Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“Yes. He gave me his telephone number yesterday.”

“Call him. Tell him I have the diary and we’re having a meeting in my office to decide what to do about it.”

Shayne sat back and thoughtfully rubbed his jaw while Lucy made the call from her desk. She came to the door and announced, “Cunningham is on his way over.”

Shayne said, “Get me Inspector Quinlan at Homicide.”

Lucy used her desk telephone. She buzzed Shayne, who picked up his receiver and said heartily, “Good morning, Inspector.”

“What’s good about it?” barked Quinlan. “I was going to call you. What’s this about you assaulting a lawyer last night?”

“Drake?”

“He threatens to swear out a complaint against you.”

“Fine. Tell him to be sure he specifies what I took from him.”

“What’s it all about, Mike? I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“Have you charged Gross with murder yet?”

“No. I don’t know about that janitor’s identification. Cross swears you put him up to it. One of my men had another talk with the Negro this morning, and showed him a picture of Gerald Meany and got him all confused. Right off he said Meany was the man. Then he got confused and denied it. You’ve got things so damned balled up I don’t believe we’ll get anywhere in court.”

Shayne said, “That’s too bad, Inspector. Will it square things if I hand you the case all sewed up in a knot?”

“Which case? Groat or Meany?”

“Both,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “That is, they’re the same one. Why don’t you pick up Meany and bring him and Cross to my office in half an hour?”

“More rabbits out of your hat?”

“You’ll be surprised. Call Lawyer Hastings and ask him to come over to see that his client’s rights are protected.” He hung up before Quinlan could ask more questions.

The first to arrive were Mrs. Meredith and Jake Sims. Lucy ushered them in. Shayne said, “Get your notebook, Lucy.” Then he said, “Good morning,” to Mrs. Meredith, and nodded to Sims.

Mrs. Meredith was perfectly groomed and alert. She advanced toward him with narrowed eyes and asked sharply, “Where is the diary?”

He took it from his pocket and laid it on the table, waving her to a seat beside his desk. Lucy came in with her notebook and he said to his visitors, “Excuse me while I dictate a memorandum agreement. The date, Lucy. U-m-m—

“Agreement entered into this day between Mrs. Theodore Meredith and Michael Shayne relative to certain professional services performed and to be performed by said Michael Shayne in the matter of a legacy from the estate of the late Ezra Hawley which Mrs. Meredith claims and is desirous of acquiring.

“As payment for his professional services in substantiating her claim to the said estate, Mrs. Theodore Meredith hereby agrees to pay Michael Shayne the sum of ten thousand dollars if and when the estate legally comes into the possession of Mr. and/or Mrs. Theodore Meredith by due process of law.

“In the event that this claim is disapproved and said estate does not accrue to Mrs. Theodore Meredith and/or her husband, it is further agreed that Michael Shayne’s fee for professional services in this matter shall be exactly no dollars and no cents.”

“What on earth makes you think I’ll sign that agreement?” demanded Mrs. Meredith.

Shayne said to Lucy, “Type it out in duplicate and bring it right in.” He turned to Mrs. Meredith, “You’ll sign it if you want to get your hands on a million or so dollars.” He opened the diary, dipped the pages to the entry containing Albert Hawley’s death. “Hawley died the fourth night after the ship was torpedoed,” he pointed out. “Ezra Hawley died the next night. What does that do to your claim?”

Mrs. Meredith bit her underlip. She and Sims both leaned forward to look at the entry. Shayne held the book in his hands. He asked, “Do you think my services will be worth ten grand?”

“What do you plan to do?” Sims asked. “Destroy the diary?”

“Let’s not go into details,” Shayne reproved him. “The least said about this diary, the better. If it disappears—” He shrugged and replaced it in his pocket. “According to the agreement Lucy is typing, I don’t collect a cent unless you get the estate.”

“What about Cunningham’s testimony?” Sims grated.

“I think he will play ball without the diary to contradict him. Let me worry about Cunningham.”

Lucy came in with two typed sheets. She closed the door and told Shayne, “Mr. Cunningham is outside.”

“Let him stay there until we get this thing signed. You and Sims can witness it.” Shayne passed his pen to Mrs. Meredith. “I’ve got you in a tight spot,” he reminded her. “I’ve been offered five grand to throw the estate in the other direction.”

She studied him coolly for a moment, read the document through, then signed her name. Shayne put his signature beneath hers. Lucy and Sims both signed as witnesses, and Shayne gave one copy to Mrs. Meredith. He folded the other and put it in his pocket.

He said to Lucy, “Now send Cunningham in. And you skip down to the newsstand and pick up a copy of the paper carrying the rescue story. He always keeps back copies for at least a week.”

Lucy went out. Leslie Cunningham strode into the office. He stopped on widespread feet and looked at the others.

Shayne said, “Let’s get this over fast before the others arrive. Quinlan is bringing two murder suspects with him and I’ve promised him enough to hang the guilty party. I’ve got Groat’s diary, Cunningham. As you know, it proves that Hawley died one day too soon for him to inherit his uncle’s estate. However, Mrs. Meredith is making it worth my while to see that she gets the money. Why don’t you and she talk the same sort of a deal over? Or maybe you already have an understanding.”

“Sure,” Cunningham said huskily. “We understand each other. You’ve got the diary, huh?”

“I’ve got it. And I’m going to see to it she gets the estate. Suit you?”

“Suits me.”

Shayne heard someone entering the outer office. He opened the door and said, “Come in, Mr. Hastings. I believe you know Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Sims. And Mr. Cunningham — the missing witness who is prepared to testify that Albert Hawley did not die until the fifth night after the ship sank.”

“Cunningham, eh?” Hastings took off his glasses and looked at the bronzed sailor. “Does he have Groat’s diary to back up his testimony? I understand it has disappeared.”

“It seems to have done just that,” said Shayne. “So that leaves Cunningham the only witness.”

“By heavens, Shayne, I don’t—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a plain-clothes man with Gerald Meany in tow. Behind them were Quinlan and Joel Cross.

Shayne greeted them with a wide grin, saying, “I’m sorry there aren’t enough chairs to go around, but this won’t take long.” He brought in two chairs from the outer office. “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can and we’ll see if we can figure things out.”

“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Shayne?” Quinlan took the center of the floor and glared at the detective. “Who are all these people and how do they figure in murder?”

Shayne paused momentarily, then said, “I’ve been doing some more digging into this thing, Inspector. Remember the woman who came up to meet Groat the morning after he was murdered — Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro? Her husband disappeared two years ago while working as a gardener for Mrs. Sarah Hawley. He wrote his wife a curious letter telling her not to look for him and enclosing ten grand. He promised her an additional grand every six months if she kept her mouth shut and didn’t raise a stink about his disappearance. She didn’t, and every six months since she has received the money in an envelope addressed by her husband and mailed in New Orleans. I have those envelopes here. I think laboratory tests will prove they were all addressed to her by Wallace at the time he disappeared — just prior to Albert Hawley’s induction into the army and while Mrs. Albert Hawley was in Reno getting a divorce. Does that suggest anything to you?”