Date with a Dead Man (6 page)

6

The office of Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law, was on the fourth floor of a shabby office building on Flagler Street. The dingy front office was presided over by a gnomelike little man wearing a shiny alpaca coat. He was humped over a ponderous legal volume and looked up with near-sighted irritation when Michael Shayne entered. “Yes, yes? What is it?”

“I’m Shayne. Mr. Hastings asked me to come in.”

“Shayne?” The clerk pursed his lips disapprovingly over the name. He consulted a memo pad and said reluctantly, “I guess it’s all right.” He pointed to a door that was lettered
Private.

Shayne opened the door without knocking. Hastings was seated behind an ancient rolltop desk with papers spread out in front of him. He still wore the black broadcloth jacket buttoned all the way up though the heat in the office was stifling. He removed a pair of rimless glasses from his bony nose and said dryly, “You are very prompt, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne sat down in a straight wooden chair that creaked under his weight. He said, “The way I understand this case, there isn’t any time to lose.”

“What case do you refer to, Mr. Shayne?”

“The Hawley inheritance.”

“I see. Yes. What, precisely, is your interest in the matter, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne leaned back and crossed his legs while he got out a cigarette. “You asked me to come in.”

“So I did.” Mr. Hastings settled the glasses firmly on his nose again and dropped his gaze to the papers spread out in front of him. “Your questions about Jasper Groat led me to believe you are in contact with the man.”

“Let’s say I’m looking for him.”

“You mean to say he isn’t to be found?”

“Not since last night. When he left home to keep his appointment with Beatrice Meany.”

“An appointment which he did not keep,” Hastings pointed out stiffly.

“So Beatrice says. Is it true that neither she nor other members of the family knew until this morning that the exact date of Albert’s death on the life raft was important to them?”

“In what way, Mr. Shayne?”

“In what way, what?”

“Important in what way?”

Shayne leaned forward and said wearily, “Let’s not waste each other’s time. Before you read Ezra’s will this morning did any of the Hawleys realize that the precise date of Albert’s death meant a difference of a couple of million dollars to them?”

“I have no idea where you got hold of that piece of information, Mr. Shayne. Certainly, I said nothing…”

“But Beatrice did,” Shayne told him coldly. “She said all of that and a lot more while we killed a bottle of whisky in her bedroom after you drove away.”

Hastings sighed and removed his glasses. “Beatrice is not to be wholly trusted.”

“Not with liquor or anything wearing pants,” Shayne agreed cheerfully. “But she gave me a pretty straight story about Ezra’s will leaving all his fortune to Albert… but
not
to Albert’s heirs and assigns if Albert predeceased him. In other words and disregarding legal jargon: The Hawleys get the money if Albert died on the life raft before Ezra died. But if he was alive at the moment of Ezra’s death, he legally inherited and the money passes on to Albert’s divorced wife.”

“That is… essentially correct.” The admission seemed painfully wrung from Hastings’ thin lips.

“I’m asking if any of them realized the situation before you read the will to them this morning.”

“I believe they were aware that Ezra had planned to leave at least the greater portion of his estate to Albert,” Hastings replied cautiously.

“And they also knew that Albert had made a will after his divorce leaving
his
estate to his ex-wife.”

“I think perhaps they did have that knowledge.”

“Then it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the obvious fact that they’d get the money if Albert died first, but wouldn’t inherit a cent if he lived five days on the raft.”

“An obvious fact, perhaps, to you or to me, Mr. Shayne, who are accustomed to legal matters. I’m not at all sure that they had the situation worked out so logically. Indeed, I had a distinct impression this morning that none of them realized the importance of the date Albert died until I explained it to them.”

“Beatrice says you’re very good at explaining things,” Shayne said casually.

“How’s that?”

“Things like how Ezra stole all the money from his brother while they were in business together.”

Hastings’ lips tightened distastefully. “There was no question of wrong-doing. Abel Hawley was a visionary and a poor businessman. He made bad investments and wasted his portion of the family fortune while Ezra cannily increased his own holdings.”

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

“He has been more than generous with her though he was under no legal obligation to provide for his brother’s family at all.”

“That run-down old house doesn’t evidence much generosity from a millionaire.”

“I fail to see what bearing that has on the present situation.”

“Just this: Will Mrs. Hawley and Beatrice actually be left destitute if Ezra’s money does go to Albert’s widow?”

“Practically speaking… I’m afraid the answer is yes.”

“Any chance that the widow will generously share with them?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer that question, Mr. Shayne. There is no proof as yet that Mrs. Meredith will inherit.”

Shayne frowned. “Meredith?”

“Albert’s wife married a man named Meredith after their divorce.”

“You mean there is no actual proof yet whether Albert lived four days or five after the plane crashed?”

“That is precisely what I mean, Mr. Shayne.”

“There were two survivors who should be able to testify as to the exact date,” mused Shayne, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette in a spotless ash tray on Hastings’ desk.

“That is correct. If you have knowledge of their present whereabouts, I am most anxious to contact them.”

“Plus
a diary which Groat kept on the life raft which should definitely pinpoint the day and hour of Albert’s death,” Shayne continued as though Hastings had not spoken.

“What’s that about a diary?”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I supposed you knew Jasper Groat had kept a diary.”

“How would I know?”

“Wasn’t the diary mentioned in the news story about the rescue yesterday?”

“I didn’t see any such mention.”

Shayne shrugged. “The
Daily News
has bought publication rights, I understand, and plans to print excerpts from it.”

Hastings was silent for a moment, twiddling his glasses nervously while he considered this latest item of information.

“If it weren’t for the diary,” said Shayne judicially, “Beatrice’s suggestion that I get hold of the two men and bribe them to swear that Albert died before his Uncle Ezra would be quite valid. I assume that’s what you had in mind for me,” he ended carelessly.

“What’s that? Bribery? I had no such thought in mind.”

“With a couple of millions at stake, it makes sense,” argued Shayne.

“Preposterous! I wouldn’t consider it for a moment.”

“The diary is a stumbling block,” Shayne confessed. “It will carry more weight than anything either of the men might testify to. So as long as the diary is around, there’s not much point in checking with either Groat or Cunningham.”

“Where is this purported diary?” demanded Hastings.

“No one seems to know… exactly.” Shayne hesitated. “If he took it along out to the Hawley place last night…”

“There is no proof that he went there,” said Hastings hastily.

“Beatrice says she invited him out.”

“But that he did not keep the appointment.”

“That’s what she says,” Shayne agreed calmly. “That’s why I made a point of wondering whether anybody out there realized as early as last evening that the exact time of Albert’s death meant a couple of million dollars to them. Because if they did, it might explain why Groat never returned from the meeting.”

“Are you suggesting that he did visit the Hawleys and one of my clients had something to do with his failure to return?” demanded Hastings indignantly.

“I’d say Beatrice is perfectly capable of bopping a guy over the head for two million bucks. The old lady, too, from what I saw of her. Gerald… I dunno.” Shayne shook his head slowly, recalling the husband’s appearance in the bedroom while the detective was visiting his wife.

“I assure you that all the Hawleys are people of the highest probity.”

Shayne grinned at him and said cheerfully, “We both know Beatrice is a dipsomaniac and a nympho to boot. And I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to see the old lady swinging on some guy with her cane. Hell, it stands to reason,” he went on persuasively, “that they must hate the guts of Albert’s ex-wife. The way she callously divorced him when he was drafted. Wasn’t he sore about that himself?”

“Albert did not confide in me at the time of the divorce.”

“Did you draw up the will leaving everything to his ex-wife even though she remarried?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t question him about that provision?” Shayne asked incredulously.

“As his attorney, I followed his instructions. And now, Mr. Shayne, I don’t believe there is anything further for us to discuss.” The lawyer pushed back his chair and stood up.

Shayne remained seated with his legs crossed. He said, “There’s still Leon Wallace.”

“Who is he?”

“You heard me ask Mrs. Hawley about him this morning?”

“I dimly recall your mentioning the name. I have no idea who Leon Wallace is.”

“I told you this morning. A gardener whom they employed to keep the grounds in shape a year ago.”

“They’ve had no gardener for at least a year,” Hastings flatly.

“That’s evident from the condition of the grounds. And that’s what I wonder about.”

Hastings moved purposefully toward the door and said frostily, “It hardly seems a matter for discussion with you.”

Shayne still didn’t get up. He said, “The matter under discussion is the unexplained disappearance of Leon Wallace a year ago.”

Hastings paused with his hand on the doorknob. He kept his back to Shayne, but the detective saw his body stiffen to rigidity. “I fail to see how that concerns my clients. I understand he was discharged as an economy measure.”

Shayne said, “Maybe.” He stood up slowly. “Did Albert or his wife get the divorce?”

“Mrs. Hawley entered the suit in Nevada.”

“On what grounds?”

“Mental cruelty, I believe.” Hastings pulled the door open and turned worried eyes on Shayne. “It’s all water under the bridge now. I fail to see how anything constructive can come from reopening old wounds.”

Shayne said, “You’re probably right,” and sauntered out into the outer office, hearing the door shut firmly behind him.

A man and woman entered as he approached the outer door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with long apelike arms. The woman was young and smartly groomed, and even more sexually attractive in the flesh than she had appeared in the wedding photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Hawley which Shayne had studied in the
News
morgue earlier that morning.

Shayne stopped in front of them and said, “Hi, Jake. What’s a shyster like you doing in a legitimate law office?”

Jake Sims grinned without mirth and said, “I’ll throw that question right back at you, shamus. Don’t tell me the esteemed Lawyer Hastings has got down into the gutter by retaining you on a case?”

Shayne returned his grin, but his had real mirth in it. He said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to Matie?”

She was studying him calculatingly, with her head tilted a little on one side, her eyes unabashedly telling him she liked what she saw. “Who is he, Jake?”

“A good guy for you to stay away from,” grumbled Jake Sims. He grasped her well-fleshed arm firmly and drew her past Shayne toward the little man at the desk. She turned her head to keep her eyes on his as she went past, and her full red lips formed a little circle of disappointment—or of promise.

Shayne said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Meredith. We’ll be seeing each other around,” and went out before she could reply.

7

Downstairs, Shayne picked up the first edition of the
Daily News
and glanced at the front page as he went out to his car. There was a double-column spread by-lined Joel Cross with the heading:

HEROISM AT SEA

It was an excited and effusive announcement that feature writer Joel Cross had made arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s personal journal kept during those harrowing days at sea while he and two companions drifted helplessly on an open life raft after their plane crashed.

The announcement contained such phrases as:
Authentic account of heroism on the high seas… vivid first-hand narrative of suffering and near-despair… what ordinary men say and think when faced with almost inevitable Death
…
a
record of the last words of One Who Did Not Come Back… the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heart-strings of every reader…

Shayne folded the paper with a frown and got into his car. The whole thing was out in the open now. Anyone reading the
News,
with knowledge of the importance of the actual time of Albert Hawley’s death, would realize that Groat’s diary held the key to a fortune. As he drove east on Flagler toward his office he wondered if Joel Cross was yet aware of the dynamite contained in the pages of the diary.

Lucy Hamilton looked up with a frown puckering her smooth forehead when he entered his office. “Chief Gentry just called, Michael. You’re to call him. And Mrs. Groat telephoned earlier. She’s frantic and wants to know what you’re doing about finding her husband.”

Shayne shook his head soberly. “Not very much. I’m afraid we’d better give it to the police.”

“What do you think has happened to him, Michael?”

He said harshly, “I think he’s dead.”

He went into the inner office, circled his desk and opened the second drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a bottle of cognac. It was Three-Star John Exshaw, privately imported from France by a local dealer, which Tim Rourke had introduced to him recently, and his gaze dwelt pleasurably on the label as he carried it to the water cooler and fitted two paper cups together, filled the inner one almost to the brim and ran a cup of cold water to accompany it.

Carrying the cups to his desk he ranged them in front of him, sat down and took a deliberate sip of cognac, savoring the taste happily before letting it slide down his throat and chasing it with a sip of water. Then he lifted his phone and dialed Chief Will Gentry’s private number at police headquarters.

Gentry’s gruff voice answered and he said, “Mike Shayne, Will.”

“Mike! What’s with you and a man named Jasper Groat?”

Shayne hesitated a moment. “I’d like to find him.”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Groat asked me to last night when she became worried about his not returning home.”

“Didn’t return from where?”

“Mrs. Groat didn’t know where he was headed when he left a little before eight,” Shayne said truthfully. “But I’ve been doing some digging and I can make a guess.”

“Make it,” said Will Gentry.

“I don’t know that I’m ready to, Will. What’s your interest?”

“We’ve got his body,” Gentry said. “At least… a body with identification indicating it’s Jasper Groat. His wife is on her way to the morgue right now to make a definite identification.”

Shayne’s mouth was dry. He took two long swallows of cognac to rectify that.

“Where and when was he found, Will?”

“In the water just a while ago. Just offshore from Coral Gables. Knocked on the head and dead at least twelve hours. Now it’s your turn.”

“One more question, Will. Anywhere near where Bayside Drive dead-ends at the Bay?”

“Hold it.” Shayne drank more cognac and listened to a mumble of voices at the other end of the wire. Then Gentry said, “Less than a quarter of a mile. That mean anything?”

Shayne said, “Probably. The Hawley estate is on Bayside Drive near the water. I have information that Groat was supposed to call on a member of the Hawley family at eight last night… but never showed up. You might try checking taxis for information on that. He didn’t own a car.”

“Hawley?” Gentry’s voice was ruminative. “The rich ones? With a son who died on a life raft with Groat?”

Shayne said, “You’re getting the picture. They all deny that Groat was there last night. Look, Will.” Shayne’s voice became urgent. “Were there any papers on Groat? Anything like a diary, for instance?”

“Nothing like that. Just a wallet with identification. Enough cash in it to rule out robbery. What else can you give me, Mike?”

“Nothing else right now. I mean it, Will,” Shayne went on hastily when he heard an angry snort from the other end. “This changes things and I’ve got to move fast. Follow up on the Hawley end, and I’ll be in touch.” He replaced the telephone before Gentry could protest further, and sat very still for a moment, scowling across the office.

One down and one to go. With Groat out of the way, that left Cunningham as the only living person who could testify to the exact date of Albert Hawley’s death. Cunningham and Groat’s diary.

He lifted the pair of nested paper cups and drank off the rest of John Exshaw’s excellent cognac, turned his head slowly to look at Lucy Hamilton as she appeared in the doorway.

“I listened in on Will,” she said breathlessly. “Isn’t it terrible about Jasper? Poor Mrs. Groat.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “No matter how long I work for you,” she said angrily, “I can’t get used to corpses popping up all over. I keep thinking about Mrs. Groat going through all that period when she knew her husband’s plane had crashed and giving up all hope for him. And then he did come back to her safely… only to be murdered a few hours later. It just isn’t
right,
Michael.” Two tears rolled down her cheeks as she advanced toward him.

Shayne said, “Lots of things in this world aren’t
right,
angel.”

“Do you think it had something to do with Mr. Wallace? About Mr. Groat calling Mrs. Wallace and making a date to see her this morning to tell her something important. Is
that
why someone killed Jasper Groat last night?”

Shayne shrugged his shoulders and said mildly, “All we can do right now is a lot of guessing. It stands to reason that if Albert Hawley had any guilty knowledge about Wallace’s disappearance last year, he might have confided it to Groat when he knew he was dying on the life raft. From Groat’s wife and Cunningham, I gathered that Groat was some sort of religious fanatic who would feel it his bounden duty to reveal any deathbed revelations made to him. But how many people knew he had telephoned Mrs. Wallace and arranged to see her this morning?” He stood up abruptly behind his desk, his gaunt face tightening. “That’s one more question we have to get an answer to.”

Lucy started to say something further, but turned her head toward the outer office with a questioning look as she heard the outer door open. She moved out into the reception room, and Shayne heard her say, “Is there something I can do for you?” as she closed the inner door behind her.

Shayne stood undecided behind his desk for a moment, glowering down at the two paper cups. He picked them up after a moment and carried them across to the water cooler to dispose of them. Turning, he saw Lucy stepping back inside his office again.

“Two people to see you, Michael. Jake Sims and a woman. A Mrs. Meredith, he said. Shall I send them away?”

“On the contrary,” Shayne told her happily. “I can’t think of any two people I would rather see.”

“But you don’t like Jake,” she reminded him. “Don’t you remember a couple of years ago…?”

“I don’t have to like Jake to want to see him,” Shayne told her, moving back to his desk and dropping into the swivel chair. “Up to this moment I’ve been wondering how I was going to make a buck out of this affair. Does Mrs. Meredith look as though she has any bucks to spare?” He looked at Lucy hopefully.

She tightened her lips and said, “Mrs. Meredith looks to me as though she is in the habit of paying off her obligations in some other coin instead of United States currency, Michael Shayne. Do you still want to see her?”

“More than ever,” Shayne told her heartily. “After all, we’re not exactly broke. Send her in, Lucy.”