Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“She wanted to keep Ezra Hawley’s money away from her dead brother’s ex-wife. I suppose she wanted me to help her.”

“The woman in Room 319 at the St. Charles?” Quinlan asked, frowning deeply.

“That’s right — Mrs. Meredith.”

“I suppose she wants you to help her get the money.”

“That’s right.”

“And Leslie Cunningham, Groat’s companion in the lifeboat, was with Mrs. Meredith when I talked to them.”

“That’s right. Cunningham is the only one left now who can testify when Hawley died.”

“Is he working with Mrs. Meredith?”

Shayne hesitated, then said, “My impression of Cunningham is that he’s out for whatever he can get. Mrs. Meredith has quite a lot to offer, I’d say.”

“And you think she’s offering it to him?”

“She’s hard-boiled and she’s plenty smart. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get hold of a million dollars.”

“What about Groat’s diary?”

“That’s still the stumbling block. The hell of it is,” Shayne admitted irritably, “we don’t know which side the diary favors — the Hawleys or Mrs. Meredith. Cunningham pretends he isn’t sure whether Hawley lived four or five days. That may be the truth, or he may just be waiting to make sure the diary is out of the way before he comes forward with definite testimony. Both parties are anxious to get hold of it to substantiate their claim or to suppress it if it doesn’t substantiate their claim.”

“Doesn’t anyone actually know what’s in the diary?”

“Cunningham may, but he’s not saying. And Joel Cross should know, whether he realizes what it means or not.”

Quinlan blinked at him. “Cross must know plenty or he wouldn’t have advertised he was going to print the diary.”

“Yeah.” Shayne took a long drink from the brandy bottle. He sat down on the sofa beside Quinlan. “Cross could be playing a deep game,” he mused. “What have you done about alibis for Groat’s death?”

“Not much. I haven’t checked yours, for instance.”

Shayne grinned. “What time?”

“Matson puts the murder between eight and nine last night. If he’s right—”

“Let’s assume it’s correct,” Shayne suggested.

“He was murdered with the old familiar blunt instrument, and tossed in the river soon afterward,” Quinlan said heavily.

“Any way of telling how soon?”

“I asked Matson that. He grumbled about expecting miracles from a mere man of science and then admitted there were indications that it was not more than ten or fifteen minutes later.”

“Just long enough to get from the Hawley house to the river.”

Quinlan nodded unhappily. “I got exactly the same information you did, except the old woman said the girl was nuts and that her saying she talked to Groat and invited him out wasn’t worth a damn as testimony. Which reminds me—” He went to the telephone.

There was a knock at the door. Shayne opened it. A girl in messenger uniform said, “Telegram for Mrs. Mere—”

Shayne said, “Sh-h,” and shoved her into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “I’m Mr. Meredith. I’ll sign.” He fished out a half-dollar and put it in her hand, signed for the message, and thrust it into his pocket.

Quinlan was just hanging up the receiver when Shayne returned. He asked, “Who was that?”

“Telegram for me.”

Quinlan grunted and said, “Gerald Meany is missing — since a little before five. From what my men learned out there it looks as though he may have followed his wife over here.”

“Followed her?”

“Here’s the way they got it,” Quinlan said. “Mrs. Meany called a taxi and left the house around four o’clock. Seems she had some sort of an argument with her husband before she left, and a short time later he came down from her room with a scrap of paper and asked the Negro butler and Mrs. Hawley if either of them knew whose address it was.

“They both claimed they didn’t know. The Negro did remember the street name, and told my men it was a number on Carondolet. It was on a sheet torn from the telephone pad in the Meanys’ suite. The butler testified that Meany went out to his car and drove away immediately afterward. He hasn’t returned. I’ve got a pickup out for him.”

Shayne said, “It adds up to fit Jake’s story. Funny — he didn’t act like the jealous type.”

“That does it,” Quinlan said briskly. “He got sore about the way she carried on with you when you were out there. He brooded about it all day. When she came over here this afternoon it was too much for him. So he let her have it when he found her waiting here.”

Shayne’s gaunt face was expressionless. He said, “It sounds okay, but he was crazy if he was jealous of his wife on my account.” He grimaced at the memory of the few moments spent with her in her living-room. Then he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read: You know utterly impossible for me to come. Call me tonight. Extremely anxious. Theodore.

Shayne crumpled the yellow sheet and tossed it aside carelessly. He asked pointedly, “Anything else you want with me?”

“Not until we pick up Meany and find whether he’s got an alibi for this.” Quinlan went out, reminding Shayne as he went to the door: “You’ve still got twelve minutes unaccounted for — and I don’t believe you were window shopping.”

Shayne jumped up and rummaged in the top drawer of a chest of drawers, returned to the sofa with a memorandum book which he hadn’t used in many years. After taking a big drink from the brandy bottle, he settled himself and slowly turned the yellowed pages of the book.

Halfway through the memo pad he nodded with satisfaction. Holding the pages open with his thumb, he reached for the telephone and rang long-distance.

When the operator answered he said, “I want to place a person-to-person call to Chicago to Benjamin D. Ames, private detective, formerly associated with World Wide Detective Agency. He has a home in Chicago, I think. This is urgent police business. Please rush it.” He gave his name and telephone number, hung up, took another drink, and settled back to wait.

He was staring into space and massaging his left ear-lobe when the phone rang. The operator said, “Ready on your call to Chicago, Mr. Shayne.”

A reedy, nasal voice said, “Hello.”

Shayne said, “Ben Ames? This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.” After a few brief explanations, Shayne said, “Here’s a little job I need whipped up in a hurry. Got a few hours free and a pencil and paper to take this down?”

“Both,” said Ames. “Shoot.”

“Theodore Meredith.” Shayne gave him the street address. “I need a picture of him. He won’t give you one, if my hunch is right, so you’d better take along a photog to steal one. But get it, Ben! And get all the dope about him you can pick up in a hurry. Here’s your in to get at him. He’s in the headlines in New Orleans as husband of the ex-wife of Albert Hawley, soldier recently lost at sea, and through Hawley, Meredith’s wife is in line to inherit a million or so left to Hawley by his uncle, Ezra Hawley. A Chicago reporter could be interested in the story.”

“Sure. I’ll get to him, Mike. How fast and how much do you want to lay on the line?”

“There’s a plane leaving Chicago tonight. Get the pic and anything else you can on that plane and you’ll be a C-note richer.”

“Can do,” Ames assured him. “Air express to you in New Orleans?”

“Right.” Shayne gave his address and hung up.

There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He recognized the sign. He took a drink of brandy as an antidote. He was beginning to move now. The plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive about nine in the morning. If his hunch was right—