He made a U-turn on the Boulevard and drove back northward in the outer lane, glancing aside as he passed the News building again, and seeing Alfred Drake just getting into his taxi.
He stopped in front of Mrs. Groat’s apartment building, and said, “I need the diary just for tonight, Mrs. Groat. Do you trust it to me?”
“Of course, Mr. Shayne.” She put the book in his hand.
“You go in with her, Lucy.” Shayne put his arm tightly about her slender shoulders and grinned at the look of fright on her face. He bent to brush her lips reassuringly with his, and said, “See that she’s securely locked in before you leave, angel, and you keep your door locked tonight, Mrs. Groat. Don’t let anyone in on any pretext. If you have any phone calls or any callers, refer them to me.”
Back in his own sitting room, he double-locked-the door and laid the leather-bound book on the center table, staring down at it with pursed lips, working them as though he tasted something good. He opened it to the flyleaf and read in boldly legible script: The Private Journal of Jasper Groat.
Like a child prolonging the pleasure of a treat by putting it off as long as possible, Shayne firmly closed the diary and went into the kitchen where he put ice in a tall glass and filled it with water, poured out four ounces of John Exshaw in another glass and carried them back and set them side by side on the table. Then he settled himself in a chair and lit a cigarette, and took an appreciative swallow of cognac, chasing it with a sip of ice water.
Then he opened Jasper Groat’s diary and began reading the entries in the dead man’s handwriting.
The first entry in the journal was dated more than six months previously, and Shayne flipped the pages impatiently, noting the dates, until he came to the first entry written by Groat after the airplane went down in the ocean and the only three survivors were precariously afloat on the life raft.
It was a graphic account of the sudden failure of the plane’s engines and an expertly maneuvered crash- landing in a stormy sea, in which Groat gave unstinting praise to Peter Cunningham’s courage and physical strength and stubborn determination which had enabled the two of them to launch an inflated life raft while the others perished. It had been Cunningham, too, who had snatched the disabled soldier, Albert Hawley, from a watery grave and hauled him aboard the raft, and Groat paid tribute to his unselfishness by noting that a third person would diminish their slim chance of survival on account of the scanty rations of food and water aboard.
It appeared from the beginning that Hawley was badly hurt internally and that Groat had little real hope of keeping him alive for many days.
Shayne glanced at the entries with increasing interest, until on the third day, Groat had written: Hawley worse today. Vomited some blood after breakfast and is manifestly weaker. I prayed for him but he refused to join me in seeking solace in God. Pete sneaked some extra water at dawn. Pretended I did not know.
Later that same day, he noted: Hawley failing rapidly. Repeated the Lord’s Prayer with me. I trust he will find God.
On the morning of the fourth day, he wrote: Hawley very bad this morning. Feel sure he will not survive long. Something preys on his conscience. I have urged him to cleanse his soul before God but he stubbornly refuses.
And late that afternoon: Hawley realizes he is dying. Repeated the Twenty-Third Psalm with me, and am sure he received comfort. I do wish he would confess his sins before the inevitable end.
And on the morning of the fifth day! Shayne paused in his absorbed reading and took a deep drink. He stubbed out his cigarette and braced himself. This was the crucial entry.
His stomach muscles contracted as he read: The soldier died quietly during the night. I read a simple service this morning and consigned his earthly remains to the sea. Pete pretended to sneer, but think he was deeply affected. I have a great weight on my conscience and must struggle with it. Pete crept close to us last night and heard a portion of the dying man’s confession. I do not know how much. He acted peculiarly this morning and made several attempts to induce me to tell him what was confided to me as a death-bed confession. I must trust God to help me reach a just decision.
Shayne exhaled slowly and laid the diary down. So Albert Hawley had died during his fourth night on the raft. Before his Uncle Ezra had passed on.
Mrs. Meredith was not legally entitled to one cent of Ezra’s fortune!
He picked up the journal and glanced on slowly, seeking further reference to Hawley and to his deathbed secret. There were vague references to the Dying confession, and arguments with Pete who will not admit how much of the truth he heard from the dying man’s lips.
And there was a final notation a day before the two men were rescued from the raft: Pete argues strongly that we would be fools to let such a splendid opportunity for blackmail pass. He admits he overheard enough that night to realize the importance of the dead soldier’s secret. I pray God for strength to withstand this temptation.
Groat had not trusted Albert Hawley’s secret to the pages of his diary. Nowhere in the journal was the name of Leon Wallace mentioned.
Michael Shayne laid the leather-bound book aside with a deep sigh after he had convinced himself of this fact. Joel Cross had told the truth after all. But Shayne now knew that Peter Cunningham knew enough to plan a blackmail attempt on someone, and that Jasper Groat had vigorously opposed the plan.
That much Shayne had guessed before reading the diary. The one new fact he had learned was that if the diary were made public, the Hawley family and not Albert’s ex-wife stood to inherit Ezra Hawley’s estate.
He lit another cigarette and settled back with a blank look of concentration on his gaunt face, tugging at his left ear lobe and taking alternate sips of cognac and ice water while his mind went to work on the intriguing problem of how best to handle this new situation to enable Michael Shayne to make the most bucks out of it.
His cognac glass was empty by the time he had worked out a plausible line of action. The ultimate result depended on a lot of imponderables, but those were the chances a man had to take to make a living.
He lifted the telephone and called the Biscayne Hotel and got Mrs. Meredith on the line. He identified himself and said, “I’m at my place and I have Groat’s diary here, Matie. I’ve just finished reading it.”
He heard her quickly indrawn breath. “And… when did Albert die?”
He grinned at the instrument and said, “I suggest you come over and read it for yourself. That way, there’ll be no question in your mind whether I’m telling the truth or not. Get hold of Jake Sims and bring him along,” he went on. “After you’ve both looked at the diary, I have a proposition to make you.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Her voice was low and furious. “He would have to die one day too soon.”
Shayne chuckled at the venom in her voice. “Come over and read it for yourself.”
He hung up and called Lucy Hamilton. “In bed yet?”
“Not quite. Just brushing my teeth.”
“I have need of the services of an efficient secretary,” Shayne told her. “In about half an hour. Bring your notebook prepared to take some dictation.”
“Michael! At this time of night?”
“It won’t wait until morning,” he told her cheerfully. “And I need you for a chaperon anyway. Mrs. Meredith is on her way over.”
Lucy snapped, “I’ll be right there, Michael,” and hung up. He poured another dollop of cognac and settled back to wait for his company.
17
Matie Meredith and Jake Sims were the first to arrive at Shayne’s apartment. Mrs. Meredith’s features were set, her full lips angrily compressed as she demanded, “Cut out the silly suspense and tell us the truth.”
Shayne closed the door behind the pair, and told her smoothly, “You’ll read it for yourself soon enough. Want a drink first for a bracer?”
“Never mind the drink, Shayne. How’d you get your hands on the diary? How many people have read it?” Sims moved toward the center of the room, his ferrety eyes searching about for the diary.
“I had to frame one guy on a murder rap,” Shayne told him, “and then assault a respected member of the local bar in order to earn a thousand-buck fee.” He went to the center table and brushed Sims aside, pulled a drawer open and paused with his hand on the leather-bound journal. “So far as I know, only Joel Cross has read the diary… and I don’t think he realizes the importance of the date of Albert Hawley’s death to Mrs. Meredith. Keep that
