Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

He said, “This is Mike Shayne.”

“Have you had time to think things over, Mr. Shayne?”

“Enough to give me a headache,” he growled.

“You poor man.” Her voice was lightly mocking. “Perhaps a drink would help.”

“It’s an idea.”

“I’ll be happy to fix you a special recipe all my own if you’d like to come over.”

Shayne said, “In ten minutes,” and hung up.

Mrs. Meredith was waiting for Shayne in the living room of her two-room suite. She was wearing a clinging hostess gown of gray satin, and her brown hair, quite obviously brightened with a reddish hair-tint, was upswept. The gown and the hair-do gave her height and dignity. She put her hand in his and drew him into the room.

Shayne’s gray eyes held an odd look. She tilted her head and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’ve decided to be afraid of you,” Shayne told her bluntly.

She gave his hand an extra pressure and released it. “I like that. It’s every woman’s secret desire to be dangerously alluring.”

“You’re intelligent along with it,” he told her. “I should get out of here while I can.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“You know I’m not.” He prowled across the room to a low table in front of the divan. It held an ice bucket, a bottle of bonded bourbon, a small bowl with a teaspoon, two tall glasses full of shaved ice, and a squatty vase holding a bouquet of mint sprigs. Green mint leaves floated in the bowl on top of a syrupy mixture of granulated sugar dissolved in a small quantity of bourbon.

She came over and sat down on the divan. “This is the headache medicine I mentioned.” She poured half the mixture into each glass of shaved ice, tilted the whisky bottle, and filled the glasses to the brim with straight bourbon. She looked up and smiled at the mild amazement on Shayne’s angular face. “That’s the secret of a true New Orleans mint julep.”

“You didn’t spare the horses when you poured those,” he said.

“But wait.” She decorated each glass with mint sprigs from the vase, then held out a glass to him.

Shayne moved over to a deep chair, sank into it, stretched his long legs out comfortably, and buried his nose in the mint. He took a long, slow drink. “This,” he said, “is the only civilized way to drink whisky. You are a charming hostess.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, as though accepting his statement not as flattery but as one with which she agreed.

“I’m beginning to understand how you induced your ex-husband to make a new will leaving everything to you after you had divorced him. That’s one of the angles that’s bothered me. It just didn’t make sense.”

She said, “Oh? And it does make sense now?”

“It’s beginning to. You had Hawley wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you?”

“Albert loved me,” she said softly.

Shayne took a sip from his glass. “What about Leon Wallace?”

“What do you know about him?” she countered.

“I know he went to work as a gardener on the Hawley estate about the time you decided to go to Reno and divorce your husband.” He looked steadily at her as he spoke. “And I know he disappeared soon afterward, placating his wife and children with a payment of ten thousand dollars. He has continued to send them a thousand dollars every six months — in envelopes mailed from New Orleans.”

Mrs. Meredith met his eyes levelly, an interested expression on her face. She said, “You do get around, don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”

“I also imagine that Albert Hawley knew the secret of Wallace’s disappearance and told it to Groat when he was dying in the lifeboat,” Shayne continued relentlessly. “Groat was an honorable man and the secret weighed on his conscience until he phoned Mrs. Wallace to come and see him. I’m inclined to believe,” he went on slowly, “that Jasper Groat was murdered last night to prevent that meeting from taking place.”

“Murdered!”

“His body was pulled out of the river a couple of hours ago.”

“Was his diary found?” she asked sharply.

“That’s damned important to you, isn’t it?”

She said impatiently, “You know what the exact date of Albert’s death means to me.”

“But who knew how important it was last night?”

Her face was blank for a moment. Then her eyes brightened and she nodded her head slowly. “I see now why you think his death had some connection with Leon Wallace rather than with the estate. Uncle Ezra’s will supposedly hadn’t been read when Groat was killed.”

He said, “That’s the way it was told to me.”

She was silently thoughtful, then said harshly, “Perhaps Groat got in your way, Mr. Shayne. You’re working for Cunningham, aren’t you? You look like someone who’d kill a man if he got in your way.”

Shayne grinned and rubbed his jaw. “I haven’t picked my client yet. I’m still shopping around for the best offer.”

“I think I’d like to be your client.”

“What’s your offer?”

She moved restively under his hard gaze. “In dollars and cents?”

“I’m not interested in anything else.”

“After I collect Ezra Hawley’s money I’ll be able to pay you any fee you want.”

“For what?” he demanded.

“Helping me to collect it — seeing to it that I collect,” she amended.

“Is Mr. Meredith in town with you?”

She was obviously disturbed at the sudden question. “No.”

“Where do you live?” Shayne probed.

“How can that possibly concern you?”

“What’s your husband’s business? What’s his first name? When and where did you meet him? What sort of man is he?” The questions came swiftly and angrily.

She didn’t answer. She sat up stiffly, reached for her drink, drank the last of it, and sucked at the shaved ice.

“There you are.” Shayne spread out his big hands and scowled. “One man has been murdered. If I stick my neck out, I’m going to know what I’m sticking it into.”

Mrs. Meredith lit a cigarette. She asked, “What have my private affairs to do with your sticking your neck out?”

“I don’t know yet. But I can’t help thinking about Leon Wallace deserting his wife and children mysteriously — at the same time you dashed off to Reno for a divorce.”

She said, “My husband’s name is Meredith, not Wallace, Mr. Shayne. His first name is Theodore, not Leon. And I assure you he isn’t a gardener. I went to Chicago immediately after my divorce was granted. I met Theodore there. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” Shayne said with blunt impatience. “Men have disappeared and changed their names before this — and married under the assumed names.”

“Really though!” She stiffened again and said, “A gardener!” Her voice was harsh with indignation.

“I didn’t know Wallace,” Shayne growled. “Maybe he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he had a lot of sex appeal. Women have fallen in love with gardeners before this.”

“And I suppose you think I furnished the money he sent his wife to keep her quiet? Or maybe you think Albert sent it, so I could run off with the gardener?” Her tone was mocking.

“There’s something screwy about what happened two years ago — Wallace disappearing, you divorcing Albert, Albert willing everything to you Afterward, Albert being inducted into the army. I don’t know what it is, but by God I’m going to find out!”

Shayne hunched forward and glared at the toe of his big shoe.

“Why keep harping on that when there’s a million-dollar estate waiting to be settled?” she asked calmly.

Shayne asked abruptly, “When did you first talk with Cunningham?”

After a slight hesitation she said, “This morning, shortly before lunch. After Mr. Sims and I heard the terms of the will from Hastings.”