered. “I just heard Jasper Groat’s body has been found.”

“Didn’t surprise you, did it?”

“No. As I told you last night, I knew something had happened to him. What about the diary?”

“You still have that to worry about. You and Mrs. Meredith and the Hawleys, and Hastings and Sims — and maybe Joel Cross.” Shayne went out and closed the door.

In the lobby he went down the corridor behind the desk and stopped at a door marked PRIVATE. A voice said, “Come in,” when he knocked.

Kurt Davis was lounging in a chair smoking a cigar. He didn’t look the way a house detective is supposed to look, but at the St. Charles the job called for brains more than brawn.

He said: “Hello there, Shayne. Are you working?”

“Sort of.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can you get me the home address of Mrs. Meredith in Room 319?”

“I can get you the address she used when she registered.”

Shayne nodded. “I don’t expect an affidavit with it.”

Davis got up and strolled across the small room to a metal box affixed to the wall. He pressed a button and spoke into the box. Turning back to Shayne, he asked: “Anything we ought to have on her?”

“I don’t think so.” Shayne hesitated, then added: “You might keep an eye on the men she entertains in her suite.”

“A floozie?” the house detective asked.

“Not at all. The worst she’s likely to do is knock some guy out with one of her mint juleps. She’s mixed up in a case I’m working on. I don’t know how deeply. If there’s a pinch I’ll see that your dump is kept clean.”

The metal box buzzed. Davis turned to it, pressed a button and said: “Yes?”

Shayne took out a small memo pad and a pencil. He copied down the street address as Davis repeated it aloud. He promised, “If I get anything you can use, I’ll pass it on,” and went out.

It was getting quite dark as he walked up the street to a telegraph office and 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 HOTEL BECAUSE AM WATCHED. SEND MESSAGE TO THIS ADDRESS.

He completed the message with his own apartment address and signed it “Matie.” He sent it as a straight message, went back to his parked car and drove to his apartment.

When Shayne stepped out on the sidewalk he glanced up to see light in the front windows of his second-floor apartment. He knew he hadn’t left the lights on when he went out earlier in the day.

He thought he discerned movement inside the room, and watched the windows for a full minute. The movement was not repeated. He grinned wryly upon realizing that he might have been telling Mrs. Meredith the truth, after all, when he had said lightly that Beatrice Meany was waiting for him in his apartment. He started forward, hoping she hadn’t already got into his liquor. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask her.

He went up the front steps onto the veranda, passed through double entrance doors into a small dim-lit hallway with stairs leading directly upward. The small light bulb at the top of the stairway was out, leaving the upper hall in darkness. He turned toward the crack of light showing under his door.

As he brought his keys from his pocket his hand grasped the doorknob. It turned easily and the door swung open.

The crumpled body of Beatrice Meany lay in the middle of the brightly-lighted room.

Shayne stood in the doorway taking in every detail of the scene. Beatrice was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed, her tongue protruded slightly from her lips and was turning bluish, her head was twisted in a manner indicating a broken neck.

Shayne whirled from the doorway and lunged down the hall. He halted briefly at the head of the stairs, reached up to touch the unlit light globe. The bulb was warm. He twisted it in, carefully touching it with two fingers near the neck of the globe. Light flooded the hallway.