Brett Halliday

Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Dead Man’s Diary

Chapter one

Michael Shayne’s rangy body was comfortably settled on his living-room couch on a brisk day in March, 1945. A glass of cognac and a tumbler of ice water were within easy reach on the end table. He was reading an early edition of the tabloid Morning Tribune which he had picked up on his way home. His telephone rang.

He scowled at the instrument, ran knobby fingers through his unruly red hair, and wriggled to the other end of the couch to answer it.

The voice of Lucy Hamilton, his secretary, came over the wire. “Michael! Come over to my apartment right away. And no wise-cracks. There’s a woman here who needs you desperately.”

“Fine time to be dragging a man out of bed,” he growled.

Lucy said, “I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes,” and hung up.

In twelve minutes Shayne strode into the small office of the apartment building on North Rampart Street bordering the French Quarter. A middle-aged woman sat near the switchboard, placidly knitting. She looked up at him incuriously as he went past her to the self-service elevator in the rear.

Lucy Hamilton was waiting for him outside her door on the third floor when he stepped from the elevator. She hurried to meet him and clutched his arm. “It’s Mrs. Groat from across the hall,” she said rapidly. “She’s terribly worried about her husband, Michael. You’ve got to help her.”

Shayne looked down at her flushed face and her dark, anxious eyes. She wore a chenille robe of blue, belted tightly about her slim waist. Her brown hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders.

He gave her a crooked grin. “So, my clients are coming to you, eh? Why didn’t you tell her to come to my office tomorrow?”

“And spend a terrifying night wondering what’s become of her husband? She’s in an awful state, Michael.” Lucy urged him toward her open door and into the small living room.

A plump, middle-aged woman sagged against a pillow on the couch. Her hair was grayish and she wore a gray dress of snug-fitting design. She gazed up at Shayne mutely with washed blue eyes. Tears streaked her rouged cheeks and her rouge-smeared lips trembled as she dragged her body to a straight position.

“This is Mr. Shayne, my boss, Mrs. Groat,” said Lucy. “I know he’ll help you.”

Shayne gravely pressed her limp hand and turned to look at a swarthy man who had risen from his chair when Shayne entered the room.

“This is Mr. Cunningham, Michael,” Lucy said. “He’s a shipmate of Mr. Groat’s, and he’s awfully worried, too.”

Cunningham was of medium height, stocky, and thirtyish. His face was deeply bronzed, his hair a short black stubble, and he wore bell-bottomed blue serge trousers with a wide, tight waistband. He held out a small, stubby hand covered with black hairs and took Shayne’s in an iron grip. “Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Shayne,” he said, and showed incredibly large white teeth in a thick-lipped smile.

Shayne nodded. As Cunningham took his hand away, Shayne saw a purple and yellow anchor tattooed on it.

“Suppose you tell me about everything,” he said to Lucy. “You know what’s important and what isn’t.” He motioned her to sit beside Mrs. Groat on the couch.

“Well, Mr. Groat went out at eight o’clock, telling his wife he’d be gone not more than an hour. He didn’t tell her where he was going. By eleven o’clock she was becoming worried, and then Mr. Cunningham called to ask for her husband. He had had an appointment to meet him at nine o’clock and had been waiting for two hours. She asked Mr. Cunningham to come up to the apartment, and after they talked it over, she came across the hall to ask my advice. You see, she knows I work for you, and — well, she thought I’d know what to do.”

Shayne turned to Cunningham. “You say you and Groat are shipmates?”

“In the Merchant Marine. If you noticed yesterday’s papers—”

“Don’t you remember that feature story on the front page, Michael?” Lucy interrupted eagerly. “About the two seamen who were rescued from a lifeboat after their ship had been torpedoed near the Panama Canal?”

“Leslie Cunningham,” Shayne muttered, “and Jasper Groat. You’re an able seaman and he—”

“Was the third engineer,” Cunningham supplied. “This was our first trip together and I didn’t know Jasper well until the ship was torpedoed, but I got to know him mighty well during the two weeks we were in a lifeboat together. You sure get to know a guy when a thing like that happens.”

Shayne said, “Two weeks in a lifeboat. You don’t look any the worse for it.”

“It wasn’t too bad. The boat was stocked with grub and water. The sun was the worst thing — and not knowing when—” He broke off with a shrug. “I reckon it was Jasper’s faith pulled us through.”

Mrs. Groat began to sob. “Jasper was always a pious man. But he was changed this time, Mr. Shayne. He was moody and worried. He wouldn’t talk to me about any of it. Something was bothering him. He kept saying that maybe we’d have a lot of money right soon, but he wouldn’t tell me how or why.”

“I reckon he meant his diary,” Cunningham said, looking down at his short, stubby feet. “Jasper kept a diary all the time we were afloat. Yesterday morning when the reporters were interviewing us, one of them asked him about publishing it. In a lot of newspapers, y’know. He told Jasper it might be valuable and said he’d see him about it later.”

“Wasn’t there another man in the lifeboat with you?” Lucy asked.

Cunningham lifted his head slowly to look at her. He wet his pudgy, cracked lips. “At first there was. A soldier off the troopship, name of Albert Hawley. He was hurt in the explosion and we pulled him out of the water. He lived four or five days. Jasper nursed him the best he could but it wasn’t any use. He died with Jasper holding him in his arms at night and we buried him at sea next morning.”

“Jasper talked about him a lot,” Mrs. Groat said. “He lived right here in New Orleans. His mother is that rich Mrs. Hawley. Jasper expected them to call him up after the newspaper story came out. He didn’t know whether he ought to call them or not. Seemed as though that was partly what troubled him.”

“You have no idea where he went tonight?” Shayne asked.

She shook her head despairingly. “But I know he made a telephone call when I was out this afternoon. He was just hanging up when I came back. He acted strange about it. He denied making any call and got mad when I insisted I’d heard him as I came in. I heard him say, ‘I’ll expect you first thing in the morning,’ and then he hung up.”

Shayne asked, “What about some friends he might have gone to see? He may have changed his mind after he went out.”

“No. He would’ve told me.” She wiped her eyes with a rouge-mottled handkerchief. “You see, we were going out to dinner to celebrate when he came back. We always do when he comes in from a voyage.” She began to sob, and moaned. “Oh, I know something awful has happened to him. I just know it.”

“She’s right,” Cunningham said soberly. “The dinner was going to be on me. We planned it all in the lifeboat. He called me up about eight o’clock to remind me of it. I know he wouldn’t run out on me.”

Shayne said, “There’s not much I can do tonight. Have you called the police?”

Faintly Mrs. Groat echoed, “The police?” Her eyes, dried of tears, stared tragically at Shayne.

“Of course,” he said. He went to the phone and dialed. After a brief conversation with the desk sergeant, he hung up and went toward the door, saying, “The police haven’t heard anything so far. They’ll call you if they do. I’ll have a look into things tomorrow.”

Cunningham stood up. “I might as well go along, Mrs. Groat. I’ll call you first thing in the morning, and I sure hope Jasper turns up all right.” He turned to Lucy, his black eyes running boldly over her slight figure as he said, “Good night.”

Shayne had his hand on the doorknob. He sauntered back into the room and sat down.

When Cunningham went out, Lucy turned flaming cheeks to Shayne and flared, “Did you see the way he looked at me?”

Shayne chuckled. “He’s just been rescued after two weeks adrift in a lifeboat.” Then to Mrs. Groat, “If you haven’t heard from your husband in the morning call me at my office.”

Mrs. Groat dragged herself up from the deep cushions. Lucy put an arm around her and accompanied her to her apartment across the hall.

Shayne let himself down in the elevator. In the office he stopped before the woman who was still placidly knitting and asked, “Do you keep a record of calls through the switchboard?”

She said, “Outgoing calls,” without looking up.

“Will you check a call about four o’clock this afternoon from 311? It’s police business.”

Her fingers stopped in the middle of a stitch. She glanced up at Shayne, startled. Without a word, she consulted a sheet of paper clamped to a board on the switchboard and said, “That was long-distance. To Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro.”

Shayne laid a dollar bill on the desk and said, “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Leon Wallace in Littleboro.”

“You can take the call in there,” she stammered, indicating a booth in the corner of the small office.

Shayne waited a full five minutes before the booth phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said, “Hello.”

An operator said brightly, “On your call to Littleboro — there is no answer. Shall I keep trying?”

“Cancel it.” He hung up and went back to the anxious-eyed woman at the switchboard. “Do you know Mr. Groat in 311?”

“Yes. He and his wife have lived here for two years.”

“Did you see him tonight when he went out?”

She said, “He stopped and asked me the best way to get to Labarre Road.” She started to pick up her knitting but, instead, turned back to Shayne with a frown riding the gold bridge of her spectacles. “He made a phone call from the booth there before he went out.”

Shayne went back into the booth and thumbed through the names under H until he found Mrs. Sarah Hawley on Labarre. Then he walked out to his car parked at the curb.

A man moved forward from the shadows beside the building. “Just a minute, Mr. Shayne,” Leslie Cunningham said. “If you’ve got time I’d like to talk to you.”

The detective stopped. “It’s pretty late,” he said.

“This is important. It’s about Groat.”

“Why didn’t you do your talking upstairs?”

“I didn’t want to talk in front of his wife.” Cunningham made an impatient gesture. “No use getting her any more worried than she is.”

Shayne swung into a long-legged stride. “If you’ve got something to say, let’s find a place where we can sit down.”

Cunningham’s shorter legs fell into unrhythmic step. “There’s a place on Toulouse,” he suggested. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” They turned right on Toulouse and, halfway down the block, went into a bar.

Jarring music from a rear room drifted through a heavy pall of smoke. Three men supported hunched shoulders with their elbows on the bar.

“Let’s go back where we can sit at a table,” Cunningham muttered, waving his hand and saying, “Hi, Louie,” to the bartender as he passed.

The juke-box jive grew louder and the smoke heavier when they pushed through the swinging door into the rear room. They found a vacant booth and slid into it.

A pretty girl wearing a dirty apron came over and flicked a dirty rag across the table, then asked, “What’ll you have, gents?”

Shayne said, “A double shot of the best brandy you can find in the joint.”

Cunningham ordered a double bourbon with plain water. The waitress slouched away, the music stopped, and when another record dropped into place, he leaned toward Shayne and said, “As I understand it, you ain’t hooked up with the cops, Mr. Shayne.”

“My letterheads say I’m a private investigator,” Shayne told him. “Tell me about your sea rescue.”

“It wasn’t much.” Cunningham made a deprecatory gesture. “Tough to get rolled out in the middle of the night with a ship breaking to pieces under you, but we came out all right. We had a sail rigged up and would’ve made land all right if the rescue ship hadn’t picked us up.”

The girl brought their drinks. Cunningham laid out a dollar and a half and she took it away.

“If you come onto something not just right,” the sailor said slowly, “you can keep your mouth shut, huh? You don’t have to blab all you know? Like a lawyer — you got a right to protect your client?”

Shayne’s lips thinned a trifle against his teeth. He held the glass of brandy to his nose and scowled, set it down on the table, and said gently, “Like a lawyer. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m plenty worried about Groat. Something bad’s happened to him. I know it. You know how it is when you think maybe you’re going to die. You plan to have a big celebration if you come out alive. I was gonna blow him to the dinner, and Jasper wouldn’t have passed it up.” Cunningham was watching Shayne intently. He was nervous and tight-strung.

“Any idea where he went tonight?” Shayne poured brandy into his mouth and swallowed it quickly, then chased it with water.

“Yeah. I think I have. I can’t go to the police, see?”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll ask too many questions. It’s a long story. Less you know about it the better it’ll be. It’s Jasper’s diary I’m thinking of.”

“The diary some reporter said he might buy from Groat for publication?”

“That’s it. He was writing in it all the time we were shipwrecked. Put everything down, see? Everything we said and what he thought. He was a great one for thinking.”

“What about the diary?”

“I want it. That is, if anything’s happened to Jasper I want it bad. It’s got — a lot of stuff about me in it.” The sailor took a big drink of bourbon and ran his tongue over his lips.

“Stuff you don’t want published?”

“That’s it. I told Jasper to lay off giving it to that reporter. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“What kind of stuff?” Shayne persisted. Cunningham’s faint smile showed his big white teeth. His tone took on a lighter vein when he said, “You know how it is when a man thinks he might die. He tells all sorts of things he wouldn’t think of telling anybody otherwise. Things that wouldn’t look good in print.”

Shayne asked, “Did Groat turn the diary over to the reporter?” He finished his drink and thumped the glass down.

“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.”

Chapter two

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 ’pointment.”

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.

He stopped in front of Shayne and asked, “Sir, what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”

“And who are you, sir?”

“A detective.”

“May I see your credentials?”

“Who are you?” countered Shayne.

The man extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. It read: Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner was the name, B. H. Hastings.

“I am legal counselor to Mrs. Hawley. I’ll have your credentials and hear your business.”

Shayne said, “I’m private and my business is with Mrs. Hawley,” and moved forward.

“Mrs. Hawley is — ah — overcome with grief,” Hastings appealed, moving beside the detective. “Her son was recently lost at sea and I have just completed the sad task of reading the will of her brother-in-law, who died unexpectedly only ten days ago.”

Shayne said, “I know about her son. Brother-in-law, too, eh?” He went through the open doorway.

The room was large and gloomy. Heavy drapes shut out the light from long French windows, the rugs were faded and worn, the upholstery of the antique furniture in need of repair.

A tall woman rose from a spindle-legged chair and stood very erect. Everything about her came to a peak — her long, thin nose, the high mound of white hair, her cheekbones, and her prominent, pointed chin. Her eyes were cavernous and glowing beneath heavy gray brows. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that came down to the pointed tips of small black shoes. She looked at Shayne who stood in the doorway and said harshly, “Well, who is it?”

An overstuffed young man lounged on an antique sofa. He wore a velvet smoking-jacket and dark trousers. He was partially bald and his lips pouted sullenly. He didn’t look up at Shayne.

The third occupant of the room was long and lanky and shapeless. She wore clinging silk slacks and slouched on a horsehair sofa. Her black hair was short with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. Except for a short upper lip, she was a replica of Sarah Hawley. She made no move at Shayne’s entrance except to turn her head slightly in his direction to survey him with half-closed eyes.

Shayne went over to the group, followed by the family lawyer. He asked, “Are you Mrs. Hawley?”

“Suppose I am,” she snapped.

“Did Jasper Groat come to see you last night?”

“You’re not required to answer that, Mrs. Hawley,” Hastings said hastily. “This man has forced his way into your home. He has no legal standing whatsoever.”

“Nonsense,” snorted Mrs. Hawley. “Why shouldn’t I answer him? I don’t know any Jasper Groat. No one came here last night.”

“Did you expect him?” Shayne persisted. “Did he telephone you yesterday to say he was coming?”

“Why should he? I don’t know the man.”

“Do you read the newspapers?”

“I know who he’s talking about.” The girl’s voice was languid and she spoke with almost no movement of her lips. “Jasper Groat is one of the men who was in the lifeboat when Albert died.”

“He didn’t come here,” Mrs. Hawley persisted.

Shayne shrugged. “Most people would have looked Groat up under the circumstances. It was reasonable to suppose he might have brought a dying message from your son.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady said fiercely. “No Hawley would make a confidant of such riffraff.”

The girl lazily drew herself to a sitting position. “Groat called here on the phone yesterday,” she said. “I asked him to come out at eight last night.”

“Beatrice! I told you I wanted no contact with those ruffians who allowed Albert to die while they saved their own skins.”

“I know, Mother.” Beatrice smiled unpleasantly.

“Yet you deliberately invited the man here against my wishes.” Sarah Hawley’s eyes blazed with anger. She lifted one clawlike hand in a threatening gesture.

“Perhaps you wish now he had come — after what Mr. Hastings just told us,” Beatrice said languidly.

There was silence in the big room. The fat young man stirred, sat up, leaned forward, and dropped his chin into cupped palms. He scowled into space.

Hastings said to the girl, “This man is a private detective. I don’t think he’s interested in the family’s affairs, Mrs. Meany.”

“It’s time someone got interested,” she retorted.

“That will be quite enough, Beatrice,” her mother said. She turned to dismiss Shayne. “You may go.”

Shayne turned to Beatrice Meany. “Are you quite sure Mr. Groat didn’t reach here last night?”

She lowered her eyelids, caught her underlip between her teeth, let go of it, and said, “I’m quite sure I didn’t see him.”

Shayne stood for a long moment looking at the young man on the sofa. Beatrice giggled and said, “Believe it or not, that’s my husband, Gerald Meany, Mr.—”

“Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

Without moving a muscle, Gerald Meany muttered, “Don’t pay any attention to that drunken hussy.”

“Gerald!” the old lady screeched in a menacing voice.

Shayne’s upper lip drew back from his teeth in a distasteful grimace. He whirled on his heels and stalked to the door.

In the hallway he felt a grip on his arm and turned to see Beatrice just behind him. She gestured for silence, walked along until she reached the stairway, then, with surprising strength, urged him up the steps. “I’ve got a drink up in my room — and I’ve got to tell you something.”

Chapter three

Beatrice hustled Shayne into an attractive upstairs sitting room. The walls were freshly papered with a light, gay pattern and the furniture was covered with bright chintz.

She closed the door and moved with a swinging stride to a small bookcase. She removed two books and brought out a pint bottle half full of whisky, pulled the cork with her teeth, and held the bottle out to Shayne. “We’ll have to take it straight. It’s too much trouble to sneak ice and mixers up here.”

Shayne put the bottle to his mouth, swallowed twice without letting much liquor pass down his throat. He handed it back to the girl. She drank half of it, set the bottle on a table, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and said, “More damn fun!” delightedly.

Here in the light from windows, she looked much older. There was an abrasive hardness about her that startled Shayne. In the gloomy room downstairs, she had seemed childish and defiant. Now, her slate-gray eyes burned with hot intensity. She said, “If I didn’t have a bottle to hit once in a while I’d go nuts.”

Shayne sat down in a comfortable chair, looked up at her and asked, “Are you and Albert the only two children?”

“That’s right.” She stood a few feet away from him with her feet too far apart for grace. She waved her cigarette toward him and said, “Mother’s a tough old witch to live with. Gerald’s sort of precious, but he bores hell out of me.”

“How long have you been living here with your mother?”

“Couple of years. Waiting for Uncle Ezra to die so I could get my share of the estate.”

“Can’t your husband support you?”

“He could, but why should he?” She shrugged her thin shoulders and flopped down on an ottoman beside the table. She reached for the bottle, took another drink, and said, “Uncle Ezra’s got millions. He stole it all from Dad and now he just gives Mother and me enough to keep this damned old house going.”

“How did your Uncle Ezra steal your father’s money?”

“They were in business together. When Dad died ten years ago there wasn’t anything left. Mr. Hastings explained it. He explains things like that very well.”

“And now your Uncle Ezra is dead?” Shayne prompted.

“Yeah. He left everything to Albert,” she said angrily.

“But Albert is dead,” Shayne reminded her.

“That’s the whole trouble.” Her voice was getting thick and she stared vacantly at the detective.

“Did Albert leave the money to someone else?”

“Every damn cent of it. To his wife, and after she’d divorced him, too. What a dope!” She took another swig of whisky.

“When did Albert join the army?”

“He didn’t join. Not Albert. They had to drag him in. That was Mother’s fault. She always babied him, made him think he was too good to go to war like the common people.”

“When was he drafted?”

“Couple of years ago. What’s it matter?” She got up, toed the ottoman over close to Shayne and plopped down again.

Shayne said, “What if your husband comes in?”

She said slyly, “I can lock the door.”

The door opened and Gerald Meany came in. He stopped when he saw Shayne, but showed no surprise. He said, “I saw that your car was still in the driveway.”

“How dare you come in here without knocking?” Beatrice stormed at him. “Get out!”

He said, “All right, but you’d better lock the door. Mrs. Hawley is on her way up.”

“See?” She swung triumphantly toward Shayne as Gerald left, and sat down. “You needn’t worry about Gerald. He doesn’t care what I do. He just married me because he thought I was rich.”

“And now you’re not?”

A look of cunning came into her eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“You’re a private detective, aren’t you? Don’t you go around finding people and things like that?”

Shayne nodded.

“Well, you’ve got to find those two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert. Don’t you see? The newspapers said four or five days.”

Shayne’s gray eyes brightened. He waited for her to go on. She didn’t.

“Four or five days what?” Shayne asked gently.

“Before Albert died in the boat. Don’t you see how important it is? Mr. Hastings explained it this morning,” she added. “We didn’t know before that, you see. Not until he read Uncle Ezra’s will.”

“Leaving everything to Albert?”

She took the last of the whisky and said thickly, “That’s right. You know all about it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about anything,” Shayne said. “Take your finger out of your mouth and say what you have to say if you want me to help you.”

She pouted her lips around the tip of her finger, then took it out. “It makes all the difference in the world whether we get the money or that hellion of an ex-wife of Albert’s gets it. God, but you’re dumb. Uncle Ezra died ten days ago.”

Shayne said slowly, “Do you mean it’s important whether your brother died before your uncle or after — on account of the will?”

“Sure. That’s what I told you. It can’t be five days. That’d be too long. His wife would get the money even if she is divorced from him and married again. And she’s right here in town, too. You can bet on that. The way she twisted Albert around her little finger!”

Shayne got up and said impatiently. “You don’t need me.”

She sprang up from the ottoman, swaying a little, and caught his arm. “We do need you. Somebody’s got to get the men to say it was four days. To prove Albert was dead first. Then the money stays where it belongs instead of going to her.”

“Are you suggesting a bribe?”

“Why not? There’s plenty. Couple of millions.”

Shayne went to the window, stood staring out for a moment, then stalked out the door. He drove directly to his apartment, went up and showered, dressed from the skin out in fresh clothes. He took a long drink of cognac, and felt cleansed of the humid stench of the Hawley estate and Beatrice’s rotgut whisky.

Lucy Hamilton was seated at her desk in the reception room when he reached his office an hour later. “Any progress?”

“Not unless Sergeant Pepper called,” said Shayne.

“He didn’t.” She studied him disapprovingly. “Are you just sitting around letting the police hunt for Mr. Groat?”

Shayne grinned and tossed his hat on the rack. “They’re the ones to do it. Mrs. Groat hasn’t any money to pay a fee, has she?”

“She’s terribly upset, Michael. She’s depending on you to do something. I promised you would. And there’s Mrs. Wallace,” Lucy went on. “She’s got plenty of money.”

“To pay for finding her husband.”

“Isn’t it the same, thing? Find Mr. Groat and you’ll find out about Mr. Wallace.”

“A reasonable assumption. Did you get in touch with Mrs. Wallace?”

“At the depot. She saved those envelopes. She’s going to mail them to you when she gets home. I got the name of the bank, too.”

“Good girl.” He went into his inner office, sat down in the swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, and settled back.

The telephone rang in the outer office. He heard Lucy answer it. His telephone buzzer sounded. He called, “Who is it?” without opening his eyes.

“Answer your phone and see,” she called back.

He picked up the receiver and said, “Shayne speaking.”

“I have need of the services of a competent private detective, Mr. Shayne,” a precise and resonant voice told him. “You have been recommended to me as capable and — ah — discreet.”

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Hastings, of Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law, in the Downtown Building. If you could call at my office at once we will discuss the assignment.”

“I’ll be right over.” Shayne hung up, an oddly speculative grin lighting his angular face.

Lucy came to the door and asked hopefully, “Another client?”

Shayne said, “A lot of people are becoming interested in the whereabouts of Jasper Groat.” He swung his feet from the desk and asked, “Do you know how to get in touch with Cunningham?” He grinned and added, “The one who looked at you last night.”

Faint color came to her face. “He called me early this morning to find out if we had any word of Mr. Groat.”

“And—”

“He said he’d call again this evening. I’ll find out where you can reach him.”

Shayne got up and yawned. “Get hold of all the papers telling about the sea rescues, Lucy. Try to get the names of all the reporters who interviewed the two men. Call the papers if the stories don’t carry by-lines.”

She went to her desk for a shorthand pad, made the notations in it, and asked, “Is that all?”

“What I want,” he explained, “is the name of the reporter who was interested in buying publication rights to Jasper Groat’s diary. Remember Cunningham mentioning that last night?”

She nodded.

“That’s all. Just get his name and try to arrange an appointment. I’ll be back presently.”

The offices of Hastings & Brandt were on the fourth floor of the Downtown Building. The dingy front office was presided over by a gnomelike little man wearing a shiny alpaca coat. He was humped over a huge legal volume. He peered at Shayne with near-sighted irritation and said, “Yes, yes. What is it?”

“I’m Michael Shayne. I think Mr. Hastings expects me.”

“I guess it’s all right for you to go in,” he said, after consulting a memo pad. He pointed to a door marked Private.

Shayne opened the door without knocking. Mr. Hastings sat before an ancient roll-top desk. He looked up as Shayne entered and said, “It’s you again.”

“Didn’t you expect me?” Shayne crossed over to an armchair beside the desk.

Mr. Hastings was confused, “Certainly not. I have no idea why you’re here and I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m Michael Shayne, the private investigator who was recommended to you as being ah — discreet,” Shayne told him. “I introduced myself at the Hawley house.”

Mr. Hastings grew more confused. He fussed with some papers on his desk, said, “I’m sure I didn’t catch the name.”

“You need a private detective, don’t you?” Shayne stretched his long legs. “You’re on the spot with that will of Mrs. Hawley’s brother-in-law leaving everything to Albert Hawley, but not to his heirs and assigns if the young man predeceased his uncle. In that case, as I understand it, his entire estate goes to Mrs. Hawley and her daughter.”

“I don’t care to discuss it with you, sir. I don’t know what you’re after or where you got hold of this information. I shall arrange for another investigator at once.” He turned back to the legal forms on his desk.

Shayne said, “You’ve got to get hold of the two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert when he died and find out the exact date. The newspaper reports were vague on that point. The men reported that Hawley was alive either four or five days. I’ve checked back on the dates and find that Uncle Ezra died on the fifth day after young Hawley’s ship was torpedoed. If Albert died on the fourth night, Ezra Hawley’s estate goes to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sarah Hawley, and her daughter. But if he didn’t die until the fifth night after his ship was torpedoed, he was alive at the time of his uncle’s death, and his subsequent demise will turn the entire fortune over to his divorced wife, according to the terms of the will. Am I correct thus far?”

Mr. Hastings was disturbed. He hadn’t looked at Shayne during his lengthy and rapid discourse. The lawyer jerked around in his creaking swivel chair, took off his glasses with an unsteady hand, and glared at the detective. “I’m sure I don’t know how you’ve gathered this information,” he said testily, “or why you’ve wasted your time gathering it.”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I always try to familiarize myself with every aspect of a case when I’m called in on it.”

“But you haven’t been called in on this case,” Hastings said angrily.

“You were too anxious to get rid of me at the Hawleys’ even to learn my name. You called me in on the case not more than half an hour ago.”

“And now I’m dismissing you,” said Hastings. Purplish color showed in his thin face.

“I’m in and I’m staying in,” Shayne said hotly. “Mrs. Hawley is your client — Albert Hawley’s divorced wife, I take it, is not. It’ll mean a couple of millions to your client and a nice fat fee for you to persuade Groat and Cunningham to testify that Albert Hawley died on the fourth night in the lifeboat. You’ve got to reach them before Albert’s ex-wife does, because she might even go so far as to bribe them to say it was the fifth night. If there’s any bribing done — well, you want to have the first crack at it. That’s why you need me.”

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.

Chapter four

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.”

“I listened in on your conversation with the Sergeant,” she admitted. “Do you think someone at the Hawleys’ killed Groat?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised, angel.”

She frowned, her eyes thoughtful. “I can’t understand why the Hawleys wouldn’t be eager to see Mr. Groat, and find out about Albert’s death. Most people would.”

“The whole thing is screwy,” he told her moodily. He chucked the empty glass into a drawer. “I’m going out to lunch. Go out whenever you want to.” He got up and stalked to the door.

Lucy intercepted him by saying, “Cunningham hasn’t called yet. Maybe I’d better stick around until you get back.”

“Be sure to find out where he’s staying. I could use a line on him.”

It was only a short walk from his office to that portion of Camp Street once known as “Newpaper Row,” where there were a number of small restaurants still frequented by members of the fourth estate.

He tried Henri’s first, because he was fairly certain of finding Roger Deems there at noon. Henri was famous for a drink of his own concoction called a Lafitte, and long custom had conditioned Deems’s stomach to coping with a couple of them every day before lunch.

Shayne went down three concrete steps from the sidewalk and into a long room with a bar along one side and booths lining the other. Half a dozen men were at the bar, and some of the booths were occupied.

He saw Roger Deems’s saturnine face at once. He was long and loose-jointed, a sports writer for the Item, and an old-timer in the city. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the bar, looking down with a melancholy expression at a highball glass half full of a greenish and bilious-looking mixture.

Shayne went over to him and said, “You don’t have to drink that thing. I’ll buy you something decent.”

Deems cocked one eye at him and said, “I love ’em, Mike. Mixture of rum and gin. Very healthy. Know what a Lafitte reminds me of, Mike?”

“Juicy green worms run through a wringer,” Shayne told him. He held up two fingers and Henri brought a double shot of cognac in a big-topped glass.

“That’s why I love ’em,” Deems said. He sighed and lifted his glass, emptied it, and shuddered the length of his lanky frame. “Got anything for me, Mike?”

Shayne warmed the big glass between his palms. “Nothing right now. Do you know a guy named Joel Cross?”

“Good ol’ Joel. The literary light of the fourth estate. I’m proud to say, suh, I have the honor of his acquaintance.” He turned his head and called to one of the men sitting in a booth behind him. “You’re being discussed, Mr. Cross.”

A stocky, sandy-haired man with a bristly, reddish mustache and a square, aggressive face said, “Hi, Deems.”

Deems waggled a long forefinger at him. “Don’t know what you’ve done now, but here’s a hellhound on your tail. The sleuth of the Everglades. Wherever you hid the body won’t be good enough once he starts sniffing.”

Joel Cross had been smiling, but now a curious mask of hardness replaced the smile on his face. His lips tightened and his jaw jutted. He said something to his companion in the booth in a low tone, then got up and came toward them. He held his shoulders consciously squared and walked with a precise stiffness that was almost a strut. His voice was thin and metallic. “Who’s taking my name in vain?”

“Mr. Shayne.” Deems jerked a thumb toward the detective.

Cross said, “I’ve heard about you.” He held out a square hand. The flesh was hard and cold. He was a head shorter than Shayne, but his shoulders were as broad and he was built solidly.

Henri set another greenish drink in front of Deems and laid Shayne’s change on the counter. Shayne gathered up his change and said to Cross, “I don’t want to interrupt you, but I have something I’d like to talk over with you.”

Cross said, “You’re not interrupting anything. There’s a vacant booth in the back.” He went toward it, his heels hitting the floor hard before the soles came down.

Shayne picked up his drink and followed him, slid in opposite the feature writer for the Item, and asked, “Drink?”

“I never touch the stuff.” Cross’s bristly mustache lifted slightly. “Are you on a case?”

“Sort of. I’m interested in Jasper Groat’s diary.”

Cross peered at Shayne.

“What about it?”

“Is the stuff any good?”

“It’s terrific. Raw, elemental emotion. It wasn’t written for publication. That’s why it’s good. We’ll publish it as is — no editing.”

“Do you have it?”

Cross didn’t answer at once. He coddled his mustache, first on one side, then the other. “I had to look it over to see if it was worth what Groat wanted,” he said cautiously.

“How much was that?”

“What’s your interest?” Cross parried.

“I have an idea a lot of people are going to be interested after reading the announcement in the Item.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Frankly, I’d like to know how much it would cost to keep it unpublished.”

Cross stiffened, his eyes suspiciously alert. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the newspaper business, Shayne. That diary is a scoop of the first magnitude. You can’t measure the intrinsic value of something like that to a paper.”

“I’d like to have a look at it,” Shayne said idly.

“You can read it in the Item.”

“I mean a preview.”

Cross shook his head emphatically.

“It can’t be done.”

Shayne took a drink of cognac and asked, “Do I understand that you’ve made final arrangements with Groat?”

“I don’t know why our arrangements with Groat should interest you.”

“I’m not at liberty to explain my interest right now. One thing you can tell me: If Groat should disappear — if he should die suddenly before you see him again — have you the legal right to publish his diary?”

“What is this?” Cross demanded. “Where is Groat?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Shayne reminded him.

“I’m not going to answer it, Shayne.” Cross was bristling all over. “I’ll give you the same answer I gave that shyster, Jake Sims, a little while ago. He phoned me at the office to ask me the same question. I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Shayne mused, “Jake Sims… Well, it’s nice to have met you, Cross,” and got up. He went back to the bar to rejoin Deems. Joel Cross returned to his seat in the booth where his friend waited.

Deems asked, “How’d you get along with friend Joel?”

“Not too well,” Shayne admitted.

“He’s a cold-blooded number,” Deems said cheerfully. “The kind who’d take a notebook with him on his honeymoon to record his bride’s emotions for a true-confession magazine.”

“By the way, where does Cross live?”

“He’s got a room at the Corona Arms Hotel. Does all his work there. Too high-class to pound a typewriter at the office like the rest of us.”

Shayne looked across at the booth where Joel Cross sat. The waiter was just beginning to serve lunch. He said, “Well, so long, Roger. Be seeing you.” He stalked out the door, walked three blocks at a brisk pace, and turned into the lobby of the Corona Arms Hotel.

A young man at the desk looked up when he went past, but Shayne went on toward the elevator. He then turned, went back to the desk and said, “I’ve forgotten the number of Joel Cross’s room.”

The clerk said automatically, “Room 627, but I haven’t seen Mr. Cross come in.”

Shayne said, “He’s expecting me, but maybe I’d better call him to be sure.” He went to a house phone, lifted the receiver and said, “Room 627, please.”

He waited a moment, listening to the phone ring, then said, “Joel? Swell. I’ll be right up.” He hung up, thanked the clerk, and went to the elevator.

The sixth-floor corridor was deserted. Shayne examined the lock on the door and selected three keys from a well-filled ring. The second key opened the door. He stepped in and closed it behind him. The shades were drawn, darkening the room. He switched on the lights and stood very still while his gaze went around the disordered room.

Bureau drawers had been pulled open and dumped on the floor. The mattress was turned back, disclosing bare springs. The typewriter-desk drawers were open and copy paper scattered on the floor.

Shayne went over and started to paw through the papers. He heard a faint click, and turned to see Joel Cross standing on the threshold. The reporter’s mustache bristled; his upper lip drew back to show his teeth. He took a .32 automatic from his pocket and held it carelessly at his side, the blued muzzle pointing at Shayne.

Cross said, “Stand right where you are while I use the telephone.”

Shayne grinned and made a wide gesture around the room. “You think I did this?”

“I’ll let the police ask the questions.” Cross was sidling across to the telephone.

“I got here about a minute before you did. You know that,” Shayne expostulated. “You saw me leave Henri’s not more than five minutes ago. How in hell do you think I managed all this in that time?”

“It’s been more than five minutes.” Cross’s voice was cold. He reached for the phone with his left hand.

“Don’t be a damned fool!” Shayne said impatiently. “You don’t want the police in on this.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want the police. I’ve got you for feloniously entering my room, if nothing else.”

“I didn’t break in. I pushed the door open and walked in. Check with the desk clerk,” he urged. “I called your room from downstairs not more than two minutes ago. Someone answered and I assumed it was you. I came up and found the door ajar. The clerk’s story will just make a fool of you with the police.”

Cross lifted the receiver and said, “Desk clerk.” He waited a moment, then said, “This is Mr. Cross. A moment ago when I came in you told me someone had just come up to my room. Did he ask for me at the desk?”

He listened for a while, nodding slowly and frowning. He said, “I see,” and hung up. He put the pistol back in his pocket. “I guess you’re right, Shayne. The clerk did hear you talking to somebody in my room.” He sat down on the bed and asked, “Who was it?”

Shayne shook his head. “Whoever it was ducked out before I could get up in the elevator. Is the diary gone?”

“So that’s what you were after?” Cross’s face was pale with anger.

“Where was it?” Shayne asked impatiently. “If it’s been stolen—”

“You’d better come clean with me, Shayne. What’s all this talk about Groat disappearing and maybe being dead? What are you and Jake Sims up to?”

Shayne looked around the room morosely. He said, “I don’t think it matters now,” and started toward the door.

Cross jumped up, bunching his right hand in his coat pocket. “You’re not leaving here until you do some talking.”

Shayne kept on going. He didn’t look at Cross. He went out the door and down the hall to the elevator, pushed the button and waited, keeping his back obstinately toward Cross’s door.

The elevator stopped and took him down to the lobby. He went out and walked back to the office.

Lucy was waiting impatiently to go out to lunch. “I’ve been waiting for hours,” she complained. “You’ve got company.” She indicated the closed door of his office.

Shayne said, “Run along now,” and opened his office door. Jake Sims was standing at the window with his hands clasped behind him. The young woman whom he had seen in Hastings’s office was sitting beside his desk. She looked up at him coolly, a cigarette in her left hand, her lips parted to let smoke flow out. He had the same impression of hard, alert intelligence, as when he had first seen her.

Sims said, “Glad to see you Shayne. This is Mrs. Meredith.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs. Meredith,” said Shayne, and sat down in his swivel chair.

Sims moved from the window and took a chair opposite Shayne. He said, “Mrs. Meredith is a client of mine from out of town.”

Shayne looked at her and didn’t say anything. She had her legs crossed and she smiled faintly. Her eyes were brown and calculating. She met Shayne’s gaze levelly, sizing him up as he imagined she did all men — to ascertain if she might use him and how best to handle him.

“I wondered,” said Jake Sims, “what sort of job you’re doing for Hastings.”

Shayne was still watching Mrs. Meredith. She made, a quick gesture with her left hand, as though she had come to a sudden decision.

“Where have you hidden Jasper Groat?” Her voice was strong and even, without impatience.

“You must be Albert Hawley’s divorced wife,” Shayne countered.

She nodded and leaned forward to stub out her cigarette in a tray on his desk.

“What makes you think I’ve hidden Groat?”

Jake Sims cleared his throat. “It’s fairly evident, Shayne. You’re working with Hastings to defraud my client of a fortune. You’ve got rid of the only witness who could testify that Hawley didn’t die until after his uncle passed on — until after he had legally inherited Ezra Hawley’s fortune.”

“The only witness?” Shayne asked mockingly.

“You know Cunningham either can’t or won’t make a definite statement,” Mrs. Meredith said. “He told us about talking with you last night. He’s convinced you know what’s happened to Jasper Groat.”

“But not the diary,” Shayne said gently.

“He thinks you’re working with the reporter who got the diary from Groat,” Sims put in.

“But you don’t” — Shayne swung about to face Sims — “else you wouldn’t have called Joel Cross to learn whether he had authority to publish the diary in the event of Groat’s death.”

“We know, of course, that you’re working for Mrs. Hawley,” Mrs. Meredith said coldly. “It doesn’t matter when or how you got hold of the diary. We want it — or assurance that it’ll be destroyed.”

“As soon as Cunningham is convinced it won’t turn up to prove him a liar, his memory will improve and he’ll know whether Albert Hawley lived four or five days in the lifeboat,” Shayne said.

“You can be sure the diary won’t do the Hawleys any good as evidence, even though it does seem to prove their point. If they introduce it in court, we’ll counter with Cunningham.”

“I don’t think he’ll testify until he’s sure the diary won’t pop up to prove him a liar,” Shayne said.

Sims scowled. “It’d be much better that way,” he agreed. “That’s why my client is willing to pay good money for it.”

“Were you in New Orleans when your ex-husband was inducted into the army?” Shayne asked her suddenly.

“I was in Reno getting my divorce.”

“But you were living here just prior to that?” he pressed her.

“Until I went to Reno, yes.”

“Did you know Leon Wallace?”

For the first time her superb equanimity was disturbed. She took time to get a cigarette out of her purse. Her hands trembled as she lit it. “The name sounds familiar,” she admitted.

“Was he the gardener at the Hawleys’ while you were there?”

“Perhaps. I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What’s this Wallace got to do with the present situation?” Sims demanded. “We’ve made you an open-and-shut offer, Shayne.”

“Leon Wallace has a lot to do with all this,” Shayne said slowly and emphatically. His eyes were bright.

Mrs. Meredith came up from her chair, clutching her bag with both hands, and giving Shayne a provocative look. “Perhaps we can talk about this further — privately.” Her slight hesitation before the last word was just enough to indicate she didn’t wish to discuss Leon Wallace before her attorney.

Shayne got up and said, “I’m at your service.”

“Suppose, then, I call you after you’ve had time to think things over.” She walked toward the door.

Sims hesitated, his loose lips drawn tight, scowling his dissatisfaction at the turn the interview had taken. He nodded to Shayne and followed his client out.

Shayne’s phone rang. Inspector Quinlan in charge of the homicide department was on the wire. He said, “Shayne. I’ve got a stiff over here who used to be named Groat.”

“Where did you get him?”

“Fished him out of the river half a mile below the point where Labarre Road hits the levee. Bopped over the head about eighteen hours ago.”

“Any papers on him? A diary or anything like that?”

“Nothing at all. Sergeant Pepper says you’ve got some dope on him, and I just finished talking to Mrs. Groat. You’d better come over to my office and give out.”

Shayne said, “Right away.” He hung up and gently massaged his left earlobe for a moment before grabbing his hat.

Chapter five

“And that’s all I know about it,” Shayne completed his recital half an hour later in Quinlan’s office, spreading out his big hands in an open gesture. He had told Quinlan everything he knew about Jasper Groat, withholding only the details of his private talk with Leslie Cunningham and the information Mrs. Leon Wallace had given him.

Quinlan had a high forehead and thin features, with frosty blue eyes. He was intelligent and hard-boiled, and he liked Shayne. He leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a pencil. “It looks as though Groat went out to the Hawley house at eight, was met there by someone who conked him and carried his body down to the river. Why, Mike? And who?”

Shayne said, “You know as much about it as I do.”

“The way you tell it,” summarized the Inspector, “no one knew the diary was going to be important in determining the exact time of Albert Hawley’s death until Ezra Hawley’s will was read to the family this morning.”

“That’s the way it looks. Except Hastings, of course — the family lawyer. He probably knew the will was drawn up in such a way that the ex-Mrs. Albert Hawley would receive the inheritance only if it could be proved that Albert outlived his uncle.”

“Why did the Hawleys act the way they did about not seeing Groat?” demanded the Inspector irritably. “You’d think they’d want to talk with the men who were with Albert when he died.”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Sarah Hawley. She’s a tough old dame. I gather she blames them for saving their own lives while her son died.”

“Who’s this Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro who showed up at Groat’s apartment this morning?”

“Her husband has been missing for two years,” Shayne said slowly. “He was employed as the Hawley’s gardener at the time. It seems that Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace yesterday afternoon saying he had information about her missing husband, and asked her to come in to see him.”

“Information he must have got from Albert Hawley while the boy was dying.”

“That’s a good guess,” Shayne agreed.

“Then that may be the motive behind Groat’s death. To prevent him from turning that information over to Mrs. Wallace. Do you think there was some dirty work involving the Hawleys?”

“I — don’t know.” Shayne hesitated. “Let’s not forget the newspaper reporter Joel Cross. He had all day yesterday in which to read Groat’s diary. He’s smart. If it contained material for blackmailing the Hawleys, he’d realize at once that Groat’s religious scruples would prevent such usage of the diary. With Groat out of the way, the coast would be clear.”

“But he plans to publish the damned thing,” groaned Quinlan. “That doesn’t sound like blackmail. Stuff like that remains valuable only as long as it remains secret.”

“Sure. He prints a big item in the paper announcing publication of the diary. That’s to put the screws on. Remember, he has sole possession of the diary and he’s the one who will decide what is printed and what is withheld. That makes it a perfect blackmail setup for him — with Groat out of the way.”

“What about this fellow Cunningham? He must know what’s in the diary, too.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m not too sure about that. Remember, it was Groat who nursed Hawley in the lifeboat. I imagine Cunningham suspects the truth, though he may not know it all. Anyhow, he’d play with Cross for a split.”

“It’s too damned balled up,” Quinlan snorted. “We’re guessing at everything. We don’t even know whether the entry in the diary will throw Ezra Hawley’s money to the family or to Albert’s ex-wife.”

“That’s right,” Shayne agreed. “We don’t know anything for sure. We don’t even know who has the diary now.”

“Groat’s murderer.”

“Only if Groat had it on him when he was killed. We don’t know whether he ever got it back from Cross or not. If he did, he may have given it to someone or hidden it before he started to keep his eight o’clock appointment last night.” Shayne got up with a wide grin. “Should you talk to Joel Cross, don’t pay any attention if he accuses me of stealing the diary from his room. I didn’t, but someone else may have.” Shayne sauntered out with an infuriating wave of his hand.

Lucy was at her desk when he got back to his office. She looked up with a sardonic glint in her brown eyes and consulted a memo pad.

“Two women called,” she told him primly. “One of them wants you to call her and the other wanted your home address.”

“Who were the ladies?”

“I didn’t say either of them were ladies. One was a Mrs. Meredith. She’s at the St. Charles. Room 319. She’s the one who wants you to call her. The other one wouldn’t give her name. She giggles,” Lucy ended insinuatingly.

“Does she also nibble on her finger?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Lucy went on disdainfully. “She sounded like a mentally retarded, man-crazy she-wolf.”

Shayne nodded gravely. “You’re developing quite a knack for character analysis over the telephone. I suppose you gave this charming maiden the information she wanted?”

“I gave her the address of your apartment. You told me once I was never to refuse it to a female inquirer.”

Shayne said, “That’s swell. My liquor supply won’t be safe from now on. You can take the rest of the afternoon off,” he went on abruptly. “I think Mrs. Groat could use some company. They pulled her husband out of the river a short time ago.”

“Oh, Michael! Dead?”

“Since last night around eight.”

“Who did it? Has it anything to do with Mrs. Wallace, who was to have seen him this morning?”

He nodded soberly. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Sort of keep an eye on Mrs. Groat, angel. She may be in danger as long as her husband’s diary is missing. If the killer didn’t get it off Groat last night, he’s still after it.”

“Why is this diary so important, Michael?”

“I’m not just sure yet. Run along home and comfort Mrs. Groat. And if Leslie Cunningham should drop in with his consolations, comfort him, too — but in an impersonal sort of way.” He patted Lucy on the hand and went on into his private office where he called the St. Charles Hotel and asked for Room 319.

He heard the telephone buzz twice before Mrs. Meredith answered it.

He said, “This is Mike Shayne.”

“Have you had time to think things over, Mr. Shayne?”

“Enough to give me a headache,” he growled.

“You poor man.” Her voice was lightly mocking. “Perhaps a drink would help.”

“It’s an idea.”

“I’ll be happy to fix you a special recipe all my own if you’d like to come over.”

Shayne said, “In ten minutes,” and hung up.

Mrs. Meredith was waiting for Shayne in the living room of her two-room suite. She was wearing a clinging hostess gown of gray satin, and her brown hair, quite obviously brightened with a reddish hair-tint, was upswept. The gown and the hair-do gave her height and dignity. She put her hand in his and drew him into the room.

Shayne’s gray eyes held an odd look. She tilted her head and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’ve decided to be afraid of you,” Shayne told her bluntly.

She gave his hand an extra pressure and released it. “I like that. It’s every woman’s secret desire to be dangerously alluring.”

“You’re intelligent along with it,” he told her. “I should get out of here while I can.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“You know I’m not.” He prowled across the room to a low table in front of the divan. It held an ice bucket, a bottle of bonded bourbon, a small bowl with a teaspoon, two tall glasses full of shaved ice, and a squatty vase holding a bouquet of mint sprigs. Green mint leaves floated in the bowl on top of a syrupy mixture of granulated sugar dissolved in a small quantity of bourbon.

She came over and sat down on the divan. “This is the headache medicine I mentioned.” She poured half the mixture into each glass of shaved ice, tilted the whisky bottle, and filled the glasses to the brim with straight bourbon. She looked up and smiled at the mild amazement on Shayne’s angular face. “That’s the secret of a true New Orleans mint julep.”

“You didn’t spare the horses when you poured those,” he said.

“But wait.” She decorated each glass with mint sprigs from the vase, then held out a glass to him.

Shayne moved over to a deep chair, sank into it, stretched his long legs out comfortably, and buried his nose in the mint. He took a long, slow drink. “This,” he said, “is the only civilized way to drink whisky. You are a charming hostess.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, as though accepting his statement not as flattery but as one with which she agreed.

“I’m beginning to understand how you induced your ex-husband to make a new will leaving everything to you after you had divorced him. That’s one of the angles that’s bothered me. It just didn’t make sense.”

She said, “Oh? And it does make sense now?”

“It’s beginning to. You had Hawley wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you?”

“Albert loved me,” she said softly.

Shayne took a sip from his glass. “What about Leon Wallace?”

“What do you know about him?” she countered.

“I know he went to work as a gardener on the Hawley estate about the time you decided to go to Reno and divorce your husband.” He looked steadily at her as he spoke. “And I know he disappeared soon afterward, placating his wife and children with a payment of ten thousand dollars. He has continued to send them a thousand dollars every six months — in envelopes mailed from New Orleans.”

Mrs. Meredith met his eyes levelly, an interested expression on her face. She said, “You do get around, don’t you, Mr. Shayne?”

“I also imagine that Albert Hawley knew the secret of Wallace’s disappearance and told it to Groat when he was dying in the lifeboat,” Shayne continued relentlessly. “Groat was an honorable man and the secret weighed on his conscience until he phoned Mrs. Wallace to come and see him. I’m inclined to believe,” he went on slowly, “that Jasper Groat was murdered last night to prevent that meeting from taking place.”

“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.

Shayne and Quinlan went inside the room where the photographer was putting away his equipment and the fingerprint men were finishing up their work.

Sergeant Donovan scowled at Quinlan. He said, “We haven’t got anything worth while. One set of prints everywhere, presumably yours, Mike. Her prints are on that brandy bottle on the table and on the arms of that chair behind her.”

“How about the light bulb in the hallway?”

“Yours are plain enough at the top. The imprints on the bottom and sides are smudged,” Donovan said disgustedly.

“Try the back stairway and door for prints,” Shayne said to Donovan.

“You can call it quits if you don’t find anything worth reporting,” Quinlan said. He went over and sat down wearily on the sofa.

Shayne stood looking at the dead woman. Beatrice Meany did not look like a dipsomaniac as she lay there. Her naturally childish features had taken on a sort of dignity in death. There was a troubled expression on her face, as though she didn’t understand why this had happened to her.

Two men came up the stairs with a long wicker basket. They placed the body in the basket and took it away.

Shayne picked up the brandy bottle and squinted at it. “She’d helped herself to a couple of big slugs before she got it,” he said to the Inspector. “Want a shot?”

“No, thanks. Why did she come up to your apartment?”

“She wanted to keep Ezra Hawley’s money away from her dead brother’s ex-wife. I suppose she wanted me to help her.”

“The woman in Room 319 at the St. Charles?” Quinlan asked, frowning deeply.

“That’s right — Mrs. Meredith.”

“I suppose she wants you to help her get the money.”

“That’s right.”

“And Leslie Cunningham, Groat’s companion in the lifeboat, was with Mrs. Meredith when I talked to them.”

“That’s right. Cunningham is the only one left now who can testify when Hawley died.”

“Is he working with Mrs. Meredith?”

Shayne hesitated, then said, “My impression of Cunningham is that he’s out for whatever he can get. Mrs. Meredith has quite a lot to offer, I’d say.”

“And you think she’s offering it to him?”

“She’s hard-boiled and she’s plenty smart. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get hold of a million dollars.”

“What about Groat’s diary?”

“That’s still the stumbling block. The hell of it is,” Shayne admitted irritably, “we don’t know which side the diary favors — the Hawleys or Mrs. Meredith. Cunningham pretends he isn’t sure whether Hawley lived four or five days. That may be the truth, or he may just be waiting to make sure the diary is out of the way before he comes forward with definite testimony. Both parties are anxious to get hold of it to substantiate their claim or to suppress it if it doesn’t substantiate their claim.”

“Doesn’t anyone actually know what’s in the diary?”

“Cunningham may, but he’s not saying. And Joel Cross should know, whether he realizes what it means or not.”

Quinlan blinked at him. “Cross must know plenty or he wouldn’t have advertised he was going to print the diary.”

“Yeah.” Shayne took a long drink from the brandy bottle. He sat down on the sofa beside Quinlan. “Cross could be playing a deep game,” he mused. “What have you done about alibis for Groat’s death?”

“Not much. I haven’t checked yours, for instance.”

Shayne grinned. “What time?”

“Matson puts the murder between eight and nine last night. If he’s right—”

“Let’s assume it’s correct,” Shayne suggested.

“He was murdered with the old familiar blunt instrument, and tossed in the river soon afterward,” Quinlan said heavily.

“Any way of telling how soon?”

“I asked Matson that. He grumbled about expecting miracles from a mere man of science and then admitted there were indications that it was not more than ten or fifteen minutes later.”

“Just long enough to get from the Hawley house to the river.”

Quinlan nodded unhappily. “I got exactly the same information you did, except the old woman said the girl was nuts and that her saying she talked to Groat and invited him out wasn’t worth a damn as testimony. Which reminds me—” He went to the telephone.

There was a knock at the door. Shayne opened it. A girl in messenger uniform said, “Telegram for Mrs. Mere—”

Shayne said, “Sh-h,” and shoved her into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “I’m Mr. Meredith. I’ll sign.” He fished out a half-dollar and put it in her hand, signed for the message, and thrust it into his pocket.

Quinlan was just hanging up the receiver when Shayne returned. He asked, “Who was that?”

“Telegram for me.”

Quinlan grunted and said, “Gerald Meany is missing — since a little before five. From what my men learned out there it looks as though he may have followed his wife over here.”

“Followed her?”

“Here’s the way they got it,” Quinlan said. “Mrs. Meany called a taxi and left the house around four o’clock. Seems she had some sort of an argument with her husband before she left, and a short time later he came down from her room with a scrap of paper and asked the Negro butler and Mrs. Hawley if either of them knew whose address it was.

“They both claimed they didn’t know. The Negro did remember the street name, and told my men it was a number on Carondolet. It was on a sheet torn from the telephone pad in the Meanys’ suite. The butler testified that Meany went out to his car and drove away immediately afterward. He hasn’t returned. I’ve got a pickup out for him.”

Shayne said, “It adds up to fit Jake’s story. Funny — he didn’t act like the jealous type.”

“That does it,” Quinlan said briskly. “He got sore about the way she carried on with you when you were out there. He brooded about it all day. When she came over here this afternoon it was too much for him. So he let her have it when he found her waiting here.”

Shayne’s gaunt face was expressionless. He said, “It sounds okay, but he was crazy if he was jealous of his wife on my account.” He grimaced at the memory of the few moments spent with her in her living-room. Then he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read: You know utterly impossible for me to come. Call me tonight. Extremely anxious. Theodore.

Shayne crumpled the yellow sheet and tossed it aside carelessly. He asked pointedly, “Anything else you want with me?”

“Not until we pick up Meany and find whether he’s got an alibi for this.” Quinlan went out, reminding Shayne as he went to the door: “You’ve still got twelve minutes unaccounted for — and I don’t believe you were window shopping.”

Shayne jumped up and rummaged in the top drawer of a chest of drawers, returned to the sofa with a memorandum book which he hadn’t used in many years. After taking a big drink from the brandy bottle, he settled himself and slowly turned the yellowed pages of the book.

Halfway through the memo pad he nodded with satisfaction. Holding the pages open with his thumb, he reached for the telephone and rang long-distance.

When the operator answered he said, “I want to place a person-to-person call to Chicago to Benjamin D. Ames, private detective, formerly associated with World Wide Detective Agency. He has a home in Chicago, I think. This is urgent police business. Please rush it.” He gave his name and telephone number, hung up, took another drink, and settled back to wait.

He was staring into space and massaging his left ear-lobe when the phone rang. The operator said, “Ready on your call to Chicago, Mr. Shayne.”

A reedy, nasal voice said, “Hello.”

Shayne said, “Ben Ames? This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.” After a few brief explanations, Shayne said, “Here’s a little job I need whipped up in a hurry. Got a few hours free and a pencil and paper to take this down?”

“Both,” said Ames. “Shoot.”

“Theodore Meredith.” Shayne gave him the street address. “I need a picture of him. He won’t give you one, if my hunch is right, so you’d better take along a photog to steal one. But get it, Ben! And get all the dope about him you can pick up in a hurry. Here’s your in to get at him. He’s in the headlines in New Orleans as husband of the ex-wife of Albert Hawley, soldier recently lost at sea, and through Hawley, Meredith’s wife is in line to inherit a million or so left to Hawley by his uncle, Ezra Hawley. A Chicago reporter could be interested in the story.”

“Sure. I’ll get to him, Mike. How fast and how much do you want to lay on the line?”

“There’s a plane leaving Chicago tonight. Get the pic and anything else you can on that plane and you’ll be a C-note richer.”

“Can do,” Ames assured him. “Air express to you in New Orleans?”

“Right.” Shayne gave his address and hung up.

There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He recognized the sign. He took a drink of brandy as an antidote. He was beginning to move now. The plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive about nine in the morning. If his hunch was right—

He heard a strong, authoritative knock on his door. He opened it, and Joel Cross blinked at him in surprise. Cross’s bristly mustache and square jaw appeared more aggressive than ever.

Shayne said, “Come in and have a drink.”

Cross walked swiftly into the room, darting suspicious glances everywhere. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Who?”

Cross said, “Mrs. Meany.” He sat on the edge of a chair and planted both hands on his knees.

Shayne sat down leisurely and asked, “What do you know about Mrs. Meany?”

“Very little. I know she’s Mrs. Sarah Hawley’s daughter.”

“If you knew anything about her,” Shayne said casually, “you’d look in the bedroom. She always goes to bed when she passes out.”

“In there?” Cross looked quickly at a closed door on the left. He got up and said, “I think you’re lying, Shayne,” walked stiffly to the door, and opened it. He stood hesitantly on the threshold, then snapped on the light. He turned back to Shayne and said angrily. “What have you done with her?”

“What makes you think she’s been here?” Shayne countered.

“She told me she was coming and asked me to meet her here.”

“What for?”

“Something about the Groat diary. She seemed quite upset over the telephone.”

“When?”

“Around four-thirty. See here, Shayne, if she isn’t here — if this was just at trick to get me over here—”

Shayne slowly came to his feet. He was between Cross and the outer door. “I’ll take the diary for her.”

“I don’t have it with me.” There was a trace of a smirk in Cross’s voice. “I’m not admitting that it’s in my possession.”

Shayne remained standing. He said, “It’s almost seven o’clock. What took you so long to get here?”

“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined by you.”

“You’re going to be.” Shayne’s voice was inflexible. He moved backward to the door, leaned against it, and folded his arms. “Two hours and a half, Cross. Did you think she’d wait for you all night?”

“I was busy and didn’t realize how much time had passed. Are you going to tell me where she is?”

“In the morgue.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed fiercely.

Joel Cross’s face went lax for a second. He stared at the detective and repeated, “In the morgue?”

“Sit down. It’s time you and I did some talking.”

Shayne waited until Cross sat down before going to the couch. He asked harshly, “Where were you this evening between five-thirty and six?”

“In my room working. Good heavens, do you think I killed her? I didn’t even know the girl.”

“You knew she was coming here to see me.”

“Do you mean she was killed here?”

“In that chair you’re sitting on.”

Cross jumped involuntarily, stared at the floor, wet his lips, and said, “Suppose I did know she was coming here?”

“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to spill what she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder,” Shayne mused. “You fit. You had a motive for killing Groat before he reached the Hawleys and told his story. You’d read the diary and knew the value of the entries concerning Albert Hawley’s death. And whoever killed Groat also killed Beatrice Meany this afternoon. You had the opportunity. She practically invited you over to kill her.”

Cross’s sandy mustache no longer bristled. His voice was shaky when he said, “I didn’t. I was working, I tell you. I’ve never been in this room before.”

Shayne shrugged. “I can place you here between five-thirty and six,” he warned. “The Negro janitor let a man in while Mrs. Meany was waiting for me. You fit the description all right. Of course,” he went on pleasantly, “the old man’s eyesight isn’t very good and he might not be too positive about making an identification unless I tell him what to say.”

“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” Cross snapped.

“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I don’t like you. Inspector Quinlan is checking your alibi for last night. If you haven’t a better one than your story about this afternoon — and I have a little talk with the janitor—”

“Damn you,” said Cross passionately, “you can’t get away with anything like that. I still don’t know what all this interest in the diary is about.”

“You admit you read it yesterday.”

“Sure I read it. But I still don’t understand why people are being killed on account of it.”

“You’d have a hell of time convincing a jury of that,” Shayne snarled. “It’s right there in black and white, isn’t it?”

“I studied it this afternoon after the girl called—”

“Then you admit you’ve got it.”

Cross smiled unpleasantly. “In a very safe place.”

“You know what the diary says about Leon Wallace, don’t you?”

“I don’t recall any such name or person,” Cross returned. He was becoming stiff and aggressive again.

Shayne groaned and took another drink. Maybe he was all wet. Maybe he didn’t know a damned thing about anything. Maybe he wasn’t all wet, by God! Maybe Cross was doing a good job of lying.

Shayne said harshly, “Are you willing to back up what you say by letting me read the diary?”

“No. I’m not interested in whether you believe me or not. Why should I prove anything to you?”

“To keep yourself out of a murder frame.” His face was taut and grim. He got up and went to the wall speaking-tube, lifted it, and said, “Jake — this is Shayne. Come up here at once.”

“Yassuh, Mist’ Shayne. Ah’ll be right up.”

Shayne whirled to face Cross. “Men have burned on less evidence than I can produce against you.” He sat down again. “Get smart, Cross. The Inspector is looking for a murderer who answers your general description. If Jake decides you’re the man, all hell won’t change his identification.”

Cross fidgeted in his chair. “This is preposterous.”

Jake knocked timidly on the door. Shayne stayed in front of him so that he couldn’t see Cross. He said, “You let a man into my room this afternoon, Jake, and a girl was murdered. If you identify this man now, the police won’t do anything to you for letting him in.”

“You’re coaching him,” shouted Cross. “You’re telling him to say it was me.”

Jake rolled his eyes at Cross when Shayne stepped aside. His old eyes sidled to Shayne, then back to Cross. “Looks lak him all right. Yassuh, sho does. Ah reckon thass him. How come you-all kotch him so fast, Mist’ Shayne?”

“This is an outrage,” Cross began, stopped when he heard a loud rap on the door.

Shayne said softly, “Turn the diary over to me—” then opened the door.

Inspector Quinlan strode in, followed by Lawyer Hastings. Quinlan shot a quick glance at Cross and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Jake, standing close to Shayne, said in a quavering voice, “Dat’s him, Mist’ Policeman. Ah seen ’im come up heah jest lak I done told.”

Shayne gritted his teeth and shook his head at Jake, but the aged Negro had his cue and was determined to clear himself by identifying Cross as the afternoon visitor.

“Ah didn’ mean nothin’ wrong lettin’ ’im in heah dis afternoon, boss,” he told the Inspector earnestly. “Ah sho didn’ know he was gonna kill dat gal.”

“What’s all this about?” Quinlan demanded of Shayne.

“It’s a frame-up.” Cross’s voice trembled with anger. “Shayne put that janitor up to saying he saw me here this afternoon. It’s a lie. I wasn’t here. I don’t know a damned thing about the woman who was murdered!”

“A frame-up, eh?” Quinlan scowled at Shayne. “I’ll book you, so help me God, if you’re pulling a fast one. And you, too.” He whirled on the janitor. “Do you know you can go to jail for this?”

“Nossuh. Yo’ ain’ gonna do nothin’ to me now after Ah done said it’s him. Kin he, Mist’ Shayne?”

Shayne said gently, “Don’t worry, Jake. The Inspector just wants to be sure.”

“This is excellent,” said Hastings, stepping forward briskly. “Most fortunate that you have apprehended Mrs. Meany’s murderer, Mr. Shayne. You’ll release my client at once,” he demanded of the Inspector.

“Looks as though we haven’t much on him now,” Quinlan admitted. He said to Shayne, “We’ve got Gerald Meany downstairs. Brought him over to see if the janitor could identify him. He was picked up half drunk in a joint not far from here. He swears he didn’t come here this afternoon — doesn’t remember it, anyway. He admits he started out to follow his wife, but stopped for a drink and doesn’t remember anything else very clearly. If your man has already identified this fellow—”

“But it’s a lie! He didn’t actually identify me. Not until Shayne told him to. Ask him yourself,” Cross challenged.

“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 as 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.

The report was singularly unenlightening. It told him that Meredith held a minor executive position with a garden-seed concern, and his manner of living suggested some outside income beside his salary. The Merediths had moved to that address immediately after their marriage some two years previously, and in the short time allotted to him, Ames had been unable to locate anyone who had known either of them prior to their marriage. Ames ended his report by asking Shayne to wire if he wanted any more dope on Meredith.

The postman came with the early morning mail while Shayne was glancing over the report. Lucy took it and fished out a long envelope from Mrs. Wallace. She asked, “Shall I open it?”

Shayne said, “Hell, yes!” He gathered up the contents of Ames’s package and went into his inner office. Lucy followed him with the open envelope and laid it before him.

It contained four empty envelopes, all addressed in ink, to Mrs. Leon Wallace, and postmarked New Orleans at six-months intervals covering the past two years. There was also a faded photograph showing a man and woman standing close together with their arms interlocked. The man was tall and lean and dark. He hadn’t been more than twenty when the picture was taken. Shayne recognized the woman as Mrs. Wallace.

He studied it hungrily. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he glanced aside at Lucy with an odd grimace. He laid the picture beside the fresh one of Theodore Meredith and muttered, “No man can change that much in a few years.”

Lucy bit her lip and looked up from the photographs with wide eyes. “I didn’t know. Did you suspect that Theodore Meredith was really Leon Wallace?”

Shayne’s red brows were drawn fiercely over questioning eyes. “It was a good hunch,” said Shayne, avoiding Lucy’s gaze. “It would have explained a lot of things.”

He took a bottle of brandy from the desk drawer, poured a long drink, and swallowed it. He sighed and reached for the four empty envelopes accompanying the photograph, then opened a drawer and brought out the original letter Wallace had written his wife at the time of his disappearance. He compared the handwriting with that of the other four and nodded gloomily. “The same handwriting and the same ink, by God, and all written at about the same time.”

He yanked his swivel chair forward and straightened up alertly. “This may be something, Lucy. I’m not an expert, but it’s my guess these envelopes were all addressed at the same time Wallace wrote that letter. Someone has been mailing his wife those thousand-dollar bills in the pre-addressed envelopes. That means he hasn’t necessarily been around town to mail them. It means he isn’t necessarily alive. There’s no proof that he’s been alive for two years as the semiannual payments seemed to indicate.”

Lucy stood silently beside his desk.

Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and a look of intense concentration settled over his face. He didn’t move for five full minutes. Then he said softly, “It could be.” He asked Lucy, “Have we still got a copy of the paper carrying the first story of the sea rescue — the day Cunningham and Groat were brought in?”

“I don’t think we have it here, Michael. There’s a copy in my apartment. Do you want—”

He cut her off with a swift gesture. “We’ve got other things to do first.” His doubled fist struck the desk. “That has to be it. It’s the only way things fit. We’re going to have bad news for Mrs. Wallace.”

“Is her husband dead, too?”

He nodded soberly. “I’m afraid he is.” His voice cracked with sudden energy. “Get me the St. Charles. Room 319.”

Lucy hurriedly called the number, asked for Mrs. Meredith’s room, and handed him the instrument. “Mike Shayne talking,” he said briskly. “You’d better get over here in a hurry. Bring your lawyer if you want to.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I have that diary — and it might be for sale.” He hung up and swung around toward Lucy. “Do you know how to reach Cunningham?”

“Yes. He gave me his telephone number yesterday.”

“Call him. Tell him I have the diary and we’re having a meeting in my office to decide what to do about it.”

Shayne sat back and thoughtfully rubbed his jaw while Lucy made the call from her desk. She came to the door and announced, “Cunningham is on his way over.”

Shayne said, “Get me Inspector Quinlan at Homicide.”

Lucy used her desk telephone. She buzzed Shayne, who picked up his receiver and said heartily, “Good morning, Inspector.”

“What’s good about it?” barked Quinlan. “I was going to call you. What’s this about you assaulting a lawyer last night?”

“Drake?”

“He threatens to swear out a complaint against you.”

“Fine. Tell him to be sure he specifies what I took from him.”

“What’s it all about, Mike? I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“Have you charged Gross with murder yet?”

“No. I don’t know about that janitor’s identification. Cross swears you put him up to it. One of my men had another talk with the Negro this morning, and showed him a picture of Gerald Meany and got him all confused. Right off he said Meany was the man. Then he got confused and denied it. You’ve got things so damned balled up I don’t believe we’ll get anywhere in court.”

Shayne said, “That’s too bad, Inspector. Will it square things if I hand you the case all sewed up in a knot?”

“Which case? Groat or Meany?”

“Both,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “That is, they’re the same one. Why don’t you pick up Meany and bring him and Cross to my office in half an hour?”

“More rabbits out of your hat?”

“You’ll be surprised. Call Lawyer Hastings and ask him to come over to see that his client’s rights are protected.” He hung up before Quinlan could ask more questions.

Chapter eight

The first to arrive were Mrs. Meredith and Jake Sims. Lucy ushered them in. Shayne said, “Get your notebook, Lucy.” Then he said, “Good morning,” to Mrs. Meredith, and nodded to Sims.

Mrs. Meredith was perfectly groomed and alert. She advanced toward him with narrowed eyes and asked sharply, “Where is the diary?”

He took it from his pocket and laid it on the table, waving her to a seat beside his desk. Lucy came in with her notebook and he said to his visitors, “Excuse me while I dictate a memorandum agreement. The date, Lucy. U-m-m—

“Agreement entered into this day between Mrs. Theodore Meredith and Michael Shayne relative to certain professional services performed and to be performed by said Michael Shayne in the matter of a legacy from the estate of the late Ezra Hawley which Mrs. Meredith claims and is desirous of acquiring.

“As payment for his professional services in substantiating her claim to the said estate, Mrs. Theodore Meredith hereby agrees to pay Michael Shayne the sum of ten thousand dollars if and when the estate legally comes into the possession of Mr. and/or Mrs. Theodore Meredith by due process of law.

“In the event that this claim is disapproved and said estate does not accrue to Mrs. Theodore Meredith and/or her husband, it is further agreed that Michael Shayne’s fee for professional services in this matter shall be exactly no dollars and no cents.”

“What on earth makes you think I’ll sign that agreement?” demanded Mrs. Meredith.

Shayne said to Lucy, “Type it out in duplicate and bring it right in.” He turned to Mrs. Meredith, “You’ll sign it if you want to get your hands on a million or so dollars.” He opened the diary, dipped the pages to the entry containing Albert Hawley’s death. “Hawley died the fourth night after the ship was torpedoed,” he pointed out. “Ezra Hawley died the next night. What does that do to your claim?”

Mrs. Meredith bit her underlip. She and Sims both leaned forward to look at the entry. Shayne held the book in his hands. He asked, “Do you think my services will be worth ten grand?”

“What do you plan to do?” Sims asked. “Destroy the diary?”

“Let’s not go into details,” Shayne reproved him. “The least said about this diary, the better. If it disappears—” He shrugged and replaced it in his pocket. “According to the agreement Lucy is typing, I don’t collect a cent unless you get the estate.”

“What about Cunningham’s testimony?” Sims grated.

“I think he will play ball without the diary to contradict him. Let me worry about Cunningham.”

Lucy came in with two typed sheets. She closed the door and told Shayne, “Mr. Cunningham is outside.”

“Let him stay there until we get this thing signed. You and Sims can witness it.” Shayne passed his pen to Mrs. Meredith. “I’ve got you in a tight spot,” he reminded her. “I’ve been offered five grand to throw the estate in the other direction.”

She studied him coolly for a moment, read the document through, then signed her name. Shayne put his signature beneath hers. Lucy and Sims both signed as witnesses, and Shayne gave one copy to Mrs. Meredith. He folded the other and put it in his pocket.

He said to Lucy, “Now send Cunningham in. And you skip down to the newsstand and pick up a copy of the paper carrying the rescue story. He always keeps back copies for at least a week.”

Lucy went out. Leslie Cunningham strode into the office. He stopped on widespread feet and looked at the others.

Shayne said, “Let’s get this over fast before the others arrive. Quinlan is bringing two murder suspects with him and I’ve promised him enough to hang the guilty party. I’ve got Groat’s diary, Cunningham. As you know, it proves that Hawley died one day too soon for him to inherit his uncle’s estate. However, Mrs. Meredith is making it worth my while to see that she gets the money. Why don’t you and she talk the same sort of a deal over? Or maybe you already have an understanding.”

“Sure,” Cunningham said huskily. “We understand each other. You’ve got the diary, huh?”

“I’ve got it. And I’m going to see to it she gets the estate. Suit you?”

“Suits me.”

Shayne heard someone entering the outer office. He opened the door and said, “Come in, Mr. Hastings. I believe you know Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Sims. And Mr. Cunningham — the missing witness who is prepared to testify that Albert Hawley did not die until the fifth night after the ship sank.”

“Cunningham, eh?” Hastings took off his glasses and looked at the bronzed sailor. “Does he have Groat’s diary to back up his testimony? I understand it has disappeared.”

“It seems to have done just that,” said Shayne. “So that leaves Cunningham the only witness.”

“By heavens, Shayne, I don’t—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a plain-clothes man with Gerald Meany in tow. Behind them were Quinlan and Joel Cross.

Shayne greeted them with a wide grin, saying, “I’m sorry there aren’t enough chairs to go around, but this won’t take long.” He brought in two chairs from the outer office. “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can and we’ll see if we can figure things out.”

“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Shayne?” Quinlan took the center of the floor and glared at the detective. “Who are all these people and how do they figure in murder?”

Shayne paused momentarily, then said, “I’ve been doing some more digging into this thing, Inspector. Remember the woman who came up to meet Groat the morning after he was murdered — Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro? Her husband disappeared two years ago while working as a gardener for Mrs. Sarah Hawley. He wrote his wife a curious letter telling her not to look for him and enclosing ten grand. He promised her an additional grand every six months if she kept her mouth shut and didn’t raise a stink about his disappearance. She didn’t, and every six months since she has received the money in an envelope addressed by her husband and mailed in New Orleans. I have those envelopes here. I think laboratory tests will prove they were all addressed to her by Wallace at the time he disappeared — just prior to Albert Hawley’s induction into the army and while Mrs. Albert Hawley was in Reno getting a divorce. Does that suggest anything to you?”

Quinlan said gruffly, “I recall Mrs. Wallace claiming she had a phone call from Groat. Claimed he had information about her husband and asked her to come to see him.”

“That’s right. So it was quite evident that Albert Hawley, who was at home when Wallace disappeared, had some guilty knowledge which he confided to Groat before he died. Right?”

“What has all this to do with a couple of murders?”

“I think it’s at the bottom of them,” Shayne told him calmly. “As you must have guessed, it was Groat’s diary that I got from Drake last night after Cross had told his lawyer where to find it. I’ve checked the diary carefully and I admit Cross told the truth — no material for blackmail, or murder.”

Mrs. Meredith sighed and relaxed in her chair.

Lawyer Hastings stepped forward and demanded, “Does the diary back up Cunningham’s story about Hawley not dying until the fifth day?”

Quinlan roared, “Sit down. We’re talking about murder. Are you saying it wasn’t Cross, Shayne?”

“I’m afraid his arrest was a mistake,” said Shayne pleasantly, “except it did provide a lever to bring the diary into the open so I could get my hands on it. And Cross was safer in jail.”

“I told you it was a frame-up,” Cross interjected angrily. “That janitor’s identification was a phony.”

“I’m afraid something like that did happen, Inspector. Not that I meant to frighten Jake. He didn’t understand me. Right now, I’m convinced Meany is the man who visited his wife in my apartment.”

Hastings got up again. “I protest that unfounded accusation, Inspector. You and I were present when the Negro positively identified this other man. He can’t change his testimony at Shayne’s whim.”

“He’s right,” Quinlan raged. “We’ll never be able to prove it was Meany now.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to. I think we can prove that Mrs. Meany’s murderer also killed Jasper Groat. That’s the only possible motive for her death. She was expecting Groat and must have seen the murderer attack him after he arrived by taxi at the Hawley house. The murderer thought she was going to spill everything to me, so he had to get rid of her before she did.”

Lucy came in with the newspaper. Shayne took the folded paper from her and placed it, front page up, on his desk. It carried big headlines proclaiming the rescue of the drifting seamen, with a picture of Groat and Cunningham taken at the dock. There was a photograph of Albert Hawley in civilian clothes, evidently dug out of the newspaper morgue for the occasion.

Quinlan grew restive. “Beatrice’s husband knew she was coming to see you,” he growled. “We know he found your address scribbled on a pad in her room, and followed her immediately.”

Shayne said, “But let’s get back to Groat’s diary and the secret confided by the dying soldier which weighed so heavily on his conscience.

“Unfortunately, Groat doesn’t tell us what that secret was. He doesn’t even mention Leon Wallace’s name. See for yourself, Inspector.” He took the book out and tossed it carelessly to Quinlan.

An audible gasp escaped Mrs. Meredith’s lips. She sat erect, her eyes blazing defiantly at Shayne.

Jake Sims wet his lips and frowned, glancing quickly from Shayne to Cunningham, who stood back with arms stolidly folded, dark brows drawn, and lips clamped together.

Hastings uttered an exclamation of surprise and stepped forward to peer over Quinlan’s shoulder as the Inspector flipped the pages after glancing hurriedly at the entries.

“There it is,” said Hastings triumphantly. He pointed a finger at the line. “There’s the death story in black and white. H died quietly during the night. That must be Hawley. He was buried on the fifth day. He died the previous night, before his uncle died.” He looked at Shayne sharply. “I understood you to say Albert did not pass away until after his uncle died.”

“I said that Cunningham was prepared to testify that way,” Shayne reminded him, and grinned crookedly. “I think Mrs. Meredith may have influenced him somewhat in that direction.”

“You dirty louse,” Mrs. Meredith said distinctly and with sharp emphasis. “I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know why you pulled that stunt on me a few minutes ago. If you’re going to accuse someone of accepting a bribe, maybe the Inspector will like to see this.” She took the signed copy of the agreement from her purse and flung it on the desk. Contempt dulled her eyes when she faced Quinlan. “Just before you arrived he induced me to sign that by promising that the diary would not be produced as evidence.”

“Which merely proves my innate honesty,” Shayne said with a cheerful grin. “That little document shows my ability to withstand temptation. It should convince even the Inspector, who has unjustly suspected me several times in the past.”

Quinlan’s cold eyes were glaring at him, frosty eyebrows drawn together in undisguised distrust.

“Let’s get down to a couple of murders,” Shayne went on harshly, ignoring Quinlan’s anger. “Since the diary contains no actual blackmail material, and no one connected with the case is presumed to have known the importance of the date of Albert Hawley’s death at the time Groat was killed, let’s see if we can figure out why he was murdered as he reached the Hawley house at eight o’clock and his body thrown into the river.”

Still glaring at Shayne, Quinlan slammed the book shut. “Let’s do that,” he agreed caustically. “All I get out of this, so far, is that Hawley told Groat something when he was dying and that it disturbed Groat’s conscience greatly.”

“Something about Leon Wallace,” Shayne said. “I think the whole thing goes back to that day two years ago when Wallace disappeared. A couple of significant things happened about that time. Albert Hawley was coming up for induction into the army. His wife went to Reno to divorce him. Why did she do that?” He looked at Mrs. Meredith. She wasn’t looking at him. “It wasn’t a very patriotic gesture, to say the least. It couldn’t have helped Albert much.”

Mrs. Meredith stiffened. “Albert’s induction had nothing to do with it,” she burst out. “We decided on a divorce, that’s all.”

“But you wouldn’t expect a man to be too happy about his wife deserting him just when he was to be drafted,” Shayne pointed out. “Yet Hawley seems to have approved your action. So much so, in fact, that he made a new will leaving everything to you in case of death, even though you remarried after your divorce. That’s something that has stuck in my craw all along.” Shayne lit a cigarette and puffed on it rapidly.

“Albert loved me devotedly,” Mrs. Meredith said acidly, her chin high. “He willed me everything because he wanted me to have it rather than his devil of a mother and that—” She caught herself up quickly and ended, “That no-good married to Beatrice.”

Gerald Meany said meekly, “That’s a falsehood. Albert and I were friends.”

Shayne glanced at Gerald through half-closed eyes. He was relaxed in his swivel chair. He said impatiently, “Someone furnished Leon Wallace ten thousand dollars in cash for his wife to prevent her from going to the police about his disappearance. Who? Wallace didn’t have any such sum. He worked as a gardener to earn money for his wife to keep their farm going. What service did Leon Wallace perform that was worth ten grand to someone — and two thousand a year thereafter as long as she kept quiet?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about it,” Mrs. Meredith said. “I scarcely remember the man.”

Shayne opened his eyes wide. “Do you know, Meany?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meany muttered wearily. He was still standing. “I don’t know anybody named Leon Wallace. I don’t know the name of any of the servants except the butler.”

Shayne said slowly, “There’s only one answer that makes any sense and adds up to an explanation of Wallace’s disappearance, Albert’s willing his money to his ex-wife, and the secret that weighed on Jasper Groat’s conscience.”

He turned to Cunningham and said, “Come over here.” He pointed to the picture of Albert Hawley in the newspaper. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

Thick silence gripped the office. Cunningham licked his thick, cracked lips as he studied the photograph. He glanced at Mrs. Meredith before saying, “Sure. That’s Albert Hawley. Can’t you read what it says?”

“It’s a picture of Albert Hawley!” Shayne said grimly. “But I don’t think you ever saw him. How could you, when he’s living in Chicago under the name of Theodore Meredith?”

Shayne disregarded the loud gasp from Mrs. Meredith. He pulled out a drawer and laid the photograph of Theodore Meredith which Ben Ames had sent him beside the picture of Albert Hawley. “This was taken in Chicago last night,” he explained casually.

Quinlan stepped quickly behind Shayne and stared at the two pictures. The silence grew thick again. After a little while the Inspector fixed his cold eyes on Cunningham and asked, “How could the same guy have died in a lifeboat and still be in Chicago?”

“I— don’t know,” Cunningham stammered. “That picture in the paper looks like the soldier named Albert Hawley.”

Mrs. Meredith jumped up and started for the door. Quinlan made a gesture and his plain-clothes man blocked the way. Quinlan said, “We’ll all stick around until this thing is cleared up.” He circled the desk and asked Shayne, “Are you suggesting that Hawley never entered the army? That he went to Chicago, took the name of Meredith, and remarried his wife after she got a Reno divorce?”

“It’s the only answer that fits. Here’s a picture of the man who died in the lifeboat, Cunningham.” He brought out the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Leon Wallace. “Leon Wallace, for ten grand and promise of ample support of his wife and children, impersonated Albert Hawley in the draft and entered the army under a false name.”

Quinlan cleared his throat loudly, started to say something.

Shayne went on inexorably to Cunningham, “You knew the truth all the time. You crept up close that night while Leon Wallace was dying and heard his confession to Groat. It was a beautiful opportunity to blackmail Mrs. Hawley because you thought she was rich — and Albert, if you could persuade Groat to go along with you. But Groat wasn’t a blackmailer. He was sincerely religious. He decided to come clean and called Mrs. Wallace in to see him. Then he called Beatrice Meany and told her he was coming out.

“But he made the mistake of calling you immediately afterward and telling you what he had decided to do. You couldn’t have that. It would have upset your plans. You hurried out there and lurked in the shadows until the taxi was gone, and killed him. You were upset when you didn’t find the diary on him. You didn’t know exactly what he had written in it and you feared publication, even though at that time you didn’t realize the importance of the date of Albert’s supposed death.”

Cunningham growled, “Nuts,” through bared teeth. “You can’t prove a word of it. I’ve got an alibi.”

“If Beatrice were alive we could prove it,” Shayne told him quietly. “But you took care of that, too. When you heard me say, in Mrs. Meredith’s apartment, that she was waiting for me, you had to get there before I did and kill her. I made the mistake of killing time after I left Mrs. Meredith’s room. I talked for a few minutes with Kurt Davis and stopped by at the telegraph office. You were the only person involved who knew my home address and knew Beatrice was there, and had the opportunity. Don’t expect Mrs. Meredith to alibi you for that. I know you hurried back to her room after killing Beatrice, and together you planned to say you’d been there all the time. That was when she thought she was in the clear. She knows better now.”

Cunningham whirled to look at Mrs. Meredith standing near the door. The expression on her face was enough to tell him that Shayne had spoken the truth. His hand darted into his coat pocket for a gun, but Quinlan grabbed him first. The plain-clothes man dived in, and came up with a frothing sailor handcuffed to his wrist.

“Take him along,” Quinlan said irritably. “All we need is Mrs. Meredith’s testimony that he was gone from her room long enough to have committed the murder. You’ll give us that!” It was a command.

“Of course.” She smiled with cold mockery. “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”

“Illegal?” sputtered Quinlan. “After divorcing Albert Hawley and remarrying him under a different name?”

“I didn’t break any law by doing that. He’s still alive as Mr. Shayne has proven. His uncle’s estate will come to us.”

“A hell of a lot of good that will do him,” Quinlan raged. “He’ll spend twenty years in jail for evading the draft.”

“But I won’t. I didn’t evade the draft.”

“You’re as guilty as he is,” Quinlan barked. “Come along.” He took her by the arm, said, “Okay, Shayne,” and went out.

Lawyer Hastings lingered. When he was alone with Shayne he said in a troubled voice, “A very clever series of deductions, Mr. Shayne. I have been most unhappy in the realization that something of this sort took place two years ago. I confess I was at a loss to understand Albert’s action in leaving everything to his ex-wife, but I assure you I didn’t know — I really didn’t know about the substitution of the gardener to take Albert’s place in the army.”

“The old lady was the key to the whole thing,” Shayne told him. “Her domineering personality and her idea that Albert was too good to serve as a common soldier. That, and the rundown condition of her estate. You assured me that Ezra Hawley had furnished them with plenty of money to get along on, but it certainly hadn’t been spent on the home. That explained where the money came from to pay Mrs. Wallace — and the added income Albert received in Chicago.”

Hastings sighed. “I dare say — a mother’s love—” He waved his hand and cleared his throat. “You understand this surprising turn of affairs nullifies the fee you were to receive. I’m sure you recall it was contingent on my client receiving the estate.”

“That’s right,” Shayne said carelessly. “Perhaps you feel I shouldn’t keep the two hundred retainer.” He got out his billfold.

“No, indeed. You must keep that. I insist.” Hastings settled his Panama on his head and went out.

Lucy, who had been listening in a corner and taking notes, said, “I should say it’s little enough. I suppose you won’t even send Mrs. Wallace a bill.”

“For explaining to her that her husband is dead? No angel.” He grinned broadly. “A strange case. Mrs. Wallace has fourteen grand in the bank. Mrs. Groat has her husband’s diary, which she can sell to any newspaper for a small fortune.” He sighed. “I’ll try to be satisfied with the ten thousand I’ll collect from Mrs. Meredith-Hawley when the estate is probated.”

He patted the folded agreement in his pocket and poured himself a long drink.

A Taste for Cognac

Chapter one

Michael Shayne hesitated inside the swinging doors, looked down the row of men at the bar, and then strolled past the wooden booths lining the wall, glancing in each one as he went by.

Timothy Rourke wasn’t at the bar and he wasn’t in any of the booths. Shayne frowned and turned impatiently toward the swinging doors.

A voice called, “Mr. Shayne?” when he reached the third booth from the end.

He stopped and looked down at the girl alone in the booth. She was about twenty, smartly dressed, with coppery hair parted in the middle and lying in smooth waves on either side of her head. She didn’t wear any make-up, and her small face had a pinched look. Her eyes were brown and shone with alert intelligence. Her left hand clasped a glass half filled with dead beer as she smiled at Shayne.

Shayne took off his hat and stood flat-footed looking down at her. Lights above the bar behind him cast shadows on his gaunt cheeks. He lifted his shaggy left eyebrow and asked, “Do I know you?”

“You’re going to.” The girl tilted her head sideways and looked wistful. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Shayne slid into the bench opposite her.

A waiter hurried over and the girl said, “Cognac,” happily, watching Shayne for approval.

The Miami detective said, “Make it a sidecar, Joe.” The waiter nodded and went away.

“But Tim said cognac was your password,” the girl protested. “He said you never drank anything else.”

“Tim?” Shayne said, surprised.

“Tim Rourke. He thought you might tell me about some of your cases. I do feature stuff for a New York syndicate. Tim couldn’t make it tonight. He’s been promising to introduce me to you, so I came on to meet you here. I’m Myrna Hastings.”

Shayne said bitterly, “When you order cognac these days you get lousy grape brandy. California ’44. It’s drinkable mixed into a sidecar. This damned war…”

“It’s a shame your drinking habits have been upset by the war. Tragic, in fact.” Myrna Hastings took a sip of her flat beer and made a little grimace.

Shayne lit a cigarette and tossed the pack on the table between them. Joe brought his sidecar and he watched Myrna take a dollar bill from her purse and lay it on the table. Shayne lifted the slender cocktail glass to his lips and said, “Thanks.” He drank half of the mixture and his gray eyes grew speculative. Holding it close to his nose, he inhaled deeply and a frown rumpled his forehead.

Joe was standing at the table when Shayne drained his glass. “I’ve changed my mind, Joe. Bring me a straight cognac — a double shot in a beer glass.”

Joe grinned slyly and went away.

Sixty cents in change from Myrna’s dollar bill lay on the table. She poked at the silver and asked dubiously, “Will that be enough for a double shot?”

“It’ll be eighty cents,” Shayne told her.

She smiled and took a quarter from her purse. “Tim says you’ve always avoided publicity, but it’ll be a wonderful break for me if I can write up a few of your best cases.”

The waiter brought the beer glass with two ounces of amber fluid in it, took Myrna Hastings’s eighty-five cents, and went away.

Shayne lifted the beer glass to his nose, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the bouquet, then began to warm the glass in his big palms.

“Tim thinks you should let yourself in on some publicity,” the girl continued. “He thinks it’s a shame you don’t ever take the credit for solving so many cases.”

Shayne looked at her for a moment, then slowly emptied his glass and set it down. He picked up his cigarette and hat and said, “Thanks for the drinks. I never give out any stories. Tim Rourke knows that.” He got up and strode to the rear of the bar.

Joe sidled down to join him and Shayne said, “I could use another shot of that. And I’ll pour my own.”

Joe got a clean beer glass and set a tall bottle on the bar before Shayne. He glanced past the detective at the girl sitting alone in the booth, but didn’t say anything.

The label on the bottle read: MONTERREY GRAPE BRANDY, Guaranteed 14 months old.

Shayne pulled out the cork and passed the open neck of the bottle back and forth under his nose. He asked Joe, “Got any more of this same brand?”

“Jeez, I dunno. I’ll see, Mr. Shayne.” He turned away and returned presently with a sealed bottle bearing the same label.

Shayne broke the seal and pulled the cork. He made a wry face as the smell of raw grape brandy assailed his nostrils. He said angrily, “This isn’t the same stuff.”

“Says so right on the bottle,” Joe argued.

“I don’t give a damn what the label says,” Shayne growled. He reached for the first bottle and poured a drink into the empty beer glass. Keeping a firm grip on the bottle with his left hand he drank from the mug, rolling the liquor around his tongue. His gray eyes shone with dreamy contentment as he lingeringly swallowed the brandy, while a frown of curiosity and confusion formed between them. “Any more of the bar bottles already open?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. We don’t open ’em but one at a time nowadays. I’ll ask the barkeep.” Plainly mystified by Shayne’s request, Joe went to the front of the bar and held a low-voiced conversation with a bald-headed man wearing a dirty apron that bulged over a potbelly.

The bartender glanced at Shayne, then waddled toward him. He looked at the two bottles and asked, “Whassa trouble here?”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “No trouble. Your bar bottle hasn’t got the same stuff that’s in the sealed one.”

The hulking man looked troubled. “You know how ’tis these days. A label don’t mean nothin’ no more. We’re lucky to stay open at all.”

Shayne said, “I know it’s rough trying to keep a supply.”

The bartender regarded Shayne for a moment with his pale, puffed eyes. “You’re private, huh? Ain’t I seen you ’round?”

“I’m private. This hasn’t anything to do with the law.”

“If you got a kick about the drink, it’ll be on the house,” the bartender said magnanimously.

“I’m not kicking,” Shayne told him earnestly. “I’d like to buy what’s left in this bottle.” He indicated the partially empty one which he had moved out of the bartender’s reach.

The man shook his head slowly. “No can do. Our license says we gotta sell it by the drink.”

Shayne held the bottle up and squinted through it. “There’s maybe twenty ounces left,” he calculated. “It’s worth ten bucks to me.”

The big man continued to shake his head. “You can drink it here. Forty cents a shot.”

“Maybe I could make a deal with the boss,” suggested Shayne.

“Maybe. I’ll find out.” He waddled around the end of the bar and preceded Shayne to an unmarked door to the left of the ladies’ room. Shayne saw Myrna Hastings still sitting in the booth, watching him.

The bartender rapped lightly on the door, turned the knob, and motioned Shayne inside.

Henry Renaldo was seated at a desk facing the doorway. He was a big, flabby man with a florid face. He wore a black derby tilted back on his bullet head and an open gray vest revealed the sleeves and front of a shirt violently striped with reddish purple. He was eating a frayed black cigar that had spilled ashes down the front of his vest.

The bartender stood in the doorway behind Shayne. He said heavily, “This shamus is kickin’ about the service, boss. I figured you might wanna handle it.”

Renaldo’s black eyes took in the brandy bottle dangling from Shayne’s fingers. He wet his lips and said, “Okay, Tiny,” and the bartender went out.

Renaldo leaned over the desk to push out his right hand. “Long time no see, Mike.”

Shayne disregarded the proffered hand. “I didn’t know you were in this racket, Renaldo.”

“Sure. I went legal when prohibition went out.”

Shayne moved forward, set the bottle down with a thump, and said mildly, “This is a new angle on me.”

“How’s that?”

“Prewar cognac under a cheap domestic label. Monnet, isn’t it?”

“You must be nuts,” Renaldo ejaculated.

“Either you or me,” Shayne agreed. “Forty cents a throw, when it would easily bring a dollar a slug in the original bottle.”

Henry Renaldo was beginning to wheeze heavily. “What’s it to you, Shayne? Stooging for the Feds?”

Shayne shook his head. He lifted the bottle to his lips, let the cognac gurgle down his throat, then murmured reverently, “Monnet. Vintage of ’26.”

Renaldo started. Fear showed in his bulging eyes. “How’d you—” He paused, taking the sodden cigar carefully from his lips. “Who sent you here?”

“I followed my nose.”

Renaldo shook his head. He said huskily, “I don’t know how you got onto it, but why jump me?” His voice rose passionately. “If I pass it out for cheap stuff, is that a crime?”

“You could make more selling it by the bottle to a guy like me,” Shayne told him casually.

Renaldo spread out his hands. “I gotta stay in business,” he wheezed. “I gotta have something to sell over the bar to keep my customers. If I can hang on till after the war—”

Comprehension shone in Shayne’s eyes. “That’s why you’re refilling legal bottles?”

“What other out is there?” demanded Renaldo. “Government inspectors checking my stock—”

“All right,” Shayne interrupted, “but let me in on it. A case or two for my private stock.”

“I only got a few bottles left,” the big man said.

“But you know where there’s more.”

“Go make your own deals,” Renaldo said sullenly.

“Sure. I will. All I want is the tip-off.”

“Who sent you here?”

“No one. I dropped in for a drink and got slugged with Monnet when I ordered domestic brandy.”

“Nuts,” sneered Renaldo. “You couldn’t pull the year of that vintage stuff. I don’t know what the gimmick is, but—”

A rear door opened and two men came in hastily. They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at the redheaded detective seated on one corner of Renaldo’s desk. One of them was short and squarish with a swarthy face and a whiskered mole on his chin. He wore fawn-colored slacks and a canary-yellow sweater that was tight over bulging muscles.

His companion was tall and lean with a pallid face and the humid eyes of a cokie. He was bareheaded, and wore a tightly belted suit. He thinned his lips against sharp teeth and tilted his head to study Shayne.

Renaldo snarled, “You took long enough. How’d you make out, Blackie?”

“It wasn’t no soap, boss. He ain’t talkin’.”

“Hell, you followed him out of here.”

“Sure we did, boss,” Blackie said, whining earnestly. “Just like you said. To a little shack on the beach at Eighteenth. But he had comp’ny when he got there. There was this car parked in front, see? So Lennie and me waited half an hour, maybe. Then a guy come out an’ drove away, an’ we goes in. But we’re too late. He’s croaked.”

“Croaked?”

“S’help me, boss. He was croaked. Lennie an’ me beats it straight back.”

Renaldo said sourly to Shayne, “Looks like that fixes it for both of us.”

Shayne said, “Give me all of it, Renaldo.”

“Can’t hurt now,” Renaldo muttered after a brief hesitation. “This bird comes in with a suitcase this evening. It’s loaded with twenty-four bottles of Monnet 1926, like you said. It’s prewar,” he went on defensively, “sealed with no revenue stamps on it. All he wants is a hundred, so what can I lose? I can’t put it out here where an inspector will see it, but I can refill legal bottles and keep my customers happy. So I give him a C and try to pry loose where there’s more, but he swears that’s all there is and beats it. So I send Blackie and Lennie to see can they make a deal. You heard the rest.”

“Why yuh spillin’ your guts to this shamus?” Lennie rasped. “Ain’t he the law?”

“Shayne’s private,” Renaldo told him. “He was trying to horn in—” He paused suddenly and shot a suspicious look at the detective, his heavy jaw dropping. “Maybe you know more about it than I do, Shayne.”

“Mebbe he does.” Lennie’s voice rose excitedly.” Looks to me like the mug what come out an’ drove away, don’t he, Blackie?”

Blackie said, “Sorta. We didn’t get to see him good,” he explained to Renaldo. “But he was dressed like that — and big.”

All three of the men looked at Shayne, studied him closely.

“So that’s how—” said Renaldo slowly and harshly. He jerked the cigar from his mouth and asked angrily, “What’d you get out of him before he kicked off? Maybe we can make a deal, huh? You’re plenty on the spot with him dead.”

Shayne said, “You’re crazy. I don’t know anything.”

“How’d you know about the 1926 Monnet?” Renaldo demanded.

“Like I told you. I dropped in for a drink and knew it wasn’t domestic stuff as soon as I tasted it.”

“Maybe.” Renaldo rubbed his pudgy hands together, went on suspiciously and deliberately: “But that didn’t spell out Monnet ’26. Now, my boys’ll keep quiet if—”

Shayne interrupted dispassionately, “You’re a fool, Renaldo.” He slid off the desk and his gray eyes were very bright. “Your boys are feeding you a line. It’s my hunch they messed things up and are afraid to admit it to you. So they make up a fairy tale about someone else getting there first, and you swallow it.” He laughed indulgently. “Think it over, and you’ll see who is really on the spot.” He turned toward the door.

Blackie got in front of him. He stood lightly on the balls of his feet and a blackjack swung from his right hand. Behind him Lennie crouched with his gun bunched in his coat pocket. His pallid face was contorted and he panted, “You don’t listen to him, boss. Blackie and me both can identify him.”

Shayne turned and said to Renaldo, “You’d better call them off. I’ve a friend waiting outside, and if anything happens to me in here you’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

Renaldo said smugly, “If I turn you over for murder—”

“Try it,” Shayne snapped. He turned toward the door again, the open bottle of cognac clutched laxly in his left hand.

Blackie remained poised with the blackjack between Shayne and the door. He appealed to Renaldo. “If it was this shamus out there an’ the old guy talked before he passed out—”

A sharp rapping on the door interrupted Blackie.

A grin pulled Shayne’s lips away from his teeth. He said, “My friend is getting impatient.”

Renaldo said, “Skip it, Blackie.”

Shayne moved past the swarthy man to the door and opened it. Myrna Hastings stood outside.

“If you think—” she began.

Shayne said, “Sh-h-h,” close to her ear, took her arm firmly, and pulled the door shut. He slid the uncorked bottle of Monnet into his coat pocket and started toward the front with her.

She twisted her head to look back at the closed door and said uncertainly. “Those men inside — didn’t one of them have a weapon?”

“You’re an angel,” Shayne said softly, “and I was a louse to treat you the way, I did.” They went out through the swinging front doors of the saloon. He stopped on the sidewalk. “Keep on going and beat it,” he told her harshly. “I have things to do.”

Myrna looked up into his face and seemed frightened at what she saw there. “Something is wrong.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Maybe this will be a case you can write up.” He looked into her eyes briefly, then turned and strode to his sedan parked at the curb and started to get in.

He didn’t hear her light footsteps following him, but he turned when she asked breathlessly, “Can’t I go with you, Mr. Shayne? I promise not to be in the way.”

Shayne caught her elbows in his big hands and turned her about. “Run along, kid. This is murder. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.

Chapter two

Shayne drove out Biscayne Boulevard and turned right on Eighteenth Street. A thin crescent moon rode high in the cloudless sky overhead, and the night was humidly warm. He drove slowly to the end of the street and stopped his car against a low stone barrier overlooking the bay front, turned off his motor, and sat for a moment gripping the steering-wheel. Light glowed through two round and heavily glassed windows in a squatty, square, stone structure at his left. It perched boldly on the very edge of the bluff overlooking the bay, and a neat shell-lined walk led up to the front door. He got out and walked up the walk.

The little house was built solidly of porous limestone, and its only windows were round, metal-framed portholes that looked as though they had been taken from a ship. The door had a heavy bronze knocker and the hinges and lock were also of bronze.

He tried the knob and the door opened inward. The narrow hallway disclosed a ship’s lantern with an electric bulb hanging from a hand-hewn beam of cypress. An open door to the right showed the interior of a tidy and tiny kitchen.

Shayne went down the hall to another door opening off to the right. The room was dark, and he fumbled along the wall until he found a light switch. When he flipped the switch, it lighted two wrought-iron ship’s lanterns similar to the one in the hall. He stood in the doorway and tugged at his left earlobe, looking down at the man lying huddled in the middle of the bare floor.

He was dead.

A big-framed man, his face bony and emaciated. His eyes were wide open and glazed, bulging from deep sockets. He wore a double-breasted uniform of shiny blue serge. The buttons were of brass and recently polished. His ankles were wired together, and the wire had cut deeply into his bound wrists.

Shayne went in and knelt beside the body.

Three fingernails had been torn from his right hand. This appeared to be the only mark of violence on his body, which was warm enough to indicate that death had occurred only half an hour or so before. Shayne judged that shock and pain had brought on a heart attack, causing death. The man was about sixty, and there was no padding or flesh on his bony frame.

Rocking back on his heels and wiping sweat from his face, Shayne went through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing but a newspaper clipping and the torn stub of a bus ticket. The ticket had been issued the previous day, round trip from Miami to Homestead, a small town on the Florida Keys.

The clipping was a week old, from the Miami Herald. It was headed: PAROLE GRANTED.

Before reading the clipping, he raised his eyes and looked around the room. It was bare of furniture except for a built-in padded settee along one wall. Bare, and scrupulously clean, the room had the appearance of a cell.

As he turned his eyes again to the newspaper clipping he stiffened. He heard a car stopping outside. He thrust the clipping and the ticket stub in his pocket and waited.

Footsteps sounded on the walk, and the voices of men outside. Shayne lit a cigarette and blew out the match, then turned to look up at the bulky figure of Detective Chief Will Gentry in the doorway.

Shayne grinned and said, “Doctor Livingstone?”

Gentry snorted. He was a big man with heavy features, a permanent worry frown between his eyes, and a solid, forthright manner. He was an old friend of Shayne’s, and he said scathingly, “I thought I smelled something.”

Gentry walked heavily forward and scowled down at the body. A tall, white-haired man hurried in behind Chief Gentry. He wore an immaculate white linen suit and his features were sharp and clear-cut. He stopped at sight of the body and groaned, “My God! Oh, my God! Is he—”

“Dead.” Gentry grunted as he kneeled beside the dead man and asked Shayne in a tone of casual interest, “Why’d you pull out his fingernails, Mike?”

The tall, white-haired man exclaimed in a choked voice, “Good God, has he been tortured!”

“Who is he?” Shayne interposed sharply, turning toward the tall man.

“Who is he?” the man said excitedly. “Why, that’s Captain Samuels! I knew something must have happened to him.” He turned to Chief Gentry. “I knew something must have happened to him,” he repeated, “when he wasn’t here to keep his appointment with me. If only I’d called earlier!”

Gentry apparently ignored the man’s excitement and turned to Shayne. He asked calmly, his rumpled eyelids half raised, “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing much. I was driving by and saw the lights. Something just smelled wrong. I stopped by to take a look, and that’s what I found.”

Gentry said, “I suppose you can prove all that?” in a scoffing tone.

“Can you disprove it?” asked Shayne.

“Maybe not, but you’re holding out plenty. Damn it, Mike, this is murder. What do you know about it?”

“Not a thing, Will. I’ve told you how I just drove by—”

Will Gentry raised his voice to call, “Jones… you and Rafferty bring in the cuffs.”

Jones’s voice rumbled, “Okay, Chief,” and heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.

At the same time there was the light click of heels outside and Myrna Hastings came in. She said, “You don’t need to cover for me, Mike,” and stopped to catch her breath. There was a sob in her voice as she cried out, “You don’t need to cover up for me. Go ahead and tell them I asked you to stop here.” She turned toward the stalwart chief of detectives, as though seeing him for the first time, and said, “Oh! This is Chief Gentry, isn’t it.”

Gentry rumbled, “I don’t think—”

“Don’t you remember me, Chief?” Myrna laughed uncertainly. “Timothy Rourke introduced me to you in your office today. I do feature stories for a New York syndicate. I’m to blame for Mike coming here tonight. I’d heard about Captain Samuels and about his shipwreck and all — years ago, so I thought he might be material for a story. I asked Mike to stop here for a minute tonight, and that’s how it was.”

Gentry turned his bulky body toward Shayne and asked gruffly, “Why didn’t you tell me that, Mike?”

Myrna laughed merrily. “He had some idea of protecting me, Chief. You see I didn’t want to tell why I wanted to stop here. Then, when he found the man dead — well — I guess maybe Mike thought I knew something about it. Wasn’t that it, Mike?” She whirled toward Shayne.

“Yeah. Something like that,” said Shayne stiffly.

Gentry turned away from them and said, “Put your bracelets away, Jones, and go over the place,” to one of the two dicks hovering in the doorway.

“Now that you’ve got me cleared up,” Shayne suggested, “why not tell me about it?”

“I don’t know any more than you do,” Gentry admitted. “Mr. Guildford called a while ago and asked me to come out here with him. Seems he had a hunch something had happened to Captain Samuels.”

“I felt sure of it after I had time to think things over,” the white-haired man said. “I had a definite appointment here with the captain for nine o’clock tonight and I waited almost half an hour for him.”

Shayne said, “It’s almost eleven now. Why did you wait so long before calling the police?”

“I had a flat tire just as I reached the boulevard driving away,” Guildford explained. “I had it changed at the filling station there and was delayed. I called as soon as I reached home.”

Shayne asked, “Were the lights burning while you waited?”

“No. I’m quite sure they weren’t. The house was dark and apparently empty.”

“What was your appointment for?” Shayne pressed him.

Guildford hesitated. He glanced at Will Gentry. “I don’t mind answering official questions, but what is this man’s connection with the case? And the young lady?”

“None,” Gentry rumbled. “You can beat it, Mike, unless you feel like telling the truth.”

“But we have told the truth,” Myrna asserted, her eyes wide and childlike. “We were just—”

Shayne took her arm tightly. He said, “Come on,” and led her out the door.

Neither of them said anything until they were in Shayne’s car and headed for the boulevard. Then Myrna leaned her head against his shoulder and asked in a small voice, “Are you terribly angry with me, Mike?”

“How did you get in that house?” he countered angrily.

“You brought me. I hid in the trunk compartment of your car. Then I slipped into the house while you were searching the body. I was in the rear bedroom all the time, and when I heard you getting the third degree I knew you didn’t want to tell the truth and I thought I’d better stick my oar in. Didn’t I do all right?”

“How did you know the Captain’s name and about him being shipwrecked?”

Myrna chuckled softly. “I found an old logbook by his bed. I had my flashlight, and found a clipping that was in the book.” She patted a large suede handbag in her lap. “I’ve got the book in here. It made a pretty good story even if I did think of it on the spur of the moment — the one I told Chief Gentry, I mean,” she amended, and chuckled again.

“Why did you hide in the back of my car,” Shayne snapped.

“Because you were trying to get rid of me and I wanted to see the famous Michael Shayne in action,” she said. “But I must say you didn’t do much detecting out there.”

Shayne stopped the car suddenly in front of an apartment building on the river front. “I live here,” he told her. He got out and went toward a side entrance.

Myrna Hastings tripped along with him, trying to keep pace with his long-legged strides. She said hopefully, “I’m dying to taste whatever is in that bottle you’ve got in your coat pocket.”

She waited quietly behind him in the doorway while he unlocked his apartment door. He went inside and switched on the lights, and she followed him into a square living room with windows on the east side. There was a studio couch against one wall, and a door on the right opened into a kitchenette. Another door on the left led into the bedroom and bath. Shayne tossed his hat on a wall hook and went into the kitchen without a word or glance for Myrna. He returned presently with two four-ounce wine glasses and two tumblers filled with ice water. He walked past her, ranged the four glasses in a row on the table, and filled the wine glasses nearly to the brim with cognac. He pushed one of the tumblers toward Myrna, set one wine glass within easy reach of her hand, then pulled another chair to the table and sat down, half facing her.

It was very quiet in the apartment, and very restful. Shayne sighed when he drained the last drop from his glass of Monnet. He frowned at the portion remaining in Myrna’s glass. “Don’t you appreciate good liquor?”

She smiled and said, “It’s so good I’m making it last.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and spun the match away, then got the purloined clipping and bus ticket stub from his pocket. He laid the stub on the table and read the short clipping aloud. It was an AP dispatch from Atlanta, Georgia.

It stated that John Grossman, suspected prohibition-era racketeer, sentenced to federal prison in 1930 on income tax charges from Miami, Florida, had been released that day on parole. Grossman announced his intension to take a long vacation at his fishing lodge on the Florida Keys.

When Shayne finished reading the clipping aloud he placed it beside the ticket stub and said to Myrna, “These two items were the only things I found in the dead man’s pockets.”

“You didn’t tell Chief Gentry about them?”

He shook his red head in slow negation.

“Isn’t that against the law? Concealing murder evidence? Who’s John Grossman and why was the old sea captain interested in the clipping about his parole?”

Shayne said, “I remember Grossman. He was one of our bigtime bootleggers with a clientele willing to pay plenty for high-class imported stuff. Like Monnet. I don’t know why the Captain was interested in Grossman’s release.”

“What’s it all about, Mike?” Myrna leaned forward eagerly. “It began back in the tavern with something odd about those drinks, didn’t it? Why did you go back to the proprietor’s office and come out with a bottle, and then drive straight out to the scene of the murder?”

Shayne said softly, “You’ve done me two good turns tonight. One, when you knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office, then out at the Captain’s house when I didn’t see how in hell I was going to explain my presence there without telling the truth.” He hesitated, then admitted, “You deserve a break. You’re in it now because you lied to Gentry and he’ll probably discover you lied.”

He began at the beginning and related what had happened in Renaldo’s office. “You know what happened after I drove out to the house.”

“Then this is real prewar cognac?” Myrna lifted her glass to study it, and her voice was incredulous.

“Monnet 1926,” Shayne stated flatly. “The Captain sold Renaldo a case of it for a hundred dollars, and was tortured to death immediately afterward. Renaldo admits he had his men follow the Captain to try to persuade him to tell them where they could get more, but they claim he was dead before they got to him.”

“Do you believe them?”

Shayne shook his head. “It doesn’t do to believe anything when murder is involved. Their story sounded all right, but that wire and those torn fingernails could very well be their idea of gentle persuasion. And if the Captain did fool them by dying before they got the information they wanted, they’d hate to admit it to Renaldo and might have made up that story about his being murdered by an unknown visitor.

“And there’s another angle. Maybe Blackie and Lennie are playing it smart and did get the information before the Captain croaked. If they decided to use it themselves and cut Renaldo out—” He paused and shrugged expressively.

“What makes you and Renaldo so sure there’s more cognac where that first came from?”

“I imagine it was just a hopeful hunch on Renaldo’s part. And I wasn’t sure until I found this clipping indicating a connection between the Captain and an ex-bootlegger.”

“Would that be sufficient motive for murder? At a hundred dollars a case?”

Shayne made a derisive gesture. “A G-note for two dozen bottles of Monnet is peanuts today. That’s what got Renaldo so excited. It shows that the Captain knew nothing about the present liquor shortage and market prices. It could retail for twenty or twenty-five dollars a bottle if properly handled today.”

Myrna Hastings’s eyes widened. “That would be about five hundred dollars a case!”

Shayne’s eyes were morose. “If Grossman had a pile of it cached away when he was sent up in ’30,” he mused, “that would explain why it stayed off the market all this time. But Grossman would know what the stuff is worth today.” He shook his head angrily. “It still doesn’t add up. And if the Captain knew about the cache and had access to it all the time, why wait until a week after Grossman’s parole to put it on the market? Did you notice the condition of the Captain’s body?” he asked abruptly.

Myrna shuddered. “I’ll never forget it,” she vowed.

“He looked like an advanced case of malnutrition,” said Shayne harshly.

“Who was the white-haired man who brought the police — that Mr. Guildford?”

“He’s a lawyer here. Very respectable.”

Myrna said hesitantly, “His story about waiting at the house half an hour for Captain Samuels to keep an appointment — Do you think he could be the man the gangsters saw drive away from the house just before they went in and found the Captain dead?”

“Could be. If there was any such man. The timing is screwy and hard to figure out. Guildford claims his appointment was for nine, and he waited half an hour. It was well past ten when the mugs got back to Renaldo’s office. That leaves it open either way. Guildford could have waited until nine-thirty and then driven away just before the Captain returned with Blackie and Lennie trailing him. Or Guildford may have deliberately pushed the time up a little. Until we know why Guildford went there—” Shayne threw out his hands in a futile gesture.

He poured himself another drink and demanded, “Where’s that logbook you mentioned, and the clipping about the shipwreck?”

She reached for her handbag and unsnapped the heavy gold clasp. She drew out an aged, brass-hinged, and leatherbound book with Ship’s Log stamped on the front in gilt letters.

Shayne opened it and looked at the flyleaf. It was inscribed: Property of Captain Thomas Anthony Samuels. April 2, 1902.

“The clipping is in the back,” Myrna told him. “Lucky I saw it and made up a story that Chief Gentry would swallow.”

Shayne said, “Don’t kid yourself that he swallowed it. He knows damned well it wasn’t coincidence that put me at the scene of the murder.” He turned the logbook upside down and shook out a yellowed and brittle newspaper clipping from the Miami Daily News dated June 17, 1930. There was a picture of a big man in a nautical uniform with the caption: SAVED AT SEA.

Shayne read the news item swiftly. It gave a dramatic account of the sea rescue of Captain Samuels, owner, master, and sole survivor of the auxiliary launch Mermaid which was lost in a tropical hurricane off the Florida coast three days before the Captain was rescued by a fishing craft. He had heroically stayed afloat in a life preserver for three days and nights.

“Where,” asked Shayne, “was the book when you found it?”

“In a small recess in the rock wall at the head of his bed. The bedding was all mussed up as though the room had been hastily searched, and the bed was pulled away from the wall. That’s how I saw the logbook. Normally, the wooden headboard must have stood against the wall, hiding the recess.”

Shayne began thoughtfully flipping the pages of the log. “This seems to be a complete account of Captain Samuels’s voyages from—”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He got up and answered it. The voice of the night clerk came over the wire:

“The law is on its way up to your apartment, Mr. Shayne. You told me once I was to call you—”

“Thanks, Dick.” Shayne hung up and directed Myrna tersely: “You’d better get out — through the kitchen door and down the fire escape. Take your two glasses to the kitchen and close the door behind you. The key’s on a nail by the outside door.”

Myrna jumped up. “What—?”

“I don’t know.” Shayne heard the elevator stop down the hall. “Better if Gentry doesn’t find you here. He’s already suspicious. Go home and go to bed and be careful. Call me tomorrow.”

Chapter three

Shayne breathed a sigh of relief when Myrna went out quietly. Most women would have argued and asked questions. He opened a drawer and thrust the logbook, clipping, and ticket stub inside. A loud knock sounded on the outer door of his apartment and Will Gentry’s voice rumbled, “Shayne.”

Shayne darted a quick glance behind him and saw that Myrna had closed the door as she went into the kitchen. He sauntered to the outer door and opened it, rubbed his chin with a show of surprise when he saw Gentry and the tall figure of Mr. Guildford waiting in the hallway. He said, “It’s a hell of a time to come visiting,” and stepped aside to let them enter.

Will Gentry moved slowly and steadily past him to the center table to look with suspicion on the two glasses. He went to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped inside, turned on the light, then looked in the bathroom.

Shayne grinned as Gentry doggedly went on to the kitchen door, opened it, and turned on the light. He stalked heavily back and sat down across the table from Shayne.

“Where is she, Mike?”

“I told her she’d better go home and get some sleep. She was quite upset, you know. Seems she was rather fond of the old sea captain — though she’d known him only a couple of days,” he added hastily.

“She isn’t in her room. Hasn’t been all evening.”

“How did you know where to look for her?” Shayne asked.

“I called Tim Rourke. He told me she was stopping at the Crestwood, but she’s not in.”

Shayne said, “You know how these New York dames are. Why come to me?”

“I hoped I’d find her here,” Gentry admitted, “knowing how New York dames are, and knowing you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Will.”

Mr. Guildford said, “May I?” He cleared his throat and looked at Gentry.

The Chief nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Knowing your reputation, Mr. Shayne,” Guildford said in a professional tone, “I suspect you withheld certain information tonight.”

Shayne said, “It’s illegal to conceal murder evidence.”

“To hell with that stuff,” Gentry put in impatiently. “What did you and Miss Hastings find before we got there?”

“You know I wouldn’t hold out on you, Will, unless there was something in it for me. And who could possibly profit by the death of an old man like that? He looked to me as though he’d gone hungry for weeks.”

“That’s true,” Guildford said. “I happen to know he was in dire straits. Our appointment tonight was to discuss a payment long overdue on his mortgaged house.”

“But the poor devil was obviously tortured,” Gentry said. “Death resulted from shock due to his poor physical condition. Torture generally means extortion.”

“Which makes us wonder if he harbored some secret worth money to someone,” Guildford explained. “We found none of his private papers, but we did find evidence that the house had been burgled.”

“So you think I did it?” Shayne fumed.

“Wait a minute, Mike,” Gentry rumbled soothingly. “You see we found that the bed had been pulled back and there was a sort of hiding-place exposed. Mr. Guildford suggested that you may have discovered the cache and taken the papers away to examine them privately.”

Shayne snarled, “The hell he did! What’s his interest in it?”

“As Captain Samuels’s attorney and now his executor, I have a natural interest in the affair,” Guildford snapped.

“Come off it, Mike,” said Gentry wearily. “If you’ll tell me what you were doing there I won’t be so sure you’re holding out.”

“I told you — rather Miss Hastings did.”

“That doesn’t wash, Mike. Rourke told me she didn’t hit town till this afternoon. How could she have met Samuels and learned about the shipwreck story?”

“Ask her.”

“I can’t find her. I’m asking you. Did you get any stuff from the bedroom?”

“I didn’t go in the bedroom.”

“But Miss Hastings did,” said Guildford triumphantly. “And I suggest she found his papers and looked through them while we were in the other room with you and the body. I further suggest that was how she learned about the shipwreck and her agile mind framed the excuse she gave us for your presence there.”

Shayne stood up and balled his big hands into fists. “I suggest that you get out of that chair so I can knock you back into it.”

“Lay off, Mike,” Gentry groaned. “You’ve got to admit it’s good reasoning.”

Shayne swung around and faced Gentry. “I don’t admit anything,” he said angrily. “Is a two-bit shyster running your department now?”

Guildford said, “I resent that, Shayne.”

Shayne laughed harshly. “You resent it?”

Gentry said, “I’m running my department, but I don’t mind listening to advice. Are you willing to swear you and Miss Hastings just dropped in on the dead man by accident?”

Shayne said, “Put me on the witness stand if I’m going to be cross-examined.”

Gentry compressed his lips. He started to say something, but instead, tightened his lips further and got up. He and Guildford went out of the room.

Shayne stood by the table until the door closed behind them, then strode to the telephone and asked for the Crestwood Hotel. He frowned, starting across the room, and tugged at his left earlobe while he waited. When the hotel answered he asked for Miss Myrna Hastings. Without hesitation the clerk said, “Miss Hastings is not in.”

“How the hell do you know she isn’t?” Shayne growled. “You haven’t rung her room.”

“But I saw her go out just a moment ago, sir,” the clerk insisted.

Shayne said, “You must be mistaken. I happen to know she just went to her room.”

“That’s quite right, sir. She came in and got her key not more than five minutes ago, but she came downstairs almost immediately with two gentlemen and went out with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive, sir. I saw them cross the lobby from the elevator to the front door.”

“Wait a minute. Did she go with them willingly?”

“Why, I certainly presumed so. She had her arms linked in theirs, and I didn’t notice anything wrong.”

“Can you describe them?”

“No. I’m afraid I didn’t notice—”

“Was one of them short and the other one tall?”

“Why, now that you mention it, I think so. Is something wrong? Do you think—?”

Shayne banged up the receiver and stalked into the bedroom. He got a short-barreled .38 which he dropped in his coat pocket. Then he went to the kitchen and tried the back door. Myrna had locked it after she slipped out.

He turned out the kitchen light and strode across the living room, jammed his hat down on his bristly red hair, and went out.

Ten minutes later he parked in front of Henry Renaldo’s tavern. He shouldered his way through the swinging doors and found half a dozen late tipplers still leaning on the bar. Joe was in the back with a mop bucket, turning chairs up over the tables, and the paunchy bartender was still on duty in front.

Shayne went up to the bar and said, “Give me a shot of Cognac — Monnet.”

The man shook his head. “We got grape brandy—”

Shayne said, “Monterrey will do.”

The bartender set a bottle and glass in front of the detective, his eyes secretively low-lidded. Shayne poured a drink and lifted it to his nose. “This stuff is grape brandy,” he said angrily.

“Sure. Says so right on the bottle.” His tone was placating.

Shayne shoved the glass away from him and said, “I’ll have a talk with Henry.”

“The boss ain’t in,” the bartender told him hastily.

“How about his two ginzos?”

“I dunno.”

Shayne turned and went along the bar to the back. Joe pulled the mop bucket out of his way and turned his head to stare wonderingly at the set look on Shayne’s face.

He knocked on the door of Renaldo’s office and then tried the door. It opened into darkness. He found the light switch and stood on the threshold looking around the empty office. He went to the rear door through which the two gunmen had entered earlier, and found it barred on the inside. It opened out directly onto the alley.

Back at the bar, he found the bartender lounging against the cash register. He said, “I tol’ you,” and backed away in alarm when Shayne bunched his hand in his coat pocket over the .38.

“Where,” asked Shayne, “do Blackie and Lennie hang out?”

“I dunno. I swear to God I don’t. I never seen ’em in here before tonight.” He was frightened and he sounded truthful.

“Where will I find the boss?”

“Home, I reckon.”

“Where?”

The bartender hesitated. He pouched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger and said sullenly, “Mr. Renaldo don’t like—”

Shayne said, “Give it to me.”

The bartender hesitated briefly, his eyes wary. Then he wilted and mumbled an address on West Sixtieth Street.

Shayne went out and got in his car, sat there for a moment, got out, and went back into the tavern. The bartender looked at him with naked fear in his eyes and put down the telephone hastily.

“Don’t do it, Fatty. If Renaldo has been tipped off when I get there I’ll come back and spill your guts all over the floor. The name is Shayne, if you think I’m kidding.”

He went out again and swung away from the curb. He drove north a dozen blocks and stopped in front of a sign on Miami Avenue that read: CHUNKY’S CHILI. The place was crammed in between a pawnshop and a flophouse.

He went in and said, “Hi, Chunky,” to the big man behind the empty counter.

Chunky said, “’Lo, Mike,” without enthusiasm.

“Any of the boys in back?”

“Guess so.”

Shayne got out his wallet, extracted a ten-dollar bill and folded it twice lengthwise, and held it toward him. “Blackie or Lennie in there?” he asked.

Chunky yawned. He took the bill and said, “Nope. Ain’t seen either of ’em tonight.”

“Working?”

“I wouldn’ know. Gen’rally hang out back when they ain’t.”

Shayne nodded. He knew that. Chunky’s chili joint was a screen for a bookie establishment in the back that served as a sort of clubroom for the better known members of Miami’s underworld. He asked, “Seen John Grossman around since he was paroled?”

“A guy what’s on parole don’t hang out much with the old gang. Not if he’s smart,” Chunky told him.

“Have you seen him around?” Shayne persisted.

Chunky picked up a toothpick and chewed on it placidly. Shayne got out his wallet again and Chunky watched him fold another bill and hold it out. He took the bill and suggested, “Might ask Pug or Slim. They usta work for John some.”

“Are they in back?”

Chunky shook his head. “Went out ’bout an hour ago.”

Shayne said, “Tell them I’m passing out folding money.” He went out and got in his car, drove north to Sixtieth and turned west.

Henry Renaldo’s address was a modest one-story stucco house in the center of a block containing half a dozen such houses. It was the only one with lights showing through the front windows.

Shayne drove past it to the end of the block, swung around the corner, and parked. He got out and walked back, went up the concrete walk lined with a trim hedge on either side, and rang Renaldo’s doorbell.

He took the gun out of his pocket while he waited.

He showed the weapon to Henry Renaldo when he opened the door. Renaldo was in his shirtsleeves, his vest hanging open. The cigar in his mouth looked like the same one he had been chewing on some hours previously. He blinked wrinkled lids down over his eyes when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand. He backed away, lifting his hands palms outward and mumbling, “You don’t need to point that at me.”

Shayne followed him in and heeled the door shut. The living room was small and crowded with heavy overstuffed furniture. There was no one else in the room.

Shayne gestured with his gun and asked, “Where’s Miss Hastings?”

Renaldo rolled up his wrinkled lids and looked at him stupidly. “Who?”

“The girl who left your place with me.”

“I sure don’t know anything about a girl,” Renaldo told him earnestly. “Look here—”

Shayne’s eyes were dangerously bright. He palmed the gun and took a step forward, hit Renaldo in the face. Renaldo staggered back with blood oozing from a cut lip.

Shayne said coldly, “Maybe that’ll help your memory.”

Renaldo took another step backward and sank down on the red divan. He got a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped at his cut lip. He moaned, “Before God, Mike—”

Shayne rasped, “Where are your two gunmen?”

“Blackie and Lennie? How should I know?”

“They grabbed Miss Hastings from her hotel half an hour ago.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” He looked at the blood on his handkerchief and shuddered. “I haven’t seen them for two hours.”

“Didn’t you have them tail me when I left your place?”

“What if I did? But I didn’t tell them to grab any girl.”

Shayne narrowed his eyes. Renaldo sounded truthful. Shayne said, “I’ll search this dump anyhow.”

Renaldo got up slowly. There was a certain dignity in his bearing as he objected. “This is my house. If you haven’t got a search warrant—”

Shayne said, “I’m not the police.” He turned toward a passageway leading to the rear of the house.

Renaldo moved in front of him and folded his arms stubbornly. “My wife and kid are asleep back there.”

Lennie’s voice rapped out behind Shayne. “We’ll take care of him, boss.”

Renaldo’s eyelids twitched and his eyes showed frantic terror. “I told you to stay in the kitchen, Lennie.”

“To hell with that. Drop that gat, shamus,” he rasped.

Shayne dropped the gun on the rug. He turned slowly and saw Lennie hunched forward and moving toward him from an open door. Blackie sauntered through the door after him.

Lennie had a heavy automatic in his right hand and his eyes glittered. His face was twisted and tiny bubbles of saliva oozed from between his tight lips. He was coked to the gills and as dangerous as a maddened snake. He glided soundlessly across the rug, the muzzle of his.45 in line with Shayne’s belly.

Renaldo said, “Hold it, Lennie. We don’t want any trouble here.”

Lennie’s hot eyes twitched toward the tavern proprietor. “He come here lookin’ for trouble, didn’t he? By the sweet God—”

“Hold it, Len,” Blackie said coolly from behind him. “Stay far enough back so’s you can blast him if he starts anything.” He moved around Lennie on the balls of his feet, one hand swinging his blackjack in a short, lazy arc.

Shayne jerked his head back and it struck him on the side of the neck just above the collarbone. The blow was paralyzing, and he hit the floor before he knew he was falling. He heard Renaldo cry out, “Watch it, Blackie. Keep him so he can talk. If he croaked the old man he’s maybe got some info.”

Blackie said, “Sure. He’ll talk.” He drew back his foot and kicked Shayne in the face.

Shayne saw the kick coming but he couldn’t move to avoid it. He closed his eyes and lay inert.

Blackie kicked him again in the face, and the pain brought knots in his belly. It also drove away the paralysis that had numbed him.

He sat up with blood streaming from his face and pulled his lips away from his teeth in a wolfish grin. He asked thickly, “Didn’t you bring your pliers along this time, Blackie? I’ve got ten fingernails to work on.”

Blackie hit him viciously with the blackjack again. Shayne toppled over and he heard Lennie laughing thinly as though from a far distance.

When he came to, water was being poured over his face. He lay quiescent and listened to Renaldo and Blackie arguing fiercely about him. Renaldo gave Blackie hell for knocking him out so that he couldn’t talk, and Blackie angrily reminded Renaldo of Shayne’s reputation for being tough. Lennie put in an aggrieved voice now and then, begging for permission to finish him off.

It was all foggy, but Shayne didn’t hear any of them mention the girl. He gathered that they had followed him from the tavern to the little house on Eighteenth Street and had seen the police arrive. If they had followed him back to his hotel and tailed Myrna from the fire escape exit, it was evident that they were keeping that fact from Renaldo for reasons of their own.

“We gotta get him out of here,” Renaldo said at last. “You boys’ve messed hell out of this whole thing, and the only way I see now is to finish him off.”

“He pushed his face into it,” Blackie muttered.

“Sure he did,” Lennie said eagerly. “Don’t worry about him none, boss.”

“We’ll take ’im out through the kitchen to our car.” Blackie was placating now. They withdrew a short distance and began talking further in low voices. Shayne kept his eyes closed and gathered together the remnants of his strength.

They came back after a time and he heard Lennie saying happily, “Once in the heart to make sure is the best way. We don’t wanna muff this.”

Shayne saw the glitter of a knife in Lennie’s hand as he uncoiled and rose from the floor. He saw Blackie’s mouth drop open just before he hit him in the belly with his shoulder. They went to the floor together and Shayne kept on rolling toward the kitchen door. He stumbled through it just as Lennie’s gun roared in the living room behind him.

Chapter four

With a rush, Shayne jerked the back door open and staggered out into the night. He leaned against the side of the house and hoped Lennie or Blackie would follow him out. A light came on in the house next door and an irate voice bellowed, “What’s going on over there? Was that a shot I heard?”

Shayne tried to call back, but his throat muscles were queerly knotted and he couldn’t utter a sound. He shambled down the alley to the street where he had left his car and got in. He started the motor and drove away, made a circle back to Miami Avenue and drove to his apartment hotel. He didn’t feel like tackling the side stairway, so he went in through the lobby to the elevator.

The clerk hurried out from behind the desk when he saw the detective’s condition. He exclaimed, “Good God, Mr. Shayne! What happened? Here — lean on me.”

Shayne put his arm gratefully around the clerk’s shoulder and croaked, “It’s okay, Dick. More blood than anything else.”

Dick helped him into the elevator and rode up to his room with him. Shayne was an old and privileged client in the apartment hotel and the clerk had seen him in bad shape before, but never quite in this condition. He took Shayne’s key ring and unlocked the door, then stared around in amazement when he turned on the light.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated, “did the fight start here in your room, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne looked around the room with dazed and bleary eyes that refused to focus on any object. Things seemed to be in a sort of jumble but he didn’t understand why the clerk was so excited. He let go of the clerk’s steadying arm and staggered past him toward the center table and stared stupidly at the drawer that was pulled all the way out. He remembered having left it closed — with the things he and Myrna Hastings had brought from Captain Samuels’s house.

His fingers closed around the neck of the brandy bottle which was still sitting where he had left it. He used both hands raising it to his mouth. He let the Monnet gurgle down his throat and felt his muscles relax and his eyes clear a little. He looked around the disordered room, and then at the clerk.

“Have I had any visitors since I went out, Dick?”

“Just that tall white-haired man who was with Chief Gentry. He came back right after you went out. He didn’t stop at the desk, but went straight up. He came back almost immediately and went on out and I thought he’d come back hoping to catch you and found you’d already left.”

Shayne took another slow drink of cognac. It brought warmth and relaxation to his tight belly muscles. “Was he up here long enough to do all this?” He motioned around the room.

Dick wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t think so, but it would be hard to say for sure. You know how it is. Unless you watch, it’s hard to judge time. Naturally I thought he was a friend of yours. It didn’t seem as if he were up here more than a few minutes.”

Shayne started to nod, but his sore neck muscles stopped him. He said, “Thanks for coming up with me,” in a tone of dismissal.

“But couldn’t I help — get you washed up — the blood off?” the clerk asked.

“No thanks, Dick.”

He stood with the bottle in his hands until Dick went out and closed the door. Then he held it to his lips and drained it. He went out to the kitchen and set the empty bottle carefully on the sink beside the two glasses Myrna had put there on her way out. He tried the back door and found it unlocked.

He remembered distinctly that it had been locked and Myrna had had the key when he went away a short time before.

Going back to the bedroom he stripped off his clothes, turned water into the tub as hot as his hand could stand it. His face was pretty much of a mess, with both his lips puffed and bluish, lacerated flesh on his cheekbone clotted with blood, and streaks of dried blood on his chin.

He grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, testing two teeth that felt sore and a little loose. All in all, he was in pretty fair shape, considering the way he’d been knocked around.

He got a soft washcloth steaming hot and held it gently against his face while he waited for the tub to fill, loosened the dried blood, and cleaned the cuts carefully.

When he sank into the tub of hot water to soak his long frame, he continued the ministrations with the washcloth. He then let the water run cold on the cloth and splashed it over his face and neck. He stepped out of the tub and swabbed his face freely with peroxide, then dusted it with antiseptic powder. Carefully wiping around the worst cut, he put a Band-Aid over it, then vigorously toweled himself and put on clean clothes.

His neck throbbed with pain where the blackjack had struck. He went to a wall cabinet in the living room and got out a bottle of Portuguese brandy guaranteed to be at least five years old. He filled the wine glass on the table and got a fresh tumbler of ice water from the kitchen, then sank into a chair and lit a cigarette, letting it droop from an uninjured corner of his mouth.

He took a sip of brandy and began to go slowly over the events of the evening, dwelling upon each incident as he came to it in the light of later occurrences. It started with his entering Renaldo’s saloon expecting to meet Timothy Rourke. Myrna Hastings had been there instead. She had accosted him, and he had only her word for it that she was what she claimed to be and had been sent by Rourke. Yet Gentry had phoned Rourke to get her address, but at the Captain’s house she had said Rourke introduced her to Will Gentry that afternoon.

Shayne went on from his meeting with Myrna Hastings. He carefully studied the scene in Renaldo’s office, then jumped to Captain Samuels’s home on the bay front. In secreting herself in the back of his car, slipping into the house without his knowledge, coming to his aid when Gentry questioned him, and finally stealing the logbook which she claimed to have found in a hiding-place that another searcher had overlooked—

Had Myrna Hastings stepped out of character?

He took another long drink of brandy. It was difficult to say. Who could predict what a young girl feature writer from New York was likely to do? She had left his apartment willingly enough and had gone directly to her hotel room as he had told her to. Then she had been immediately escorted away by two men vaguely described as being short and tall. Had she gone willingly? Or had she been coerced, threatened?

He had immediately suspected Black and Lennie of her abduction, but after listening to them at Renaldo’s house he was inclined to believe they were not responsible. It didn’t quite add up. Now that he was thinking along logical lines, he realized they would have to have trailed him back to his hotel and somehow learned of her departure via the fire escape in order to have followed her to the Crestwood.

It was necessary to determine whether the two men who had accompanied her out had been there waiting for her return, or whether they had followed her in and up to her room. If they had been waiting, it could not have been Blackie and Lennie, unless Myrna was involved in some way he knew nothing about.

That left the whole business of the missing murder clues up in the air. When she left his apartment, the clues had been lying on the table. If she had come back to get them she wouldn’t have known to look in the drawer. She might have searched the rest of the room first. The table drawer was too obvious. She didn’t, in fact, know the table had a drawer.

Shayne took another sip of brandy and settled more comfortably in his chair. The pain was gradually going away from his neck muscles. He switched his thoughts from Myrna to Guildford.

Had Guildford told the truth about waiting for the Captain to return? Or, granting that Blackie and Lennie had told Renaldo the truth about their venture, was Guildford the killer whom they had seen drive away after being closeted with the Captain for half an hour? If Guildford was the killer, why had he drawn attention to himself by calling Will Gentry? It would have been safer and more natural to say nothing about his visit and leave the body to be discovered by chance.

What about the paroled convict, John Grossman? This seemed to Shayne the crux of the affair. He was certainly mixed up in the possession of smuggled cognac somehow. Had Captain Samuels worked with him, or for him, in prohibition days? Did both men have knowledge of a cache of illicit cognac undisposed of at the time of Grossman’s arrest? If so, why had Captain Samuels waited so many years to put a case of it on the market? Waited until he was weak from hunger and malnutrition?

It seemed likely that the Captain couldn’t get his hands on it while Grossman was in prison, since the first case appeared soon after Grossman had supposedly returned to Miami.

Shayne’s eyes were heavy with the swollen condition of his face. The throb in his neck was subsiding, but his mind was alert.

It seemed definitely unlikely that John Grossman was in on the deal with Renaldo. The ridiculously low price accepted by the starving Captain proved that it must have been his own idea. Grossman was smart enough to learn what the vintage stuff was worth in today’s market. It looked more as though the Captain had put over a personal deal — one that for some reason he had been unable to put over while Grossman was in prison. One that Grossman might have resented even to the point of murder.

Shayne finished his glass of brandy and closed his mind against his musings. He needed more facts before he could do more than ask himself a lot of questions that, as yet, had no answers.

He heaved himself up painfully from his chair and gritted his teeth against a wave of physical weakness. He looked around for his hat, then remembered he had lost it in the fracas at Renaldo’s. He went out bareheaded, thinking the cool night air would feel good on his head.

Dick frowned and shook his head, but his eyes showed admiration and amazement when Shayne crossed the lobby. Shayne pushed his swollen lips into the semblance of a grin and he waved a derisive hand at the clerk. He got in his car and drove to Second Avenue.

The Crestwood was a small, moderately priced hotel, and the night clerk was a thin-chested little man who tried to conceal his hostile amazement when Shayne showed his battered face at the desk. He shook a blond and scanty-haired head and said, “I’m afraid—”

“I don’t want a room,” Shayne assured him. He showed his badge and said, “It’s about a guest of yours, Miss Myrna Hastings.”

“Oh — yes,” he stammered. “Room 305. She isn’t in. There’s been—”

“I’m the guy who telephoned you about an hour ago. Can you describe the men she went out with?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. You see, I didn’t notice their faces.”

“Could one of them have been holding a gun on her?” Shayne demanded harshly.

The clerk began to tremble, and his voice shook when he said, “I really don’t know, sir. I — Do you think something has happened to her?”

“Do you know whether they came in after she got her key and went up, or were they waiting?”

“I — really don’t know. I didn’t see them come in after she got her key, but I’m afraid I can’t swear whether they were upstairs waiting for her or not.”

Shayne turned away and went to the elevator. It was run by a young Negro boy who stood very stiff and straight, but he couldn’t control his popping black eyes when they saw his face.

Shayne asked, “Do you remember the girl in three-o-five?”

“Yassuh. I knows the one you mean. Checked in jes’ today.”

“Do you remember her coming in late tonight and then going out again almost immediately?”

“Yassuh. That’s what she done. I ’members it.”

Shayne got out his wallet. “Now try to remember exactly what happened,” he said quietly. “Did you bring her down in the elevator with two men?”

The boy’s eyes rolled covetously toward the five-dollar bill. “Yassuh. I sho did. Ra’t after I’d done taken her up.”

“How long afterward?” Shayne prompted. “Did you make many trips in between?”

“Nosuh. Not none. I ’member how ’sprised I was when I stopped at the thu’d floor on the way down an’ foun’ her waitin’ with them two gen’mans, ’cause I’d jes’ took her up to three on mah way up.”

“Are you sure of that? You didn’t take them up after you took her up?”

“Nosuh. How could I when I’d done taken ’em up pre’vous?”

“How much previous?”

“’Bout ten minutes, I reckon.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar about the way either of them acted when they came down together?”

“How d’yuh mean peculiar?”

“I’m trying to find out whether she wanted to come down with them or whether they made her come.”

The boy chuckled. “I reckon she liked comin’, all right. She was sho all hugged up to one of ’em. The skinny one, that was.”

“Can you describe them?”

“Wal, nosuh. Not much. One was skinny and t’other weren’t. I reckon I didn’t notice no more.”

Shayne said, “You’ve earned this.” The bill exchanged hands and he went out. He had learned something, but he didn’t care much for it.

His next stop was at the Miami Daily News tower. The early hours of the morning were the busiest for the staff of the afternoon paper. Shayne found Timothy Rourke in one corner of the smoke-hazed city room pounding out copy with one rubber-tipped forefinger of his right hand, while the thumb of his left hand was poised and ready to shift for capital letters and shift lock.

Rourke looked up at Shayne and uttered a startled oath. He laughed raucously at the sight of Shayne’s face and said, “I’m not the beauty contest editor. You just go down that hall there—”

“You go to hell,” Shayne said bitterly.

“Michael!” Rourke drawled the name disapprovingly. “Such language in a newspaper office. Did he get his little face scratched?”

“It’s all your damned fault for sicking that female onto me,” Shayne rasped.

“My fault? My God, don’t tell me a female did that.”

Shayne lowered himself onto a corner of the desk and asked, “How well do you know Myrna Hastings?”

Rourke grinned up at him and said, “Not as well as I’d like to. Or, is she that sort of a gal? Of course, she’s not a blonde, but maybe I’d want to—”

“Cut it, Tim,” said Shayne wearily. “I’m up to my neck in murder, and God knows what-all. What do you know about the gal?”

Rourke looked into Shayne’s somber eyes. “Not much, Mike,” he said seriously. “She brought a note from a friend of mine on the Telegram in New York. I took her around and introduced her to a few people and places this afternoon. She found you at Renaldo’s, huh? Sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“She found me, all right,” said Shayne grimly.

“What’s doing, Mike?” His eyes glittered and his nostrils began to twitch like a bloodhound’s on the scent. “I wondered when Will Gentry called me about her tonight, but—”

“Do you know if she’s known in Miami?” Shayne interrupted.

“I don’t think so.” Rourke leaned far back in his swivel chair and gazed excitedly into Shayne’s puffed eyes. “She said it was her first trip, Mike.”

“Has anyone else called you for her address, Tim?”

“Only Gentry. Is it a story, Mike?”

Shayne’s gray eyes brooded, looking away from him, roaming around the room. He and the reporter had been friends for a long time, and he had given Rourke a lot of scoops in the past. He indicated the typewriter and asked, “Busy on something?”

Rourke pushed his chair back. “Nothing I can’t give the go-by, Mike.”

Shayne said, “I could use some help in your morgue.”

Rourke sprang up and led the way back to a large filing room guarded by an elderly woman. She was knitting a pair of bootees, and her wrinkled mouth was tilted in a smile.

“I’m interested in John Grossman,” Shayne told Rourke.

“The bootleg king?” They walked past the woman and Rourke stopped between a double row of filing-cases. “He’s the guy who is back in town on parole.”

“When did he get back?” Shayne asked.

“Three or four days ago. I tried to interview him, but he wouldn’t give out anything for publication. All he wanted was to go down to his lodge on the Keys and soak up some Florida sunshine.”

Shayne said, “I want to go back to his arrest by the Feds in June, 1930.”

“We’ve got a private file on him. It won’t be hard to find.” Rourke checked a card index eagerly and swiftly, then went to a file at the back of the room. He came back with a bulging Manila envelope and emptied it. He started pawing through it, Shayne close beside him and watching.

“Here’s the trial,” said Rourke. “It was a honey. With Leland and Parker representing him and not missing a trick. Here you are: June 17, 1930. Federal agents nabbed him at Homestead on his way in from the lodge on the Keys.” He spread out a large clipping.

“I remember it now,” Rourke said. He chuckled. “They had the income tax case all set but had been holding off, hoping they could hang a real charge on him. They thought he used his lodge to receive contraband shipments from Cuba, and they raided it several times, but never found any evidence. This time they thought they had him for sure, with a red-hot tip that he was expecting a boatload of French stuff. They kept a revenue cutter patrolling that section of coastline day and night for a week.

“Here’s the story on that.” Rourke turned his burning slate-gray eyes on Shayne, then flipped the pages back to a clipping dated June 16. It was captioned: CUTTER SINKS BOOTLEG CARGO.

“I covered that story. I rode the cutter three nights and nothing happened. After I was pulled off on the night of the fifteenth they encountered a motor craft creeping along without lights just off the inlet leading to Grossman’s lodge. They tried to make a run for the open sea, and bingo! the revenue boat cut loose with everything she had. There was a heavy sea running, the aftermath of a hurricane that blew hell out of things the day before, and they never found a trace of the boat, cargo, or crew. After that fiasco they gave up and decided they might as well take Grossman on the income tax charge.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “How bad was that hurricane?”

“Plenty bad. That’s really the reason I missed the fun. The cutter had to run for anchorage on the thirteenth, and she couldn’t put out again until the fifteenth on account of the storm.”

“Then that strip of coast wasn’t being patrolled the two nights before the sinking?” Shayne mused.

“Nope. Except by the elements.”

“And that rum-runner might have been slipping out after discharging cargo, instead of being headed in.”

Rourke stared at the redheaded detective. “If the captain was crazy enough to try and hit that inlet while the hurricane was blowing everything to hell.”

Shayne said gravely, “I think I know the captain who was crazy enough to do just that — and succeeded.”

Rourke raised his brows quizzically. “You’ve got something up your sleeve,” he accused.

Shayne nodded. “It adds up. Tim, I’m willing to bet there was a boatload of 1926 Monnet unloaded at Grossman’s lodge while the hurricane was raging. And it’s still there some place. Grossman was arrested the seventeenth, before he had a chance to get rid of any of it, and he left it there while he was doing time in Atlanta.”

Timothy Rourke whistled shrilly. “It’d be worth as much now as it was during prohibition.”

“More, with the country full of people earning more money than ever before in their lives.”

“If your hunch is right—”

“It has to be right. How long do you think a man could stay alive floating around the ocean in a life preserver? “

“Couple of days, at the most.”

“That’s my hunch, too. From the fifteenth to the seventeenth might not be impossible. But the hurricane struck on the thirteenth and fourteenth. Take a look at your front page for June 17, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Rourke hurriedly brought out the News for June 17. On the front page, next to the story of Grossman’s arrest, was the story of the sensational rescue of Captain Samuels which Shayne had already read in his apartment. Rourke put his finger on the picture and exclaimed. “I remember that now. I interviewed the Captain and thought it miraculous he had stayed alive that long. Captain Thomas Anthony Samuels. Why, damn it, Mike, he’s the old coot who was found murdered tonight.”

Shayne said soberly, “After selling a case of Monnet for a hundred bucks earlier in the evening.”

“He was the only survivor of his ship,” Rourke recalled excitedly. “Then he and Grossman must have been the only ones who knew the stuff was out there.”

“And now Grossman is the only one left,” Shayne said flatly. “Keep this stuff under your hat, Tim. When it’s ready to break it’ll be your baby.” He turned and hurried out.

Chapter five

Shayne didn’t reach his apartment again until after three. He took a nightcap and went to bed, fell immediately into deep and dreamless slumber.

The ringing of his telephone awakened him. He started to yawn, and pain clawed at his facial muscles. He got into a robe and lurched to the telephone. It was a little after eight o’clock.

He lifted the receiver and said, “Shayne.”

A thick voice replied, “This is John Grossman.”

Shayne said, “I expected you to call sooner.”

There was a brief silence as though his caller were taken aback by his reply. Then: “Well, I’m calling you now.”

Shayne said, “That’s quite evident.”

“You’re horning in on things that don’t concern you.”

“Cognac always concerns me.”

“I’m wondering how much you found out from the Captain before he died last night,” Grossman went on.

Shayne said, “Nuts. You killed him and you know exactly how much talking he didn’t do.”

“You can’t prove I was near his place last night,” said Grossman gruffly.

“I think I can. If you just called up to play ring-around-the-rosy, we’re both wasting our time.”

“I’ve been wondering how much real information you’ve got.”

“I knew that would worry you,” Shayne said impatiently. “And since you know Samuels was dead before I reached him, the source of information you’re worried about is the logbook. Let’s talk straight.”

“Why should I worry about the logbook? I’ve got it now.”

“I know you have. But you don’t know how much I read about the Mermaid’s last trip before you got it.”

“The girl says you didn’t read it any.”

Shayne laughed harshly. “You’d like to believe her, wouldn’t you?”

“All right.” The voice became resigned. “Maybe you did read more than she says. How about a deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

“You’re pretty crazy about Monnet, aren’t you?”

“Plenty.”

“How does five cases sound? Delivered to your apartment tonight.”

Shayne said, “It sounds like a joke — and a poor one.”

“You’ll take it and keep your mouth shut if you’re smart.”

Shayne said disgustedly, “You’re rolling me in the aisle.” He hung up and padded across the room in his bare feet to the table, where he poured a slug of Portuguese brandy. The telephone began ringing again. He drank some of the brandy, lit a cigarette, and went to the phone carrying the glass. He lifted the receiver and asked curtly, “Got any more jokes?”

The same voice answered plaintively, “What do you want?”

Shayne asked, “Why should I deal with you at all? I’ve got everything I need with Samuels’s description of where the stuff is hidden.”

“What can you do with it?” the murderer argued.

“The Internal Revenue boys could use my dope.”

“And cut yourself out? Not if I know you.”

“All right,” Shayne said irritably. “You have to cut me in, and you know it. Fifty-fifty.”

“Come out and we’ll talk it over.”

“Where?”

“My lodge on the Keys. First dirt road to the south after you pass Homestead, and then to your right after two miles.”

Shayne said, “I know where it is.”

“I’ll expect you about ten o’clock.”

Shayne said, “Make it eleven. I’ve got to get some breakfast.”

“Eleven it is.” A click broke the connection.

Shayne dressed swiftly, jammed a wide-brimmed Panama down over his head and pulled the brim low over his face, and went out. He hesitated a moment, then went back into the living room. He flipped the pages of the telephone directory until he found the number of Renaldo’s tavern, lifted the receiver, and got a brisk “Good morning,” from a masculine voice at the switchboard downstairs. A frown knitted his forehead, and instead of asking for Renaldo’s number, he said, “Do you have the time?”

He was told, “It is eight twenty-two.”

In the lobby, Shayne went across to the desk and leaned one elbow on it. He simulated astonishment and asked the day clerk, “Where’s Mabel today?”

The clerk glanced around at the brown-suited, middle-aged man alertly handling the switchboard and said, “Mabel was ill, and the telephone company sent us a substitute.”

Shayne went out, got in his car, and drove to a drugstore on Flagler. He called Renaldo’s number and said briskly, “Mike Shayne talking.”

“Mike?” Renaldo sounded relieved. “You’re all right? God, I’m sorry about—”

Shayne laughed softly. “I’m okay. Your boys could be a little more gentle but I feel I owe them something for last night. I’ve got a line on that stuff you were after.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know…”

“I need some help to handle it,” Shayne went on. “I figure Blackie and Lennie are just the boys — after seeing them in action.”

“I don’t know,” Renaldo said again, more doubtfully.

“This is business,” Shayne said sharply. “Big business for you and me both. Have them meet me at your place about nine-thirty.”

He hung up and drove out to a filling station on the corner of Eighteenth and Biscayne. “Ten gallons,” he said to the youth who hurried out.

Shayne strolled around to the back of his car and asked, “Were you on duty last night?”

“Until I closed up at ten. Just missed the excitement, I guess.”

“You mean the murder?”

“Yeah. The old ship captain who lives down the street. And I was talking about the old coot just a little before that.”

“Who with?”

“A lawyer fellow who’d been down to see him and got a flat tire just as he was coming back.”

“What time was that?” asked Shayne.

“Pretty near ten. I closed up right after I finished with his tire. If that’s all—” He took the bill Shayne offered him.

The detective swung away from the filling station and stopped on First Street east of Miami Avenue. He went into the lobby of an office building mostly occupied by lawyers and insurance men. He stopped to scan the building directory, then stepped into an elevator and said, “Six.”

He got off on the sixth floor and went down the corridor to a door chastely lettered: LEROY P. GUILDFORD — ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

There was a small reception room, and a tight-mouthed, middle-aged woman got up from a desk in the rear and came forward when Shayne entered. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a tight knot at the back of her head. She wore rimless glasses and low-heeled shoes, and looked primly efficient.

“Mr. Guildford hasn’t come in yet,” she said in response to Shayne’s question. “He seldom gets down before ten.”

Shayne said, “Perhaps you can tell me a few things. I’m from the police.” He gave her a glimpse of his private badge.

She said, “From the police?” Her thin lips tightened. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re here.” Her gaze was fixed disapprovingly on his battered face.

He said easily. “It’s about one of his clients who was murdered last night. Mr. Guildford gave us some help, but there are a few more details to be filled in.”

“Oh, yes. You mean poor Captain Samuels. I know Mr. Guildford must feel terrible about it. Such an old client and so alone and helpless.”

“Did you know him?”

“Only through seeing him here at the office. Mr. Guildford was trying to save his property, but it seemed hopeless.”

“In what particular capacity did he need a lawyer?”

“It wasn’t much,” she said vaguely. “He was one of our first clients when Mr. Guildford opened up this office after resigning his position with the firm of Leland and Parker. There was something about the collection of insurance on a ship that had been lost at sea, and later Mr. Guildford handled the purchase of a property where Captain Samuels later built his little home.”

“Do you know whether Guildford saw much of him lately?”

“Not a great deal. There was some difficulty about the mortgage and Mr. Guildford was trying to save him from foreclosure. He pitied the old man, you see, but there was little he could do.”

“And this appointment last night. Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh, yes. I took the message early yesterday morning. Captain Samuels explicitly asked him to come at nine last night, promising to make a cash payment on the mortgage. I remember Mr. Guildford seemed so relieved when he received the message, and he didn’t seem to mind the unusual hour.”

Shayne thanked her and told her she had been of great assistance. He started out, then turned back to ask, “By the way, is Guildford generally in his office throughout the day?”

“Yes. Except when he’s in court, of course.”

“Was he in court last Tuesday?”

“Tuesday? I’m sure he wasn’t.”

“That’s queer. I tried to phone him twice during the day and he was out both times.”

The woman frowned uncertainly, then her face cleared. “Tuesday! Of course. How stupid of me. He was out all day with a client.”

Shayne lifted his hat and went out. He drove north on Miami Avenue to Chunky’s place and went in. A couple of men were seated halfway down the counter. Shayne took the stool by the cash register and Chunky drifted up to him after a few moments. He leaned his elbows on the counter, selected a toothpick from a bowl, and began picking at his teeth. He murmured, “Looks like somebody prettied you up las’ night.”

“Yeah. Some of the boys got playful,” he said good-naturedly. “Look, I’m still hunting a line on John Grossman. Pug or Slim been in?”

“Ain’t seen ’em. Grossman usta have a fishin’ place south of Homestead.”

“Think he went up there after he was paroled?”

“Good place to hole up,” said Chunky. “I know he stayed in town just one night.”

Shayne got up and went out, leaving a dollar at the place where he had been sitting. There was a public telephone in the cheap hotel next door. He called Timothy Rourke’s home number and waited patiently until the ringing awoke the reporter. He said, “There’s about be a Caesarean operation.”

Rourke gurgled sleepily, “What the hell?”

“On that baby we were talking about in your morgue this morning.”

“That you, Mike?”

“Doctor Shayne. Specializing in obstetrics.”

“Hey! Is it due to break?”

“It’s coming to a head fast. Get dressed and hunt up Will Gentry if you want some headlines. Don’t, for God’s sake, tell him I tipped you, but stick to him like a leech.” Shayne hung up and drove to Renaldo’s saloon.

Blackie jumped up nervously from his seat beside Renaldo’s desk when Shayne pushed the door open. He sucked in his breath and stared with bulging eyes at the result of his work on the detective’s face, while his hand instinctively went to his hip pocket.

Behind him, Lennie leaned against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. Lennie’s features were lax and his eyes were filmed like a dead man’s. The left side of his pallid face twitched uncontrollably as Shayne looked at him.

Seated behind the desk, chewing savagely on a cigar, Henry Renaldo looked fearfully from the boys to Shayne. He said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mike. The boys didn’t much like the idea—”

Shayne closed the door and laughed heartily. He said, “Hell, there’s no hard feelings. I’m still alive and kicking.”

Blackie drew in another deep breath. He essayed a nervous smile. “We thought maybe you was sore.”

Shayne said gently, “You got a pretty heavy foot, Blackie.”

“Yeah.” Blackie hung his head like a small boy being reprimanded. “But you come bustin’ in with a gun, an’ Jeez! what’d you expect?”

“That was my mistake,” Shayne admitted. “I always run into trouble when I pack a rod. That’s why I’m clean now.” He lifted his arms away from his sides. “Want to shake me down?”

“That’s all right.” Renaldo laughed with false heartiness. “No harm done, I guess. The boys’ll forget it if you will.”

“Whatcha want with us?” Lennie demanded thinly.

“I need your help,” Shayne said bluntly. “I’ve run into something too big for me to handle, and after seeing you guys in action last night I think you’re the ones I need.”

“That’s white of you,” Blackie mumbled.

“I never hold a grudge if it’s going to cost me money,” Shayne told them briskly. “Here’s the lay.” He spoke directly to Renaldo. “I can put my hands on plenty of French cognac — same as the case you bought last night. And this won’t cost us a hundred a case. It won’t cost us anything if we play it right.”

Renaldo licked his lips. “So the old captain did talk before he died?”

“Not to me. I got onto it from another angle. Interested?”

“Why are you cutting us in?” Renaldo protested. “Sounds like some kind of come-on to me.”

“I need help,” Shayne said smoothly. “There’s another mug in my way and he’s got a couple of torpedoes gunning for me. I need a couple of lads like Blackie and Lennie to handle that angle. After that’s cleared up, I still need somebody with the right connections like you, Renaldo. I haven’t any setup for handling sales. You know all the angles from ’way back. And since you put me onto it in the first place I thought you might as well have part of the gravy. Hell, there’s plenty for all of us,” he added generously. “A whole shipload of that same stuff.”

“Sounds all right,” Renaldo admitted cautiously.

“I’m the only one standing in this other guy’s way,” Shayne explained. “So he plans to put me on the spot. I’ve got a date to meet him out in the country this morning, and I know he’ll have a couple of quick-trigger boys on hand to blast me out of the picture.” He turned to Blackie. “That’s where you and Lennie come in. I’m not handing you anything on a platter. This is hot, and if you’re scared of it just say so and I’ll find someone else.”

Blackie grunted contemptuously. “Lennie and me can take care of ourselves, I reckon.”

“That’s what I thought after last night. Both of you ironed?”

“Sure. When do we start?”

“Well, that’s it,” Shayne told Renaldo. “You sit tight until the shooting’s over. If things work out right we’ll do a four-way split and there should be plenty of grands to go around. I’m guessing at five hundred cases, but there may be more,” he ended casually.

Renaldo took his cigar from his mouth and wet his lips. “Sounds plenty good to me. You boys willing to go along?”

Both of them nodded.

Shayne said briskly, “We’d better get started. I’m due south of Homestead at eleven o’clock.” He led the way out to his car and opened the back door. “Maybe both of you will feel better if you ride in back where you can keep an eye on me.”

“We ain’t worryin’ none about you,” Blackie assured him, but they both got in the back seat while Shayne settled himself under the wheel.

In the rear-view mirror he could see the pair conferring together earnestly. Both sides of Lennie’s face were getting the twitches and his hands trembled violently when he lit a cigarette. He took only a couple of drags on it, then screwed up his face in disgust and threw it out.

Shayne said sympathetically to Blackie, “Your pal doesn’t seem to feel so hot this morning.”

“He’s all right,” Blackie muttered. “Sorta got the shakes is all.”

Shayne said, “He’d better get over them before the shooting starts.”

Lennie caught Blackie’s arm and whispered something in his ear. Blackie cleared his throat and admitted uneasily, “Tell you what. He could use somethin’ to steady him all right. You know.”

Shayne said, “Sure. I know. Any place around here we could pick up a bindle?”

“Sure thing,” Lennie said, violently eager. “Couple of blocks ahead. If I had two bucks.”

Shayne drove on two blocks and pulled up to the curb. He passed four one-dollar bills back to Lennie and suggested, “Get two bindles, why don’t you? One to pick you up now and the other for just before the fun starts.”

Lennie grabbed the money and scrambled out of the car. He hurried up the street and darted into a stairway entrance.

Blackie laughed indulgently as he watched him disappear. “You hadn’t orta give him the price of two bindles,” he reproved Shayne. “He’ll be plenty high in an hour from now on one. ’Nother one on top of it will pull him tight as a fiddle string. Like he was last night,” he added darkly.

Shayne said, “I want him in shape to throw lead fast. Those boy who’ll be waiting for me may not waste much time getting acquainted.” He lit a cigarette and slouched back in the seat.

Lennie came trotting back in about five minutes. His pinched face was alive and eager and his eyes glowed like live coals. He slid in beside Blackie and breathed exultantly, “Le’s get goin’. Jeez, is my trigger finger itchin’.”

Shayne drove swiftly south on Flagler, past Coral Gables and on to the village of South Miami, then along the Key West highway through the rich truck-farming section with its acres of tomatoes and bean fields stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see.

By the time they reached the sleepy village of Homestead with its quiet, tree-shadowed streets and its air of serene dignity, Shayne began to feel as though he were the one who had sniffed a bindle instead of Lennie. There was a driving, demanding tension within him. It was always this way when he played a hunch through to the finish. He had planned the best he could and it was up to the gods now. He couldn’t turn back. He didn’t want to turn back. The approach of personal danger keyed him to a high pitch, and he exulted in the gamble he was taking. Things like this were what made life worth living to Michael Shayne.

He drove decorously through Homestead and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. He stopped at a filling station on the outskirts of the village where the first dirt road turned off the paved highway to the left. He told Blackie and Lennie, “I’ll be just a minute,” and swung out of the car to speak to a smiling old man in faded overalls and a wide straw hat.

“Does the bus stop here, Pop?”

“Sometimes. Yep. If there’s passengers to get on or off. ’Tain’t a reg’lar stop.”

“How about yesterday? Any passengers stop here?”

“Yestiddy? Yep. The old sailor feller got off here to go a-fishin’.” The old man chuckled. “Right nice old feller, but seemed like he was turned around, sort of. Didn’t know how far ’twas to the Keys. Had him a suitcase, too, full of fishin’ tackle I reckon. Him an’ me made a deal to rent my tin Lizzie for the day and he drove off fishin’ as spry as you please. No luck though. Didn’ have nary a fish when he came back.”

Shayne thanked him and went back to his car. That was the last definite link. He didn’t need it, but it was always good to have added confirmation. He wouldn’t have bothered to stop if he hadn’t had a few minutes to spare.

He got in and turned down the dirt road running straight and level between a wasteland of palmetto and pine on either side.

“This is it,” he told the boys calmly. “Couple of miles to where I’m supposed to meet these birds, but they might be hiding out along the road waiting for me. You’d both better get down in the back where you can’t be seen.”

“We won’t be no good to you that way,” Blackie protested, “if they’re hid out along the road to pick you off.”

“They’ll just pick all three of us off if you guys are in sight too,” Shayne argued reasonably. “I don’t think they’ll try anything till we get there, and I want them to think I came alone so they’ll be off guard. Get down and stay down until the shooting starts or until I yell or give you some signal. Then come out like firecrackers.”

The two gunmen got down in the back. Shayne drove along at a moderate speed, watching his speedometer. It was lonely and quiet on this desolate road leading to the coast. There were no houses, no other cars on the road. It was a perfect setting for murder.

Chapter six

A narrower and less-used road turned off to the right at the end of exactly two miles. A wooden arrow which had once been painted white, pointed west, and dingy black letters said: LODGE.

Shayne turned westward and slowed his car still more as it bumped along the uneven ruts. Sunlight lay hot and white on the narrow lane between the pines, and the smell of the sea told him he was approaching one of the salt-water inlets.

The car panted over a little rise and saw the weathered rock walls of John Grossman’s fishing lodge through the pines on the left. It was a low, sprawling structure, and a pair of ruts turned off abruptly to lead up to it.

Two men stepped into the middle of the lane to block his way when he was fifty feet from the building. This was so exactly what Shayne had expected that he cut his motor and braked to an easy stop with the front bumper almost touching the men.

He leaned out of the window and asked, “This John Grossman’s place?” then opened the door and stepped out quickly to show that he was unarmed and to prevent them from coming to the car where they would see Lennie and Blackie crouched in the back.

One of the men was very tall and thin, with cadaverous features and deep hollows for eye sockets. He wore a beautifully tailored suit of silk pongee with a tan shirt and shoes, and a light tan snap-brimmed felt hat. He had his arms folded across his thin chest. His right hand was inside the lapel of his unbuttoned coat close to a bulge just below his left shoulder. His face was darkly sun-tanned and he showed white teeth in a saturnine smile as he stood in the middle of the road without moving.

His companion was a head shorter than Slim. He had a broad, pugnacious face with a flat nose spread over a lot of it. He was hatless and coatless, wearing a shirt with loud yellow stripes, with elastic armbands making tucks in the full sleeves. He stood flat-footed with his hand openly gripping the butt of a revolver thrust down behind the waistband of his trousers.

Shayne stood beside the car and surveyed them coolly. He said, “I don’t think we’ve met formally. I’m Shayne.”

Pug said, “Yeah. We know. This here’s Slim.” He jerked the thumb of his left hand toward his tall companion.

Shayne said, “I thought this was a social call. Where’s Grossman?”

“He sent us out to see you were clean before you come in.” Slim’s lips barely moved to utter the words. He sauntered around the front of the car toward Shayne, keeping his hand inside his coat. His deep-set eyes were cold and glittered like polished agate. His head was thrust forward on a long, thin neck.

Shayne took two backward steps. He said, “I’m clean. I came out to talk business. This is a hell of a way to greet a guy.”

Pug moved behind Slim. He was obviously the slower wilted and the less dangerous of the pair. He blinked in the bright sunlight and said, “Why don’t we let ’im have it here?”

Slim said, “We do.” He smiled, and Shayne knew he was a man who enjoyed watching his victims die.

Shayne pretended he didn’t hear or didn’t understand the byplay between the two killers. They had both moved to the side of the car now and were circling slowly toward him.

Shayne said, “I brought along some cold beer. It’s here in the back.” He reached for the handle of the rear door and turned it steadily until the latch was free. He flung himself to the ground, jerking the door wide open as he did so.

Slim’s gun flashed at the same instant that fire blazed from the back seat. Slim staggered back and dropped to one knee, steadying his gun to return the fire.

Shayne lay flat on the ground and saw Pug spin around from the impact of a.45 slug in his thick shoulder, but Pug stayed on his feet and his own gun rained bullets into the tonneau.

Slim fired twice before a bullet smashed the saturnine grin back into his mouth. He crumpled slowly forward onto the sunlit pine needles and lay very still.

Pug went down at almost the same instant with a look of complete bewilderment on his broad face. He dropped his revolver and put both hands over his belly, lacing his stubby fingers together tightly. He sank to a sitting position with his legs doubled under him, and swayed there for a moment before toppling over on his side.

There was no more shooting. And there was no sound from the back of the car.

Shayne got up stiffly and began dusting the dirt from his clothes. He heard shouts and looked up to see excited men filtering through the trees and coming from behind the lodge to converge on the car.

He saw that both Blackie and Lennie were quite dead. Blackie lay with his body sprawled half out on the running-board, his gun hand trailing in the dirt. Blood trickled from two holes in his yellow polo shirt, and his mouth was open.

Lennie was crouched on the floor behind Blackie and there was a gaping hole where his right eye had been. His thin features were composed and he looked more at peace with the world than Shayne had ever seen him look before.

Will Gentry came puffing up behind Shayne, his red face suffused and perspiring. A tall, black-mustached man wearing the clothes of a farmer and carrying a rifle was close behind him. Other men were dressed like farmers, and Shayne recognized half a dozen of them as Gentry’s plain-clothes detectives. He saw Rourke’s grinning face and had time to give the reporter a quick nod of recognition before Gentry caught his arm and pulled him around angrily, demanding, “What the bloody blazes are you pulling off here, Mike?”

“I? Nothing.” Shayne arched his red brows at the Chief of Detectives. “Can I help it if some damned hoods choose this place to settle one of their feuds?” He stepped back and waved toward the rear of the car. “Couple of hitch-hikers I picked up. Why don’t you ask them why they started shooting?”

“They’re both dead,” Gentry asserted angrily after a quick survey. “And the other two?” He started around the car.

“This one’s still alive,” Rourke called out cheerfully, kneeling beside Pug. “But I don’t think he will be long.”

Shayne sauntered around behind Gentry. Blood was seeping between Pug’s fingers, but his eyes were open when Gentry shook him and demanded to know where Grossman was.

“Inside. Cellar.” Pug’s voice was low and hoarse.

“You — Yancy and Marks,” Gentry directed two of his men. “Stay here and get a statement from him. Find out what this shooting is about. Everything. The rest of you fan out and surround the house. Take it careful and be ready to shoot. The real criminal is in there.”

Shayne took Gentry’s place beside Pug as Gentry moved away to direct the placing of his men around the lodge. He leaned close to the dying man and asked, “Where’s the girl, Pug? The girl. Where is she?”

“Inside,” the wounded man murmured.

Shayne got to his feet. Rourke got up beside him and grabbed his arm. “Sweet God, Mike! I don’t know what any of this is about, but it’s some Caesarean.”

Shayne pulled away from him and stalked toward the fishing lodge. Rourke hurried after him, expostulating, “Hold it, Mike. Don’t try to go in there. Didn’t you hear the guy? Grossman’s inside. Let Gentry and the Sheriff chase him out in the open.”

Shayne didn’t pay any attention to him. Unarmed, he strode on toward the sprawling stone house, his face set and hard.

Gentry was spacing his men around to cover all exits. He saw Shayne’s intention and called out gruffly, “Don’t, Mike. No need for anybody to get hurt now. We’ll smoke him out.”

Shayne continued steadily forward. He mounted the wide stone steps, his heels pounding loud in the sudden stillness, and went on to a sagging screen door. He pulled it open and went in, squinting his eyes in the dim interior.

There was a stale odor in the room. It was cool and quiet inside the thick rock walls. A wide arched opening led into a big room on the right.

Shayne went in and saw Myrna Hastings sitting upright in a heavy chair fashioned of twisted mangrove roots. Her legs and arms were tightly bound to the chair and her mouth was sealed with adhesive tape. Her eyes rolled up at him wildly as he strode across the room, taking his knife from his pocket.

He slashed the cords binding her arms and legs, pulled her upright, and put his left arm around her. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. “Set your mouth as tight as you can.”

She nodded, and he ripped the adhesive loose in one jerk, then put his other arm around her. She clung to him and cried softly, violent sobs shaking her slight frame.

Shayne was looking around the room as he held her close. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he saw a square of water-soaked canvas on the floor with a pile of straw and bottles on top of it. An empty bottle lay on its side and another stood open.

Shayne said, “Try to walk a little. Use your arms and legs and they’ll limber up.” He began to move her slowly forward.

She sobbed, “I’m all right. I knew you’d come, Mike.”

She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to pick up the open bottle. He studied the watersoaked label and his eyes glinted. It was Monnet, vintage of 1926, and the bottle was half full. He drew in a long breath of the bouquet, then tilted it to Myrna’s lips.

“Take a good drink of this,” he told her. “Everything is all right now.”

She swallowed obediently when the liquor reached her lips. Shayne chuckled and took the bottle away. “It’s my turn now.” He took a long, gurgling drink, then led her over to a dusty rattan couch.

A flush came to her cheeks. She sat down limply and Shayne got out two cigarettes. He put one between her lips and the other in his mouth, thumbnailed a match and lit both.

Myrna started violently when Gentry’s voice bellowed at him from outside. “Shayne! What’s happening in there?”

Shayne called back, “A lady and I are having a drink. Leave us alone.” He laughed down into Myrna’s bewildered face. “We’re surrounded by a posse of detectives and deputy sheriffs,” he explained. “They’re summoning their courage to storm the place.”

“What happened?” she asked tensely. “All that shooting. They were laying a trap for you, weren’t they? I heard them talking before they went out. They were going to kill you because they thought you’d read the logbook. I told them you hadn’t, but they wouldn’t believe me. I was so frightened when I heard the shooting. I was sure you had walked right into the trap.” She began to tremble violently.

Shayne patted her hand reassuringly. “I practically never walk into a trap.”

They heard cautious, shuffling footsteps on the porch outside and Gentry’s voice rumbling, “Mike, where are you?”

“In here,” Shayne called. He put the bottle to his swollen lips again and took a long drink. He lowered it and grinned as Gentry moved in quietly with drawn gun, followed closely by the mustached sheriff with his rifle cocked and ready.

“You look,” Shayne chuckled, “like the last two of the Mohicans.”

Gentry straightened his bulky body and glared across the dim room at Shayne and the girl.

“What the devil’s going on. Who’s this and how did she get here?”

Shayne said, “You met Miss Hastings last night, Will. Why don’t you and Leatherstockings run along down to the cellar and look for Grossman? That’s where Pug said he was.”

Other men began to file cautiously into the room. Gentry turned to them and growled, “Find the cellar stairs. And take it easy. Grossman isn’t the kind to be taken alive.” He crossed the room heavily. “And you can start talking, Mike. What are you and this girl up to?”

“What can we do — with so many people prowling around?”

Gentry snorted, “What kind of a run-around am I getting?”

Shayne said, “You’re giving it to yourself, whatever it is. I didn’t invite you out here.”

“No. You thought you were pulling a fast one — covering up for a murderer to get a rake-off on a bunch of smuggled liquor. By God, Shayne, you can’t wiggle out of this one.”

Shayne drank from the bottle again. “It’s mighty good liquor. Next time you send a stool to cover the switchboard at my hotel don’t use a guy with d-i-c-k written all over him.”

Gentry swallowed his anger. “I wondered who sent Tim Rourke to me with a tip that there’d be fireworks. You can’t deny you brought along a couple of gunmen to wipe out Grossman and his gang to keep the stuff for yourself. If I hadn’t overheard the call and beat it out here you might have pulled it off.”

Shayne chuckled and sank down on the couch beside Myrna. “How much of the deal do you know?” he asked Gentry.

“Plenty. I always suspected Captain Samuels was running stuff for Grossman when he lost his boat in 1930. That’s why Grossman killed him last night. Fighting over division of the liquor that was cached here when Grossman was sent up.”

“You’re fairly close,” Shayne admitted. “When you find Grossman—”

“He’ll talk,” Gentry promised.

“Want to bet on it?” Shayne’s eyes were very bright.

“I never bet with you. With your damned shenanigans… What’s this girl got to do with it? One of Grossman’s little friends?”

“She wanted to see a detective in action,” Shayne replied.

Shayne set the bottle on the floor and sat up straighter when the detective trotted in and reported excitedly, “We’ve searched the cellar and the whole house, Chief. Not another soul here.”

Gentry began to curse luridly. Shayne stood up and interrupted him. “I don’t think your men knew where to look in the cellar. Let’s take another look.”

When they reached the cellar stairs, Rourke was coming up with a flashlight in his hand. “No soap,” he reported to Shayne. “Grossman must have made his getaway when we left the house uncovered to see what the shooting was about.”

“Your fault,” Gentry accused Shayne bitterly. “If we don’t pick him up I’m slapping a charge of obstructing justice on you.”

Shayne took the flashlight from Rourke. He led the way down into a small dank furnace room with a dirt floor. He flashed the light around, then walked over to a small rectangular area where the ground showed signs of having recently been disturbed. “Try digging here, but don’t blame me if Grossman doesn’t talk when you find him.”

“There?” Gentry gagged over the word. “You mean he’s dead?”

“Hell, he had to be dead, Will. Nothing else made any sense.”

“You mean nothing makes sense,” Gentry said perplexedly.

Shayne sighed and said, “I’ll draw you a few pictures. One question first, though. Did Guildford make a phone call between the time you checked for Miss Hastings at the Crestwood last night and before you came to my place looking for her?”

“Guildford? The lawyer?” Gentry’s voice intoned his bewilderment. “What the hell has he got to do with it?”

“Did he?” Shayne persisted.

“Well, yes, I think he did, come to think of it. He called his home from the public booth in the Crestwood after we learned the girl wasn’t it: I suggested that we see you, and he didn’t want his wife to worry if he got home later than she expected.”

Shayne nodded. “He said he called his wife. But you didn’t go in the booth with him and listen in on his conversation?”

“Of course not,” Gentry sputtered.

Shayne took his time about lighting a cigarette, then continued: “If you had, you would have heard him calling Pug or Slim at Chunky’s joint and telling them to hang around the Crestwood until Myrna Hastings came in… then grab her. He was covering every angle,” Shayne went on earnestly, “after he discovered that empty hiding-place in the Captain’s bedroom. He knew the Captain knew the location of the liquor cache after Samuels brought in a case and sold it for a hundred bucks to make a payment on the mortgage. And when the poor old guy died while he was torturing him, he must have been frantic for fear he’d never find the stuff.”

“Are you talking about Mr. Guildford, the attorney?”

“Yeh.” Shayne’s eyes were bleak. “Leroy P. Guildford, once a junior member of the firm of Leland and Parker. They specialized in criminal practice and defended John Grossman in 1930. He must have known of the existence of the liquor cache all the time, but it wasn’t worth much until the recent liquor shortage, and Captain Samuels wouldn’t play ball with him. After he killed Grossman, Samuels was his only chance to learn where the stuff was hidden.”

“Are you saying Guildford killed Grossman?”

“Sure. Or had Pug and Slim do the job for him. He brought Grossman out here last Tuesday, then went to Samuels and told him what had happened and suggested that with Grossman dead they might as well split the liquor.”

“But Grossman talked to you over the phone just this morning,” Gentry argued.

Shayne shook his head. “I knew that couldn’t be Grossman. He had to be dead. The only person it could be was Guildford, disguising his voice to lure me out here so he could get rid of the only two people who knew about the logbook and the liquor.”

“Why,” asked Gentry with forced calm, “did Grossman have to be dead?”

“Nothing else made sense.” Shayne spread out his big hands. “Captain Samuels knew where the liquor was all the time and he was practically starving and in debt, yet he never touched it. Why? Because he was an honorable man and it didn’t belong to him. Why, then, would he suddenly forget his scruples and sell a case? Because Grossman was dead and it no longer belonged to anybody.”

Gentry said gruffly, “My head’s going around. Maybe it’s this air down here.”

Back in the big room upstairs, Shayne knelt beside the bottles and straw. “Do you know where this came from, Myrna?”

“Certainly. Those men fished it up out of the lagoon this morning, all sewed up in canvas. They talked about it in front of me. I think they planned to kill me, so they didn’t care what I heard.”

“What did they say about it?” Shayne was shaking the bottles free of their straw casings and lining them up on the floor.

“It’s all in the bottom of the lagoon. A whole boatload. Just where Captain Samuels and his crew dumped it overboard as he described in his logbook. That’s why the authorities could never find any liquor here when they raided the place, the men said.”

Shayne got up with a bottle dangling from each knobby hand. He slipped them into the side pockets of his pants as Detective Yancey came hurrying in to tell Gentry excitedly: “We got the whole story from that man before he died. Grossman is dead, Chief. Buried in the cellar. And the real guy is—”

“I know,” said Gentry wearily. “Get to a telephone and have Guildford rounded up right away.”

“What are you doing?” Gentry demanded as he turned in time to see Shayne slide a third and fourth bottle into his hip pockets.

“Making hay while the sun shines,” Shayne said, stooping to get two more bottles from the floor. “With you horning in I won’t have any chance at all at that stuff under the water.” He put two more bottles in his coat pockets and reached for two more, looking wistfully at the remaining bottles on the floor. “This is the only fee I can collect on this case.”

Myrna Hastings laughed delightedly. “I can carry a few for you.”

Gentry turned away and said gruffly, “There’d better be a couple of bottles left for evidence when the revenue men get here.” He strode out, and Shayne began stacking bottles in Myrna’s arms.

“You owe me something,” he told her, “for the turn I got when I went back to my apartment and found the back door unlocked and the place burgled. I thought you were mixed up in it and your feature story was just a blind.”

She laughed as she swayed slightly under the weight of eight bottles. “I wondered if you’d suspect me after they found the key and I admitted that it was to the back door of your apartment. I’m afraid they thought I was an immoral girl. I hated to have them take the key away from me,” she ended gravely.

Shayne promised, “I’ll give you another one,” and they staggered out with as many bottles as both could carry.

Dinner at Dupre’s

Chapter one:

A Corpse With No Name

Michael Shayne was asleep. Violent and insistent pounding on the front door of his apartment woke him with a start. He reached out a long arm and turned on the bedside lamp. An alarm clock on the table said 2:15.

He yawned and sat up in bed, a scowl bringing his ragged red brows together as the pounding went on, then swung long pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed. Going to the door, he jerked it open.

“What in hell’s the idea?” he demanded.

A stocky man in police uniform had his heavy foot swinging toward the door. He stumbled off balance, caught hold of the door facing.

“Why the devil didn’t you say something,” he growled.

“You didn’t expect me to be sitting up waiting for you in the middle of the night, did you?” Shayne parried angrily. “What do you want, Frank?”

“Captain Denton needs you down at the Quarter. He’s got a stiff for you to identify.” Sergeant Frank pushed on into the room. “Put some clothes on, Shayne, and let’s get going.”

“Suppose I don’t want to go?”

“Why do you always make things tough on yourself, Shayne? All we’re asking is for you to come down and identify a murdered man.”

Shayne said, “All right.” He stood for a moment in indecision, yawning and stretching his arms.

Sergeant Frank was a young man, well built, with mild blue eyes and black, curly hair.

“What’s the trouble between you and Denton?” he asked.

“I hate his guts.”

The Sergeant chuckled. “But there’s no use bucking him. Besides, I thought murder was your business.”

After another brief period of hesitation, Shayne strode into the bedroom. In five minutes he came out settling his wide shoulders into a loose gray jacket, and the two men went down to a police sedan parked at the curb. Sergeant Frank slid under the wheel and Shayne got in beside him.

Shayne’s feud with Captain Dolph Denton of the French Quarter precinct went back fifteen years, and had been renewed last year when the red-headed private operator had come to New Orleans from Miami on a case, and had decided to settle in the city and open an office. It flared into the open during the investigation of the Margo Macon case, resulting in a draw that left each man backing away warily to measure his opponent. Since then, they had managed to avoid each other, but the bad blood still remained.

Sergeant Frank and Shayne drove in silence up Carondelet to Canal Street and on into the French Quarter. Frank turned off Royal onto St. Louis, and pulled over to the curb behind a cluster of cars at an alley entrance.

Shayne got out first and went directly to the spot where two white-coated men were kneeling beside a body. Glaring spotlights were trained on the corpse and a photographer was shooting off flashbulbs.

Captain Dolph Denton stepped forward aggressively from a group of men near the body. He was a big-girthed man with dark and brutal features. He accosted Sergeant Frank, who stood behind Shayne.

“I see you brought the shamus down, all right. Any trouble?”

Frank said, “Nope,” and moved on past Denton.

Shayne said, “What’s this all about?” His voice grated like a file drawn across rusty steel.

Denton’s black eyes bulged a trifle. He caught Shayne’s arm officiously and started to turn him toward the waiting group. Shayne brought his right forearm up in a horizontal position and struck his doubled fist a sharp blow with the open palm of his left hand. The blow drove his elbow into Denton’s potbelly.

Denton grunted and released his arm. “By God if you start anything I’ll let you have it,” he thundered.

Shayne ignored him and went over to Inspector Quinlan.

He said curtly, “I didn’t know you were in on this, Inspector.”

Quinlan smiled frostily and cleared his throat. “I just got here. Denton said he had sent for you to make an identification.” Quinlan was a slim, trim man of medium height with a shock of iron gray hair and a stoic expression. His eyes were a cold blue, and Shayne knew him to be hard as flint, but innately just.

Denton surged up beside Shayne, breathing hard. “One of these days you’ll pull a trick like that at the wrong time,” he growled.

Shayne didn’t look at him. He asked Quinlan, “What makes Denton think I can identify the corpse?”

“Never mind about that,” Denton barked. “Take a look and tell me who this stiff is.”

The two ambulance attendants rose and stepped away when Shayne went over and looked down at the corpse. Under the glare of the spotlight, the murdered man’s features were clearly outlined.

He was about forty, with the smooth, rounded features of a man who had lived well and carefully. He was well dressed, wearing a soft white shirt and black bow tie, a pin-striped, double-breasted blue suit. The coat was unbuttoned and pulled back, his shirt and undershirt pulled up to show a round hole in his chest.

Shayne stepped back and said to Inspector Quinlan, “I don’t know him. Why am I supposed to?”

Quinlan looked at Denton. The Captain shoved his burly frame forward. “Don’t pull that stuff,” he said. “You won’t get away with it.”

Shayne exhaled audibly and said in a dangerously soft voice, “Call me a liar, Denton, and so help me I’ll give you an excuse for locking me up on a charge of assaulting an officer.”

Denton scowled darkly and licked at his sensuously thick lips. “Do you deny that you know the dead man?”

“I do.”

“I suppose you’ve got so many clients you can’t remember all of ’em,” Denton snarled.

“My clients are my business,” Shayne told him. He turned his back on the Captain and addressed Inspector Quinlan. “I am not going to stick around here all night listening to Denton. If there’s any reason why I should know the dead man, tell me.”

Denton had his hand out as though to catch Shayne’s arm and whirl him around, but dropped it to his side and moved around to face him. “Who’ve you got an appointment with at nine o’clock this morning?”

“Nobody.”

“So you deny that you’ve arranged to see this man at nine o’clock?” Denton said in a churlish tone.

Inspector Quinlan said, “You’re not getting anywhere, Denton. Tell us what you know about the corpse. What’s this hocus-pocus about him being a client of Shayne’s?”

The Captain set his heavy jaw and muttered, “I was trying to trip Shayne up. If I tell him all I know—”

“You’d better give it to me,” Quinlan said with authority.

“There’s no identification on him. Not a damned thing in any of his pockets except one. Moran heard the shot from two blocks away, and by the time he found the body the killer had searched him and got away.”

“What was in one of his pockets?”

“This!” said Denton triumphantly. He drew out a thick black book about three by five inches in size, opened it, and displayed calendared pages for each day in the year, with a vertical row of hours from 9:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.

From between the pages he took a folded newspaper clipping and held it in the glare of the spotlight. It was from a month-old issue of the New Orleans Times-Picayune, and was captioned Local Investigator Scores in El Paso. It carried a picture of Shayne, and a somewhat embellished account of the detective’s latest case in El Paso, which had resulted in the arrest of both that city’s mayoralty candidates.

Shayne looked at the clipping and grinned. “So I’ve got a public. Can I help it if I’m the pin-up type?”

“All right, wise guy,” Denton snarled. “Laugh this off.” He flipped the book open to the current date of June 6.

Written in a precise hand on the first line of the page opposite 9:00 a.m. was the notation, M. Shayne. The only other entry on that page was two lines below at 11:0 °Catch train.

“What do you make of those two entries?” Denton asked the Inspector.

“Looks as though he had an appointment with you at nine this morning, Shayne.”

“That proves he didn’t know me, or he wouldn’t have expected to catch me in my office at that ungodly hour,” Shayne said.

“But he planned to catch a train at eleven,” Denton persisted in a surly voice. “That indicates a definite appointment with you.”

Shayne said irritably, “I told you I never saw the man before.”

“Maybe not,” Quinlan said. “But we can still use his name — and what his business was with you. That may have some bearing on his murder.”

“Hell, yes.” Denton exploded. “That’s what I figured right away. He was gunned to prevent him from keeping his appointment with you. When you tell us what he was seeing you about we’ll know where to look for his killer.”

Shayne shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe he’d been stepping out with the wrong guy’s doll. Looks like a straight burglary to me.”

“Those are possibilities we’ll investigate,” Quinlan agreed. “But we need to cover your angle, too.”

“I haven’t any angle,” Shayne snapped. “I don’t know who he is nor why he wanted to see me.”

Quinlan said, “If you get anything, Shayne, don’t hold out on us. This is murder.” He called to Sergeant Frank and ordered, “Drive Mr. Shayne home.”

“Wait a minute,” said Shayne. “If he was bumped off because he was a prospective client of mine, maybe I’ve got an interest in this thing. That appointment book might have some dope if we’d go through it carefully. Let’s have a look—”

“You’re staying out of this, shamus,” Denton growled. “You don’t know the stiff and he didn’t have an appointment with you. That lets you out.” Turning to the Sergeant, who had joined them, he said with heavy sarcasm, “Take him home and tuck him in bed, Frank.”

“All right — if that’s the way you want it.” Shayne swung around and followed Sergeant Frank to the waiting police car.

Back in his walk-up apartment, Shayne gulped down a stiff drink of brandy, then went to the phone and called the number of Lucy Hamilton, his secretary.

When she answered, he asked, “Were you asleep, Lucy?” and sent a chuckle over the wire.

There was a brief pause, then she asked, “What do you suppose I’d be doing at three-thirty?”

He teased her for a while, then asked seriously, “When did you start making nine o’clock appointments for me?”

“What’s the gag, Michael? You’ve never gotten to the office by nine.”

“You didn’t make an engagement for me this morning?”

“Of course not. What on earth’s the matter?”

“Do we have any new clients I haven’t met?”

“We don’t have any clients, period,” she told him. “You’re sort of drunk, aren’t you?”

He said, “Sort of.” He hung up, took off his clothes, and went to bed.

It was shortly before nine o’clock when he awoke. He didn’t loiter over his breakfast as was his custom, and by nine-twenty he was putting on his hat to leave for the office when the telephone rang.

Lucy Hamilton’s voice was apologetic. “I hate to disturb you, Mr. Shayne, but there’s a policeman here in the office. He was outside the door when I arrived at nine, and insisted on following me in. He’s watching every move I make, and a moment ago, when I started into your private office, he stopped me.”

Shayne said incisively, “Give Captain Denton my compliments and warn him that if he touches anything in my office without a search warrant I’ll see that he’s broken for it.”

Her voice came again, in a whisper. “There’s another policeman coming in, Michael. What’ll I do?”

“I’ll be right down,” Shayne said, and banged the receiver down.

Lucy was seated behind her desk beyond the low railing which separated her office from the rest of the reception room when Shayne went in. Her hands were folded in her lap and her brown eyes were blazing at a uniformed policeman lounging against the casing of the open door which led into his private office.

Lucy sprang to her feet, beckoned Shayne to the railing. “They’re in there — Captain Denton and the other one. This one,” she said, indicating the man at the door, “just came in. They searched my desk and found my appointment book and looked through it.”

In a deceptively gentle tone, Shayne asked, “Did you tell Denton what I said about a search warrant?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice broke angrily. “He’s got one.”

Shayne patted her shoulder and went toward his office. Captain Denton was examining the contents of the right-hand drawer of the desk. Sergeant Frank was behind him trying a series of flat keys on the locked drawers of a green steel filing-cabinet.

Denton looked up and said sourly, “I can’t find a thing in this desk.”

Shayne went to the desk and lowered one hip on it. He said, “My cognac is in the bottom drawer.”

“None of these keys work, Captain,” the Sergeant reported from the cabinet.

“Let’s have a key, Shayne,” Denton demanded.

“Sorry. I never have found the keys to that cabinet, Denton. It came locked like that and I’ve always wondered if there was anything inside. Hope you can get it open for me.”

“You know you’ve got a key,” Denton thundered. “Cough it up, Shayne.” The police captain held out a beefy hand, palm up.

Shayne lighted a cigarette and dropped the matchstick into Denton’s palm and said, “Thanks.”

Denton growled an oath. “I’m going through this office with a fine-toothed comb,” he said menacingly. “When I find something leading to that corpse we found last night I’ll have all I need to jerk your license.”

Shayne waved a big hand and said airily, “Go ahead. But you’d probably get better results if you used the finetoothed comb on your hair.”

Denton turned away and tossed Sergeant Frank another ring of keys. “Try those. If none of them fit we’ll call in a locksmith.”

Through the open door Shayne saw the postman come in and go over to Lucy’s reception desk. He waited a moment, then called, “You can bring the mail in if there’s anything I need to see, Lucy.”

When Lucy came through the door with two opened letters in her hand she hurried over to Shayne and said excitedly, “Here’s one from your friend in Miami,” and added on a tense note of warning, “and a check on that — other case.”

Shayne said, “Thanks.” He glanced at the note from Timothy Rourke and dropped it on the desk. He drew a check and letter from the other envelope. The check was drawn on the First National Bank of Cheepwee, Louisiana, in the sum of $200.00, and was signed by W. D. Carson.

The name was totally unfamiliar to him.

Chapter two:

One Jump Ahead of the Cops

Shayne laid the check face down on top of Rourke’s letter and opened the note accompanying it. It was written on the letterhead of the First National Bank of Cheepwee. A list of the bank’s officers informed him that Walter D. Carson was president of the bank.

The note was brief, and read:

Dear Sir:

I plan to be in the city on Wednesday, June 6, and am very anxious to discuss a matter of vital importance with you at that time.

I wish to return on the train leaving at 11:00 a.m. and therefore request that you see me promptly at your office at nine o’clock. Please wire me collect if this is not convenient, for I will consider it a definite appointment if I do not hear from you to the contrary by the afternoon of June 5.

I enclose my check in the sum of $200.00 as evidence of good faith.

Very truly yours,

W. D. Carson

Shayne absently massaged his left earlobe as he read the letter over twice. It was dated June 2. Cheepwee was less than a hundred miles upstate from New Orleans, and it was inconceivable that the communication was just reaching him.

Placing the letter face down on the check, he picked up the envelope and looked at it. The delay was explained by the fact that it had been incorrectly addressed to the National Building instead of the International Building. A correction had been made by the New Orleans postal authorities.

Shayne glanced around at Frank and Denton. Frank was busily trying keys on the cabinet. Denton was bent over and digging into a bottom drawer, breathing hard, his face as red as a beet.

Casually Shayne refolded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, put it in his breast pocket, and put the check in his billfold.

Frank moved back from the cabinet and swore. “None of these keys fit either, Captain. We’ll have to get a locksmith.”

“I’ll appreciate that,” Shayne said. “I’ve always meant to get it opened, but I figured if I’d wait long enough some nosy cop would do it for me.”

“Will you go on oath that there are no files in that cabinet pertaining to the man who was murdered last night?” Denton barked.

“Hell, no. Go ahead and find out for yourself.” Shayne slid from the desk and strolled out to the reception room. Lucy sat at her desk, her brown eyes round with wonder and fright. He grinned reassuringly at her and said, “See if you can dig up from our clipping file the story Hal Reynolds ran on me in the Times-Picayune about a month ago — after he got me tanked up and I spilled the El Paso story to him.”

“I know the one you mean.” She opened the center drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim ledger with newspaper clippings pasted on the blank pages. She turned the pages slowly until she came upon the clipping and handed the ledger to Shayne.

Shayne studied a clipping identical with the one found in the dead man’s pocket. It began: Michael Shayne, private detective with offices in the National Building in this city, has recently returned from El Paso where…

Closing the scrap book, he handed it back to Lucy, saying, “Hal should have sobered up before he wrote that story.” His hands were balled into fists and his knuckles showed white with strain.

Denton bustled into the outer office with Sergeant Frank at his heels. “I’ve decided not to bother with the filing-cabinet,” he said. “It’s probably loaded with empties.” He stopped close to Shayne with his blunt jaw jutting belligerently. “God pity you if you’re holding out on me, Shayne. We can’t even start an investigation until we learn the identity of the corpse. In the meantime his murderer is getting away. When we prove you knew who he was and refused to co-operate, you’ll be washed up in New Orleans.”

He stalked out of the office and his two men followed.

Lucy waited until their footsteps faded away before saying, “I don’t understand any of this about a nine o’clock appointment. But that letter—”

“That letter is it,” Shayne interrupted. “It puts me one jump ahead of Denton and if I move fast, I can stay one jump ahead.” His gray eyes were bleak as he went on: “Carson was murdered last night with no identification on him except a notation to meet me at nine this morning. Denton is running around in circles trying to find out who he is.”

“Shouldn’t you tell him?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “He can’t possibly catch the murderer without knowing who was killed.”

“Nuts. Denton couldn’t catch a cold in a flu epidemic. Get me the St. Charles Hotel. That’s where most out-of-town visitors stop if they can afford it. Ask if a W. D. Carson has registered with them and get his room number.”

He went back to his private office, sat down at the desk and took a bottle of cognac from the drawer, and took a long drink. As he returned the bottle to the drawer, Lucy appeared in the doorway.

“You were right, Michael,” she called out excitedly. “Mr. W. D. Carson has room 306, but he isn’t in.”

Shayne got up and put on his hat. “Okay,” he said. “You don’t know anything about this. You don’t know where I’ve gone or why.” He went out of the office and down the hall to the elevator.

After reaching the sidewalk, Shayne loitered along looking in shop windows. Out of the corner of his eye he was searching for anyone who showed signs of trailing him. Then he went into a drugstore where he looked over a magazine rack. In a couple of minutes he went out, walked a short distance to an alley and darted into it. He walked swiftly through the narrow passage and by a circuitous route made his way to another street, where he hailed a cab. He got in and said to the driver, “Go on a block, then swing down to Camp toward Canal.”

As they passed the intersection of Gravier, he told the driver to pull to the curb and stop. He got out, waited until the cab roared away, then hurried to the St. Charles Hotel.

Entering the lobby, he went directly to a waiting elevator, got in, and went up to the third floor. He swung purposefully down the hall to Room 306, studied the lock for a moment, and took out a ring of keys. The fourth key he selected opened the door. He slid inside and closed the door.

Except for a soiled white shirt tossed across the neatly made bed, and an expensive pigskin suitcase lying open on a chair, the room bore no evidence of occupancy.

Shayne wrapped a handkerchief over his right hand and went to the suitcase. It contained an extra clean white shirt, size fifteen; undershirts and shorts, 34 waist; and socks, handkerchiefs, and ties. The sizes were about right to fit the dead body he had seen the preceding night.

He prowled around the room, looking inside drawers and inspecting the clothes closet, but found no personal belongings. In the bathroom he turned on the light. One soiled towel lay on the edge of the tub, and there was an electric razor, toothbrush, and paste on the glass shelf over the lavatory.

He went down to the lobby and strolled around until he spotted a tall, thin-faced man dressed in brown tweeds leaning against a pillar.

Shayne went up to him and said, “Hi, Steve.”

Steve Rodell took a slim cigar from his mouth. “Hello, Mike. Working?”

“Sort of. Can you get me some dope on 306?”

The house detective studied Shayne warily with bright blue eyes. “What kind of dope?”

“Everything. I don’t know what. Phone calls made from the room or received — all that.”

Rodell nodded and straightened up. “Come on, we’ll see.”

“I don’t want to show. Get it for me, Steve.” Shayne moved around to a chair beside a brass smoking-stand and sat down. Rodell walked away.

He returned in ten minutes with a slip of paper in his hand. He sat down beside Shayne and read from his notes: “W. D. Carson. Small-town banker. From Cheepwee. Been stopping here off and on for four years. Sometimes with his wife. Checked in at four-thirty yesterday. Said he was only staying overnight. Made one phone call from his room.” He gave Shayne the telephone number.

Shayne recorded the number and said, “Thanks, Steve.”

Rodell folded the slip of paper and put it into his pocket. “Carson made that call at seven-sixteen, and no one remembers seeing him around since. His key is in the box and the maid reported he hadn’t slept in his bed.”

Shayne said, “Good work,” and started to get up. Rodell detained him by a gesture. “Hold it, Mike. What gives? Anything we ought to have?”

Shayne shrugged. “If you want to lend Captain Denton a helping hand you might take a bellboy or someone down to the morgue, look at a corpse, and tell Denton his name is W. D. Carson. And if you want to hang a real load of trouble around my neck you can tell him where the tip came from.”

“Denton has an unidentified body? Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Shayne hesitated, then explained the whole situation to Steve Rodell. “Do what you want to about it. If Denton can prove I refused to co-operate, he figures to jerk my license.”

“Can you keep the hotel out of it?” Rodell asked.

“I can try,” Shayne promised.

“That’s more than Denton would do,” Rodell said. “Let him identify his own bodies.”

Shayne grinned and got up. He thanked Rodell again, then went to a telephone booth, inserted a nickel, and called the number Rodell had given him.

A pleasant feminine voice answered, saying, “Park Plaza Apartments.”

Shayne hung up. He looked in the directory and found that the Park Plaza was on Bourbon Street between St. Louis and Toulouse. He hurried outside and got into a waiting taxi.

“Park Plaza on Bourbon,” he said, as the cab pulled away.

The Park Plaza was a new brick building squeezed in between a restaurant and a curio shop. Shayne entered a small lobby with a glass-enclosed office near the elevator.

The girl seated at the small open window was slim and straight with coppery hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. When Shayne came up she smiled and said, “Yes?”

“I’m a detective,” Shayne told her. “I’m trying to get a line on one of your guests.”

The girl’s eyes were the same color as her hair. She widened them at Shayne and asked, “Do you mean one of our guests is in trouble?”

“Not necessarily. A man was murdered last night. We know he made a call from the St. Charles to this number at seven-sixteen last night. It might help us a lot to know whom he called here because that person may have been the last one who talked to him before he was killed.”

Her eyes grew still wider, and she shook her head regretfully. “I don’t see how I can help you. We don’t keep a record of incoming calls.”

“Could you check and see if any of your tenants called the St. Charles between four-thirty yesterday and two this morning?”

“That won’t be difficult.” She turned to a large ruled daybook, flipped a few pages, and began running her index finger down the entries.

Shayne lighted a cigarette while he waited. It was half smoked when she closed the book and said, “No calls to the St. Charles Hotel.”

Shayne frowned. “What sort of people live here? Could you give me a list of their names and some sort of description of them?”

“I’m afraid what I could give you won’t help,” she said hesitantly. “You see, all but two of our tenants are middle-aged couples who have lived here for years and years. Miss Etta Hobson in 1-F, and Mr. Sidney G. Jones in 2-A—”

“Do you know anything about either of them?”

“Well, Miss Hobson looks about thirty, but she dyes her hair. She’s a saleslady, but has more money than most salesladies.” She lowered her voice and added, “She tries to slip empty gin bottles out of her room and she flirts with some of the men around here.”

“What about Mr. Sidney Jones?”

The girl made a grimace of distaste with her full red lips. “He’s thin — and he has halitosis. I guess he’s about thirty. He tried to date me the very first day he came and has been trying ever since. I don’t know what he does. He has only been here about four months. Elaine — that’s the night operator — told me he never comes in until two or three in the morning.”

Shayne said, “Thanks very much,” and went out.

He took a cab and went directly to his office. His car was still parked in front of the building and he didn’t see anyone around who appeared to be watching it.

Lucy Hamilton looked at him with searching interest when he walked into the reception hall and stalked through to his private office. After about five minutes he summoned her to his desk.

Lucy sat down opposite him, her smooth brow rumpled, her brown eyes wide and questioning. She said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Michael.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Getting jumpy?”

“It’s that Captain Denton,” she said angrily. “He frightens me. You know very well he’s had it in for you ever since the Margo Macon case when you made him look like an idiot.”

“Which he is. And don’t forget he framed you on a disorderly conduct rap,” Shayne reminded her teasingly. “I wonder if he’s still got a print of that picture of us. I kept my print. I look at it sometimes and think how lucky I was. I got a perfect secretary out of that case — besides a sizable fee.”

“Michael!” she cried, “Don’t joke about it. He hates you.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Call the Park Plaza and ask for Mr. Sidney G. Jones. Tell him you’re Mrs. Carson from Cheepwee, and that you’re worried about your husband. Listen carefully to what he says, and use your woman’s intuition of what he doesn’t say.”

“Tell him I’m Mrs. — ” Lucy began.

“Then call the girl who’ll be on duty at the switchboard at the Park Plaza and find out where Miss Etta Hobson is employed as a saleslady.”

Shayne got up and reached for his hat, jammed it down over his unruly red hair, and started out.

“Where are you going now?” Lucy asked with deep concern.

“To see Inspector Quinlan,” he said. “Start making those telephone calls right away.”

Chapter three:

A Drummer for Death

Inspector Quinlan was sitting behind his desk slowly rolling a pencil between his palms when Shayne walked in.

“How are you and Denton hitting it off, Shayne?” he queried.

“Not too well.” Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “He searched my office this morning.”

“I advised him against it, but Denton is stubborn,” Quinlan told him in his crisp, quiet voice. “He thinks you’re holding out on him and he’s hell-bent on proving it.”

Shayne scowled. “What have you got on the dead man thus far?”

“All I know is what I hear rumored around the corridors.”

Shayne looked at him with incredulity and asked, “Aren’t you handling it?”

“It’s Denton’s baby.”

“Hell! You’re still head of Homicide, aren’t you?”

“Theoretically. But Denton got a special dispensation from the Police Commissioner to take over last night’s job. It was in his precinct.”

“And he’s looking for a chance to throw the hooks into me,” Shayne growled.

“That’s right. He wants revenge for the time you made a fool out of him on the Macon case. Better watch your step. He’s carefully laying the groundwork for a malpractice charge.”

“He didn’t find anything in my office this morning. Can you give me anything at all?”

Quinlan studied him musingly for a moment, then said, “Determined to stick your neck out?”

“You wouldn’t mind having the case tied up in a bundle and handed to you while he’s running around in circles.”

“No — I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Quinlan agreed quietly. “But don’t do it, Shayne. If you told the truth last night and don’t know the man, his murder doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“He was a prospective client,” Shayne said, “and somebody beat me out of a possible fee when he was gunned. I can’t sit back and let people kill off my clients before they can get to me.”

“You’ll sit back on this one if you’re smart.”

“I’m not smart.”

“You’re as stubborn as Denton.”

“He asked for this,” Shayne said angrily. “Dragging me out of bed last night with the idiotic idea of tricking me into some sort of admission, then pulling a search warrant on me this morning.”

“Pushing you out on a limb,” Quinlan agreed placidly.

“All right. So I’m out on a limb. What killed the man?”

“A slug from a thirty-two. One of those short-barreled S and W’s.”

“A Banker’s Special,” Shayne mused. “Very appropriate. Sure it wasn’t suicide?”

“What do you mean by appropriate?” Quinlan looked at him sharply with his cold blue eyes. “What suggests suicide to you?”

“Just shooting off my mouth,” Shayne assured him hastily. “Go ahead. So it wasn’t suicide?”

“Hardly. The direct course of the bullet into his heart from close up precludes that. Patrolman Moran heard the shot at one-twenty while on his beat. It took him about four minutes to get to the scene. A car pulled away fast as he came up on St. Louis. The man had died instantly and the body had been searched — evidently in great haste — since the appointment book wasn’t taken.”

“How about laundry marks or tailor’s labels?”

“Not much good yet. The laundry marks aren’t local. Denton is checking other cities, particularly Baton Rouge where the suit was tailored. There’s no record of his fingerprints here, and Denton is checking with Washington.”

“What does ballistics say about the slug?”

“They guess it was fired from a Bulldog S and W. It’s plenty good for comparison if they get another one to match it with.”

Shayne nodded and got up. His gaunt face was sober, his brows drawn in a straight line when he went out.

Lucy Hamilton was hanging up the receiver when he returned to his office. She made a wry face at him and said, “I just finished talking to that guy Jones.”

“Mr. Sidney Jones?” Shayne grinned widely. “What did you find out?”

“That Mr. Sidney Jones is a louse. He wanted me to call him Sid, and when I told him I was Mrs. Carson and was worried about my husband, he said he didn’t know why a babe with a voice like mine wasted time worrying about a husband. He wanted me to come to his apartment to tell him all about it.”

Shayne chuckled and reached over to pinch her pointed chin. “Did he say he’d show you his artifacts — or etchings — if you’d come over?”

Lucy pushed his hand away and became very prim. “You can do your own telephoning hereafter, Michael Shayne, when you want to know what Mr. Jones has to say.”

“What about Miss Etta Hobson?”

“The girl at the switchboard tried to find out why I wanted to know where Miss Hobson worked before she’d tell me. She sounded awfully curious and excited. She finally told me that Miss Hobson worked at the Vogue Dress Shop.”

Shayne said, “I’ll check on them later. Right now, I’m going to take a trip to Cheepwee. I’ll wire you if anything comes up.” He went out of the building and down to his car.

Shayne arrived in the little town of Cheepwee at 12:30. It lay some miles off the Airline Highway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, a sleepy little village of about two thousand population. He drove slowly along Main Street, past a square brick bank building on one corner, and up to a two-story wooden structure with a mottled sign in front proclaiming it to be the Traveler’s Hotel.

He parked, got his suitcase out, and went into the dark, empty lobby. A handbell on the desk had a card propped against it inviting guests to Ring for Management. He set his suitcase down and rang the bell.

After a time a door behind the desk opened and a fat man waddled through, accompanied by the strong odor of boiled cabbage. “Afternoon, stranger. I was back gettin’ a bite to eat.” He swung an old, dirty ledger around, dipped a rusty pen in an inkwell, and handed the pen to Shayne with a flourish.

Shayne signed the register and wrote New Orleans, after his name.

The proprietor set a pair of spectacles on his nose, turned the book around, and inspected it carefully. “You a drummer from the city, Mr. Shayne?”

“I hope to drum up a little business. Have you a room with a bath?”

“Not exactly. I can give you 216 with the bathroom right across the hall. Only one other party on that floor right now.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I’ll probably only be here overnight.”

The fat man wrote 216 opposite Shayne’s signature. “What might your business be?”

Shayne said, “Corpses.”

The proprietor slowly pulled his glasses farther down on his bulbous nose and blinked owlishly at Shayne. “Only one funeral parlor in Cheepwee. Folks don’t die here much.” He chuckled happily. “Seems like they just sorta mildew with old age.” He plucked an iron key from a hook on his right and handed it to Shayne. “You got luggage you need help with?”

“Just this one bag,” Shayne told him, picking up the suitcase.

“Right up those stairs,” the man said. “Go down the hall to your right. Can’t miss it.”

Shayne went up the stairs. In the room, he dropped his suitcase on the bed, took a look around, then went out, locking the door behind him.

Chapter four:

Heartbroken Wife

He went directly to the First National Bank. A thin tired-looking old man was behind the first teller’s window.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked in a shaky voice.

Shayne handed him a card that read: Michael Shayne, Private Investigator.

“Investigator?” He studied the card through his bifocals, looked up at the tall redhead and said hastily, “I’m Mr. Holcomb. Won’t you come in?” He went back to a door and opened it.

Shayne walked to the door and went in, sat down on a chair which Mr. Holcomb drew forward.

“I’ve been retained by Mr. Carson,” said Shayne.

“I see. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson is out of town today.”

“I know. I just drove up from New Orleans. I believe he expected to return on the afternoon train.”

“That’s quite correct.”

“He wanted me to get right to work on this matter. I’d like to have a look at his office and a chance to go over his files at once.”

Mr. Holcomb was both nervous and hesitant. “I’m sure — I don’t know what to say. Do you have an authorization from Mr. Carson?”

Shayne took Carson’s check from his pocket. “Perhaps this will do. It’s the check he gave me as a retainer. May as well cash it now,” he added casually. He got up and went over to a desk and scrawled his name on the back of the check and handed it to Holcomb.

Mr. Holcomb pursed his thin lips, meticulously studied the check and signature, and said, “I suppose — Yes, I presume this is sufficient.” He went to the teller’s window and counted out two hundred dollars and handed it to Shayne. “Come with me,” he directed.

Shayne followed him back along a narrow corridor between the rear of the tellers’ cages and the vault to the closed door of an office that said Private.

Holcomb opened the door unceremoniously and they went in. A blond man of about thirty-five stood in front of an open filing-cabinet with his back toward the door. He turned quickly and his eyes were startled.

“Harvey, this is Mr. Shayne from New Orleans,” said Mr. Holcomb. “Perhaps you will be able to help him out. This is Harvey Barstow, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Carson’s assistant.”

Barstow’s plump cheeks and boyish manner gave an initial impression of youth which a closer examination belied. He recovered his composure and came forward with an outstretched hand.

“Is the name Shayne?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“It appears that Mr. Shayne has been sent here by Mr. Carson to investigate a certain matter,” said Mr. Holcomb.

“You must know about the letter Carson wrote me a few days ago,” Shayne told Barstow, “asking for an appointment.”

“Oh yes, of course. You’re the detective.”

“I’m to look things over in the interim before Carson returns.” He stepped forward, noting an almost furtive look of dismay in the eyes of both men.

Holcomb went out and closed the door.

“I presume,” said Shayne to Barstow, “you know why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Barstow smiled apologetically. “W. D. didn’t confide in me. That is, I suppose it has something to do with our business, although I hadn’t heard of any irregularities.”

Shayne grunted and said, “How many people in the bank knew he intended to call me in on the affair?”

“I imagine I’m the only one.”

“How about his secretary who typed the letter? I think the initials were H. B.”

“Yes. Harvey Barstow.”

Shayne said, “I’d like to be alone and undisturbed while I go through his files. His instructions were to keep things private.”

“Certainly,” said Barstow. He closed the filing-cabinet and went out of the private office.

It was nearing the bank’s closing time, two hours later, when Shayne dropped into the chair behind the bank president’s desk and gave a grunt of disgust. There was absolutely nothing of a personal nature in any of the desk drawers or the files. He lit a cigarette and sat puffing smoke toward the ceiling.

When the cigarette was half finished, he went out and found Barstow at one of the windows. “I’m through here,” said Shayne. “Carson’s train not in yet?”

“It’s due in about twenty minutes,” Barstow told him.

“The one that leaves New Orleans at eleven o’clock?” Shayne asked, surprised.

“Yes. It’s a local and makes very poor time.” Barstow stepped back and held the door open for Shayne to go out.

Back in his hotel room, Shayne opened his suitcase and took out a bottle of cognac. There was no comfortable chair in the room. He went to the bed and arranged the two pillows against the headboard and stretched out with the bottle in his hand.

He had been mulling over the case for thirty minutes when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Then there was a knock on his door.

He got up and opened the door. The fat hotel manager stood there, panting. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne followed him down the stairs. The receiver of the old-fashioned wall phone dangled at the end of the cord. He put it to his ear and said, “Shayne talking.”

“Mr. Shayne — the detective?” The woman’s voice was low and secretive, as though she tried to keep someone from hearing her.

“That’s right.”

“This is Mrs. Harvey Barstow. I’ve got to see you right away.” She sounded excited and frightened.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t want you to come out here. That is, it’d be best if no one knew. Could you drive out the road a ways?”

“Which road?”

“Straight past the courthouse from the hotel. There’s a crossroad a mile out. Turn to the right a little distance and stop.”

She was frightened, Shayne decided. He said, “In five minutes?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.” She hung up.

When Shayne reached the appointed spot he pulled to the side of the narrow road and cut off his motor. Soon, in the intense woodland silence, he heard a car approaching. It came into view, and he saw a black coupe with a woman behind the wheel.

She parked a dozen yards away, got out, and ran swiftly to Shayne’s sedan. “I just had to see you,” she panted. “After Harvey told me about you, I phoned as soon as I could.”

Shayne opened the car door. “Won’t you get in and sit down, Mrs. Barstow?”

She looked furtively around, then said, “Just for a little while. I told Harvey I had to get some groceries. I don’t want him to know.” She got in beside Shayne and closed the door.

Shayne looked at her frightened indigo-blue eyes. Her cheeks were deeply suntanned and her flaxen hair clung damply to her high forehead. She was slim, and wore a clean house dress flowered in blue.

Shayne said quietly, “What did you want to see me about?”

“You’re a detective, and Mr. Carson hired you to come up here.” She was calmer now, and she turned sideways in the seat to look earnestly into Shayne’s eyes.

“That’s right.”

“Tell me — what are you after, Mr. Shayne? I’m afraid.”

“It’s a private matter,” Shayne told her.

“I knew it.” Her voice rose with an intonation of triumph. “Harvey doesn’t think so. He believes it’s just something about the bank’s business, but I know better. It’s about Mr. Carson’s wife, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think Mr. Carson would want me to discuss it with anyone else.”

“You can’t tell me anything I don’t know already,” she said earnestly. “You can see why I’m frightened for Harvey. It isn’t his fault. She went after him from the very beginning. He didn’t know what to do. He tried to be nice to her because she was Mr. Carson’s wife, and — well, you know how a woman like that operates, Mr. Shayne.

“I don’t know why she picked on Harvey. He never encouraged her. I know that. She deceived her husband from the very beginning of their marriage. It’s common knowledge, but Harvey doesn’t think Mr. Carson knows — yet. But I knew what had happened as soon as he told me about your being here. A man’s bound to find out sometime.”

Shayne lighted a cigarette and puffed on it and didn’t interrupt her. Mrs. Barstow put a work-roughened hand on his coat sleeve.

“You’ve got to tell me what Mr. Carson’s going to do. Is he going to divorce Belle when you get the evidence? Harvey will go off with her if he does. He’ll leave the children and me for her. She has completely bewitched him.”

Shayne sighed heavily. “I met your husband this afternoon, and he hardly seems the type to desert his wife and children,” he said.

“He isn’t, Mr. Shayne. He’s a good man. He never looked at a woman in the ten years we’ve been married until she came along.”

“How long has this affair been going on?”

“Over a year now.” She turned her anguished eyes away from him. “Harvey began driving out to meet her nights and going to her house when Mr. Carson wasn’t there. She drinks with him — and Harvey loses his wits when he drinks.”

“Why are you telling me this if you think I’m here to gather evidence against Mrs. Carson and your husband?”

“You could find it out from anyone in Cheepwee,” she told him. “She gloats about her influence over men.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I thought you might talk to Harvey. If he saw what a terrible mess it was going to be he might come back to his senses. I don’t know. It just seems that I’ve got to do something. I did try a few months ago.” She paused, turning her eyes upon him again. “Do you know the other private detectives in New Orleans?”

“Some of them.”

“Do you know Mr. Jones?”

Shayne frowned thoughtfully, shook his red head, and said, “There are a lot of private detectives in New Orleans.”

“I suppose so,” she said wistfully. “I just wondered. I don’t know what to do. Since you’re in the detective business, I thought maybe you could advise me.”

“I’ll try to if you’ll give me the facts,” he said gently.

“Well — I went to see Mr. Jones about five months ago in his office in the Downtown Building. I got his name from the telephone book. It said he specialized in divorce evidence and domestic difficulties.”

Shayne said, “Jones — in the Downtown Building?”

“Yes. His initials are S. G. He had a dinky little office and not even a stenographer that I could see, but he seemed smart enough. I was just about crazy with worry about Harvey. I’d tried to talk to Harvey about Belle Carson and Harvey had warned me to mind my own business.”

“Why did you go to a private detective?”

“To try to get something on her,” Mrs. Barstow said viciously. “Something I could hold over her to make her leave Harvey alone. I felt like there had to be something — if a detective would go to work and dig it up. Anybody can see she’s nothing but a hussy. Lord knows how many men she had before she popped up here and married Mr. Carson.

“It wouldn’t surprise me any if she’d been married three or four times and poisoned her husbands. I told Mr. Jones that. I told him to go to Atlanta and check up on her. That’s where she came from.”

“And he took your case?”

“After I paid him two hundred and fifty dollars for what he called a retainer and expense money. Then I got a letter from him in Atlanta about two weeks later saying he was on the trail of something and needed a hundred and fifty more for expenses. So, I sent it to him. It was every cent I had saved. But I thought it would be worth it if I could bring Harvey back to his senses.” Her voice broke suddenly and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Shayne let her cry for a moment, then asked, “But nothing came of Jones’s investigation in Atlanta?”

She wiped her eyes with her bare hands and tried to control her voice when she answered, “I never heard any more from him. I waited almost a month and then wrote him a letter and mailed it to New Orleans. It came back with Address Unknown stamped on the envelope. Well, I thought maybe he was still in Atlanta and I waited another month before writing again. The second letter came back stamped the same way.”

Shayne sighed again. The muscles in his gaunt cheeks quivered and his gray eyes were bleak. He said harshly, “There are men who call themselves private detectives and prey on clients that way. Especially women. No reputable investigator would touch a case such as you took to Jones.”

She turned her surprised and tearful eyes toward him again. “Why wouldn’t they? If a woman is in trouble she needs help. Why shouldn’t a woman like Belle Carson be shown up for what she is?”

“The whole thing stinks,” Shayne said shortly. “Seems to me I’ve heard gossip about a person called Skip Jones — because he has a habit of collecting a retainer and skipping out with it.”

“I don’t understand it,” she said miserably, “unless S. G. Jones is the man known as Skip. That would explain—”

“He didn’t give you any indication in his letter as to the nature of his information about Belle Carson?”

“No. He just said it was what I wanted, and as soon as he got all the evidence for me I could make her do anything I wanted.”

Shayne said, “When I go back to New Orleans I’ll try to locate your Mr. Jones. You might be able to get some of your money back, but playing around with blackmail is dangerous stuff. If Jones has anything on her, I advise you not to use it.”

“But it wouldn’t actually be blackmail,” she contended. “I wouldn’t try to get any money from her.”

“With the kind of information your sort of detective might give you, you’re liable to get yourself mixed up in a libel suit.”

“Then — what can I do, Mr. Shayne,” she asked dismally.

“Let your husband go, if that’s the way he wants it,” he said irritably. “You’ll be better off without him. By the way, is this Carson’s first marriage?”

“I guess so. He was considered an old bachelor when he came here.”

“So Carson isn’t a native of Cheepwee either?”

“Oh, no. He’s only lived here four or five years. There was Miss Aggie Boaks who set her cap for him when he first arrived. People thought they’d make a match and everybody was right happy for Miss Aggie. Then Belle came along.”

She stopped talking and was pensively silent. Shayne lit a cigarette and drummed blunt finger tips on the steering-wheel. After a moment he said musingly, “Someone always gets hurt in situations like this. How often does your husband see Mrs. Carson?”

“As often as he can. If it’s divorce evidence you’re looking for, find out where they were last night. Harvey didn’t get home until after three.”

“Were they together?”

“Where else would he be?” she asked dispiritedly. “Mr. Carson went to New Orleans and she was at home alone.”

Shayne turned his eyes and looked with pity upon the woman. She appeared to be well educated, about thirty, he guessed, though anxiety and heartbreak had aged her. He said, “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Barstow. You realize that when a man your husband’s age becomes infatuated with a woman, there’s little anyone can do.”

“I know.” She sat for a moment staring dazedly before her, then opened the car door. “I’d better be getting back. Harvey would be wild if he knew I was here talking to you.” She got out and walked around the front of his car.

Shayne asked, “Where do the Carsons live?”

“In the big house on the knoll two blocks north of the courthouse. The old Bancroft place. I guess Mr. Carson is there by now. Harvey said he’d be in on the afternoon train.”

She returned to her car and started the motor. Shayne got out of his car and pretended to examine his tires. When she drove past him headed toward town, he looked at her license plate and wrote the number in his notebook. Then he got in and turned around. He was suddenly very eager to have a talk with the mysterious Belle Carson.

Chapter five:

Red-Hot Widow

The Carson House was set on a green knoll and surrounded by magnificent oaks. The architecture was early colonial.

Shayne went up the wide steps to the double front doors and pushed an electric button set in the casing opposite an old wrought-iron knocker. An elderly Negro opened one of the doors and said, “Yes suh?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne said.

“Mistah Cahson, suh, am not in.”

“I understood he was coming in on the afternoon train.”

The Negro said, “Yes suh, but he didn’ come.”

A musical voice floated out to them from the interior of the house. “Who’s at the door, Abe?”

“Genmun to see Mistah Cahson.” The Negro turned away and the woman stood before Shayne.

Belle Carson was a symphony in green and black, tall and slim-waisted, her full breasts swelling the black silk jacket. A green silk skirt revealed the graceful curves of her hips, and her black hair was smoothed back from a high forehead and curled up around her neck.

She said, “Well,” in a deep contralto, and lowered her long black lashes.

“I wanted to see Mr. Carson,” Shayne told her.

“Are you sure I won’t do?”

“Isn’t your husband here?”

“No. Come on in.”

Shayne decided she was nearer forty than thirty, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity. As she turned to lead the way into the wide hall, her hips swayed gracefully.

Halfway down the hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor. Belle Carson laid her hand on his arm and ushered him into a spacious room bright with the afternoon sun streaming through long French windows.

Shayne stopped just inside and Belle moved past him with indolent, flowing grace, to a deep chair near one of the windows.

“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated a chair near by.

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and waited for her to be seated before seating himself. “I understood Mr. Carson was expected back on the three-twenty train.”

“Do you mind being alone here with me until he comes?” she parried.

Shayne grinned. “I’d like it better if I was sure he wasn’t coming at all.”

A slow smile quirked the corners of her full red mouth. “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”

Shayne nodded and took out a pack of cigarettes. He held them out to her and she took one. He lighted hers, and one for himself.

Presently she said, “And you came up here to see Walter? What for?”

“Business.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

“Let’s not bother about names.”

“But I have to call you something,” she insisted with a deep chuckle. “That is, if we’re going to become as well acquainted as I hope we are.”

“Some people call me Red,” he told her.

“Is it a secret — this business you have with my husband?”

“It’s private.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know whether he got in on the train or not. He hasn’t called.”

“The train has been in for more than an hour,” he reminded her.

“So it has. Will you be terribly disappointed if he wasn’t on it?” she asked.

“That depends on when the next one gets in.”

“Not until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to wait.”

She looked at him with limpid eyes and made a cupid’s bow of her mouth to puff out smoke. “The hotel is pretty awful.”

“I discovered that,” Shayne told her.

“We have a half-dozen guest rooms, Red.”

“Close to yours?” He quirked a bushy red brow at her.

A pulse quivered in her throat. “You’re not like the men in Cheepwee,” she said huskily.

“What in hell are you doing in a hick town like this, anyway?” he asked flatly.

“You ought to know.” She got up and moved slowly across the room and pushed a button. The aged Negro, Abe, came in silently. “Mr. Smith is an old friend of Mr. Carson’s,” she said. “He’ll use the green room tonight. See that it’s opened. And have Fandella serve some drinks in here. Martinis?” She looked at Shayne for confirmation.

He nodded.

“I like gin,” she said. “Martinis, Abe.”

“Yassum.” The Negro started away, hesitated in the doorway, and turned to ask, “How many fo’ dinnah, Mis’ Cahson?”

“Two. I don’t think Mr. Carson will be here. And tell Ben to put Mr. Smith’s car in the garage.”

The Negro bowed and went away.

Shayne asked, “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Carson went directly to the bank from the train?”

“It’s possible,” she agreed indifferently.

“To hell with this!” Shayne said angrily. “I like to know where I stand. Am I getting the run-around?”

“Not from me, darling,” she drawled, a smile of amusement on her full red lips. She sauntered toward him and sat down on the arm of his chair and ruffled his red hair.

Shayne ground out his cigarette in an ash tray on the table beside his chair. He looked up into her eyes, saw the hot glow burning in them, got up, and stepped over to one of the long embrasured windows and stood gazing out.

He didn’t know how to play this hand. He hadn’t had time to examine his cards carefully. Did she know who he was? Or did she think he was someone else? Or didn’t she give a damn? She had said he ought to know what she was doing in Cheepwee. That could mean a lot of things — or it could have merely been inane repartee on her part.

He heard movement behind him and turned to see a neat Negro maid setting a silver tray with a frosted cocktail shaker and two oversized cocktail glasses on the table beside the chair Belle Carson had been sitting in.

Belle Carson got up from the arm of his chair as the maid disappeared. She resumed her seat, filled both glasses to the brim, and said, “I never bother with olives. They take up too much room in a glass.”

Shayne walked over and picked up one of the cocktails. She put hers to her lips and watched him over the rim of the glass, her eyes half closed. “Let’s drink this one to dear Walter,” she suggested.

Shayne said, “To Walter,” and took a long drink.

She emptied her glass without removing it from her mouth. Shayne went back to his chair.

Refilling her glass, she said, “This is a good starter. After dinner I’ll mix us a real drink. My own recipe.”

“That,” said Shayne, “should be worth waiting for.” He began slowly sipping his drink.

“You’re wondering about me, aren’t you, Red?” she said archly.

He looked at her and shook his head. “You aren’t hard to figure out.”

“Is that so?” Her voice was suddenly sharp and her dark eyes blazed. “I guess you know all about women,” she added with light sarcasm.

“Plenty to know that you’re bored to hell-and-gone here in Cheepwee married to a small-town banker.”

“There are plenty of other men,” she reminded him.

He made a gesture of derision. “Sure. I saw some of them around town today — like the fat hotel-keeper and that pale-faced guy in the bank. No wonder you get a sloppy feeling inside when a man shows up.”

“Meaning you?”

“Meaning me.”

She drank her second cocktail and complained, “These things have about as much kick as a virgin’s kiss. Why do you think I stay here if I’m bored?”

“It’s a soft spot,” he said with harsh contempt. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down here with Carson.”

Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear or anger or passion. She got up and brought the cocktail shaker over to refill his glass. She said, “You act like you know a lot of things.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” She stood before him, looking down into his face speculatively.

“I came to see Carson.”

“What about?”

“If there’s any talking to be done, I’ll let him do it.”

“You were quick enough to move in,” she blazed at him.

“I didn’t invite myself.”

She stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her lips. “Why do you have to be like this?”

Shayne muttered, “You started asking the questions.”

Belle Carson put the shaker down, sat down on the arm of his chair again, and asked, “Don’t you want to kiss me, Red?”

He set his glass on the table, put his arms around her, and drew her down to kiss her hard on the mouth.

The doorbell rang somewhere from the front of the house. Mrs. Carson sprang up and went back to her chair as Abe shuffled through the living-room door.

“They’s a genmum wants to see yo’, Mis’ Cahson,” he said.

She said, “Send him away. I’m not in.” Her head lolled back against the chair and her eyes were half-closed.

“Yassum.” The aged Negro shuffled away.

There was the faint sound of male voices at the front door. The Negro came back, hurried and frightened. “He say he’s de law, ma’am. Came all de way f’om N’Yorleans an’ say he ain’ goin’ till he see you. He out in de hall, ma’am.”

Belle sat up quickly and darted a worried glance at Shayne. “A cop from New Orleans?” she exclaimed. “Is he looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You can go out on the terrace — through those French doors. I’ll get rid of him.”

Shayne picked up his glass, got his hat from a chair where he had tossed it, and moved toward the doors. Opening the one on the right side he stepped out onto a green terrace with flagstone walks. He went silently along the side of the house until he reached a spot where he was hidden from those inside the room, yet close enough to hear Captain Denton’s voice.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carson,” said Denton. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“What kind of bad news?” Her voice was so low Shayne could scarcely distinguish the words.

“It’s about your husband. He’s been murdered.”

“Murdered!”

“Last night in New Orleans. I’m Captain Denton of the New Orleans police. We’ve been all day getting his body identified by some laundry marks and tailor’s labels. It’s not a nice way for you to hear about it, but sometimes I think getting it straight like this is best. That is, if this is the first you’ve heard of it.”

“Of course — it is.”

“I wondered. You see — there’s a fellow here in town — big redheaded fellow — and I thought maybe he’d been to see you.”

“He knows about my husband’s — death?”

“He knows plenty about it.” Denton’s voice was charged with gruff anger. “Has he been here?”

“No one has been here,” Belle Carson told him.

“If he comes, you give us a ring down at the hotel. Now, ma’am, I wonder if you can tell me anything that’ll help us catch the murderer.”

“I — don’t think so. What could I tell you?”

“Who’d want to kill him? Come on — speak up.”

“No one that I know of. How did it happen?”

Captain Denton gave her the details. He said he had come to Cheepwee direct from Baton Rouge, and it was evident that he didn’t know about the empty room in the St. Charles Hotel. He didn’t tell her about the appointment book or the newspaper clipping found in the dead man’s pocket.

“We have obtained certain information that indicates your husband went to New Orleans intending to contact a private detective named Michael Shayne this morning,” Denton said. “Looks as if he might have been killed to prevent that meeting. Do you know what your husband wanted to see Shayne about?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Belle Carson.

“What reason did he give for the trip?”

“Just business.”

“Expected him back this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What’d you think when he didn’t come in on the train?”

“Just that he’d been detained in the city.”

Captain Denton asked a few more questions and Shayne could hear her answering in evasive monosyllables. The Captain went away after a time with her promise to telephone him at the local hotel the moment a tall redheaded stranger showed up.

Chapter six:

Puzzle in Cheepwee

Shayne stayed pressed against the wall of the house until he heard the Captain’s police car drive away. Then he went back to the French doors and stepped inside. Belle was at the far end of the room fumbling in the drawer of an escritoire.

She turned around with a stubby pistol in her hand. “You better sit down and do some fast explaining,” she said.

Shayne put his hands deep in his pockets and grinned at her. “Is that a thirty-two?” he asked casually.

She looked at the gun and said, “I don’t know.” Her eyes were hard and her face contorted with ugliness. “It’ll do plenty of damage to a man’s insides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Your husband was killed with a thirty-two,” he told her. “If the police saw that they might ask where you were last night.”

“Let ’em ask.” She held the short gun steady, pointed at Shayne’s stomach. “Sounds to me like the police know where you were.”

Shayne walked over and poured a Martini. Belle moved a couple of steps toward him, her eyes more curious than angry. “So you killed him,” she said.

“What gives you that idea,” he demanded harshly.

“I’m not a fool, Red. That cop said they just got the body identified. But you knew all about it before they did. What do you want in Cheepwee?”

“Right now I could be made to want you,” said Shayne. He took his drink from the table and sat down, looked up at her with a half smile of amusement on his wide mouth.

Belle Carson’s eyes wavered before his steady gaze. She looked at the pistol in her hand as though suddenly embarrassed. “You’ve got a nerve — after murdering my husband,” she said huskily.

“You’ve got a nerve talking like this if you think I murdered him,” said Shayne harshly.

Belle wet her lips and watched him with an odd and intent appraisal. “You’re from Whitey,” she declared after a moment, and sat down in her chair.

“Suppose I am?”

“You and Whitey killed him last night. I don’t get it, Red. He’s no good to you dead.”

“You are,” he said soberly.

She shook her dark head dismally. “I’ve got to figure this out. Why did Whitey send you here?”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“It has to be that way,” she argued. She sounded weary and defeated. “How much does this cop know about you, Red? How much do they know about Whitey?”

“Don’t worry about the cops,” he replied harshly.

“I could turn you in.”

“But you won’t,” he retorted and grinned at her.

“I don’t know.” Her eyes gathered flame again. “Was Walter fool enough to go to Whitey last night and threaten him?”

“What would he threaten Whitey with?”

“That detective he was going to see in New Orleans by the name of Michael Shayne. You heard the cop talking, didn’t you?”

“Oh — him,” said Shayne contemptuously.

“Why else would Whitey kill him?” she asked sharply. “If he wasn’t afraid of Shayne. He must know he’ll never get a penny out of me. Not with Walter dead. All I’ve got to do now is sic the cops on him. I don’t care how much he talks.”

She got up abruptly and the pistol slid to the floor. Pacing nervously before him, she went on, “I can cash in Walter’s chips and get the hell out of here. Back to the bright lights and some real living.” Her voice was suddenly coarse and vulgar.

“You’re forgetting Harvey.”

She whirled on him. A haunting fear crept into her eyes. “How much do you know?”

“I make it a point to know lots of things.”

“Well, if you know so damned much you must realize I just played around with Harvey because I was stuck here.” She walked rapidly across the room to push the call button again. There was feline grace in her movements. She came back, sat down, picked up the pistol and slid it underneath her thigh.

Fandella appeared promptly and without asking questions took the empty cocktail shaker and glasses away.

“You must have guessed who I was when I first showed up,” Shayne said.

Belle showed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Sure. I figured Whitey had sent you. That’s why I wanted you to stick around — because I figured Walter had made arrangements.”

“With Michael Shayne?”

“Yes. You know all about it, don’t you.”

“But that’s when you still thought Walter was alive,” Shayne said.

“Of course.”

Fandella came back and set the frosted shaker on the table. Shayne brought his empty glass over and held it out to her. Belle filled his glass and then her own.

“You don’t have to sit so damned far away,” she complained.

He pulled a light occasional chair up close to hers and sat down. “That New Orleans cop is waiting to hear from you,” he reminded her.

“How much does he know about you, Red? Why does he expect you here?”

“How the hell do I know how much any cop knows?” he parried.

“Can they pin Walter’s murder on you?”

He said, “No.”

“On Whitey, then?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Whitey must not be too worried,” she argued, as though trying to convince herself. “Else he wouldn’t have sent you here. But why did he do it, anyway?” she went on plaintively. “Like I say, he hasn’t got anything on me. I never did anything. I’m not afraid of publicity here like Walter was.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He feigned deep and troubled thought over what she was saying and watched her with calculating eyes.

“So what are you doing here?” She demanded truculently. “How’d you come to meet Harvey?”

“At the bank,” Shayne said. “I was nosing around.”

“Asking questions?” Her tone was one of sudden anger. “What good will it do you? How’d you get in the bank?”

“They were sort of expecting that detective from New Orleans.”

“Michael Shayne?”

“Yeh. Harvey knew your husband had gone to see him. They didn’t know he got bumped before he saw Shayne.”

“So they thought you were the detective?” She scowled at him before draining her glass. “I ought to turn you in.”

“But you’re not going to.”

Her eyes widened with suspicion. “Not as long as you and Whitey act smart and don’t try to push me.”

“I’d feel better if you gave me that gun.” Shayne held out his hand.

Belle shook her head and said, “I think I’ll keep it handy.”

Shayne relaxed deep in his chair and confessed, “You’ve got me wondering. After the come-on you first handed me. I’ll never know whether you’re playing it straight or still handing me a line.”

“Why would I hand you a line?”

“Why did you at first?”

“I told you that’s when I thought Walter had things fixed for you to come. I figured you were casing the layout for Whitey.”

“Did your husband tell you to expect us today?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. He never did. But I knew he figured to sic that shamus on Whitey, and when he left he said not to be scared if Whitey showed up here.”

“Using you for the stake-out?” Shayne spoke carelessly, watching her through slitted eyes.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said irritably. Her voice was getting thick. “What did Whitey expect him to do? Take it lying down?”

“I’m like you,” Shayne told her. “Whitey didn’t tell me much either.”

“What do we care about either one of ’em? Walter’s dead and Whitey’s—” She paused, her eyes glittering, then continued in a deadly serious voice: “Well, he must know I’ll turn him in quick as a wink if he fools with me.”

“Or maybe make a deal with Michael Shayne yourself?”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“I’ve heard of Shayne,” he growled. “If you expect him here today, why should you change your plans? That’s what I meant a little while ago when I said I’d never be sure where I stand with you again.”

Her breath came rapidly. “Why should I expect Shayne today?”

Shayne straightened and spread out his big hands. “Look, I’m doing a lot of guessing. I know all about Shayne. He’s big and tough and he likes his women the same way. How do I know you haven’t made a private deal with him? Hell,” he went on angrily, “how do I know it wasn’t in the cards for him to bump your husband last night? Yeah. That’s the way Shayne might play it. You and him together.”

“You’re crazy,” she snapped. “I don’t even know Shayne.”

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about him. Hasn’t he been here to see your husband?”

“No.”

“When did they plan it all, then? Your husband hasn’t been to the city for months.”

“They didn’t plan it. Walter just knew about him and figured he was the man to take care of Whitey. He went up to see Shayne yesterday. Isn’t that what he told Whitey? Isn’t that why Whitey bumped him off — to keep him from getting to Shayne?”

“Maybe that’s what he told Whitey,” Shayne growled. “That doesn’t make it the truth. I’m still wondering if you fixed that room upstairs with me for the stake-out.”

“Nuts,” she said, and poured herself another drink.

“You also later admitted you were making it easy for me to stay because you figured your husband had it fixed for Shayne to cool me — along with Whitey. How the hell do I know that doesn’t still stand?”

“I didn’t turn you in to the cop, did I?” All expression had gone from her eyes. Only a dazed stare remained.

“No,” Shayne laughed sardonically. “Why not? I’ll tell you why.” He straightened up and leaned toward her, his mouth grim and his eyes cold. “Because you didn’t want me to talk. Because you thought a gun-crazy shamus could do it better and without so much publicity.”

She drained her glass and her head lolled back against the chair. “Red! Don’t say those things. Come over here and kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss you,” he said brutally. “But I’ll never know the truth.” He threw his cocktail glass across the room and stood up.

Belle staggered to her feet, leaving the pistol in the chair. She put both arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. When she stopped kissing him she giggled drunkenly. “Satisfied now?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Satisfied?”

“That I’m not putting anything over on you.”

He said, “Hell, no.”

Fandella called from the doorway, “Dinner is ready, ma’am.”

Shayne scrubbed the lipstick from his mouth and steadied Belle with his arm around her as they went across the hall where the table was set for two.

The meal began with a slice of chilled honeydew melon, progressed through fried chicken, flaky boiled rice and cream gravy, hot biscuits, and broccoli. They talked little. Belle ate like a farm hand who had been plowing all day, heartily and with gusto that disdained all pretense.

Shayne liked that about her. She was an amazing woman in many ways. Less than an hour ago she had been told of her husband’s murder. She had reason to suspect the man across the table from her of the murder, or of having guilty knowledge of his death. She had not shed a tear. She seemed moody and preoccupied as she ate, but he thought that came from trying to fit him into the picture rather than from any grief over her husband’s death.

He remembered the man he had seen lying in the alley last night and tried to imagine what sort of life they had spent together. He wondered whether Walter Carson had loved her in the beginning. With her magnificent body and her complete disregard of convention, it was easy to conceive how a country banker had been tricked into marrying her.

Shayne brooded over the fact that he had learned so little about the man she called Whitey. Thus far, he knew only that Whitey had something on Walter Carson and that Carson had chosen to go to a private detective rather than the police. Yet she had made it very clear that Whitey himself was in some sort of danger from the law.

It was evident, too, that both men had some hold on the other, and Whitey was using Carson’s position of respectability to blackmail him. Carson had planned to go to a private detective who was reputed to have a ruthless gun for hire in lieu of turning Whitey over to the police and running the risk of having him talk. Belle had clearly implied that Carson had hoped to lure Whitey to Cheepwee where Michael Shayne could blast him down.

This made it plain that Whitey was outside the law and the killing could be made to look legal. Otherwise, Carson would have sought a regular killer for the job. Shayne was aware of his own reputation in this regard. Newspaper stories were always hinting that he enjoyed killing if it had the cover of legality.

He had never bothered to stop such rumors. He found them good for business. The newspaper clipping in Carson’s pocket when he died gave him reason to believe Michael Shayne would do the job for him.

Shayne ate slowly, relishing every morsel. Belle’s silence offered him an opportunity to mull over the meager facts he had learned so far. He was wondering whether Carson had actually gone to Whitey and threatened him with Michael Shayne, as Belle suspected, when the maid brought the dessert in.

The dessert proved to be fresh peach ice cream piled with whipped cream. To Shayne it was a rare treat. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair and grinned at Belle.

“I’m beginning to understand why you’ve stayed here-married to Carson.”

Belle said, “It hasn’t been so bad here except I thought I’d go crazy sometimes.”

“Didn’t you ever get away on a binge?”

“Not without Walter. He kept promising to sell out the bank and we’d travel, but he never did.” She sighed and got up abruptly. “Do you want a drink now?”

“I could stand a drink of brandy.”

“I’ll have Fandella bring some brandy into the living-room. I’m going upstairs a minute. I won’t be long.”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and went with her into the hall. She squeezed his hand tight before turning to the stairs.

He went on into the living-room. The pistol still lay on her chair. He picked it up. It was a .38. Carson had been shot with a .32. The .38 was loaded all around. He put it in his pocket.

Fandella came in with a tray containing a cut-glass decanter of brandy and a tall, flare-top glass beside the decanter. She set it on the table and went away.

He poured a couple of fingers of brandy into the glass, passed it under his nose. His nostrils widened and he made a grimace of distaste. He had been afraid of that. When you said brandy to a Southerner, they gave you a sweetened fruit concoction. This was peach brandy, a liqueur with sweet fruit juice added after distillation.

He closed his eyes and tossed it down without taking a breath, set the glass down on the table, and went over to the writing-desk from which Belle had taken the gun.

Swiftly he went through the pigeonholes containing household bills and personal letters addressed to Walter Carson. In a drawer he found a big, flat checkbook. The first stub was dated back more than four years ago, showing an initial deposit in Carson’s personal account of $1,000.

Leafing through the stubs casually, he found a meticulous notation naming the purpose for which each check was drawn. It was this precise attention to detail on Mr. Carson’s part that drew Shayne’s attention to a stub dated almost four months previously. It was for the sum of $500, and the check had been drawn to Sidney G. Jones.

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. Things were beginning to add up a little. He turned the stubs swiftly and came upon three other checks for the same amount issued to the same Sidney G. Jones at thirty-day intervals. The final stub in the book noted the check for $200 that Carson had mailed to Michael Shayne. On a designated line was the word retainer.

He hurriedly rummaged through the rest of the drawer, but found nothing of importance. He put the checkbook in the drawer, closed it, then dropped into a chair with a deep sigh of relief.

Why had Walter Carson suddenly begun paying Sidney Jones $500 a month shortly after Jones had been sent by Mrs. Barstow to Atlanta to dig into Belle’s past? It looked as though Jones had dug up something. Something so hot he figured Carson would pay more money to keep it quiet than Mrs. Barstow could afford to pay to have it revealed.

He sat for several minutes driving his thoughts into the possibilities of the case. Belle was taking a long time upstairs. He was torn between a desire to get back to New Orleans for an interview with Jones and the promise of heavy drinking with the voluptuous widow.

He got up and took another drink of the sweet brandy, cocking his head to listen intently. He could hear no sound in the house. Belle had seemed anxious to get back when she left him after dinner. He knew, with sudden certainty, that she was dangerous, and he felt trapped.

Setting the bottle down on the table, he went quietly out of the room. There was no one in the hallway. He went on tiptoe to the front door and eased out. Traces of daylight still lingered in the darkening sky. He stepped from the porch to the driveway and followed it to a triple garage in the rear.

All the garage doors were closed. No lights showed in the upper portion of the house on that side. There were two lighted bungalows adjoining the rear of the garage which he supposed were the servants’ quarters.

Quietly he opened the right-hand double doors and found his car in a stall where it had been parked by the chauffeur. He got under the wheel and started the motor, backed out smoothly, cutting the wheels sharply in the wide space in front of the doors, then headed out with the lights off.

At the end of the double rows of live oaks guarding the private drive to the Carson estate he noticed a car inconspicuously parked on the shoulder of the dirt road. He turned on his lights and saw it had a New Orleans police license. A pinpoint of light indicated a man slumped in the driver’s seat smoking a cigarette.

Shayne chuckled softly as he swung out past the parked car. The cop made no move to follow as he drove toward the city. It was evident that the cop had orders to intercept only cars turning into the Carson estate.

Shayne drove straight through Main Street, past the bank building on the corner and the Travelers’ Hotel. There were no lights in the bank, and two police cars were parked in front of the hotel. Shayne cut around another block, turned off on a side street, and parked. He had given up any hope of getting his suitcase from the hotel under Denton’s watchful eye, but there were a couple of questions he wanted to ask Harvey Barstow before he left Cheepwee.

He got out and went back on a rear street and approached the bank building from the side. Through the plate glass window he could see Barstow, wearing a green eyeshade, working on the ledgers behind a teller’s cage. He appeared to be alone in the bank.

Shayne circled along the dark rear wall of the building to a smaller door. There was no glass in the door, but light showed through the keyhole, and Shayne knew it must be directly behind the late-working cashier.

He rapped on the door softly and waited. Thirty seconds went by, then a bolt was drawn back and the door opened a couple of inches.

Barstow peeked through the crack and let out a smothered ejaculation of surprise. “Shayne! What do you want? The police have been here.”

“I know all about the police,” Shayne growled. He pushed the door open wider and grinned at the stubby pistol in Barstow’s hand. “I’m not going to hold up your bank.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know who it was, and naturally I used caution.” Barstow paused to clear his throat. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report your visit to the police. They say Mr. Carson has been murdered.”

Shayne said, “Step out where we can talk without being seen.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Barstow said unhappily, moving outside and closing the door except for a tiny crack. “The police say you’re not to be trusted.”

“I’m trying to solve your boss’s murder,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Carson and now I’m headed back to New Orleans. Did you ever hear Carson mention a man named Jones? A private dick in New Orleans.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you know Carson was paying this Jones five hundred a month out of his private checking account?”

“I know nothing about his private account. He didn’t confide in me.”

“Do you know any reason why he should have been paying hush money to a private detective?”

“I certainly don’t.” Barstow’s tone was frigid. “Really, Mr. Shayne, I feel it’s my duty to inform Captain Denton at once that you’ve been here.”

“And have them block the road so I can’t get back to New Orleans tonight?” Shayne growled. His left hand darted down and closed over the pistol in Barstow’s hand, while his right hand went around the man’s neck and closed tightly over his mouth.

He wrenched the pistol away and dropped it into his pocket along with Belle Carson’s .38 and spoke softly in Barstow’s ear. “I’m sorry, but your conscience worries me.”

He swung his left fist against the point of Barstow’s jaw and the man sagged limply in his arms. Shayne pushed the door open, dragged the senseless man inside the back room of the bank, pulled the door shut, and trotted down the street to his car.

With good luck, he would be well away from Cheepwee before Barstow regained consciousness and notified Denton.

Chapter seven:

A Visit To Dumpty’s

The description of Sidney G. Jones which the Park Plaza switchboard girl had given Shayne proved to be a fair thumbnail sketch. He stood in the doorway of his apartment and studied Shayne curiously after the detective had rung his bell.

Jones had black hair which was getting thin on top, a pair of crafty blue eyes, a cadaverous face, and large flaring ears. He wore a spotted silk smoking-jacket and held a highball in one hand.

“Who’re you and what do you want?” he demanded, blocking the doorway.

Shayne said, “I want to talk to you, Jones.” He moved forward and the slighter man reluctantly stepped aside.

The apartment was small, with a couch that could be made into a double bed. The floor was littered with newspapers. Ash trays overflowed with cigarette butts, and a whisky bottle and pitcher of ice cubes stood on an end table by the couch.

“Who the hell do you think you are, busting in here like this?” asked Jones in a ready, aggressive voice.

“You’d better listen close, Jones,” Shayne said flatly. “I haven’t much time. The cops may be getting here any minute.”

“The cops?” Jones’s pale, ferrety eyes squinted drunkenly. “What’s the lay?”

Shayne looked him over with disgust. “I place you now,” he said slowly. “You’re the louse they call Skip Jones.”

“What if they do?” Jones staggered into an armchair, crossed one emaciated leg over the other, and swung his foot to and fro.

“That’s easy to answer, Skip,” said Shayne sharply. “They want you because you’re a vulture with a private license and a habit of sucking clients for as much as possible on all sorts of promises that never materialize.”

“Look here, you can’t come in here and talk that way to me,” Jones whined.

Shayne moved over and stood on widespread feet before the seated man. “I’m interested in one of your clients, Jones. This is a murder investigation and I’m one jump ahead of the cops. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief if you give me the answers I want.” Shayne’s eyes narrowed. “What did you find out about Belle Carson in Atlanta four months ago when you were retained to dig into her background by Mrs. Harvey Barstow of Cheepwee?”

“Belle Carson? You got me wrong. I don’t know her.”

“I said give me the answers — and quick.” Shayne opened his right hand and held it up warningly.

Jones sucked in his breath and tried to straighten up. “Who are you, anyhow? And what d’you wanta know?” he mumbled.

“The name is Mike Shayne. I’ve got a private license, too, but mine doesn’t stink. What did you dig up about Belle Carson?”

“I didn’t get anything on the Carson dame.”

Shayne reached down with his left hand and tightened his knobby fingers on Jones’s smoking-jacket, lifted him half out of his chair, and smashed his right fist into his face. “Don’t waste time lying. I know you dropped your client and started blackmailing Belle Carson’s husband. Five C’s a month. You closed your office and moved in here to live off an easy thing. What did you learn about Belle in Atlanta that brought you five hundred a month from Walter Carson?”

“All right,” Jones croaked. “What’s wrong in that? Carson was rich. He could afford to pay.”

“And now Walter Carson is dead — murdered.”

Jones cowered back, his eyes frightened and his sallow face turning a peculiar pea-green. “Carson murdered?” Shayne nodded toward the newspapers littering the floor. “Unidentified body found half a block from here last night. A picture of Carson on the front page. Don’t pretend you didn’t recognize him.”

“But I didn’t!” Jones cried out in terror. “I swear I didn’t. I never saw the guy in my life.”

“You’ve been cashing his checks.”

“Sure I have. I got ’em by mail. But I never saw him.”

His thick voice quivered with fright. “I wrote him a letter to Cheepwee, see? I showed him how things stood and asked was it worth five C’s a month to keep it quiet. I guess he thought it was. I got the first check by return mail.”

“And I suppose it never occurred to you to return the money you extorted from Mrs. Barstow. What were you keeping quiet for Carson’s benefit?”

“That his wife was a bigamist,” Jones choked out. “She didn’t bother to get a divorce from her first husband before she married Carson.” He struggled to get up. When Shayne didn’t let go, he whined, “For God’s sake let me go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll give it to you straight. I swear I will. If he’s dead, like you say, I guess I won’t collect any more on it anyhow.”

Shayne loosened his grip, and stood back, and let him go to the bathroom. He didn’t know how much time he had. It was a cinch that Harvey Barstow would tell Captain Denton about his inquiries concerning Jones.

As matters stood now, he didn’t know how much difficulty Denton might have tracing Jones to this address. If Jones hadn’t left a forwarding-address from his former office in the Downtown Building, and didn’t have his name in the telephone book, some considerable time might elapse.

Going to the telephone stand, he went swiftly through the directory. He felt better when he didn’t find Sidney G. Jones listed. That would delay Denton unless he knew the man personally.

Jones came back to the living-room. He tried to hold himself erect and dignified, but his body sagged and it looked as though his nose was broken.

“You didn’t need to hit me that way,” he grumbled. “I would’ve told you all about it if I’d known Carson was dead.” His voice was still thick and slurred, but he was trying to speak seriously. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to hold onto something that’s making an easy living for him.”

Shayne’s nostrils quivered and he snorted in disgust. “How do you know Belle Carson committed bigamy when she married Carson?”

“Because she was married to another guy for about six years. His name was Durkin — Willis Durkin. They lived in Atlanta, where he was an accountant for a big lumber firm. He was a quiet little guy,” Jones went on, trying to control his thick tongue and speak plainly. “They fought some, and people say she stepped out on him, and those that knew them both blame her for what happened.” Jones paused, and took a long drink of whisky and water.

“What’d you mean about being one jump ahead of the cops?” Jones went on suspiciously. “How do you figure in this?”

“Get on with your Atlanta story,” Shayne demanded impatiently.

“Sure. About five years ago the baby girl of the president of the lumber company Durkin worked for was kidnaped. It made a big stink at the time. Big shot by the name of Crawford. The kidnapers wanted fifty-grand ransom and sent notes saying that Willis Durkin should be the go-between to deliver the ransom money and all that.” He paused and waved his hands feebly. “Crawford was rich and he coughed it up. Fifty grand in small, old bills. He turned it over to Durkin for delivery, and Durkin skipped out with it. Later, they caught the kidnaper. His name was Whitey Buford. They got the baby back.” Jones paused again, his pale glazed eyes staring into space.

“Go on,” Shayne demanded again.

“Buford was sore as hell and accused Durkin of double-crossing him. He claimed he and Durkin figured the deal together, with Durkin playing innocent and acting as go-between.

“But Durkin took it on the lam with the fifty grand. At least that was Buford’s story. He couldn’t prove it, of course. But Durkin and the money were gone, and Belle Durkin was left behind. She swore she didn’t know anything about it, and maybe she didn’t, but folks think it was her nagging for more money that drove Durkin into it.” Jones took another drink and sagged back in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.

Shayne let him loll a moment, then prompted him again.

“Willis Durkin got away clean,” Jones resumed slowly and thickly. “Belle left Atlanta soon after that and resumed her maiden name, Belle Brand. She turned up here in Louisiana a few months later, got next to a smalltown banker in Cheepwee, and married him. She committed perjury in her license application by stating she’d never been married before.

“I don’t imagine Carson knew anything about it until I wrote him that letter, and from what Mrs. Barstow told me about her, it seems she was leading him the same kind of life she’d led her first husband.”

Shayne thought over what Jones had told him, then said slowly, “I’m surprised he covered up for her. He knew she was two-timing him, according to Mrs. Barstow.”

“I dunno,” said Jones. “He was a big-shot around Cheepwee. It would have kicked up a big scandal. It wasn’t like I was pushing him too hard. I was careful about that. Five hundred a month wasn’t a hell of a lot to a guy like him.”

“What did Carson say to you over the phone last night?”

“He called me about seven-fifteen and told me who he was and said he wanted to see me. He hinted he’d like to talk over a lump sum payment to keep things quiet. That suited me, but I was just ready to go out on a date. I asked him how about later.

“He told me he was having dinner at Dupre’s just down the street, and how about coming up here afterward — around one o’clock. That suited me, and we made the date. I got home a quarter of one and waited for him. He didn’t show up by one-thirty, so I turned in.” Jones lifted his thin shoulders weakly and added, “How was I to know he was getting gunned about then, right down the street?”

“That’s a fair story,” Shayne said coldly. “But you’re going to have one hell of a time proving it. You’re the only person he called in New Orleans — the only one who knew he was here. You were blackmailing him and you knew he would be leaving Dupre’s about one. The cops are going to make a case against you. You had the motive and the opportunity.”

“What motive?” Jones snarled. “He was my bread and butter. He was ready to make a big settlement.”

“That’s your story,” Shayne pointed out. “You’ve no proof he didn’t tell you over the phone that he was tired of being blackmailed and threatened to expose you.”

“Wait a minute,” Jones said thickly. “Maybe somebody else was blackmailing him or his wife. Maybe somebody else had a motive.” He jumped up and went to a small desk on unsteady legs. He dug around in a drawer and came back with a newspaper clipping.

“I happened to see that in the paper two weeks ago and clipped it out just in case. Whitey Buford knew Belle when she was married to Durkin. How do we know Whitey didn’t trail Belle here and was putting the screws on her the same as me?”

Shayne read the story with mounting excitement. The clipping carried pictures of two men, with captions stating that they were Whitey Buford and his suspected kidnaping accomplice, Willis Durkin. It described the escape of Whitey Buford from a Georgia prison camp after murdering a guard, and asserted that authorities had reason to believe the fugitive might be headed toward New Orleans.

It gave a brief rehash of the sensational case of the Crawford baby kidnaping, corroborating what Jones had told him, and suggested that the daring prison break might have been more than a little influenced by the convict’s corroding desire for revenge against Durkin.

Shayne’s face was grim when he folded the clipping and put it in his pocket. He didn’t tell Jones that it explained the things Belle had told him that afternoon in Cheepwee.

“We haven’t any proof that Carson got in touch with Whitey Buford last night,” he said, “even supposing Whitey is here and he had traced Belle. Until we have some such proof, you’re the only suspect we’ve got. The police are already watching this place, so don’t try to get out of town.” Shayne strode to the door and went out without looking back.

He headed for Dupre’s. It was a small, exclusive, and exceedingly popular restaurant on the corner of Royal and St. Louis. At this early hour of the evening there were at least twenty couples already lined up in the small foyer waiting their turns to secure tables.

Shayne strode down the line, unhooked the rope that held the crowd back, and went through toward a harried maitre d’hôtel who was anxiously consulting his reservation book.

“I’m not crashing the line,” he explained with a wide grin. “Police. A customer of yours was murdered last night after leaving here. His body was found half a block from here.”

The maitre d’hôtel looked up at the tall redhead, startled. “So?” he inquired. “I read of the tragedy, but did not recognize the picture in the morning paper.” His eyes were worried.

“I know you have hundreds of customers during an evening,” Shayne said rapidly. “I imagine this man had a reservation. His name was Walter Carson.”

A series of rumples formed in the headwaiter’s forehead. After a thoughtful moment he said, “But yes. Mr. Carson — so it was he? The reservation was for nine o’clock. A single.”

“Can you tell me how and when the reservation was made? Did he telephone you yesterday afternoon?”

“But no.” The man let the rumples smooth out and immediately formed them again. “How could we make a reservation on so short notice when we are booked days in advance?”

“Then he must have written in beforehand,” Shayne suggested.

“Of course. The letter requesting a table was received several days ago. Mr. Carson is an old customer and the request was given consideration.”

“Can you tell me anything about how long he stayed?”

The man shrugged expressively. “If you are the police — and Mr. Carson is dead — why not? There is a girl in whom he was interested. A dancer in the floor show.”

“Her name?”

“Do you need that? I assure you the relationship was innocent.”

“We won’t use it unless it’s necessary,” Shayne assured him.

The maitre d’hôtel sighed. “Her name is Yvette. She sat with Mr. Carson at his table between shows.”

“I want to know when Carson left and whether anyone met him here.”

“I can tell you that. It was after the second show ended. A little after one o’clock. Mr. Carson went out by himself.”

“Did he take a cab or walk?”

“I’m sorry — I cannot say,” said the man.

Shayne thanked him and went out. Things added up to fit Jones’s glib story, but the fact still remained that Sidney G. Jones was, so far as Shayne could learn, the only person who knew he would be walking up St. Louis Street at that time.

From Dupre’s, Shayne drove down several blocks and turned to the right toward the old French Market. In this section of the Quarter, where the old houses had gone to seed, the street lights were set far apart and burned dimly. An atmosphere of depression and gloom hung over the area.

Pulling up on a narrow and dimly lighted street, he got out and walked half a block back to one of the older houses set far back from the sidewalk in a wide, untended lawn behind a sagging picket fence.

Lights glowed dully from some of the windows, like evil eyes watching him, as he strode up the walk and around to a side entrance where a green bulb burned over an embrasured door. He pushed the door open and went down four stone steps into a sour-smelling cellar.

A grossly fat man sat at a desk beneath a droplight. He looked up and smiled with a great show of welcome when Shayne stepped through the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Shayne,” he said, extending a fat hand. “It’s delightful to see you here in my monastic retreat. If you’ll pull out the second drawer of that filing-cabinet behind you, you’ll find a bottle.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Dumpty, but this isn’t a social call. You’re not going to like it, but I want one of your guests.”

“Indeed?” The fat man swiveled his chair back and looked up at the redhead from beneath gray-fringed and shriveled eyelids. He folded his pudgy hands over his paunch and said, “I’m afraid I won’t care for that.” His voice was purring and guttural. “The needy come to me for shelter.”

“Cut it,” said Shayne sharply. “The police let you run this dump because they pick up some info now and then — and because you’ve been careful to harbor only small-fry criminals. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cover up for a murderer.”

“I assure you I have no intention of covering for anyone,” Dumpty said mildly.

Shayne made an impatient gesture. “I know. But your place is known all over the country, and wanted men naturally drift here. Maybe you don’t know Whitey Buford killed a prison guard escaping from the pen. I want him.”

The fat man moved his round gray head from side to side. “There’s no one here by that name.”

“Hell, he wouldn’t use his right name.” Shayne took the clipping from his pocket and held it under the bright light. He pointed out Buford’s picture, a man with deep-set eyes and shaggy brows set in an emaciated face. His chin was sharp and pointed, as was his nose.

“Don’t bother telling me that man isn’t here,” Shayne said. “He’s wanted in connection with a local murder, and I’ll have your place raided in ten minutes if you don’t give him to me.”

“My, my,” said the fat man with a deep sigh. “Murder? I don’t like that. You put me in a quandary, Mr. Shayne. If this person were here, and I were to accede to your demand—”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Shayne interrupted. “Send him out and I promise you’ll never show. Give him a message. Say a telephone message from Belle. Ask him to meet me in Degado’s Bar down the street.”

Dumpty swiveled his chair forward and drummed fat finger tips on the desk. “It might be,” he said cautiously, “that some of my tenants are acquainted with this Whitey Buford and could deliver the message to him.”

“I don’t care how he gets it. I’ll go to Degado’s and wait. If it’s more than thirty minutes, you’ll be through in New Orleans.”

Chapter eight:

Tied Up in a Bundle

After leaving Dumpty’s place, Shayne drove to Degado’s. He parked in the driveway with Belle Carson’s gun in one coat pocket and the pistol he had taken from Harvey Barstow in the other. Going up to the bar, he ordered cognac.

Two elderly men were drinking together at the far end of the bar. Otherwise, the place was deserted. When the low-browed proprietor set out a bottle of Hennessy, Shayne turned and looked at it in surprise.

Leaning on the bar, his eyes watching the door, he filled a double-shot glass from the bottle and sipped the drink slowly.

He emptied the glass and drank another, taking his time to enjoy it, then paid the bartender two dollars. He walked out, crossed the sidewalk toward his car as a tall, bony man neared Degado’s from up the back street. The man had a limp black hat pulled low over his forehead.

Shayne fumbled with the key in the lock of his car door and waited until the man was opposite him, then swung around with Belle Carson’s .38 in his hand.

“This is it, Whitey,” he said.

Whitey Buford cursed and dropped toward the pavement, his hand darting inside his coat.

Shayne shot him in the belly. Buford groaned, and his long body jerked at the impact of the bullet. He rolled to one side and slowly dragged out a gun.

Shayne stepped swiftly forward and kicked the gun out of his hand just as the two old men burst out of the saloon. Motioning them back with his gun, Shayne said curtly, “Police.”

They disappeared inside without asking any questions.

Shayne dragged Whitey Buford to his car and pushed him into the back seat. Buford was unconscious with a bullet in his stomach, but his pulse was strong. Shayne got behind the wheel and drove to police headquarters.

Doc Mattson helped Shayne bring the unconscious prisoner in. The plump little police surgeon made a quick examination and nodded.

“Nice shooting, Mike,” he said. “You nicked a large artery, but he’ll pull through.”

Shayne shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll just make him hang for a murder.” He hurried out and went across town to Inspector Quinlan’s private office. The door stood open, and he could hear Captain Denton swearing. He stepped a few feet away and listened.

“I got Shayne exactly where I want him this time.” His coarse voice was triumphant. “He won’t, by God, wiggle out of this. Mr. Barstow, here, is ready to swear out an assault charge and I can prove Shayne knew who Carson was all the time. As soon as my men bring in Jones, we’ll get the whole story.”

Shayne heard feet scuffling down the corridor behind him. He turned and saw Sergeant Frank and a patrolman with Skip Jones between them. Shayne grinned at Frank and followed the trio into the Inspector’s office.

“Found him in his room at the Park Plaza,” Frank was reporting to Denton. “But from what he says, I guess Shayne got to him first.”

“That shouldn’t surprise Captain Denton,” Shayne drawled, walking forward from the door. “I’ve been ahead of him all the way through the case.”

Inspector Quinlan sat erect behind his desk. Harvey Barstow sat slumped down in a chair off to one side, looking very unhappy.

Denton turned and looked at Shayne with his mouth wide open, then let out a roar. “Sure you have,” he shouted. “That’s what I’ve been telling Quinlan. You knew the stiff was Carson all the time. You withheld evidence while I chased laundry marks clear to Baton Rouge. You’re through, by God, in New Orleans!” He brought his fist down hard on Quinlan’s desk.

Shayne asked, “Is that your case against me?”

“It’s enough!” Denton was raging. “That, and assault on Mr. Barstow.”

Shayne grinned at the bank cashier. “I didn’t hit him very hard. I had to paste him in order to get back here and clean this thing up before you ruined everything.” Turning gravely to Inspector Quinlan, Shayne continued, “Denton’s wrong again, of course. The dead man wasn’t named Carson.”

Denton’s face grew dangerously red. He opened his mouth to say something, but Quinlan held up his hand and spoke in caustic tones.

“You’d better let Shayne talk,” he said.

“The murdered man’s name was Willis Durkin,” Shayne told them. “He was wanted in Atlanta, Georgia, on suspicion of complicity in a five-year-old kidnaping case. He doubled-crossed his partner out of a fifty-grand ransom and came to Cheepwee, where he took the name of Carson and bought controlling interest in the local bank.”

Denton’s jaw dropped open with amazement and chagrin.

“Here’s the story.” Shayne took out the newspaper clipping Jones had given him and handed it to Quinlan. “You saw the body last night. That’s his picture, taken five years ago.” Turning to Jones, he said, “Belle Carson didn’t commit bigamy. She merely followed her husband to Cheepwee and forced him to remarry her under the new name he’d taken. That’s why Carson was glad to pay you five hundred a month blackmail. If you ever broke the truth, Carson’s past would become known.”

“Blackmail?” asked Quinlan, his cold eyes looking from the clipping to Jones.

“That’s right.” Shayne moved forward and eased one hip to a corner of the Inspector’s desk. “Jones had a client who hired him to check on Belle Carson’s background, and he discovered she’d been married without divorcing Willis Durkin. So he double-crossed his client by withholding the information she had paid him to dig up, and went to Carson with it.

“Carson paid to the tune of five hundred a month to keep Jones quiet. He phoned Jones from the St. Charles Hotel last night, telling him he’d have a late dinner at Dupre’s and be up to see him about one o’clock. Carson was killed before he reached the Park Plaza.”

“You were blackmailing Carson, and he had a date to see you at one o’clock?” Quinlan asked Jones. “Had he threatened to expose you? Is that why you waited for him down the street and killed him?”

“I didn’t.” Jones’s nasal voice was thinned by fear. “I waited in my room for him, but he didn’t come. Read that clipping,” he urged. “See where it says Whitey Buford was headed in this direction. I figured Whitey had traced him. He had a reason to bump Carson.”

“But no opportunity,” Shayne growled. “Carson didn’t tell Whitey he was coming to town, for that very reason. He knew Whitey would kill him. Carson came here planning to hire me to blast Whitey in a phony attempted arrest. Whitey is a fugitive, wanted for murdering a prison guard in Georgia. Carson figured I could kill him and shut him up forever, and then go clear on it by claiming Whitey resisted arrest.”

“If this Whitey Buford is in town,” Denton growled derisively.

“Doc Mattson is fixing Whitey Buford up right now,” Shayne said to Inspector Quinlan. “I had to put a slug in his belly a few minutes ago. But he’ll live to talk — and to hang for murdering the guard in his prison break.”

Quinlan compressed his lips, and his eyes were coldly alert, probing Shayne’s gaunt face. “If you can prove that Jones was the only person who knew Carson was in town last night, the only person who knew he was dining at Dupre’s, the case is closed.”

“There’s one other guy,” said Shayne casually. “He was Carson’s assistant in the bank and took care of his correspondence. He wrote a letter to me asking for a nine o’clock appointment this morning — a letter that didn’t arrive until you were searching my office,” he went on sharply to Denton, “and Barstow also wrote a note to Dupre’s restaurant making a dinner reservation in advance for Carson. So, Barstow knew his employer would be leaving there late last night.

“Barstow’s wife says he didn’t get home until after three o’clock this morning. Just about time to make the trip by car after Carson was shot.”

“It’s a lie!” Barstow exploded in a choked voice. “I didn’t do it. I liked Mr. Carson. What reason did I have for killing him?”

“You knew he was coming in to see a private detective,” Shayne reminded him harshly. “You didn’t know why, of course, but you had reason to suspect it was to investigate the relationship between you and Belle Carson. You were panicky. You didn’t know what Carson might do if he got the lowdown on you and Belle. At the very least, you’d lose your job, and Belle. You had to stop him. So, you followed him up here in your car after dark and waited outside Dupre’s and shot him.”

“No! I don’t even own a gun!”

“But the bank does,” Shayne reminded him. “Every bank has a thirty-two Smith and Wesson lying around handy. They’re called Bankers’ Specials. Like this one.” He produced the stubby .32 he had wrested from Barstow and tossed it in front of Quinlan. “Run a comparison test on that with the bullet that killed Carson.”

Barstow cowered back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he sobbed. “I was afraid my wife would find out. I couldn’t stand that. I loved Jenny and the children, but I couldn’t stay away from Belle. I hated myself and I hated her and I was so ashamed.”

Shayne turned to Quinlan with a grin. “Does an assault charge still stand against me for hitting Barstow?”

Denton swung around toward Shayne. “I’ll by God get you yet for meddling in my business,” he yelled, and stalked from the room.

Quinlan smiled. “One of these days he will hang something on you, Mike. Thanks for this one tied up in a bundle. If you’ll make up an expense account, it’ll be paid.”

Shayne’s grin widened. He said, “That’s all right. I was just trying to earn a retainer.”

Content

Brett Halliday
Michael Shayne’s Triple Mystery

Dead Man’s Diary

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

A Taste for Cognac

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Dinner at Dupre’s

Chapter one: A Corpse With No Name

Chapter two: One Jump Ahead of the Cops

Chapter three: A Drummer for Death

Chapter four: Heartbroken Wife

Chapter five: Red-Hot Widow

Chapter six: Puzzle in Cheepwee

Chapter seven: A Visit To Dumpty’s

Chapter eight: Tied Up in a Bundle