Brett Halliday - Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Hastings was nervously tapping his glasses against the palm of his hand. The purplish color heightened in his face. “Young man,” he said austerely, “the mere mention of bribery is repugnant to me.”

Shayne said, “Fair enough. That’s why you need someone else to do the dirty work and spare you the details.” Shayne lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair.

Hastings played a little game with his long, thin fingers, his pale eyes studying Shayne’s gaunt face and relaxed figure. He said, “Humph,” finally.

Shayne asked casually, “Do you know the police are looking for Jasper Groat?”

The lawyer stiffened. “Eh? What’s that?”

“Groat has been missing since about eight o’clock last night, the time Beatrice Meany invited him out to the Hawley house.”

Hastings sat very still and didn’t say anything.

“Beatrice Meany,” Shayne went on, “is a queer one. It wouldn’t surprise me if she lured him out in order to bop him off if she couldn’t persuade him to testify the way she wanted.”

The lawyer ran the edge of his tongue over his tight lips. “Do you know Miss Beatrice well?”

“Fairly well. I had a session with her in her room with a bottle of whisky after you left.”

“She’s a queer girl,” Hastings acknowledged moodily.

“She’s a dipsomaniac. Was Albert cut from the same cloth?”

“No, indeed. That is — no. Albert was weak, perhaps. His mother — ah — I’m sure you observed her domineering personality.”

“Did Ezra Hawley actually steal all his brother’s money?”

Hastings darted a sharp look at Shayne. “Good heavens, no! Where did you get that idea?”

“Something Beatrice said.”

“It wasn’t that way at all. John Hawley was a poor businessman. He made bad investments and wasted his portion of the family inheritance while Ezra increased his more than twofold.”

“And Sarah Hawley has been dependent on Ezra since her husband died?”

“Generally speaking, yes. He has provided for her generously, I believe.”

“That run-down old house doesn’t look like it,” Shayne protested.

Hastings said, “Such matters have no bearing on this situation.”

“Perhaps not. What I was getting at is this — will Mrs. Hawley and her daughter actually be left destitute if Ezra’s money goes to Albert’s divorced widow?”

“Practically speaking, yes. They have very little laid aside.”

“It’s rather peculiar, isn’t it, for a man not to change his will after a divorce?”

“Albert did change his will,” Hastings admitted stiffly. “He definitely specified that his ex-wife was to receive everything, even if she remarried.”

“Did his wife remarry after the divorce?”

“I believe she did, yes.”

“How long ago was the divorce?”

“A matter of some two years. Shortly before Albert’s induction into the armed forces.”

“And Albert was living at home when he was drafted?”

“He was. He — ah — had remained at home after his marriage.”

“And the date of his induction?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hastings said, “Albert was called into the army on March 18, 1943.”

Shayne took from his pocket the letter Mrs. Wallace had given him that morning. It was dated March 10. He asked, “Did you ever hear of a man named Leon Wallace?”

Hastings gave no noticeable reaction. “I don’t recall the name.” He added, “I believe you understand what is required in this case, Mr. Shayne.”

“You want me to locate Jasper Groat and Leslie Cunningham and get affidavits from them as to the exact date of Albert’s death.”

The lawyer put his glasses on, said, “Good day, Mr. Shayne,” and turned back to his desk.

“My fee will be five thousand if things turn out in your favor. I’ll take a retainer of two hundred now.”

Hastings was plainly irritated. He started to protest, drummed his fingers on his desk, then got up and took ten twenty-dollar bills from a black metal box and handed them to Shayne. He said, “I feel it will be best to make no written memorandum of our agreement.”

Shayne stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I don’t like written agreements, either. But I always collect. You’ll be hearing from me.”

A man and a woman were entering the outer office when Shayne opened Hastings’s door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with arms as long as an ape’s. The woman was young and smartly groomed. She had a Mae West figure, an alert, intelligent face.

Shayne grinned at the man and said, “Hi, Jake.”

Jake Sims muttered, “Hello, Shayne,” and went on toward the desk of the gnomelike little man.

Shayne went out, whistling cheerfully.

Immediately upon entering his office, Lucy said, “Sergeant Pepper called a few minutes ago, Michael, and wants you to call him right away. And take a look at this!” She handed him an early edition of the afternoon Item.

Shayne’s gaze fell upon a boxed item on the front page. It was an announcement that feature writer Joel Cross of the Item’s staff was making arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s journal kept during those harrowing days he had drifted at sea in an open lifeboat after his ship had been torpedoed. The announcement contained such phrases as: Authentic accounts of heroism on the high seas… vivid first-hand narrative of danger and suffering… what do men say and think as they live with Death all around them?… a record of the last words spoken by one who did not come back… the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heartstrings of every reader.

He folded the paper and asked, “Anything new from Mrs. Groat?”

“She called a few minutes ago. No word from her husband. She said Leslie Cunningham had just left her apartment. He persuaded her to go through Jasper’s things to try to find the diary, but it was fruitless.”

Shayne thoughtfully massaged his left earlobe, then said, “Get Sergeant Pepper for me,” and went into his office.

He got a pint bottle of brandy from the desk drawer, poured some in a glass, and walked around as he drank it. When his desk buzzer sounded, he picked up the telephone receiver. Lucy said, “Sergeant Pepper, Mr. Shayne.”

“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?” Shayne asked.

“That tip you gave me was all right, Mike. We picked up the cabbie who drove Groat out to that address on Labarre last night. He identified the photograph of Groat.”

“And?” Shayne’s throat was dry. He wet it with a sip of brandy.

“That’s all.”

“Did you check with the Hawleys about his arrival?”

“No soap. None of them admits seeing him. None of them admits knowing he was coming. They don’t know anything about a cab driving up at eight and letting a passenger out.” Deep disgust was added to the Sergeant’s normally moody tone.

“How about the girl, Mrs. Beatrice Meany?”

“Her? She was drunk as a coot when I got there. Passed out cold in bed.”

Shayne took a long drink while the Sergeant was talking. A deep scowl trenched his forehead. He said, “You’d better start looking for Groat’s body,” and hung up.

He sat down and his gray eyes brooded across the room. He sat for a long time without moving. Lucy came in and perched on a corner of the desk. She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly at the glass at his elbow. “I don’t see how you ever solve a case the way you stay tanked up all the time.”

Shayne laughed shortly, picked up the glass, and emptied it. “Always glad to oblige by removing the offending article. I’m going to have to get awfully drunk to figure this one out.”