Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac (2 page)

“Yeah. Yesterday morning, he did. You know how it was at the dock—a lot of excitement and all. The reporter high-pressured him, telling him how much money it was worth.”

“Has the reporter still got it?”

“I don’t know. He and Jasper may have got together later. That’s what I want to find out.”

“You want me to get it back for you?”

“I want to know where I stand.” Cunningham’s black eyes glittered. “If something’s happened to Jasper, like I think, could they go ahead and publish it anyway?”

“You mean if Groat is dead?” Shayne asked casually.

“Yeah.”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “That would depend on whether they had legally completed a deal, I suppose. Or whether the newspaper could make a deal with Mrs. Groat. It would become her property on her husband’s death.”

Cunningham sucked in his breath sharply. “Then I got to get it back.” His voice was harsh, and he pounded the table with his fist.

The waitress hurried to the table, glared at the sailor, started to say something, but Shayne stopped her by saying, “Two more, sister,” pushing his glass toward her.

“You can sue if they print anything libelous,” Shayne told him when the girl had swished angrily away.

“It ain’t that,” he grated. He ground his teeth together and added, “Suing wouldn’t do any good. I don’t want it published.”

The girl came with the drinks, slammed them on the table, slopping liquor over the rims of the glasses. “What the hell!” Cunningham yelled.

“I’m a lady, see?” she said, with arms akimbo. “Next time you want service don’t go pounding on the table.”

Shayne chuckled. “He wasn’t pounding for you,” he explained. “It was—for another reason altogether.”

She looked down her nose at Shayne, said, “Huh!” and marched regally away.

Shayne asked sharply and suddenly, “Are the Hawleys mixed up in this thing?”

Cunningham’s lower jaw sagged and his black eyes stared at Shayne, frightened. “What makes you think that?” he stammered.

“Groat went out there at eight o’clock.”

“Look here, fella, how the hell do you know that?”

“I’m a detective,” Shayne reminded him.

“Maybe I got things wrong,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you came into the picture until your secretary called you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how—what do you know about the Hawleys?”

“I know he went out there at eight. He called you and told you he was going, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” snarled Cunningham. “The fool! I told him to lay off. I told him it was dangerous. But he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Dangerous?” Shayne lifted one bristly red brow.

“Albert Hawley told us about his folks before he died,” Cunningham muttered angrily. “They’re rich and the old lady’s plenty tough, I reckon. From what Albert told us I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“What about Leon Wallace?”

Cunningham’s glass was halfway to his lips. His arm jerked and liquor spilled on his hand. “You know about him, too?” he said slowly.

Shayne didn’t say anything. His gaunt features were expressionless. He watched the sailor gulp the double shot.

“I don’t get it,” Cunningham said. “How do you fit in the picture? Was that whole thing a plant tonight? Pretending all of it was news to you when you came over to Miss Hamilton’s apartment?”

Shayne said, “It’s my business to know things.”

“From the reporter, huh? After he read the diary he knew what kind of dynamite was tied up in it. And you knew the whole story all the time.”

“I’m adding up as we go along,” Shayne told him placidly.

Cunningham lit a cigarette, squinted at Shayne through half-closed eyes as he puffed.

Shayne settled back, sipped his brandy with an expression of distaste and watched the sailor struggle with an unpleasant decision.

“So you’re cutting yourself a slice,” Cunningham said finally. “That’s all right. There’ll be plenty for both of us. Do you know where the diary is now?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“We got to get hold of it,” Cunningham said.

Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. Cunningham hunched his thick shoulders over the table and drummed his stubby fingers in spilled liquor.

“Publication is the surest way of ruining the blackmail value of the diary.” Shayne watched him closely.

Cunningham gave a surly grunt. “I don’t know how much Jasper told Mrs. Wallace over the phone. Damn him! If only he’d played along and let me handle it—”

“But he had to stick his neck out?” Shayne prodded.

“Too damn much religion,” Cunningham assented moodily. “When a guy gets fanatical like that, there’s no reasoning with him.”

“Do you think the Hawleys bumped him off tonight?”

“I don’t know what he walked into out there. I warned him about what might happen.”

“If he had the diary with him it may be too late to do anything about it,” Shayne said casually.

“I don’t see why. If he’s dead and it’s been destroyed, that’s all right, too. Just so we can keep it from being published.”

Shayne said, “I see.” He didn’t see at all.

“What’s your hookup with the reporter?” the sailor demanded. “You admitted you got all the dope from him.”

“That was your idea.”

Cunningham turned a murderous glare upon Shayne’s tranquility. “It must have been the reporter,” he growled. “Mrs. Groat didn’t act as if she even knew you tonight. Jasper wouldn’t go to a private dick about it.”

Shayne spun his empty glass round and round and made no reply.

“It must’ve been the reporter,” Cunningham argued. Then after a moment of frowning thought, he said, “Unless it was the Hawleys.” He clamped his thick lips together and stared suspiciously at Shayne. “That could be it. They might’ve gone to a private dick. Maybe, by God, you’ve been stringing me along all this time!”

Shayne went right on keeping his mouth shut.

“Letting me spill my guts,” Cunningham muttered. “Pretending to be on my side while you’re working for them all the time.”

Shayne said pleasantly, “I’ll buy a drink.” He saw the girl across the room, beckoned to her, and said to the sailor, “You’ve got a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.”

After the waitress took the empty glasses away and brought their drinks, Shayne said, “You’re too jumpy for this sort of work, Cunningham. If the police get hold of you they’ll wring you dry in a couple of hours.”

Cunningham half rose from his chair, his fist clenched. Shayne didn’t move from his relaxed position. The sailor slowly settled back and said, “Yeah. I reckon I’m on edge. What the hell! Arguing with Jasper in the damned lifeboat—” He let the sentence trail off.

Shayne emptied his glass and asked, “Where can I get in touch with you?”

“I don’t know if I want you to.”

“Okay.” Shayne got up. He gave Cunningham his apartment address and telephone number. “You’ll find my office listed in the directory.”

Shayne had just finished his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee royal when his telephone rang. He hastily consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock.

Lucy Hamilton’s reproachful voice answered when he picked up the receiver. “How long do you think I can keep a client waiting?”

“We haven’t any clients,” he protested.

“That’s fine, Mr. Shayne,” she answered brightly. “I’ll tell Mrs. Wallace you’ll be right down.” She hung up.

Half an hour later he was facing Mrs. Leon Wallace across his office desk. Although she was sitting perfectly still, she looked brisk. There was a hard slimness about the woman in spite of her broad hips, a weathered, healthy glow in her browned face. She wore a brown tweed skirt and a tan, mannish blouse. Her straight brown hair, cropped close, looked windblown, and a cloth hat lay in her lap. Her light-brown eyes were grave and anxious, yet managed to give the impression that she was in a hurry.

Shayne said, “What is your trouble, Mrs. Wallace?”

“I want you to find a man for me, Mr. Shayne. I’m a stranger in New Orleans. That is, I live in Littleboro and don’t get in very often. I have a farm to look after and don’t have the time.” Her voice was deep, almost husky.

Shayne pushed a button on his desk and didn’t say anything while he waited for Lucy to come in.

“I can pay you,” Mrs. Wallace said. She put her purse on top of her hat and opened it. Her hands were rough, her nails broken to the quick.

Shayne made a quick negative gesture. Lucy came in and he said, “Since you’ve been discussing the case with Mrs. Wallace, you’d better sit in on this.” Then to his client, “Tell me about the man you’ve lost.”

“His name is Jasper Groat. He called me yesterday afternoon and asked me to come in and see him. I caught the midnight train and came right in. I went straight to his apartment this morning and he wasn’t there. His wife said he hadn’t been there all night. Then she advised me to see Miss Hamilton across the hall and said that you might be able to help me.”

Smoke spiraled upward from Shayne’s cigarette. He frowned at the smoke and asked, “Did you have a definite appointment with Mr. Groat?”

“Yes. I told him what train I’d take and he told me to come to his apartment. I think something has happened to him. We’ve got to find him because it’s my only hope of finding Leon.”

“Leon?”

“My husband. He’s been gone for two years. Mr. Groat said he could tell me all about Leon, and now he’s vanished—just as Leon did two years ago.”

Shayne glanced at Lucy. She was leaning forward eagerly, cupping her chin in her palm. He said impatiently, “You’d better tell me about your husband. Start at the beginning.”

Mrs. Wallace bent toward him slightly, her back straight as a ramrod. “It happened two years ago in March. The farm wasn’t doing so well and Leon came to New Orleans to find a job. I had a couple of letters from him, cheerful letters. He got a job working as gardener with a wealthy family, the Hawleys. He sent me money for the children and myself to move to New Orleans. Before we could make arrangements to leave the farm, I had another letter from him.” Her cloth purse was still open. She took the letter out and handed it to Shayne.

“There were ten one-thousand-dollar bills in the letter,” she added. Shayne slowly unfolded the two sheets of paper and read:

DEAR MYRA,

Don’t be frightened at all this money. You’d better bring it to New Orleans and put it in the bank. They won’t ask questions here as they would in Littleboro. It’ll be enough to take care of you and the children. I have to go away and I don’t know when you’ll hear from me again. Maybe never. I can’t help it. Don’t tell anybody anything. Don’t ask questions. I’m all right, Myra. I’ll be all right as long as you don’t make a fuss. Don’t tell anybody about the money. Just go ahead and use it. You can tell people I’ve enlisted in the Army or something. Don’t worry about me. Don’t go to the police or try to find me. It’s best this way. It’s more money than I could ever make on the farm or on a job like this. There’ll be another thousand dollars every six months if you keep your mouth shut and don’t try to find me. You’ve got to trust me. Kiss both the children for me. Your loving husband,

LEON.

The old, brittle paper cracked loudly in the stillness of the office when Shayne stopped reading and refolded the letter.

Lucy’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. She said, “And she hasn’t heard another word from him, Mike. But the money has come every six months, just as he promised. A thousand-dollar bill in an envelope without any letter.”

“They were mailed from New Orleans,” Mrs. Wallace supplied. “At first I was grieved and terrified, naturally. But I found out that crying and moping don’t go with running a farm.” Her manner was direct, forthright. She looked away from Shayne and added quickly, softly, “The worst thing was—I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing to the children.”

“Does he send the money?”

She nodded. “The handwriting on the envelope is Leon’s.”

Shayne leaned back and rubbed his angular jaw. “Did you make any investigations when it first happened?”

“No. I was determined to at first, but after reading that letter over and over, I was afraid of getting him into serious trouble. It seemed best for the children that I keep quiet.”

“And the money?” Shayne asked gently.

“I deposited the money in the bank. I did call up the Hawley house to ask about Leon. I didn’t let on that anything was wrong. But the man I talked to, the butler I imagine, said Leon had quit his job a few days before, and hadn’t left any address.”

“Did he work for Mrs. Sarah Hawley?”

“Yes. On Labarre Road.”

“So you deposited the money and drew on it for living expenses?”

Mrs. Wallace bristled. “I put it in the bank, all right, but I didn’t use a penny of it. It’s still there. I’ve made out all right on the farm. I expected Leon to come back any time and was sure he’d need that money, fourteen thousand in all, to keep him out of trouble.”

Shayne drew in a long breath. After a moment of silence, he asked, “What sort of a man was your husband?”

“Leon was a good man,” she answered promptly. “I never knew him to do anything wrong. That’s why I didn’t understand any of this. I’m sure he loved me and the children. Naturally, there have been times when I was bitter against him, and that didn’t help me bear up under the strain. I would’ve been content just to go on waiting if Mr. Groat hadn’t phoned me. I begged him to tell me whether Leon was alive and all right, but he wouldn’t. It’s the uncertainty that has me upset, Mr. Shayne.”

“Did Groat say anything about money?” Shayne asked bluntly.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did you have a feeling that he expected you to pay him for his information? Did he intimate that that was his reason for wanting to see you in person rather than telling you about it over the phone?”

“I can’t say. I was too excited, I guess, and he hung up right away.”

“How many people know about the money in the bank?”

“No one,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never told anyone about it.”

“The police are already looking for Groat,” Shayne said slowly. “Any information you have might help them.”

“No!” The word was a sharp cry. Fear was suddenly stark in her eyes. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Shayne,” she said rapidly. “Miss Hamilton said you wouldn’t have to go to the police. Don’t you see, I can’t tell them about Leon. I don’t know what he might have done two years ago—or what he’s been doing since then. Can’t you find out without going to the police?” Her brisk manner was gone, but there was no sign of tears.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight. Your only interest in having me find Groat is your hope that he’ll be able to clear up the mystery about your husband? And you want me to do it rather than the police so you’ll have a chance to get this information and prevent it from being made public?”

Mrs. Wallace recovered her poise and stiffened her spine. “That’s what I thought. I was thinking of the possible disgrace to the children.” She paused for a long moment, then went on calmly: “I want you to find Leon. No matter how much it costs. I feel that I can use some of that money he’s been sending me toward finding him.”

Shayne nodded. “Will you stay in town for a while?”

“I can’t do that. I left the children with a neighbor and I’ll have to take the afternoon train back.”

Shayne considered her answer. “That will probably be best,” he agreed. “I’ll get in touch with you the moment I have something to report. Give Miss Hamilton your telephone number.”

Lucy said, “Shall I—”

“There won’t be any retainer right now,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll check a few angles, and if I’m able to accomplish anything I’ll send you a bill.” He got up and stood behind his desk while Lucy and Mrs. Wallace went to the reception room.

Lucy’s brown eyes were dancing when she returned alone. “I’m going to expect a cut on this case, Mr. Shayne—after dragging you into it by your bristly red topknot.”

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 ’point-ment.”

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.