Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

He waited a moment, listening to the phone ring, then said, “Joel? Swell. I’ll be right up.” He hung up, thanked the clerk, and went to the elevator.

The sixth-floor corridor was deserted. Shayne examined the lock on the door and selected three keys from a well-filled ring. The second key opened the door. He stepped in and closed it behind him. The shades were drawn, darkening the room. He switched on the lights and stood very still while his gaze went around the disordered room.

Bureau drawers had been pulled open and dumped on the floor. The mattress was turned back, disclosing bare springs. The typewriter-desk drawers were open and copy paper scattered on the floor.

Shayne went over and started to paw through the papers. He heard a faint click, and turned to see Joel Cross standing on the threshold. The reporter’s mustache bristled; his upper lip drew back to show his teeth. He took a .32 automatic from his pocket and held it carelessly at his side, the blued muzzle pointing at Shayne.

Cross said, “Stand right where you are while I use the telephone.”

Shayne grinned and made a wide gesture around the room. “You think I did this?”

“I’ll let the police ask the questions.” Cross was sidling across to the telephone.

“I got here about a minute before you did. You know that,” Shayne expostulated. “You saw me leave Henri’s not more than five minutes ago. How in hell do you think I managed all this in that time?”

“It’s been more than five minutes.” Cross’s voice was cold. He reached for the phone with his left hand.

“Don’t be a damned fool!” Shayne said impatiently. “You don’t want the police in on this.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want the police. I’ve got you for feloniously entering my room, if nothing else.”

“I didn’t break in. I pushed the door open and walked in. Check with the desk clerk,” he urged. “I called your room from downstairs not more than two minutes ago. Someone answered and I assumed it was you. I came up and found the door ajar. The clerk’s story will just make a fool of you with the police.”

Cross lifted the receiver and said, “Desk clerk.” He waited a moment, then said, “This is Mr. Cross. A moment ago when I came in you told me someone had just come up to my room. Did he ask for me at the desk?”

He listened for a while, nodding slowly and frowning. He said, “I see,” and hung up. He put the pistol back in his pocket. “I guess you’re right, Shayne. The clerk did hear you talking to somebody in my room.” He sat down on the bed and asked, “Who was it?”

Shayne shook his head. “Whoever it was ducked out before I could get up in the elevator. Is the diary gone?”

“So that’s what you were after?” Cross’s face was pale with anger.

“Where was it?” Shayne asked impatiently. “If it’s been stolen—”

“You’d better come clean with me, Shayne. What’s all this talk about Groat disappearing and maybe being dead? What are you and Jake Sims up to?”

Shayne looked around the room morosely. He said, “I don’t think it matters now,” and started toward the door.

Cross jumped up, bunching his right hand in his coat pocket. “You’re not leaving here until you do some talking.”

Shayne kept on going. He didn’t look at Cross. He went out the door and down the hall to the elevator, pushed the button and waited, keeping his back obstinately toward Cross’s door.

The elevator stopped and took him down to the lobby. He went out and walked back to the office.

Lucy was waiting impatiently to go out to lunch. “I’ve been waiting for hours,” she complained. “You’ve got company.” She indicated the closed door of his office.

Shayne said, “Run along now,” and opened his office door. Jake Sims was standing at the window with his hands clasped behind him. The young woman whom he had seen in Hastings’s office was sitting beside his desk. She looked up at him coolly, a cigarette in her left hand, her lips parted to let smoke flow out. He had the same impression of hard, alert intelligence, as when he had first seen her.

Sims said, “Glad to see you Shayne. This is Mrs. Meredith.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs. Meredith,” said Shayne, and sat down in his swivel chair.

Sims moved from the window and took a chair opposite Shayne. He said, “Mrs. Meredith is a client of mine from out of town.”

Shayne looked at her and didn’t say anything. She had her legs crossed and she smiled faintly. Her eyes were brown and calculating. She met Shayne’s gaze levelly, sizing him up as he imagined she did all men — to ascertain if she might use him and how best to handle him.

“I wondered,” said Jake Sims, “what sort of job you’re doing for Hastings.”

Shayne was still watching Mrs. Meredith. She made, a quick gesture with her left hand, as though she had come to a sudden decision.

“Where have you hidden Jasper Groat?” Her voice was strong and even, without impatience.

“You must be Albert Hawley’s divorced wife,” Shayne countered.

She nodded and leaned forward to stub out her cigarette in a tray on his desk.

“What makes you think I’ve hidden Groat?”

Jake Sims cleared his throat. “It’s fairly evident, Shayne. You’re working with Hastings to defraud my client of a fortune. You’ve got rid of the only witness who could testify that Hawley didn’t die until after his uncle passed on — until after he had legally inherited Ezra Hawley’s fortune.”

“The only witness?” Shayne asked mockingly.

“You know Cunningham either can’t or won’t make a definite statement,” Mrs. Meredith said. “He told us about talking with you last night. He’s convinced you know what’s happened to Jasper Groat.”

“But not the diary,” Shayne said gently.

“He thinks you’re working with the reporter who got the diary from Groat,” Sims put in.

“But you don’t” — Shayne swung about to face Sims — “else you wouldn’t have called Joel Cross to learn whether he had authority to publish the diary in the event of Groat’s death.”

“We know, of course, that you’re working for Mrs. Hawley,” Mrs. Meredith said coldly. “It doesn’t matter when or how you got hold of the diary. We want it — or assurance that it’ll be destroyed.”

“As soon as Cunningham is convinced it won’t turn up to prove him a liar, his memory will improve and he’ll know whether Albert Hawley lived four or five days in the lifeboat,” Shayne said.

“You can be sure the diary won’t do the Hawleys any good as evidence, even though it does seem to prove their point. If they introduce it in court, we’ll counter with Cunningham.”

“I don’t think he’ll testify until he’s sure the diary won’t pop up to prove him a liar,” Shayne said.

Sims scowled. “It’d be much better that way,” he agreed. “That’s why my client is willing to pay good money for it.”

“Were you in New Orleans when your ex-husband was inducted into the army?” Shayne asked her suddenly.

“I was in Reno getting my divorce.”

“But you were living here just prior to that?” he pressed her.

“Until I went to Reno, yes.”

“Did you know Leon Wallace?”

For the first time her superb equanimity was disturbed. She took time to get a cigarette out of her purse. Her hands trembled as she lit it. “The name sounds familiar,” she admitted.

“Was he the gardener at the Hawleys’ while you were there?”

“Perhaps. I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What’s this Wallace got to do with the present situation?” Sims demanded. “We’ve made you an open-and-shut offer, Shayne.”

“Leon Wallace has a lot to do with all this,” Shayne said slowly and emphatically. His eyes were bright.