Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Shayne grinned. “Anything new on Groat?”

“Nothing. Mrs. Groat has practically collapsed.”

“Does Mrs. Wallace know about the sea rescue and Groat’s hookup with Albert Hawley?”

“No, I’m sure she doesn’t. And Mrs. Groat doesn’t know anything about Leon Wallace except that he has been missing two years. Mrs. Wallace told her about Groat’s telephone call. What do you suppose it’s all about, Mike?”

“God knows,” he groaned. He rumpled his hair vigorously and drew a sheet of paper in front of him.

Lucy sat down and watched with interest the illegible marks Shayne made on the paper.

Shayne said, “We’ve got Groat and Cunningham marooned in a lifeboat with a wounded soldier who died after being adrift a few days. Groat was a religious cuss and nursed Albert Hawley the best he could, but he died in Groat’s arms. Hawley must have known he was dying and confided something that weighed on Groat’s conscience, so his wife thinks. Groat also talked about coming into a sum of money soon. Probably the diary, according to Cunningham. We can check on that. Groat secretly called Mrs. Wallace and asked her to come to New Orleans to learn the truth about her husband, then angrily denied the call to his wife. Groat went out at eight, promising to be back at nine, asked the switchboard operator how to get out to Labarre Road where the Hawleys live, then made a phone call and left. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

“Check,” said Lucy.

Shayne stopped making marks on the paper and flung the pencil across the room. He got up and strode over to pick up his hat.

“Where are you going?” Lucy asked.

“Right now I want to find out if Albert Hawley was at home two years ago when Leon Wallace took a run-out powder and sent his wife that screwy letter with ten grand enclosed.” He stopped on his way out and turned to Lucy, frowning. “Do you know how to get hold of Mrs. Wallace before she goes back?”

“No. But I know when her train leaves.”

“Catch her at the depot. Have her paged. I want to know if she has any of those later envelopes containing the semiannual payments. I want them. And I want the name of the bank where she claims the money is deposited, and a picture of her husband. If you don’t catch her at the depot, phone her at Littleboro as soon as she gets home.” He rammed his hat down and went out in long, driving strides.

Shayne went directly to the Missing Persons Bureau at Police Headquarters. Sergeant Pepper sat at his desk, a big, hulking man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair. He had been in charge of the Bureau for twenty years and carried more information in his head than in the filing-cases behind him. He nodded to Shayne.

Shayne slid into a chair in front of the desk and asked, “Anything on Jasper Groat?”

The sergeant had no discernible sense of humor. He blinked his eyes and looked meditative. “Missing since last night. Nope. You in on that, Mike?”

“Friend of his wife,” Shayne explained casually. “I was over last night and reported it for her. Here’s the only lead I could pick up. He may have taken a taxi from his apartment house out to the Hawley residence at eight last night. Will you check that?”

A flicker of interest showed in the Sergeant’s cold blue eyes. He rumbled, “Hawley? Son died in the lifeboat with Groat. Rich as all get-out.”

“That’s the one. Have you got him in your files?”

“Nope.”

“Or Leon Wallace?”

“Nope.”

“You may be able to find the cab driver who took Groat out there.”

“That’s our business,” Sergeant Pepper agreed dryly.

Shayne said, “If you pick up anything, let me know.”

The Sergeant nodded and Shayne went out to his car. He drove out to South Claiborne and angled out on the Jefferson Highway to Labarre just a short distance north of the levee.

Shayne drove between concrete gateposts onto a curving gravel drive that led through a grove of moss-draped oaks to an aged two-story plantation house whose stately columns supported a broad second-story gallery. Magnolia and crape myrtle trees pressed in close to the house, and to the left a sunken garden lay untended and desolate.

Silence enveloped the proud old mansion, and an atmosphere of decay pervaded the neglected exterior and the neglected grounds. The land was low and luxuriant ferns grew rampant in the damp soil around the veranda.

Shayne parked directly behind a black sedan in the driveway. The air was hot and humid, heavy with cloying, tropical odors. He mopped his brow as he went up the steps and pounded on the door with a bronze knocker.

The door opened so silently it startled him. A bent old Negro said, “Yassuh,” softly.

Shayne said, “I want to see Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”

“Nossuh, Ah’m sorry. Not ’thout you got a ’pointment.”

Shayne put his hand against the edge of the door and pushed. He strode past the servant into a wide, gloomy hall running the length of the house. He heard a murmur of voices from a room halfway down the hall and started walking in that direction. The old Negro shuffled along behind him, protesting loudly.

A tall man carrying a briefcase in one hand and a Panama hat in the other emerged from the doorway. His hair was a silvery mane flowing back from a strong, bony face, and he wore an outmoded suit of light gray.

He stopped in front of Shayne and asked, “Sir, what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”

“And who are you, sir?”

“A detective.”

“May I see your credentials?”

“Who are you?” countered Shayne.

The man extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. It read: Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner was the name, B. H. Hastings.

“I am legal counselor to Mrs. Hawley. I’ll have your credentials and hear your business.”

Shayne said, “I’m private and my business is with Mrs. Hawley,” and moved forward.

“Mrs. Hawley is — ah — overcome with grief,” Hastings appealed, moving beside the detective. “Her son was recently lost at sea and I have just completed the sad task of reading the will of her brother-in-law, who died unexpectedly only ten days ago.”

Shayne said, “I know about her son. Brother-in-law, too, eh?” He went through the open doorway.

The room was large and gloomy. Heavy drapes shut out the light from long French windows, the rugs were faded and worn, the upholstery of the antique furniture in need of repair.

A tall woman rose from a spindle-legged chair and stood very erect. Everything about her came to a peak — her long, thin nose, the high mound of white hair, her cheekbones, and her prominent, pointed chin. Her eyes were cavernous and glowing beneath heavy gray brows. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that came down to the pointed tips of small black shoes. She looked at Shayne who stood in the doorway and said harshly, “Well, who is it?”

An overstuffed young man lounged on an antique sofa. He wore a velvet smoking-jacket and dark trousers. He was partially bald and his lips pouted sullenly. He didn’t look up at Shayne.

The third occupant of the room was long and lanky and shapeless. She wore clinging silk slacks and slouched on a horsehair sofa. Her black hair was short with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. Except for a short upper lip, she was a replica of Sarah Hawley. She made no move at Shayne’s entrance except to turn her head slightly in his direction to survey him with half-closed eyes.

Shayne went over to the group, followed by the family lawyer. He asked, “Are you Mrs. Hawley?”

“Suppose I am,” she snapped.

“Did Jasper Groat come to see you last night?”