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
