Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

“You’re not required to answer that, Mrs. Hawley,” Hastings said hastily. “This man has forced his way into your home. He has no legal standing whatsoever.”

“Nonsense,” snorted Mrs. Hawley. “Why shouldn’t I answer him? I don’t know any Jasper Groat. No one came here last night.”

“Did you expect him?” Shayne persisted. “Did he telephone you yesterday to say he was coming?”

“Why should he? I don’t know the man.”

“Do you read the newspapers?”

“I know who he’s talking about.” The girl’s voice was languid and she spoke with almost no movement of her lips. “Jasper Groat is one of the men who was in the lifeboat when Albert died.”

“He didn’t come here,” Mrs. Hawley persisted.

Shayne shrugged. “Most people would have looked Groat up under the circumstances. It was reasonable to suppose he might have brought a dying message from your son.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady said fiercely. “No Hawley would make a confidant of such riffraff.”

The girl lazily drew herself to a sitting position. “Groat called here on the phone yesterday,” she said. “I asked him to come out at eight last night.”

“Beatrice! I told you I wanted no contact with those ruffians who allowed Albert to die while they saved their own skins.”

“I know, Mother.” Beatrice smiled unpleasantly.

“Yet you deliberately invited the man here against my wishes.” Sarah Hawley’s eyes blazed with anger. She lifted one clawlike hand in a threatening gesture.

“Perhaps you wish now he had come — after what Mr. Hastings just told us,” Beatrice said languidly.

There was silence in the big room. The fat young man stirred, sat up, leaned forward, and dropped his chin into cupped palms. He scowled into space.

Hastings said to the girl, “This man is a private detective. I don’t think he’s interested in the family’s affairs, Mrs. Meany.”

“It’s time someone got interested,” she retorted.

“That will be quite enough, Beatrice,” her mother said. She turned to dismiss Shayne. “You may go.”

Shayne turned to Beatrice Meany. “Are you quite sure Mr. Groat didn’t reach here last night?”

She lowered her eyelids, caught her underlip between her teeth, let go of it, and said, “I’m quite sure I didn’t see him.”

Shayne stood for a long moment looking at the young man on the sofa. Beatrice giggled and said, “Believe it or not, that’s my husband, Gerald Meany, Mr.—”

“Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

Without moving a muscle, Gerald Meany muttered, “Don’t pay any attention to that drunken hussy.”

“Gerald!” the old lady screeched in a menacing voice.

Shayne’s upper lip drew back from his teeth in a distasteful grimace. He whirled on his heels and stalked to the door.

In the hallway he felt a grip on his arm and turned to see Beatrice just behind him. She gestured for silence, walked along until she reached the stairway, then, with surprising strength, urged him up the steps. “I’ve got a drink up in my room — and I’ve got to tell you something.”

Beatrice hustled Shayne into an attractive upstairs sitting room. The walls were freshly papered with a light, gay pattern and the furniture was covered with bright chintz.

She closed the door and moved with a swinging stride to a small bookcase. She removed two books and brought out a pint bottle half full of whisky, pulled the cork with her teeth, and held the bottle out to Shayne. “We’ll have to take it straight. It’s too much trouble to sneak ice and mixers up here.”

Shayne put the bottle to his mouth, swallowed twice without letting much liquor pass down his throat. He handed it back to the girl. She drank half of it, set the bottle on a table, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and said, “More damn fun!” delightedly.

Here in the light from windows, she looked much older. There was an abrasive hardness about her that startled Shayne. In the gloomy room downstairs, she had seemed childish and defiant. Now, her slate-gray eyes burned with hot intensity. She said, “If I didn’t have a bottle to hit once in a while I’d go nuts.”

Shayne sat down in a comfortable chair, looked up at her and asked, “Are you and Albert the only two children?”

“That’s right.” She stood a few feet away from him with her feet too far apart for grace. She waved her cigarette toward him and said, “Mother’s a tough old witch to live with. Gerald’s sort of precious, but he bores hell out of me.”

“How long have you been living here with your mother?”

“Couple of years. Waiting for Uncle Ezra to die so I could get my share of the estate.”

“Can’t your husband support you?”

“He could, but why should he?” She shrugged her thin shoulders and flopped down on an ottoman beside the table. She reached for the bottle, took another drink, and said, “Uncle Ezra’s got millions. He stole it all from Dad and now he just gives Mother and me enough to keep this damned old house going.”

“How did your Uncle Ezra steal your father’s money?”

“They were in business together. When Dad died ten years ago there wasn’t anything left. Mr. Hastings explained it. He explains things like that very well.”

“And now your Uncle Ezra is dead?” Shayne prompted.

“Yeah. He left everything to Albert,” she said angrily.

“But Albert is dead,” Shayne reminded her.

“That’s the whole trouble.” Her voice was getting thick and she stared vacantly at the detective.

“Did Albert leave the money to someone else?”

“Every damn cent of it. To his wife, and after she’d divorced him, too. What a dope!” She took another swig of whisky.

“When did Albert join the army?”

“He didn’t join. Not Albert. They had to drag him in. That was Mother’s fault. She always babied him, made him think he was too good to go to war like the common people.”

“When was he drafted?”

“Couple of years ago. What’s it matter?” She got up, toed the ottoman over close to Shayne and plopped down again.

Shayne said, “What if your husband comes in?”

She said slyly, “I can lock the door.”

The door opened and Gerald Meany came in. He stopped when he saw Shayne, but showed no surprise. He said, “I saw that your car was still in the driveway.”

“How dare you come in here without knocking?” Beatrice stormed at him. “Get out!”

He said, “All right, but you’d better lock the door. Mrs. Hawley is on her way up.”

“See?” She swung triumphantly toward Shayne as Gerald left, and sat down. “You needn’t worry about Gerald. He doesn’t care what I do. He just married me because he thought I was rich.”

“And now you’re not?”

A look of cunning came into her eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“You’re a private detective, aren’t you? Don’t you go around finding people and things like that?”

Shayne nodded.

“Well, you’ve got to find those two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert. Don’t you see? The newspapers said four or five days.”

Shayne’s gray eyes brightened. He waited for her to go on. She didn’t.

“Four or five days what?” Shayne asked gently.

“Before Albert died in the boat. Don’t you see how important it is? Mr. Hastings explained it this morning,” she added. “We didn’t know before that, you see. Not until he read Uncle Ezra’s will.”

“Leaving everything to Albert?”

She took the last of the whisky and said thickly, “That’s right. You know all about it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about anything,” Shayne said. “Take your finger out of your mouth and say what you have to say if you want me to help you.”