Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac

by Brett Halliday

  “How about it?” Quinlan turned to Jake. “Give it to me straight. Did Mr. Shayne tell you to say this was the man?”

  “Nossuh,” Jake said earnestly. “He didn’ say nothin’ lak dat. Nossuh.”

  “All right,” said Quinlan shortly, turning to a plain-clothes man lounging in the doorway. “Go downstairs and release Meany. He’s in no condition to drive. You’d better take him home.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Inspector Quinlan said to Shayne, “Now give me what you’ve got on this bird.”

  “Of all the damned frauds!” Cross shouted.

  “Remember I told you about his planning to publish Groat’s diary in the Item,” said Shayne.

  “That’s right, you did.” Quinlan looked at Cross with new interest. “You pointed out that he was one of the few who might have had a motive for killing Groat because of the diary.”

  “You’ll have to do some work,” Shayne told him. “I’m handing him to you on the Meany murder. I presume he had to get rid of her because she knew too much about last night.”

  “Is that the way it was?” Quinlan threw at Cross.

  The reporter said stiffly, “I’ll have a nice case of false arrest if you go ahead with this. I never saw Mrs. Meany. She asked me to come here this afternoon, but was apparently murdered before I got here.”

  “Don’t forget,” Shayne reminded him, “to explain about her calling you at four-thirty and your not getting here until seven.”

  “I’ve already told you I was busy with some work.”

  Quinlan raised his frosty eyebrows. “Do you still claim you aren’t the man the janitor let in?”

  “I not only claim I’m not, but deny it emphatically.”

  “That’s your story,” Shayne said blandly, “but you can’t prove it. Frankly, Inspector, I like him for both jobs a lot better than Gerald Meany.”

  “He is more the type,” Quinlan agreed. “Meany seems pretty much of a weakling. And there won’t be any unwritten law to mess up this case.”

  “Dammit,” Cross protested, “stop discussing me as though you were deciding on which horse to back in the fifth.”

  “Where were you at eight o’clock last night?” Quinlan asked.

  Cross scowled and tightened his lips. He didn’t reply.

  “Did you follow Groat out to the Hawley home, or did the girl call you ahead of time to warn you he was coming?”

  Cross continued his stubborn silence. Quinlan made an angry gesture toward the door and gave an order to one of his men. “Take him in and book him on an open charge.”

  When Cross was out of the room, Quinlan said, “I don’t like this too much. If your janitor messed up this identification and it was Meany who was here, we’ll never prove it now. Hastings will tear down any story Jake might tell in court.” He got up and picked up the brandy bottle, gauged the meager contents, and emptied it. He set it down and said soberly, “Frankly, I think you’re pulling one on him. I think the janitor is saying what you told him to say.”

  Shayne started to protest, but Quinlan waved for silence. “I’ve worked with you before, Shayne. Cross may be our man. But if he isn’t,” he went on wearily, “and if you did fix that janitor’s testimony to place him here, you’ve practically handed Meany his freedom on a silver platter. And God help you if you’ve done that.”

  “If he isn’t the killer he’ll be safer in jail tonight,” Shayne argued, “Because someone who’s already pulled two murders is still after Groat’s diary. And he suspects Cross has it.”

  “I’d like to have a look at it,” Quinlan muttered. “Any idea where Cross has it stashed?”

  “All I could get out of him was that it’s in a safe place.” Shayne got up and stretched. “Aren’t you ready to call it a day with Cross locked up?”

  Quinlan studied his face for a long time. “You’re up to something,” he growled. “I’ve seen you like this before.”

  “At the moment I’m interested in finding more evidence against Cross,” Shayne admitted readily. “I gave him to you, and now by God it’s up to me to make it stick.”

  “I won’t stand for a frame,” Quinlan warned him.

  Shayne said, “Close the door on your way out. I’m headed for the bathroom.”

  He turned and went through the open door into his bedroom.

  After getting rid of the Inspector, Shayne looked up Roger Deems’s telephone number and called it. When Deems growled, “Who is it?” Shayne said, “Mike Shayne. One of your colleagues is in trouble. Joel Cross. Quinlan just locked him up on suspicion of murder.”

  “Good enough. Who was the victim?”

  “I’m not sure he did it. I thought you might want to help him out.”

  “Why should I help him? I don’t like the guy.”

  Shayne said soberly, “This is serious, Roger. It isn’t going to do the Item a bit of good. In fact, your paper is riding straight toward a damage suit.”

  “That’s different,” Deems agreed. “What’s it all about?”

  “Mostly a diary that Cross has in his possession illegally. I feel badly about it, Roger, because I put Cross on the spot. I don’t know whether he’s guilty or not. At the same time, I put your paper on the spot and I wanted to give you the tip-off.”

  Deems said, “Keep talking.”

  “It’s that diary of Jasper Groat’s. It contains the proof of Cross’s innocence or guilt. He’s playing smart and keeping it hidden. Only that isn’t smart. If he’s guilty, he’d better arrange to have it destroyed quick before someone else gets hold of it. If he’s innocent, he’d better arrange to get it in a safer place, before the real killer destroys it.”

  “What’s your interest in this?” Deems asked suspiciously.

  “The damned fool stuck his head in a frame that I only intended to frighten him with. The way things happened, I can’t retract now. If he’s innocent I’d like him to prove it by keeping the diary safe. If he’s guilty, he’d better get rid of that diary quick for the paper’s sake. There’ll be a hell of a lawsuit slapped on the Item if certain people can prove he kept possession of it for personal reasons.”

  “What do you want me to do? He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Can’t you send him a mouthpiece? Doesn’t the paper have a lawyer who can see him and find out where the diary is hidden?”

  “We’ve got Andrew Drake on an annual retainer,” Deems said. “He represents any of the boys who get caught off base.”

  “Get hold of Drake and explain how necessary it is to convince Cross he should take possession of the diary immediately—before the night’s over. It isn’t safe where Cross has it hidden.”

  “You talk as if you’ve got inside information.”

  “I have. I’m giving it to you straight.” Shayne’s voice was strained and urgent. He hung up and mopped sweat from his face. He thought for a moment, lifted the receiver, and called a friend in charge of a local detective agency.

  He said, “Ned? You got a man you can put on a tailing job fast? This is it. There’s a lawyer named Andrew Drake. I expect him to visit a prisoner in city jail sometime this evening—reporter for the Item named Joel Cross. I want to know if and when Drake goes into his cell. Got that?”

  Shayne took a deep breath as he listened. “That’s right,” he said. “Plant a man inside where he’ll know who sees Cross. Have him call me at this number the moment Drake shows.” He gave Ned his number and hung up. Things were beginning to break.

  He mopped his face again, strode into the kitchen, and came back with a freshly opened bottle of brandy and a glass of ice water. After taking a long swig of both, he called Lucy Hamilton’s apartment.

  “How’s Mrs. Groat holding up?”

  “All right,” Lucy told him. “I’ve been in with her tonight.”

  “Either of you had dinner?”

  “No. I thought I’d fix something for both of us here.”

  “You’re clairvoyant,” he applauded. “I want you both standing by for
a call. Keep her in your apartment all evening, angel. I may want to pick both of you up in a hurry.”

  “Why—what’s happened?” she asked breathlessly.

  He said, “I dug a hole this afternoon and pitched head first into it. Now I’ve got to dig myself out.” He hung up.

  Shayne suddenly realized he was very hungry. He went to the kitchen and hurriedly warmed a can of soup. He scrambled eggs while the soup heated and made coffee. After gulping down the food, he returned to the living room with a mug of coffee royal. He had scarcely seated himself when the telephone rang.

  The voice at the other end said, “Ned said I was supposed to call you, soon as a mouthpiece named Drake came to see Joel Cross.”

  “That’s right. Is he there?”

  “Just went in Cross’s cell.”

  “Hang around the entrance till I get there. If he leaves before I get there, tail him and call Ned first chance you get. Do you know me?”

  “I’ve seen you.”

  “Right.”

  Shayne hung up, then called Lucy Hamilton. He said swiftly, “I’m picking you and Mrs. Groat up in front of your apartment in five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  He drank his coffee royal, grabbed his hat, and went out. He got in his car and drove to Lucy’s apartment building, pulled up to the curb as Lucy and Mrs. Groat hurried out.

  The rear car door was open. “Get in the back, Mrs. Groat. Lucy, get up front with me. You may have to do some driving.” He pulled away and headed back toward the city jail.

  “Where are we going, Mike? Why did you want Mrs. Groat?”

  “Don’t ask questions now, angel. We’re headed for the city jail. We’re going to pick up a man there when he comes out and follow him. If he’s walking, I’ll get out and follow him. You follow me in the car. If he’s driving, we’ll all stay together.”

  He pulled up a hundred feet back of the main entrance to the jail and stepped out. He strolled forward and was met by a toothy man wearing a sweater and cap. The man said, “Aren’t you Shayne?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m Tinkham—with Ned Frazier. Your man’s still inside. He came in a cab and got out here at the main door.”

  Shayne nodded. “We’ll move back here and you can point him out to me when he comes out.”

  They moved back and stood inconspicuously beside Shayne’s car. Tinkham muttered, “Gray mustache, Panama hat. Blue serge suit and a potbelly. Five-feet-ten, about a hundred eighty.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette. A man came down the steps under a bright light. Tinkham nudged Shayne, whispered, “That’s him,” and walked quietly away.

  Andrew Drake walked to the curb and stood looking up and down the street. Shayne said to Lucy, “He’ll probably take a taxi.”

  A cruising taxi pulled up and the lawyer got in. Shayne got in his car and took the wheel. He let the cab get into the street before starting his motor. He followed along a full block behind until the taxi swung into the curb in front of the Item Building.

  He cruised past slowly as the lawyer got out, then pulled in between two parked cars, nodding with satisfaction when the cab did not pull away.

  “I think Drake will be out in a minute,” he told Lucy. “I’m going back to the cab and wait. As soon as you see him come out, bring Mrs. Groat with you. I’m going to need her.”

  “I wish you’d tell me—” Lucy began, but Shayne shook his head and got out.

  “There’s no time now. Just follow my lead.”

  He went back to the cab and asked the driver, “Want a fare?”

  “Sorry, bo. I’m taken. Party just went into the newspaper office a minute and asked me to wait.”

  Shayne casually took out a pack of cigarettes and offered the driver one. He struck a match for both, taking his time. Then he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and stood in the lawyer’s way. He asked, “Are you Drake?”

  “I am.” Drake looked Shayne over and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.”

  Shayne said, “You don’t.” He saw Lucy and Mrs. Groat coming toward them, said, “It’s about a little matter of stolen property.”

  “Stolen property?” Drake drew himself up. “I don’t know—”

  “Belonging to Mrs. Jasper Groat,” Shayne said harshly. “That diary you just picked up. Mrs. Groat is here and she wants it.”

  Lucy and Mrs. Groat stood a little aside, watching them. The lawyer wet his lips and looked at them, bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “It’s right here in your coat pocket,” Shayne snapped. He took a quick step forward and pinned Drake’s arms to his pouchy body with one hand, groped in his coat pocket, and withdrew a leather-bound book which he tossed to Mrs. Groat. “Do you identify that as your dead husband’s property?”

  “See here,” Drake wheezed indignantly, “you can’t get away with this. I’ll call an officer.”

  “That’ll be just fine,” said Shayne, releasing him. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to call the police in on this. It’ll make a nice story—concealing stolen property and suppressing evidence in a murder case. Go right ahead. Is that it, Mrs. Groat?”

  “Yes, oh, yes, this is Jasper’s.” Mrs. Groat was scanning the pages in the dim light, tears splashing her glasses.

  “Hang onto it,” Shayne advised her grimly. “If Drake calls the police, all you have to do is prove it belonged to your husband. How about it?” he demanded of Drake. “Do you want to tell the police why you’re trying to keep Mrs. Groat’s property from her?”

  “I—I didn’t realize—”

  “Fair enough,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and we won’t make any complaint this time.” He turned away and took Lucy and Mrs. Groat by the arm, led them swiftly to his car, and trotted around to get-under the wheel.

  “Michael!” Lucy gasped as he whirled away. “You can’t get away with it, can you?”

  “I have though.” He grinned at her. “Mrs. Groat is my client. You can’t arrest a man for protecting his client.”

  He drove speedily toward the French Quarter and stopped in front of their apartment building. He turned to Mrs. Groat and said, “Let me have the diary for tonight, and keep your door locked! Don’t open it for anyone!”

  Lucy grasped his arm. “Mike! I’m frightened for you.”

  Shayne leaned over and kissed her, gave her a little shove, and said, “Beat it. I’ve got to go home and settle down to some solid reading.”

  Back at his apartment, he bolted the door and scowled curiously at the black book in his hands. His lips worked as though they tasted something good. He opened it to the flyleaf and read: Property of Jasper Groat, Third Engineer, S. S. Okeechobee.

  He removed his hat and coat, settled himself with a glass of brandy, and balanced the diary on his knees. He flipped the pages swiftly until he came to the date of the sinking of the S. S. Okeechobee. Here he slowed down, reading each page carefully.

  On the third day, Groat had written: H is bad today. Vomited some blood after breakfast. I prayed for him but he wouldn’t join me. Think he will die soon if not rescued. C sneaked some extra water at dawn. Pretended I didn’t see him…

  Later that same day he noted: H weaker. He repeated Lord’s prayer with me. I think he will find God…

  On the morning of the fourth day: H very bad. Feel sure he can’t live long. Something preys on his conscience. Trust he will turn to God before the end…

  Late in the afternoon of that day: H knows he is dying. I read from the Psalms and he received comfort. He is burning with fever. I think he wishes to confide in me…

  On the morning of the fifth day—Shayne sustained himself with a long drink of brandy and a deep breath before reading this entry: H died quietly during the night. We held a simple service this morning and gave his body to the sea. C pretended to sneer, but I think he was affected. I have a great weight on my conscience and must struggle with it. C crept close to us last night a
s H passed on. Certain he heard a portion of dying man’s confession, but don’t know how much. He looked at me curiously this morning and has tried to draw me out. I must ask God to help me decide…

  Shayne exhaled slowly and leaned back. Albert Hawley had died on the fourth night—before Ezra Hawley had passed on. Mrs. Meredith was not legally entitled to one penny from the estate.

  He read on slowly. There were vague references to the dying confession and arguments with C, and a simple notation: C argues we would be fools to let this opportunity pass. I pray God for strength to withstand this temptation.

  Groat had not trusted Albert’s secret to the pages of his diary. There was no mention of Leon Wallace, nothing to indicate what Albert Hawley’s dying statement had been.

  Shayne reached the airport at 8:45 the next morning, and went into an immediate huddle with officials of the airline. By showing his credentials and talking fast, he managed to get reluctant consent to pick up the package from Ben Ames in Chicago.

  The big airliner swooped in gracefully and on time, and at ten minutes after nine he had the parcel tucked securely under his arm.

  He entered his office twenty minutes later. Lucy was walking up and down the front office. She whirled on him and said, “I’ve been trying to call you. Your phone didn’t answer. I worried all night—couldn’t sleep.”

  Shayne patted her cheek. “We’re sitting in the driver’s seat,” he assured her heartily. “Morning mail in yet?”

  She looked at her watch. “The first delivery is due now.”

  Shayne threw his hat at a hatrack and began ripping the wax seals from the parcel. His eyes glowed hotly as he separated two heavy cardboard sheets and drew out a glossy print of a man in a doorway glaring at a camera.

  Lucy wrinkled her forehead quizzically as Shayne laid down the photograph and explained to her, “This is a shot of Theodore Meredith in Chicago. He’s the man Mrs. Meredith married after divorcing Albert Hawley.” Shayne grinned. “What’s he got that would attract her?”

  The picture showed Theodore Meredith to be a rather nondescript man. He might have been twenty or thirty-five, with the sort of plump features that would remain boyish-looking well up to middle age. Shayne regarded it with moody dissatisfaction, then picked up a terse typewritten report included by Ben Ames.