“Plus a diary which Groat kept on the life raft which should definitely pinpoint the day and hour of Albert’s death,” Shayne continued as though Hastings had not spoken.
“What’s that about a diary?”
Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I supposed you knew Jasper Groat had kept a diary.”
“How would I know?”
“Wasn’t the diary mentioned in the news story about the rescue yesterday?”
“I didn’t see any such mention.”
Shayne shrugged. “The Daily News has bought publication rights, I understand, and plans to print excerpts from it.”
Hastings was silent for a moment, twiddling his glasses nervously while he considered this latest item of information.
“If it weren’t for the diary,” said Shayne judicially, “Beatrice’s suggestion that I get hold of the two men and bribe them to swear that Albert died before his Uncle Ezra would be quite valid. I assume that’s what you had in mind for me,” he ended carelessly.
“What’s that? Bribery? I had no such thought in mind.”
“With a couple of millions at stake, it makes sense,” argued Shayne.
“Preposterous! I wouldn’t consider it for a moment.”
“The diary is a stumbling block,” Shayne confessed. “It will carry more weight than anything either of the men might testify to. So as long as the diary is around, there’s not much point in checking with either Groat or Cunningham.”
“Where is this purported diary?” demanded Hastings.
“No one seems to know… exactly.” Shayne hesitated. “If he took it along out to the Hawley place last night…”
“There is no proof that he went there,” said Hastings hastily.
“Beatrice says she invited him out.”
“But that he did not keep the appointment.”
“That’s what she says,” Shayne agreed calmly. “That’s why I made a point of wondering whether anybody out there realized as early as last evening that the exact time of Albert’s death meant a couple of million dollars to them. Because if they did, it might explain why Groat never returned from the meeting.”
“Are you suggesting that he did visit the Hawleys and one of my clients had something to do with his failure to return?” demanded Hastings indignantly.
“I’d say Beatrice is perfectly capable of bopping a guy over the head for two million bucks. The old lady, too, from what I saw of her. Gerald… I dunno.” Shayne shook his head slowly, recalling the husband’s appearance in the bedroom while the detective was visiting his wife.
“I assure you that all the Hawleys are people of the highest probity.”
Shayne grinned at him and said cheerfully, “We both know Beatrice is a dipsomaniac and a nympho to boot. And I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to see the old lady swinging on some guy with her cane. Hell, it stands to reason,” he went on persuasively, “that they must hate the guts of Albert’s ex-wife. The way she callously divorced him when he was drafted. Wasn’t he sore about that himself?”
“Albert did not confide in me at the time of the divorce.”
“Did you draw up the will leaving everything to his ex-wife even though she remarried?”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t question him about that provision?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“As his attorney, I followed his instructions. And now, Mr. Shayne, I don’t believe there is anything further for us to discuss.” The lawyer pushed back his chair and stood up.
Shayne remained seated with his legs crossed. He said, “There’s still Leon Wallace.”
“Who is he?”
“You heard me ask Mrs. Hawley about him this morning?”
“I dimly recall your mentioning the name. I have no idea who Leon Wallace is.”
“I told you this morning. A gardener whom they employed to keep the grounds in shape a year ago.”
“They’ve had no gardener for at least a year,” Hastings flatly.
“That’s evident from the condition of the grounds. And that’s what I wonder about.”
Hastings moved purposefully toward the door and said frostily, “It hardly seems a matter for discussion with you.”
Shayne still didn’t get up. He said, “The matter under discussion is the unexplained disappearance of Leon Wallace a year ago.”
Hastings paused with his hand on the doorknob. He kept his back to Shayne, but the detective saw his body stiffen to rigidity. “I fail to see how that concerns my clients. I understand he was discharged as an economy measure.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He stood up slowly. “Did Albert or his wife get the divorce?”
“Mrs. Hawley entered the suit in Nevada.”
“On what grounds?”
“Mental cruelty, I believe.” Hastings pulled the door open and turned worried eyes on Shayne. “It’s all water under the bridge now. I fail to see how anything constructive can come from reopening old wounds.”
Shayne said, “You’re probably right,” and sauntered out into the outer office, hearing the door shut firmly behind him.
A man and woman entered as he approached the outer door. The man was tall and cadaverous, with long apelike arms. The woman was young and smartly groomed, and even more sexually attractive in the flesh than she had appeared in the wedding photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Hawley which Shayne had studied in the News morgue earlier that morning.
Shayne stopped in front of them and said, “Hi, Jake. What’s a shyster like you doing in a legitimate law office?”
Jake Sims grinned without mirth and said, “I’ll throw that question right back at you, shamus. Don’t tell me the esteemed Lawyer Hastings has got down into the gutter by retaining you on a case?”
Shayne returned his grin, but his had real mirth in it. He said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to Matie?”
She was studying him calculatingly, with her head tilted a little on one side, her eyes unabashedly telling him she liked what she saw. “Who is he, Jake?”
“A good guy for you to stay away from,” grumbled Jake Sims. He grasped her well-fleshed arm firmly and drew her past Shayne toward the little man at the desk. She turned her head to keep her eyes on his as she went past, and her full red lips formed a little circle of disappointment-or of promise.
Shayne said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Meredith. We’ll be seeing each other around,” and went out before she could reply.
7
Downstairs, Shayne picked up the first edition of the Daily News and glanced at the front page as he went out to his car. There was a double-column spread by-lined Joel Cross with the heading:
HEROISM AT SEA
It was an excited and effusive announcement that feature writer Joel Cross had made arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s personal journal kept during those harrowing days at sea while he and two companions drifted helplessly on an open life raft after their plane crashed.
The announcement contained such phrases as: Authentic account of heroism on the high seas… vivid first- hand narrative of suffering and near-despair… what ordinary men say and think when faced with almost inevitable Death… a record of the last words of One Who Did Not Come Back… the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heart-strings of every reader…
Shayne folded the paper with a frown and got into his car. The whole thing was out in the open now. Anyone
