Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac

by Brett Halliday

  “Murdered!”

  “His body was pulled out of the river a couple of hours ago.”

  “Was his diary found?” she asked sharply.

  “That’s damned important to you, isn’t it?”

  She said impatiently, “You know what the exact date of Albert’s death means to me.”

  “But who knew how important it was last night?”

  Her face was blank for a moment. Then her eyes brightened and she nodded her head slowly. “I see now why you think his death had some connection with Leon Wallace rather than with the estate. Uncle Ezra’s will supposedly hadn’t been read when Groat was killed.”

  He said, “That’s the way it was told to me.”

  She was silently thoughtful, then said harshly, “Perhaps Groat got in your way, Mr. Shayne. You’re working for Cunningham, aren’t you? You look like someone who’d kill a man if he got in your way.”

  Shayne grinned and rubbed his jaw. “I haven’t picked my client yet. I’m still shopping around for the best offer.”

  “I think I’d like to be your client.”

  “What’s your offer?”

  She moved restively under his hard gaze. “In dollars and cents?”

  “I’m not interested in anything else.”

  “After I collect Ezra Hawley’s money I’ll be able to pay you any fee you want.”

  “For what?” he demanded.

  “Helping me to collect it—seeing to it that I collect,” she amended.

  “Is Mr. Meredith in town with you?”

  She was obviously disturbed at the sudden question. “No.”

  “Where do you live?” Shayne probed.

  “How can that possibly concern you?”

  “What’s your husband’s business? What’s his first name? When and where did you meet him? What sort of man is he?” The questions came swiftly and angrily.

  She didn’t answer. She sat up stiffly, reached for her drink, drank the last of it, and sucked at the shaved ice.

  “There you are.” Shayne spread out his big hands and scowled. “One man has been murdered. If I stick my neck out, I’m going to know what I’m sticking it into.”

  Mrs. Meredith lit a cigarette. She asked, “What have my private affairs to do with your sticking your neck out?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I can’t help thinking about Leon Wallace deserting his wife and children mysteriously—at the same time you dashed off to Reno for a divorce.”

  She said, “My husband’s name is Meredith, not Wallace, Mr. Shayne. His first name is Theodore, not Leon. And I assure you he isn’t a gardener. I went to Chicago immediately after my divorce was granted. I met Theodore there. Does that satisfy you?”

  “No,” Shayne said with blunt impatience. “Men have disappeared and changed their names before this—and married under the assumed names.”

  “Really though!” She stiffened again and said, “A gardener!” Her voice was harsh with indignation.

  “I didn’t know Wallace,” Shayne growled. “Maybe he was a graduate horticulturist. Maybe he had a lot of sex appeal. Women have fallen in love with gardeners before this.”

  “And I suppose you think I furnished the money he sent his wife to keep her quiet? Or maybe you think Albert sent it, so I could run off with the gardener?” Her tone was mocking.

  “There’s something screwy about what happened two years ago—Wallace disappearing, you divorcing Albert, Albert willing everything to you Afterward, Albert being inducted into the army. I don’t know what it is, but by God I’m going to find out!”

  Shayne hunched forward and glared at the toe of his big shoe.

  “Why keep harping on that when there’s a million-dollar estate waiting to be settled?” she asked calmly.

  Shayne asked abruptly, “When did you first talk with Cunningham?”

  After a slight hesitation she said, “This morning, shortly before lunch. After Mr. Sims and I heard the terms of the will from Hastings.”

  “Did you discuss the Wallace affair with him?”

  “Certainly not.” Her voice was taut and angry. “Can’t I convince you that I’m not interested in Wallace?”

  “I am.” Shayne finished his drink, got up, and said, “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Let me fix you another one.”

  Shayne shook his head. “I’m hard to get along with when I get a pint of liquor in me.”

  “I could get along with you.” She patted the divan. “Why are we wasting time? And you can call me Matie.”

  Shayne said, “Because I’ve got a date to keep with a dame. She’s waiting in my apartment right now and I need to be sober to handle her.” He wagged his head and closed one eye in a wink. “It happens to be your ex-sister-in-law!”

  “Not Beatrice!” she gasped. Her upper lip curled in contempt.

  “That’s right. We had quite a talk this morning. I suppose you know it was she who invited Groat out to the Hawleys to be murdered last night.”

  “Did she murder him?”

  “I don’t know. If I can keep her sober long enough, I’ve got an idea she can tell me who did.”

  “We haven’t settled anything,” Mrs. Meredith reminded him. “I don’t think I understand you, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne was at the door and had hold of the knob when someone rapped. He turned to look at Mrs. Meredith, one eyebrow quizzically raised. She had half-risen from the divan and her eyes were wide. She shook her head at Shayne but didn’t speak.

  The rapping sounded again. Shayne turned the knob and opened the door. He said, “Well, well,” and stepped back when he saw Leslie Cunningham standing on the threshold.

  The sailor wore a double-breasted suit of blue serge; the snap brim of a felt hat was pulled low over his bronzed forehead. His black eyes glittered with surprise when he saw Shayne. He jerked his gaze to Mrs. Meredith and muttered, “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Shayne said, “I get around a little.” He motioned Cunningham inside and added, “Mrs. Meredith is looking for another victim to drink one of her mint juleps. I’m just leaving.”

  Cunningham squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. His actions showed a strong trace of self-consciousness. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Meredith’s face as though he hoped to receive some signal from her, some hint as to what she expected from him.

  She said smoothly, “It’s nice of you to drop in, Mr. Cunningham. I would like to mix you a mint julep since Mr. Shayne scorns them. Besides, my charming ex-sister-in-law is waiting in his apartment,” she added acidly.

  Shayne said, “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk over.” He started for the door again, adding, “Just as I have with Mrs. Meany.”

  “I’ve got some things to talk to you about,” Cunningham muttered. “I just heard Jasper Groat’s body has been found.”

  “Didn’t surprise you, did it?”

  “No. As I told you last night, I knew something had happened to him. What about the diary?”

  “You still have that to worry about. You and Mrs. Meredith and the Hawleys, and Hastings and Sims—and maybe Joel Cross.” Shayne went out and closed the door.

  In the lobby he went down the corridor behind the desk and stopped at a door marked Private. A voice said, “Come in,” when he knocked.

  Kurt Davis was lounging in a chair smoking a cigar. He didn’t look the way a house detective is supposed to look, but at the St. Charles the job called for brains more than brawn.

  He said, “Hello there, Shayne. Are you working?”

  “Sort of.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Can you get me the home address of Mrs. Meredith in Room 319?”

  “I can get you the address she used when she registered.”

  Shayne nodded. “I don’t expect an affidavit with it.”

  Davis got up and strolled across the small room to a metal box affixed to the wall. He pressed a button and spoke into the box. Turning back to Shayne, he asked, “Anything we ought to have on her?” />
  “I don’t think so.” Shayne hesitated, then added, “You might keep an eye on the men she entertains in her suite.”

  “A floozie?” the house detective asked.

  “Not at all. The worst she’s likely to do is knock some guy out with one of her mint juleps. She’s mixed up in a case I’m working on. I don’t know how deeply. If there’s a pinch, I’ll see that your dump is kept clean.”

  The metal box buzzed. Davis turned to it, pressed a button, and said, “Yes?”

  Shayne took out a small memo pad and a pencil. He copied down the street address as Davis repeated it aloud. He promised, “If I get anything you can use, I’ll pass it on,” and went out.

  It was getting quite dark as he walked up the street to a telegraph office and wrote out a message to Mr. Theodore Meredith in Chicago, Illinois. It read: Dangerous complications demand you here immediately. Wire me at once but not at hotel because am watched. Send message to this address.

  He completed the message with his own apartment address and signed it Matie. He sent it as a straight message, went back to his parked car, and drove to his apartment.

  When Shayne stepped out on the sidewalk he glanced up to see light in the front windows of his second-floor apartment. He knew he hadn’t left the lights on when he had gone out earlier in the day.

  He thought he discerned movement inside the room and watched the windows for a full minute. The movement was not repeated. He grinned wryly upon realizing that he might have been telling Mrs. Meredith the truth, after all, when he had said lightly that Beatrice Meany was waiting for him in his apartment. He started forward, hoping she hadn’t already got into the liquor. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask her.

  He went up the front steps onto the veranda, passed through double entrance doors into a small, dimly lit hallway with stairs leading directly upward. The small light bulb at the top of the stairway was out, leaving the upper hall in darkness. He turned toward the crack of light showing under his door.

  As he brought his keys from his pocket his hand grasped the doorknob. It turned easily and the door swung open.

  The crumpled body of Beatrice Meany lay in the middle of the brightly lighted room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Shayne stood in the doorway taking in every detail of the scene. Beatrice was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed, her tongue protruded slightly from her lips and was bluish, her head was twisted in a manner indicating a broken neck.

  Shayne whirled from the doorway and lunged down the hall. He halted briefly at the head of the stairs, reaching up to touch the unlit light globe. The bulb was warm. He twisted it in, carefully touching it with two fingers near the neck of the globe. Light flooded the hallway.

  He strode on to a narrow rear stairway, went swiftly down to the rear of the lower hall and found the back door opening onto the alley standing ajar. He stepped out and looked up and down the alley, but saw no one.

  Back in the entrance hall, he put a coin in the wall telephone and called police headquarters. “This is Mike Shayne, and I’ve got a corpse for you.” He gave the address and hung up, turned and went to a door marked Janitor, opposite the stairway.

  He opened the door and called, “Jake.”

  A voice said, “Yassuh,” and in a moment a wrinkled Negro came to the door. “What yo’ want, Mist’ Shayne?”

  “Do you know how a woman got in my apartment?”

  “Yo’ sistuh? Yassah. Ah let her in, Mist’ Shayne. She said ’twas a s’prise like.”

  “What time did you let her in?”

  “’Bout a hour ago, Ah reckon.” Jake scratched his kinky head. “Jest after sundown. Ah was rakin’ the front yahd an’ she druv up in a taxi an’ asks me was yo’ heah an’ then could Ah unlock yo’ door so’s she could wait.”

  “Have you seen any strangers around here since you let her in?”

  “Strangers? Sho now—” He scratched his head again, then said, “Ah reckon yo’ mean that gentleman what come li’l while later. He asks has a gal come heah to see yo’ an’ Ah tells him ’bout yo’ sistuh waitin’. He jest snorts an’ goes up.”

  “How long did he stay?” Shayne asked sharply.

  “Ah don’ rightly know. Didn’ see ’im leave, Ah reckon. Ah got busy an’ didn’ take no notice. Is suthin’ wrong?”

  “The girl is dead,” Shayne said curtly.

  He heard car doors slam outside and hurried to the front door to admit Inspector Quinlan and members of the homicide squad.

  The Inspector barked, “So it’s you, Shayne. The Sergeant did get the name right. Where’s the body?”

  “Upstairs in my apartment.” Shayne led the way upstairs to his open apartment door. “In here,” he said. “I touched the outside knob opening the door, but didn’t go inside.”

  Quinlan nodded to his men to get to work, stepped back beside Shayne, and asked, “Who is she?”

  “Beatrice Meany, daughter of Mrs. Sarah Hawley. Lived out at the Hawley place with her husband and her mother.”

  “Mixed up in the Groat case,” Quinlan said.

  “She’s the girl who told me she’d asked Groat to come out last night, but denied seeing him arrive.”

  “What was she doing here?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Shayne’s eyes brooded over the room. “She was too drunk to talk very straight when I was out at the Hawley house.”

  “So you invited her here to finish the interview?”

  “She invited herself.” Shayne told him about Beatrice’s phone call to his office to get the address of the apartment. “That’s all I know about it,” he ended bitterly. “She came here about an hour ago, evidently, and passed herself off as my sister in order to get in. A man came asking for me a little later. Jake told him I wasn’t in and only my sister was here, but he came up anyway. Jake didn’t see him leave.”

  “Did Jake give a description of him?”

  “He hadn’t got that far when you arrived. Here’s one thing more, Inspector.” Shayne showed him the light bulb at the head of the stairs. “That was unscrewed and the hall was dark when I came up. It was still warm when I screwed it in. I was careful not to touch it except right at the neck with two fingers.”

  “All right,” Quinlan grunted. “I’ll have it checked. Let’s talk to the janitor.”

  Jake was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. He repeated the story he had told Shayne, for the Inspector’s benefit.

  When asked for a description, the Negro said, “He was sorta fat, an’ sorta young. He had on a gray suit, Ah reckon, sorta dark.”

  “Was he wearing a hat?” Shayne asked.

  “A hat? Yassuh. Ah reckon so. Ah jest don’ recollec’k.”

  “The description sounds like Mr. Meany,” Shayne told Quinlan. “The girl’s husband. He’s quite bald for so young a man, and you notice it if you see him bareheaded.”

  Quinlan went to the telephone and talked to Headquarters. He dispatched men to the Hawley residence to pick up Gerald Meany and learn what they could about his movements that afternoon, hung up, and turned back to Shayne. “I suppose Jake saw you come in just now?”

  “No one saw me come in,” he answered cheerfully.

  “Can you prove she was dead when you got here?”

  Shayne frowned and admitted, “Depends on how long she’s been dead. I can account for my actions to within about fifteen minutes of the time I called Headquarters.”

  Quinlan got out his notebook. “Let’s have it.”

  “I went to Room 319 at the St. Charles Hotel about an hour ago. Took about half an hour drinking a mint julep. Dropped in on the house dick for a chat on my way out, fooled around a few minutes, and drove straight back here.”

  Quinlan went to the phone and called the St. Charles. He asked for the house detective, and after talking for a few minutes, hung up.

  Shayne said, “Call Room 319 now, and see if there are still two people in the room where I left them. Mrs. Meredith will probably answer.
You ask for Leslie Cunningham.”

  When the connection was made, Inspector Quinlan said, “Mrs. Meredith? I’d like to speak to Mr. Cunningham.” When the sailor got on the line, the Inspector questioned him, jotting down the answers in his notebook. Presently he hung up and turned to Shayne.

  “Davis and Cunningham check your story. Davis says you were there at seventeen minutes after six. Your report on the murder reached Headquarters at exactly six thirty-nine. That’s twenty-two minutes to account for from the time you left Davis, and it’s not more than a five-minute drive here. How much time did you waste after you got here before calling in?”

  “Not more than five minutes,” Shayne told him.

  “Don’t you know enough to report a murder as soon as you see it?”

  “I thought I saw movement in my room when I got out of my car,” Shayne explained, “and watched the window for a while. When I found the dead woman, I thought the murderer might be just then getting out the back way, and I checked. Then I took time to turn on the hall light.”

  “That puts you here at six thirty-four. It didn’t take you seventeen minutes to drive here from the St. Charles.”

  “How does Kurt Davis place the time so exactly?”

  “Claims he looked at his watch. It’s a habit of his.”

  Shayne grinned wryly. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I went window shopping for twelve minutes.”

  Quinlan’s face reddened. He barked, “Window shopping!”

  “Let’s go up and see what the boys have got,” Shayne suggested. “Maybe I’ll think of something better than window shopping.”

  Doctor Matson’s assistant met them in the doorway of Shayne’s apartment. He said, “Death by strangulation and possible fracture of the vertebrae. Not more than a half an hour ago, and probably within the past fifteen minutes. The doc will have to give it to you closer than that.”

  Shayne asked, “Could she have been strangled by a woman?”

  The young assistant considered for a moment then said, “It’s very doubtful. The contusions on her throat indicate a lot of strength in the hands that caused them.” He went on down the hall.