When the two men returned to the living room, with their drinks a few minutes later, all traces of Beatrice Meany had been removed, the detectives having taken her hat and handbag with them.
Rourke and Shayne settled down comfortably, and the reporter took a long drink of his highball before asking irritably, “In the name of God, Mike, when are you going to start filling me in on this case?”
“You know just about as much as I do,” said Shayne cautiously.
“Just hints and oblique references,” said Rourke. “About, for instance, different people who don’t want Groat’s diary published… and how much cash Cross might accept for quashing it. Why, Mike?”
“There may be two reasons.” Shayne told him first about Ezra Hawley’s will and how a fortune depended on whether Albert Hawley had predeceased his uncle or had not died until his fifth day on the life raft.
“That’s one angle,” he explained, “with the Hawley clan on one side and Mrs. Meredith on the other. Neither side knows what the diary says as yet, and so neither side actually knows whether they want it suppressed or publicized.”
“Of course, there’s still Cunningham who should be able to testify as to the exact date of Hawley’s death.”
“True enough. But Cunningham, I think, is waiting to see which way the cat jumps. Without the diary to either back him up or refute him, he would be in the enviable position of inviting the highest bid from either side to testify the way they want him to. But he’s afraid to commit himself either way so long as the diary is around.
“And there’s still another angle that bears thinking about,” Shayne went on. “The mysterious disappearance of a gardener named Leon Wallace from the Hawley employ about a year ago… just when Albert’s wife was getting her divorce… and just before Albert was inducted into the army. Jasper Groat telephoned Mrs. Wallace last evening and promised her information about her missing husband, and was murdered before he could give her that information.”
He went on to sketch in the details of his talk with Mrs. Wallace that morning while Timothy Rourke listened with intense concentration and made notes on his copy paper.
When Shayne completed his account, Rourke said thoughtfully, “Then if the Hawleys did connive, somehow, to get rid of Wallace… for some unknown reason… and paid Mrs. Wallace ten grand to keep her from making an investigation… they had a further motive for murdering Groat before he passed the dope on to Mrs. Wallace.”
“That’s about it,” Shayne agreed gloomily. “And that may explain Beatrice’s murder. She was unstable as hell, and liable to spill her guts any time to any man who condescended to stroke her hand gently while she was tight.”
“Which one Mike Shayne did condescend to do only this morning,” guessed Rourke with a grin.
“In a manner of speaking. Did you talk to Mrs. Groat?” Shayne changed the subject abruptly.
“Yeh. Running errands for you,” growled Rourke. “The situation regarding sale of the diary seems to be this: Jasper Groat made a verbal deal with Cross to accept two thousand dollars for publication rights… but nothing was actually signed between them. There seems no doubt that Cross has physical possession of the diary, and Mrs. Groat feels morally bound to go through with the deal her husband made… besides not being averse to seeing the thing printed and also picking up an easy two grand.”
“Two thousand dollars,” ejaculated Shayne. “With a fortune of a couple of million riding in the balance. She could probably get twenty times that much for suppressing it from whichever of the two parties that stands to lose when the truth is known.”
“She doesn’t know that,” Rourke reminded him. “And, like her late husband, I gather that she has a strict code of ethics. I don’t believe a hundred times two thousand would tempt her to do anything dishonest.”
“Which is exactly why Groat was murdered,” sighed Shayne. He sat very still for a moment, sunk into morose thought. “My hands are absolutely tied until I find out what the diary says about the date of Hawley’s death and Leon Wallace. Damn it, Tim, we’ve got to persuade Joel Cross to give us a look at it.”
Rourke grinned saturninely and took a long drink. “He’s stubborn as a piebald mule about being persuaded.”
Shayne got to his feet and stalked up and down the room, tugging angrily at his left ear lobe. “Perhaps the reason he’s so cagy is that he’s playing both ends against the middle… waiting to see which side makes the best offer before destroying the diary. In the meantime, we’ve got two murders on account of the damned thing.”
He halted in mid-stride at the sound of a knock on the door, strode to it and pulled it open. He stepped back with a look of surprised pleasure on his face, and said, “Come right in, Mr. Cross. We were just discussing you.”
“Who’s discussing me? Oh, it’s you, Rourke,” he said unpleasantly as he stepped inside the room. “Where is Mrs. Meany?”
“Did you expect to find her here?” asked Shayne.
“Why, yes. I agreed to meet her here. I confess I got held up and am a little late, but I assumed she would wait. She insisted it was extremely important that I should come.”
“And bring Jasper Groat’s diary with you?” asked Shayne with assumed casualness, closing the door and leaning his shoulder blades against it.
“Certainly not. Did she leave any message for me?”
“Where is the diary, Cross?”
“In a safe place where you won’t find it.” Cross started toward the door with his jaw thrust out belligerently. “If Mrs. Meany isn’t here there’s no reason I should stick around.”
Shayne remained with his back against the closed door. “I can think of several reasons, Cross. I want to know more about your appointment with Beatrice Meany here. When did she make it?”
“She telephoned me about three o’clock… if it’s any of your business,” blustered Cross.
“I think it’s very much my business when a female makes an appointment to meet a man in my apartment. That’s more than two hours ago. Why did you wait so long?”
“I told you I got tied up.” Joel Cross stopped on flat feet directly in front of Shayne and with his face not more than four inches from the redhead’s. “Are you going to get out of my way?”
Shayne said, “No. Where were you tied up, Cross?”
“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined. Certainly, not by you.” Cross was glaring angrily at Shayne, and his fists were tightly clenched by his sides. He turned his head to Rourke and demanded, “Why are you both acting so peculiarly? Where is Mrs. Meany?”
“In the morgue,” Shayne said harshly.
Cross’s head pivoted back to him. “The morgue? But… when… how was she killed?”
“I think maybe you know.” Shayne put the flat of his right palm against Cross’s chest and pushed hard, growling, “Sit down. We’ve got some talking to do.”
Cross staggered back, his face livid. He caught his balance and collapsed into a chair, looking up with frightened eyes as Shayne towered over him and demanded, “Where were you this last hour?”
“In my room working.”
“Anyone able to back up your alibi?”
“My alibi? Good God, do you think I killed her?”
“I think it quite likely. You’re the only one who knew she was coming here to see me.”
“Do you mean she was killed here?”
“Not more than half an hour ago,” Shayne said inflexibly.
“I had no reason. I didn’t even know the woman.”
“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to tell me everything she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder. I’m just beginning to realize you fit like a glove for that one, too. You’re the only person who had read the diary at eight o’clock last night and knew its value as an instrument of blackmail. A value that vanished as soon as Groat reached the Hawleys and told his story. Sure, you fit, Cross.” Shayne’s eyes were beginning to glow hotly. “Will Gentry is already checking your alibi for last night. If it isn’t any tighter than the one for this afternoon, you’re a swell candidate for a hangman’s noose.”
“He must be crazy,” Cross appealed to Rourke. “He can’t be serious.”
Timothy Rourke was studying Shayne’s face quizzically. “I think he’s damned serious,” he confided to his fellow reporter.
“Here’s something you don’t know, Cross. I can place you right here on the spot at the time of the murder. You fit the description of the murderer given by the elevator operator perfectly, and he’s all set to make an identification if I give the word. On the other hand, he trusts me enough so if I say the man wasn’t you, he’ll swear it wasn’t.”
“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” asked Cross incredulously.
“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I like you for the job more and more. Without an alibi you’ll have a hard time going against an eye-witness identification.”
“Damn you, shamus!” cried Cross stridently. “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 know why people are being killed on account of it.”
“You’d have one hell of a time convincing a jury of that,” snarled Shayne. “It’s written down right there in black and white, isn’t it? In Jasper Groat’s handwriting.”
“What’s written down in black and white?”
“The story of Leon Wallace’s disappearance.”
“I don’t recall any such name in the diary.” Joel Cross was becoming stiff and aggressive again.
Shayne said, “I don’t believe you. Prove it by letting me read the diary.”
“Certainly not. Why should I care whether you believe me or not? Why should I bother proving anything to you?”
“To keep your neck out of a noose,” said Shayne grimly. “For the last time… before I call the operator to identify you… do I read the diary?”
“For the last time… no,” Cross spat out.
Shayne sighed. He said to Rourke, “Bring Matthew in, Tim. I want you to get him so you’ll be able to swear I didn’t coach him in any way to make the identification.”
Timothy Rourke got to his feet with alacrity and hurried out the door.
Joel Cross started to get to his feet, protesting loudly, but Shayne shoved him back hard. “Want to change your mind and let me see the diary? I can still stall Matthew off from making a positive identification.”
“Damn you, no,” raged Cross. “I’ve never been in this hotel before and you can’t prove I have. I refuse to be intimidated by you, Shayne.”
Shayne said, “Okay. You’re asking for it.”
He went to the door as footsteps came down the hall, pulled the door open to admit Rourke, but moved in front of Matthew to prevent him from seeing Cross as he said, “Mr. Rourke has probably told you, Matthew, that we’ve got the murderer of that girl in this room right now. If you can identify him it’ll be the last girl he ever does murder.”
“Stop him,” shouted Cross wrathfully to Rourke. “He’s telling him to identify me.”
In the meantime, Matthew’s eyes had been gravely fixed on the redhead’s face. He had known Shayne closely and followed his cases intimately for many years, and had a very real admiration for the detective. Nothing Mr. Shayne did, he was convinced, could possibly be wrong, and at this moment he was convinced that for reasons of his own Shayne wanted him to identify Joel Cross.
Consequently, when Shayne stepped back with a wave of his hand, and asked, “Is that the man who asked for my room an hour ago, Matthew?” he studied the reporter carefully for a moment and then nodded unequivocally, “I sure reckon that’s him, Mr. Shayne. You sure do catch murderers fast.”
“Wait a minute, now. This is an outrage…” Cross began, but Shayne stepped close and cut him off with a low warning.
“Give me the diary, Cross. If you don’t I swear to God I’ll let the identification stick.”
“Not till hell freezes over,” Cross told him passionately. “I’m telling you, Shayne…”
The abrupt entrance of Will Gentry interrupted his outburst. He saw the elevator operator first, and said, “I was looking for you, Matthew. Want you to come down to headquarters and look at a murder suspect. We picked Gerald Meany up dead drunk in a bar near here,” he went on to Shayne and Rourke, his gaze passing incuriously over Cross. “Looks like he’s our man, all right. The Hawleys say his wife drove away from home without any explanation about three o’clock, and half an hour later her husband came down from her room, waving a penciled notation he’d found beside her telephone with the name of this hotel and the initials M.S. When none of them could tell him what it meant, he drove away after her like a bat out of hell. Looks like an open and shut case of jealous rage. Hey! What’s the matter with all of you?” he demanded in astonishment, his eyes sliding from one face to another.
Rourke said, “It looks like we’ve got two murderers, Chief. Matthew has just got through identifying my confrere, Mr. Joel Cross of the Fourth Estate, as the man he brought up in his elevator to Mike’s room at the right time for the job.”
“That’s an absolute lie,” shouted Cross. “It was not a proper identification. It’s a frame-up. Shayne put that man up to saying he saw me here this afternoon. I wasn’t here at all. I don’t know one damned thing about Mrs. Meany’s murder.”
Shayne hesitated, tugging at his ear lobe in perplexity. If he didn’t speak up now-if he let Gentry go on believing…
Matthew solved the problem for him. He straightened up with dignity and said, “Mr. Shayne is a fine gentleman. I tell you, Mr. Chief of Police, if Mr. Shayne say this man is the murderer, he sure enough is. And I stand square behind what I say the first time. I sure reckon that’s the man.”