Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Mrs. Meredith came up from her chair, clutching her bag with both hands, and giving Shayne a provocative look. “Perhaps we can talk about this further — privately.” Her slight hesitation before the last word was just enough to indicate she didn’t wish to discuss Leon Wallace before her attorney.

Shayne got up and said, “I’m at your service.”

“Suppose, then, I call you after you’ve had time to think things over.” She walked toward the door.

Sims hesitated, his loose lips drawn tight, scowling his dissatisfaction at the turn the interview had taken. He nodded to Shayne and followed his client out.

Shayne’s phone rang. Inspector Quinlan in charge of the homicide department was on the wire. He said, “Shayne. I’ve got a stiff over here who used to be named Groat.”

“Where did you get him?”

“Fished him out of the river half a mile below the point where Labarre Road hits the levee. Bopped over the head about eighteen hours ago.”

“Any papers on him? A diary or anything like that?”

“Nothing at all. Sergeant Pepper says you’ve got some dope on him, and I just finished talking to Mrs. Groat. You’d better come over to my office and give out.”

Shayne said, “Right away.” He hung up and gently massaged his left earlobe for a moment before grabbing his hat.

“And that’s all I know about it,” Shayne completed his recital half an hour later in Quinlan’s office, spreading out his big hands in an open gesture. He had told Quinlan everything he knew about Jasper Groat, withholding only the details of his private talk with Leslie Cunningham and the information Mrs. Leon Wallace had given him.

Quinlan had a high forehead and thin features, with frosty blue eyes. He was intelligent and hard-boiled, and he liked Shayne. He leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a pencil. “It looks as though Groat went out to the Hawley house at eight, was met there by someone who conked him and carried his body down to the river. Why, Mike? And who?”

Shayne said, “You know as much about it as I do.”

“The way you tell it,” summarized the Inspector, “no one knew the diary was going to be important in determining the exact time of Albert Hawley’s death until Ezra Hawley’s will was read to the family this morning.”

“That’s the way it looks. Except Hastings, of course — the family lawyer. He probably knew the will was drawn up in such a way that the ex-Mrs. Albert Hawley would receive the inheritance only if it could be proved that Albert outlived his uncle.”

“Why did the Hawleys act the way they did about not seeing Groat?” demanded the Inspector irritably. “You’d think they’d want to talk with the men who were with Albert when he died.”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Sarah Hawley. She’s a tough old dame. I gather she blames them for saving their own lives while her son died.”

“Who’s this Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro who showed up at Groat’s apartment this morning?”

“Her husband has been missing for two years,” Shayne said slowly. “He was employed as the Hawley’s gardener at the time. It seems that Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace yesterday afternoon saying he had information about her missing husband, and asked her to come in to see him.”

“Information he must have got from Albert Hawley while the boy was dying.”

“That’s a good guess,” Shayne agreed.

“Then that may be the motive behind Groat’s death. To prevent him from turning that information over to Mrs. Wallace. Do you think there was some dirty work involving the Hawleys?”

“I — don’t know.” Shayne hesitated. “Let’s not forget the newspaper reporter Joel Cross. He had all day yesterday in which to read Groat’s diary. He’s smart. If it contained material for blackmailing the Hawleys, he’d realize at once that Groat’s religious scruples would prevent such usage of the diary. With Groat out of the way, the coast would be clear.”

“But he plans to publish the damned thing,” groaned Quinlan. “That doesn’t sound like blackmail. Stuff like that remains valuable only as long as it remains secret.”

“Sure. He prints a big item in the paper announcing publication of the diary. That’s to put the screws on. Remember, he has sole possession of the diary and he’s the one who will decide what is printed and what is withheld. That makes it a perfect blackmail setup for him — with Groat out of the way.”

“What about this fellow Cunningham? He must know what’s in the diary, too.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m not too sure about that. Remember, it was Groat who nursed Hawley in the lifeboat. I imagine Cunningham suspects the truth, though he may not know it all. Anyhow, he’d play with Cross for a split.”

“It’s too damned balled up,” Quinlan snorted. “We’re guessing at everything. We don’t even know whether the entry in the diary will throw Ezra Hawley’s money to the family or to Albert’s ex-wife.”

“That’s right,” Shayne agreed. “We don’t know anything for sure. We don’t even know who has the diary now.”

“Groat’s murderer.”

“Only if Groat had it on him when he was killed. We don’t know whether he ever got it back from Cross or not. If he did, he may have given it to someone or hidden it before he started to keep his eight o’clock appointment last night.” Shayne got up with a wide grin. “Should you talk to Joel Cross, don’t pay any attention if he accuses me of stealing the diary from his room. I didn’t, but someone else may have.” Shayne sauntered out with an infuriating wave of his hand.

Lucy was at her desk when he got back to his office. She looked up with a sardonic glint in her brown eyes and consulted a memo pad.

“Two women called,” she told him primly. “One of them wants you to call her and the other wanted your home address.”

“Who were the ladies?”

“I didn’t say either of them were ladies. One was a Mrs. Meredith. She’s at the St. Charles. Room 319. She’s the one who wants you to call her. The other one wouldn’t give her name. She giggles,” Lucy ended insinuatingly.

“Does she also nibble on her finger?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Lucy went on disdainfully. “She sounded like a mentally retarded, man-crazy she-wolf.”

Shayne nodded gravely. “You’re developing quite a knack for character analysis over the telephone. I suppose you gave this charming maiden the information she wanted?”

“I gave her the address of your apartment. You told me once I was never to refuse it to a female inquirer.”

Shayne said, “That’s swell. My liquor supply won’t be safe from now on. You can take the rest of the afternoon off,” he went on abruptly. “I think Mrs. Groat could use some company. They pulled her husband out of the river a short time ago.”

“Oh, Michael! Dead?”

“Since last night around eight.”

“Who did it? Has it anything to do with Mrs. Wallace, who was to have seen him this morning?”

He nodded soberly. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Sort of keep an eye on Mrs. Groat, angel. She may be in danger as long as her husband’s diary is missing. If the killer didn’t get it off Groat last night, he’s still after it.”

“Why is this diary so important, Michael?”

“I’m not just sure yet. Run along home and comfort Mrs. Groat. And if Leslie Cunningham should drop in with his consolations, comfort him, too — but in an impersonal sort of way.” He patted Lucy on the hand and went on into his private office where he called the St. Charles Hotel and asked for Room 319.

He heard the telephone buzz twice before Mrs. Meredith answered it.