Brett Halliday: Date with a Dead Man

“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.

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.”

He lifted the book out and flipped the pages while Jake Sims and his client crowded close and peered avidly but not very hopefully at the handwritten entries.

Shayne slowed turning the pages after the crash-landing was noted. “Check the dates carefully,” he told them. “Here’s the first day after the wreck. The second and third days. The fourth day.” He paused tantalizingly. “And the morning of the fifth day.” He held the diary open so they could both read Jasper Groat’s entry for the fifth morning: The soldier died quietly during the night.

Matie Meredith did not waste time reading further. She stepped back and said bitterly, “I think I’ve known the truth all along. I’ve kidded myself trying to think the diary would say otherwise, but I think I knew I was kidding myself.”

Sims was still leaning over Shayne’s shoulder, reading from the page. He reached for the book with clawlike fingers, croaking with suppressed rage, “Lemme read a little more. Maybe I can…”

“Nuh-uh.” Shayne pushed him back ungently, closing the diary and placed it in his hip pocket. “I earned my grand by giving you this prepublication look at the diary. Nothing was said about letting it out of my possession. Either of you in a mood for that drink now?”

“I’ll have one. Thank you,” said Matie, moving to the sofa and sitting down to cross her ankles pensively. “Scotch on the rocks?” She regarded him steadily with a searching, probing gaze.

“One Scotch on the rocks,” Shayne repeated affably. “You, Jake?”

Sims shook his head. “I think I’d better stay sober to see what sort of proposition you have in mind.”

There was a light rap on the door as Shayne nodded. He went to it and admitted Lucy Hamilton, bareheaded and carrying a bulky leather bag on a strap over her shoulder. He said, “Just in time, angel. I’m taking orders for drinks.”

“I didn’t know it was a party.” Her brown eyes glittered as she took in Mrs. Meredith apparently making herself very much at home on the sofa. “You told me to bring my notebook.”

“So I did,” agreed Shayne.

“So it’s business,” she said a little too sharply. “And you know I never drink during business hours.”

Shayne said, “Sit down, then, and make like a secretary.” He carried a bottle of Scotch into the kitchen and reappeared after a moment with two cubes of ice floating in amber liquid which he handed to Matie.

Then he seated himself comfortably and poured himself a moderate portion of cognac, explained to Lucy, “Our client has just read the bad news in Groat’s diary. Her ex-husband died in the night preceding his uncle’s death. Thus he did not inherit, and not one cent of Ezra Hawley’s fortune will be legally passed on to Mrs. Meredith. I think the situation is clear to all of us.” He paused to glance at Matie and Sims.

She sipped from her glass and kept her eyes downcast without replying, while Sims prowled nervously about the room and exclaimed, “If no one else has seen that crucial entry… what’s to prevent our destroying it here and now? With it out of the way, Cunningham is perfectly willing to swear to anything that will assure Mrs. Meredith getting the money.”

Shayne said dryly, “I’m sure Pete Cunningham is perfectly willing to perjure himself to help Matie out. But don’t forget that Joel Cross, the reporter, has read the diary.”

“But he murdered the Hawley daughter, didn’t he? Right here in this room? I heard all about it on a newscast. His testimony won’t bear much weight if he’s in jail accused of murder.”

“I don’t know how long he’ll stay in jail. On the other hand,” Shayne went on briskly, “we have no reason to suppose he knew the importance of the date when he skimmed through the diary, and it probably made little impression on him. So it’s quite possible he wouldn’t dispute the date later on… without the diary to back him up.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Sims eagerly. “So let’s burn the thing here and now.”

“We can hardly do that. It’s Mrs. Groat’s property now.”

“Nuts!” snorted Sims. “What’s it worth to her? A few thousand bucks, perhaps, that the News will pay for permission to print it. We can pay her double or triple whatever they offer.”

“There is that,” agreed Shayne. “You probably can make a deal with her for cash. But there’s still my conscience to consider. Don’t forget, I’ve read the diary… and I realize the importance of the date of Hawley’s death even if Cross doesn’t.”

There was a little silence in the room. Then Matie Meredith lifted her head and opened her eyes wide and asked clearly, “What is the current quotation for Michael Shayne’s conscience?”

He said, “Let’s not be crude about it. There’s my license to consider as well as my conscience. My position here in Miami.”

“All right,” said Sims bitterly. “How much, Shayne? You’ve got us over a barrel and we know it as well as you do.”

“How right you are,” said Shayne affably. “So I’ve been trying to figure out a way to protect myself and at the same time do Mrs. Meredith a favor and make a buck for my declining years. Got your notebook, Lucy?”

She had been sitting at the table, stiff and silent, all the time they had been talking, and now she nodded and patted her bag but made no move to open it. “You can’t do it, Michael,” she said flatly. “It’s illegal and dishonest to suppress the evidence that’s in the diary. No amount of money in the world is enough to pay you to do a thing like that.”

He said lightly, “Suppose you let me decide that, Lucy.”

“I won’t let you do it,” she raged. “If you’re so infatuated with that woman smirking there on your couch that you’re willing to sell your soul to her for a mess of pottage… Well, I won’t let you do it. You’ve all been talking and acting as though I weren’t here,” she stormed on, her voice choked with tears. “Well, I’m a witness, too, don’t forget that. I’ll get up in court and testify that Albert died before his uncle. And no one can stop me.”

Shayne said, “Cut the histrionics, and get out your notebook, Lucy. You’re still on my payroll, remember? I want you to take this down in shorthand exactly as I give it to you. We can discuss the ethics of it later.”