“But Gentry did walk in. And now you’re stuck with a phony identification.”
“Hell, Tim. The chances are Cross is the murderer.”
“If he isn’t?”
“That diary is the answer, Tim. If I could get hold of that, I’d know.”
“Joel doesn’t seem disposed to let it out of his hands,” said Rourke dryly.
“Why, Tim? Unless it will prove him guilty. Is that why he’s hanging onto it like a leech?”
“Could be.”
“For God’s sake, you talk to him and make him understand how important the diary is. Now that he’s actually arrested and has a chance to realize the kind of spot he’s in, he may not be so stubborn. If he’s innocent the diary will prove it. And don’t forget, the killer knows that, too. So he’ll be more anxious than ever to get hold of it and destroy it… or at least prevent its being published. Explain all that to Cross, Tim, and induce him to give the thing to you for safekeeping.”
“So I can take it straight to my good friend Michael Shayne and give him a chance to cash in for a million or so? By God, Mike, that’s why you let the poor devil go on to jail, isn’t it? Hoping it will jar him loose from the diary.”
“Not entirely. But if he’s innocent all he has to do is produce the diary to prove it. You explain that to him, Tim, and…”
“Nuh-uh.” Rourke shook his head emphatically. “In the first place he hates my guts and figures I’m in cahoots with you and wouldn’t listen to a word from me. In the second place, I won’t play patsy for you, Mike. Not this time. The frame you just hung on Joel Cross stinks in my nostrils like a five-day-dead skunk. Count me out of any devious schemes for getting hold of the diary.”
“You’ve got me wrong, Tim.” Shayne’s voice was sorrowful and pained. “I’m thinking about Cross… if he is innocent. Hasn’t the News got a lawyer who can reason with him?”
His telephone rang. Timothy Rourke lit a cigarette while he answered it. It was the desk clerk. “Gee, Mr. Shayne, that sure was too bad about the girl. Right in your room, huh? And I thought she was real nice, too. They say you already got the murderer, huh? Fast work, I’d say.”
Shayne asked, “Did you call just to congratulate me, Dick?”
“Not really. Uh…” Dick lowered his voice conspiratorily. “Western Union just telephoned a message addressed to Mrs. Theodore Meredith here. I took it like you said, Mr. Shayne. This is it: You know utterly impossible me to come. Call me tonight. Extremely anxious. Theodore. You got that, Mr. Shayne?”
“Thanks a lot, Dick.” Shayne hung up, his brow deeply furrowed. He turned about, rubbing his angular jaw in deep thought, as though he had completely forgotten Rourke’s presence.
He opened the center drawer of the table after a long moment, searched among a litter of papers for a time and withdrew an aged and dog-eared address book. He thumbed through it meditatively, then lifted the telephone and told the switchboard operator, “Person-to-person to Chicago, honey. I want to talk to Benjamin Ames. I have an old number for him that you might try first.” He read off the number from the book and she said, “Thank you, Mr. Shayne,” and he waited with the receiver to his ear.
There were some buzzes and indistinguishable bits of conversation from various operators throughout the country, and then he heard a telephone ringing in Chicago. It stopped on the third ring and a nasal voice said, “Hello?”
“Is that Ben Ames?”
“Right. Who’s calling?”
“Mike Shayne, Ben.” Shayne waited, a slow grin breaking over his face as Ames exclaimed, “Shayne? Is it really you, Mike? Where in hell are you? In Chi?”
“No, I’m in Miami, Ben. Still running that cheap agency of yours?”
“It ain’t so cheap any more,” Ames told him happily. “Got three ops on the payroll steady.”
“Congratulations. Then maybe you can do a fast job for me.”
“Sure thing, Mike.” Ames’s voice became businesslike.
“Got a pencil handy?”
“Shoot.”
Shayne had the memo he had written in Kurt Davis’s office, and he read from it slowly: “Theodore Meredith.” He gave the street address and had Ames read it back, and went on: “I need a picture of Meredith fast. I don’t think he’ll give you one, Ben, so you’ll probably have to steal it. Take a photog out, and grab a front view. Get a print made fast and get it on a plane to me tonight. Let’s see, Ben.” He scrabbled among some papers in the open drawer and lifted out an airline schedule. “There’s a Mid-American plane leaving Chicago for Miami at two-fifteen tomorrow morning. Get a print of Meredith on it, Ben. To save time, hand it to the stewardess addressed to me, huh? With a ten-spot. I’ll meet the plane in Miami and pick it up from her. Got that?”
“I got it,” Ben Ames said, “and I’ll handle it myself. Any angle for approaching this Meredith?”
“He’s in the headlines here,” said Shayne, “as the current husband of the ex Mrs. Albert Hawley, recently lost at sea in an airplane accident. Albert, that is, who was lost. Mrs. Meredith is down here trying to claim Hawley’s estate, which may run into millions. That gives you a reason for interviewing him and grabbing a pic… whether he likes it or not.”
“Sure, Mike. Will do.”
“Call me at this number before two A.M. if you don’t make the grade. If I don’t hear to the contrary I’ll meet that plane in the morning.”
Ames said, “Right,” and Shayne hung up.
“Now what in hell is all that about?” asked Rourke. “Why a picture of Mrs. Hawley’s current husband?”
“Just to verify a hunch I’ve got.” Shayne went back to his chair and picked up his glass and the conversation where it had broken off.
“This is really the paper’s business, Tim. Don’t help me out, damn it, but think about the spot the News is in with their fair-haired boy under suspicion of murder. Who’s your paper’s lawyer?”
“Alfred Drake is on annual retainer to bail out any of the boys who get out of line.”
“Get on to him,” urged Shayne. “Or onto the publisher and tell them the facts of life. Explain how important that diary is in proving Joel Cross’s innocence, and for God’s sake have it picked up from wherever Cross has it stashed and put in a safe place. Damn it, Tim, I’m really worried about Cross. I admit I pulled a fast one on him trying to force him to give me the diary… and now it’s backfired. How do you think I’m going to feel if the diary vanishes with proof of his innocence with it?”
“I don’t know.” Rourke studied him cynically and sighed. “I just don’t know, Mike. First you frame a guy, and then…”
“Look,” said Shayne virtuously. “I’m not asking you to get the diary for me. All I’m asking is that Drake, or someone like that, get to Cross in jail and convince him how important the diary is. Goddam it, I don’t want to be responsible for an innocent man being hung.” There was a ring of passionate sincerity in his voice that convinced Rourke despite his doubts.
He emptied his glass and stood up, saying, “I guess maybe you do mean it this time. I’ll talk to Drake myself.”
Shayne got up and went to the door with him. “There’ll be headlines for you tomorrow morning, Tim. I promise it. If you see nothing happens to the diary.”
Rourke promised, “I’ll do my best.” Shayne watched him go down the corridor and then closed the door with a feverish glint in his gray eyes. He went back to the telephone and asked for the number of a local detective agency, and when it answered, said, “That you, Ned? Mike Shayne. I’m tied up and need a tailing job done. Got a man available? Fine. Here it is: There’s a Daily News reporter in jail on a murder charge. Name of Joel Cross. Got that? Shortly, at least within an hour or so, I expect him to be visited in jail by the newspaper’s mouthpiece. A lawyer named Alfred Drake. I want to know if and when Drake sees Cross. Got all that?”
Shayne took a deep breath as he listened. “That’s right. Plant a good man inside where he’ll know who visits Cross. The moment Drake shows, have him telephone me here and then wait outside to finger Drake for me when he leaves.” He gave Ned his telephone number and hung up, and then immediately called Lucy Hamilton’s home number.
When she answered, he told her, “Things are beginning to break on the Groat case, angel, but I may need Mrs. Groat to help tie it up. Do you think you could bring her over to my place pretty soon to help me find her
