Brett Halliday: Date with a Dead Man

“He got himself murdered last night. I gather he was the sort of man who had moral scruples. On the other hand, I gather that Cunningham isn’t. So… Groat is dead and Cunningham is still alive. When does he say Albert Hawley died?” he demanded suddenly of Mrs. Meredith.

“He doesn’t.” She rounded her eyes at him again, then reached out one hand impulsively to touch his wrist. “Do you think you could persuade him to say it was the fifth day?”

A hot glow showed in Shayne’s gray eyes. “I think the right sort of offer would persuade Cunningham to testify to anything… if he could be certain that an entry in Groat’s diary wouldn’t prove him a liar.”

“That’s the crux of it,” said Sims bitterly. “That diary! Do you know what date it gives for Albert’s death?”

Shayne shook his red head. “I haven’t seen the diary.”

“Can you find out?” Sims leaned forward eagerly. “You’re very close to Timothy Rourke on the News. He must know… or can find out easily enough from that other reporter.”

Shayne nodded. “Probably.”

“You know how important it is to Mrs. Meredith to prove that Ezra predeceased his nephew. You could earn a fat fee by finding out what the diary says before it’s published.”

“It’s just as important to the Hawleys to prove that Albert died before his uncle,” Shayne pointed out.

“Have they retained you?” demanded Sims swiftly.

“No. At the moment I’m open to any reasonable offer.”

“How much?”

“How much for what?” asked Shayne cheerfully.

Jake Sims hesitated, working the thin cigar around in his mouth and glancing surreptitiously at his client and then back at the redhead. “You understand the position as well as I do. If the diary proves that Albert died on the fifth day… we’re in. Even if the Hawleys offered Cunningham a million-dollar bribe to say it was the fourth day, he wouldn’t dare accept it because the diary would prove him a liar.”

“But he isn’t saying which day it was,” Shayne guessed sardonically, “until he knows the diary won’t pop up to make a liar out of him.”

“That’s about it. Which poses another question, Shayne. You say Groat is dead. Does the News still have the right to publish his diary?”

Shayne said, “You’d better ask their lawyers that question.” He turned his attention back to Mrs. Meredith whose fingertips were still resting lightly on his wrist. “I should think you might be able to make a private deal with a man like Cunningham.”

She smiled slowly and her fingers pressed harder against his flesh. “I imagine I could. In fact, he suggested as much this morning. But I’d much rather make a private deal with a man like you, Michael Shayne.”

“You’ve already pointed out,” Sims broke in, “that Cunningham’s testimony is valueless if the diary contradicts him. On the other hand, it’s also valueless if the diary confirms it. Either way, he has nothing to sell either side so long as the entries in the diary are to be published in a newspaper. That’s what I explained to Mrs. Meredith this morning.”

“But if the diary should disappear before it is published… or the salient entry be deleted from it before publication… then Cunningham’s testimony would be worth a couple million dollars to… someone,” mused Shayne.

“Precisely.” Sims leaned back and puffed vigorously on his cigar. “That’s why it’s so important for us to learn what it does say.”

“How important?” asked Shayne with alert interest. “In terms of actual dollars?”

“That depends a great deal,” hedged Sims, “on what it says. If the entry is in our favor the information won’t be worth a great deal. But if it isn’t…”

He paused and Shayne said curtly, “… and if you can find a way to suppress it, that would be worth a fortune. Assuming, as I am, that in that contingency Cunningham is prepared to swear Albert Hawley survived for five days.”

“I think we can assume that,” said Mrs. Meredith evenly. “I don’t think we should be so crude as to offer you a bribe, Mr. Shayne, but…”

“Go right ahead,” said Shayne harshly. “Be just as crude as you like.”

“Let us not be too hasty,” interposed Sims. “Until we read the entry in the diary we have no way of knowing whether it will have to be suppressed or not. Making an offer at this point is just like buying a pig in a poke.”

“But how will we know unless Mr. Shayne manages to get hold of the diary for us? I insist that we retain him, Mr. Sims. What will the fee be?” She turned a hopeful smile on Shayne.

“In dollars and cents?”

“What other medium of exchange will you consider?” Her eyes were bold and her smile provocative.

Shayne studied her gravely for a long moment. “Perhaps we could discuss that privately some other time, Mrs. Meredith. Right now… just to put me in a legal position… let’s agree that I am representing you in my efforts to learn what the diary says before it is published… and if I succeed you will pay me a thousand dollars for my services.”

“I agree,” she said promptly, still holding his gaze. “And if it should state in the diary that Albert died before his uncle… what then, Mr. Shayne?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” He got up and went to the door. “I’ll have my secretary type up a brief memo for you to sign.”

As he entered the outer office Lucy Hamilton snapped off the inter-com over which she had been listening and looked at him with an angry flush on her face.

“Exactly what medium of exchange do you and Mrs. Meredith have in mind, Michael Shayne?”

He grinned and told her, “A nice girl like you shouldn’t have the faintest idea what Mrs. Meredith and I have in mind, Lucy. Type up a memo retaining me to try and get a preview of the diary, and have her sign it.” He took a panama from a rack near the door and strode out while Lucy glared at his retreating back.

At The Steakhouse on Northeast 3rd Avenue, Shayne pushed in at the busy bar beside Timothy Rourke who was nursing a rye highball. Rourke glanced obliquely at him and shifted his weight to the other hip to make a couple more inches of room, and asked with interest, “How’d you make out with the Hawley clan?”

“I met them all… including Beatrice.” Shayne caught the bartender’s eye and lifted one ragged red eyebrow.

Rourke said, “U-m-m. I’ve heard rumors.”

“They’re all true,” Shayne told him flatly. The bartender set a four-ounce glass and an open bottle of cognac in front of him, and turned away for a glass of ice water. Shayne splashed liquor into the glass and asked, “Is Joel Cross around?”

“I saw him come in a few minutes ago.” Rourke twisted around to survey the crowded room and nodded toward a heavy-set young man with an aggressive crew-cut, wearing thick-lensed tortoiseshell glasses, who leaned against one of the booths, talking to four men eating lunch.”

“That’s our white hope of journalism, God help us. He’ll be completely insufferable if that pilot’s journal turns out to be as hot stuff as he thinks it is.”

“You don’t like Cross?”

Rourke shrugged thin shoulders and turned back to his drink. “He’s young,” he said indifferently. “He’ll learn.”

“I take it you haven’t read Groat’s diary.”

“No one has. It’s Joel’s very own exclusive scoop. He’s guarding it like the Kohinoor for fear some advance quotes will get printed.”

“One thing I wonder about it, Tim,” Shayne mused, taking a long appreciative sip of cognac and keeping his voice carefully casual. “What sort of arrangement has he made with Groat for publishing it? Specifically,” he went on quickly, “whether the rights have been signed, sealed and delivered… formally and irrevocably.”