Brett Halliday - Date with a Dead Man

Shayne grinned at him and said cheerfully, “We both know Beatrice is a dipsomaniac and a nympho to boot. And I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to see the old lady swinging on some guy with her cane. Hell, it stands to reason,” he went on persuasively, “that they must hate the guts of Albert’s ex-wife. The way she callously divorced him when he was drafted. Wasn’t he sore about that himself?”

“Albert did not confide in me at the time of the divorce.”

“Did you draw up the will leaving everything to his ex-wife even though she remarried?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t question him about that provision?” Shayne asked incredulously.

“As his attorney, I followed his instructions. And now, Mr. Shayne, I don’t believe there is anything further for us to discuss.” The lawyer pushed back his chair and stood up.

Shayne remained seated with his legs crossed. He said, “There’s still Leon Wallace.”

“Who is he?”

“You heard me ask Mrs. Hawley about him this morning?”

“I dimly recall your mentioning the name. I have no idea who Leon Wallace is.”

“I told you this morning. A gardener whom they employed to keep the grounds in shape a year ago.”

“They’ve had no gardener for at least a year,” Hastings flatly.

“That’s evident from the condition of the grounds. And that’s what I wonder about.”

Hastings moved purposefully toward the door and said frostily, “It hardly seems a matter for discussion with you.”

Shayne still didn’t get up. He said, “The matter under discussion is the unexplained disappearance of Leon Wallace a year ago.”

Hastings paused with his hand on the doorknob. He kept his back to Shayne, but the detective saw his body stiffen to rigidity. “I fail to see how that concerns my clients. I understand he was discharged as an economy measure.”

Shayne said, “Maybe.” He stood up slowly. “Did Albert or his wife get the divorce?”

“Mrs. Hawley entered the suit in Nevada.”

“On what grounds?”

“Mental cruelty, I believe.” Hastings pulled the door open and turned worried eyes on Shayne. “It’s all water under the bridge now. I fail to see how anything constructive can come from reopening old wounds.”

Shayne said, “You’re probably right,” and sauntered out into the outer office, hearing the door shut firmly behind him.

A man and woman entered as he approached the outer door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with long apelike arms. The woman was young and smartly groomed, and even more sexually attractive in the flesh than she had appeared in the wedding photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Hawley which Shayne had studied in the News morgue earlier that morning.

Shayne stopped in front of them and said, “Hi, Jake. What’s a shyster like you doing in a legitimate law office?”

Jake Sims grinned without mirth and said, “I’ll throw that question right back at you, shamus. Don’t tell me the esteemed Lawyer Hastings has got down into the gutter by retaining you on a case?”

Shayne returned his grin, but his had real mirth in it. He said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to Matie?”

She was studying him calculatingly, with her head tilted a little on one side, her eyes unabashedly telling him she liked what she saw. “Who is he, Jake?”

“A good guy for you to stay away from,” grumbled Jake Sims. He grasped her well-fleshed arm firmly and drew her past Shayne toward the little man at the desk. She turned her head to keep her eyes on his as she went past, and her full red lips formed a little circle of disappointment-or of promise.

Shayne said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Meredith. We’ll be seeing each other around,” and went out before she could reply.

Downstairs, Shayne picked up the first edition of the Daily News and glanced at the front page as he went out to his car. There was a double-column spread by-lined Joel Cross with the heading:

HEROISM AT SEA

It was an excited and effusive announcement that feature writer Joel Cross had made arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s personal journal kept during those harrowing days at sea while he and two companions drifted helplessly on an open life raft after their plane crashed.

The announcement contained such phrases as: Authentic account of heroism on the high seas… vivid first-hand narrative of suffering and near-despair… what ordinary men say and think when faced with almost inevitable Death… a record of the last words of One Who Did Not Come Back… the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heart-strings of every reader…

Shayne folded the paper with a frown and got into his car. The whole thing was out in the open now. Anyone reading the News, with knowledge of the importance of the actual time of Albert Hawley’s death, would realize that Groat’s diary held the key to a fortune. As he drove east on Flagler toward his office he wondered if Joel Cross was yet aware of the dynamite contained in the pages of the diary.

Lucy Hamilton looked up with a frown puckering her smooth forehead when he entered his office. “Chief Gentry just called, Michael. You’re to call him. And Mrs. Groat telephoned earlier. She’s frantic and wants to know what you’re doing about finding her husband.”

Shayne shook his head soberly. “Not very much. I’m afraid we’d better give it to the police.”

“What do you think has happened to him, Michael?”

He said harshly, “I think he’s dead.”

He went into the inner office, circled his desk and opened the second drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a bottle of cognac. It was Three-Star John Exshaw, privately imported from France by a local dealer, which Tim Rourke had introduced to him recently, and his gaze dwelt pleasurably on the label as he carried it to the water cooler and fitted two paper cups together, filled the inner one almost to the brim and ran a cup of cold water to accompany it.

Carrying the cups to his desk he ranged them in front of him, sat down and took a deliberate sip of cognac, savoring the taste happily before letting it slide down his throat and chasing it with a sip of water. Then he lifted his phone and dialed Chief Will Gentry’s private number at police headquarters.

Gentry’s gruff voice answered and he said, “Mike Shayne, Will.”

“Mike! What’s with you and a man named Jasper Groat?”

Shayne hesitated a moment. “I’d like to find him.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Groat asked me to last night when she became worried about his not returning home.”

“Didn’t return from where?”

“Mrs. Groat didn’t know where he was headed when he left a little before eight,” Shayne said truthfully. “But I’ve been doing some digging and I can make a guess.”

“Make it,” said Will Gentry.

“I don’t know that I’m ready to, Will. What’s your interest?”

“We’ve got his body,” Gentry said. “At least… a body with identification indicating it’s Jasper Groat. His wife is on her way to the morgue right now to make a definite identification.”

Shayne’s mouth was dry. He took two long swallows of cognac to rectify that.

“Where and when was he found, Will?”

“In the water just a while ago. Just offshore from Coral Gables. Knocked on the head and dead at least twelve hours. Now it’s your turn.”

“One more question, Will. Anywhere near where Bayside Drive dead-ends at the Bay?”

“Hold it.” Shayne drank more cognac and listened to a mumble of voices at the other end of the wire. Then Gentry said, “Less than a quarter of a mile. That mean anything?”

Shayne said, “Probably. The Hawley estate is on Bayside Drive near the water. I have information that Groat was supposed to call on a member of the Hawley family at eight last night… but never showed up. You might try checking taxis for information on that. He didn’t own a car.”