Brett Halliday: Date with a Dead Man

Curiously enough, there was no further mention of the widowed Mrs. Albert Hawley in the wealth of background material on the family. It was stated that no member of the Hawley clan was available for interview. No comment was forthcoming from the family on the death of young Hawley at sea, the only one on the passenger list miraculously saved from the crash along with the two crew members.

It was duly noted by the Herald, however, that this seemingly cold-blooded reticence of the Hawleys was due in part, at least, to the fact that the family was already in mourning for the recent death of Ezra Hawley, Albert’s uncle and the actual, patriarchal head of the clan for the last six years, since the death of his brother who had been a partner with him in the Hawley Enterprises.

Ezra Hawley’s death at the age of sixty-eight had occurred during the period after it was known that Albert’s plane had crashed into the ocean and before it was reported that Albert was the only passenger who had survived. This was coincidental enough to provide the writer of the story with a couple of paragraphs of philosophical comment on the Unknowingness of the Unknown and some vague conjectures concerning the disposition of Ezra Hawley’s immense fortune, which had not been released to the press.

Shayne laid the Herald aside with a brooding and dissatisfied frown. He drank the last of his cognac and drummed blunt fingertips unhappily on the table top, while he tried unsatisfactorily to fit various fragments of unrelated information into place to form a complete pattern that would begin to make sense. He glanced at his watch and again dialed Timothy Rourke’s home telephone number which had not answered when he tried it in Jasper Groat’s apartment.

Again he waited for a number of rings before hanging up. This time he tried the Daily News number and got the City Room. But Rourke was not on tap and no one knew exactly where he could be reached. Shayne settled for the City Editor, and when he was connected said crisply, “Mike Shayne, Dirkson. I’ve been trying to get hold of Tim Rourke.”

He listened a moment and then broke in impatiently, “Okay. I’ll check with Tim tomorrow. In the meantime… who covered the story of those two rescued airline personnel this morning?”

Dirkson said, “Joel Cross interviewed them first. What’s up, Shayne?”

“I don’t know,” the redhead said honestly. He didn’t know Cross, but had heard Rourke mention his co-worker in somewhat derogatory terms. “Is Cross around now?”

Dirkson said, “Hold it a minute.” In less than a minute, his voice came back: “Joel’s out on a story. Is this important, Shayne?”

Again the detective said honestly, “I don’t know. I’m chasing down a rumor that the copilot of the plane, Jasper Groat, kept a diary while on the life raft… that the News may be planning to publish it… or excerpts from it.”

There was a slight pause, and then Dirkson’s voice purred, “Now, wherever would you have picked up a piece of information like that, Shayne?”

He said, “I get around. Do you confirm it?”

Dirkson said abruptly, “No.”

“Do you deny it?”

Dirkson said again, and more abruptly, “No.” He hung up.

So did Michael Shayne. He sat very still for a brief period, frowning at nothingness and tugging at his left ear lobe.

Then he went to bed.

At nine-thirty the next morning Shayne was smoking a cigarette and working on his second cup of coffee when his telephone rang.

Lucy Hamilton’s voice said, “Michael? I hope I woke you up.”

He said, “Not quite,” and managed to yawn into the mouthpiece.

“You have a client here in the office.” Lucy’s voice was crisply businesslike. “Can you get down right away?”

Shayne said, “It’s pretty early, angel. Can’t you…?”

She said, “It’s Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro and she has to get back home as soon as possible.”

Shayne said, “Right away. Uh… anything on Groat this morning?”

“Nothing. I’ll have Mrs. Wallace wait, Michael.” He finished his coffee fast and stubbed out his cigarette after hanging up. He was already shaved and dressed, and it took only a tie and a jacket to send him out of the apartment. Less than fifteen minutes after Lucy’s call he stepped out of the elevator in a downtown office building and long-legged it to a closed door marked MICHAEL SHAYNE. INVESTIGATIONS.

Lucy Hamilton was alone at her desk in the reception room when he entered. The door leading into his private office stood open, and she nodded toward it meaningfully as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Shayne. I asked Mrs. Wallace to wait inside.”

He tossed his panama on a hook beside the door and asked, “Have you talked with her?”

“Just briefly. Mrs. Jasper Groat suggested she come here. It’s something to do with her husband who is missing.”

Shayne frowned, “Mrs. Groat’s husband?”

“Well, he’s missing, too, as you know. But Mrs. Wallace is worried about her husband. I suggested she save the whole story for you so she wouldn’t have to repeat it.”

Shayne said, “Right,” and moved toward the open door. Over his shoulder he suggested, “Why don’t you bring your notebook and sit in, Lucy? You know more about the Groat matter than I do.”

A slender young woman arose from a straight chair beside Shayne’s desk as he entered his office. Her black hair was cut short, with tousled bangs lying across a high forehead, and she had a thin, intelligent face with a minimum of make-up, widely-spaced gray eyes that gave an impression of mature serenity at variance with her youthful appearance.

She wore a plain white blouse and a gray tweed skirt, serviceweight hose on her nice legs, and serviceable oxfords tied with neat bows. All of her clothing was of good quality, neat and worn without being shabby. There was an immediate first impression of reliability and strength about her slender figure, an exudation of good breeding and dignity which was strengthened by her modulated voice. “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Shayne.”

A pair of clean, white knitted gloves lay on the edge of Shayne’s desk, beside a sturdy handbag of good leather, designed to last for as many more years as it had already been in service.

She offered him a hand with well-shaped fingers and close-trimmed nails that were innocent of polish, and the flesh was firm inside his big hand, the grip strong without being masculine.

He said, “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Wallace,” and meant it. He held the chair for her to reseat herself, went around his desk to sit down while Lucy settled herself on the other side with notebook open in front of her.

Shayne said, “Start at the beginning and tell me why you’re here.”

“I live in Littleboro, Mr. Shayne, and I had a telephone call, long distance from Miami, yesterday afternoon. A man who said his name was Jasper Groat. It was the first time I had heard the name, although I read all about him on the bus coming in last night. He gave me his address and told me he had news about my husband, Leon. He promised to tell me everything if I would come to see him this morning, but refused to say anything else over the telephone. He wouldn’t even say whether it was good news or not. Just that he had important information about Leon that he’d tell me this morning.”

She leaned forward slightly, her fingers twisting together in her lap and the unnatural brightness of her eyes the only clues to the inner tension which she concealed so well.

“I came at once, of course, arranging with a neighbor to stay with the twins. And when I went to his address this morning, Mrs. Groat told me… that her husband is missing also. Since last night. She claims she doesn’t know anything about his telephone call to me and has never heard of my husband. And she suggested I talk to you about it.”