Shayne said, “I understand the Hawley family refused to be interviewed about the death of their son on the life raft.”
“Stuck-up society bastards,” said Rourke feelingly. “Don’t want any reporters intruding on their grief.”
“What do you know about them?”
“The Hawley clan? Nothing personally. Rich and exclusive as all get-out because the two brothers, Ezra and Abel, landed here from the Mayflower forty years, ago and established a trading post where they gypped the Indians out of a fortune.”
Shayne said, “Ezra is the one who died a week or so ago?”
“That’s right. Abel kicked off six years ago.” Timothy Rourke gathered his feet under him and sat erect, his sunken eyes studying Shayne’s face keenly. “Why this sudden interest in the Hawleys?”
“Couple of things. There should be a good file on them in the morgue.” Shayne kept his voice carefully casual, but as he stood up, Rourke lounged to his feet with him.
“That’s right. And I’ll go along and help you find whatever the hell you’re looking for.”
Shayne didn’t argue as they went out a side door and down steep stairs to the file room. They were old friends and had worked together on many cases in the past, and Shayne explained.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, Tim. Two little things. One that sticks in my craw is that the Hawleys made no effort at all to contact either of the two survivors of the airplane who nursed their son on the life raft for several days. The other is a gardener named Leon Wallace who was working for them about a year ago. That name ring a bell?”
Rourke shook his head as they entered a long, quiet room with rows of filing cabinets stretching away into the dimness from a desk where they were greeted by a gray-haired woman smoking a cigarette in a long holder.
Rourke lifted a thin hand and said, “Don’t disturb your butt, Emmy. We’ll get what we want.” He led the way down an aisle and stopped in front of a file to draw out the second drawer. He lifted out a bulky cardboard folder loaded with an accumulation of press-clippings on the activities of the Hawley family for many years, and pulled the cord of a bright overhead light as he opened it for Shayne. “Where do we start?”
Shayne said, “About a year back. A little more, I guess. Let’s jump off with Albert’s marriage which occurred shortly before he was inducted into the army.”
“Thereby breaking the old lady’s heart and practically bringing on a state of armed insurrection in Florida,” said Rourke cheerfully. “It won’t be recorded in the news columns, but I remember the hell the old lady raised when Uncle Sam crooked his finger at her darling Albert. There were plenty other ordinary citizens who could serve in the army just as well.” He was flipping over the clippings with a practiced hand. “It was common gossip around town that the old dame practically performed a shotgun wedding to get her son married off, hoping he’d beat the draft that way. But the draft board took a dim view of it and yanked him in anyhow. Here’s the bride.”
Shayne leaned forward to look at a wedding picture taken on the steps of a local church. He said, “It wouldn’t take a shotgun to urge me into her bed.”
Rourke said indifferently, “I never did hear which one the old lady used the shotgun on. Here’s a family group if you’re interested.”
It was a picture taken at an outdoor wedding reception at the groom’s home and showed a thin, aquiline- faced matriarch on the lawn under a palm tree, surrounded by the bride and groom, another couple identified as her daughter Beatrice and husband, Gerald Meany, and a tall, hawk-faced old gentleman whom Rourke said was Uncle Ezra.
“The blood was thinned out by the time it reached the younger generation,” Rourke said dryly. “That Beatrice, now. There’s quite a dossier on her if you want to go back further. Quite a nympho before she snagged husband Gerald. Afterward too, maybe. I’ve heard stories…”
Shayne shrugged, turning the clippings. “The hell of it is, I don’t know what I’m looking for. Would a nympho tie in with a disappearing gardener?”
“Why not? If the old lady decided he was what her daughter needed.”
Shayne stopped at another picture of Albert Hawley, evidently snapped at the same time but not quite the same pose as the one he’d seen in the Herald last night. He glanced at the story beneath the picture and found it had been taken just prior to Albert’s departure for induction into the army. There was a statement, attributed to Albert Hawley, to the effect that he expected no special consideration whatsoever while undergoing boot training, and that he felt it would be a privilege to accept the anonymity of army life and share the hardships of his fellow draftees as a part of Democracy’s challenge to the evil forces of Communism.
Shayne closed the folder with a sudden gesture and said, “To hell with it, Tim. None of this gives me the faintest idea why Leon Wallace vanished a year ago and Jasper Groat disappeared last night.”
“Groat? The pilot of the airplane?”
“Copilot, I think. That’s not for publication, Tim.” Shayne stretched his long legs toward the exit, and Rourke broke into a half-trot to stay beside him.
“Give, Mike,” he panted.
Shayne said, “It’s not official yet. But why don’t you get the story from Mrs. Groat… if she’s willing to give it? Tell her I sent you. But don’t print anything until I get in touch with you after talking to Mrs. Hawley.”
“You won’t get within a mile of that old witch,” Rourke warned him.
Shayne said flatly, “She’s going to answer some questions.” He stopped in the hallway in front of the elevators and pressed a button. “You check with Mrs. Groat and get a story from that steward, Cunningham, in the meantime. Human interest stuff. The celebration dinner the first night ashore after their rescue… which Jasper Groat did not attend. Why? And I want to talk to Joel Cross about that diary as soon as I get back from seeing the Hawleys.”
An elevator stopped and he got in, lifting a big hand to Timothy Rourke in farewell.
He drove back downtown, past his hotel and across the river, out Brickell Avenue toward Coral Gables and the Hawley residence, while he tried to piece together the bits of information he had gathered. What had happened to Leon Wallace a year ago? And what did Cunningham know about the missing gardener? Wallace’s name had brought an immediate reaction from Cunningham last night. That, coupled with Groat’s telephone call to Mrs. Wallace, indicated that Albert Hawley must have confided some secret about the gardener to the two men before he died. A secret that someone had paid ten thousand dollars to hush up a year ago. And now Jasper Groat had disappeared before he could meet Mrs. Wallace and divulge it to her.
Shayne shook his head angrily when the pieces wouldn’t fit into place, and began watching for Bayside Drive, which he knew was a short street, right-angling toward the bay and dead-ending there.
This was one of the oldest and pleasantest sections of the city which had successfully resisted encroachments of the boom period; the avenue was lined with beautifully landscaped estates, many of them running all the way to the bayfront, and most with huge old houses, set so far back from the street they could be only dimly glimpsed through luxuriant tropical foliage.
He slowed and turned right on Bayside Drive, found the entrance to number 316 guarded by high gateposts in a forbidding stone wall enclosing an area of several acres of grounds that long ago had been carefully planned and magnificently planted with exotic trees and tropical shrubbery.
There was a heavy chain suspended from one gatepost, but now unhooked from the other to allow entrance, and Shayne turned in on a gravel drive that curved back through dense vegetation that was now untended, giving a feeling of desolation and decay to the once proud estate.
The grass was untrimmed and what had once been a beautiful sunken garden on the left of the driveway had been allowed to run wild. It was a riotous mass of briers and flowers giving off a heavy fragrance that was almost stifling in the still hot air beneath interlocking branches that shielded the ground from sunlight.
Wherever else Leon Wallace was and whatever he was doing, Shayne thought grimly, he certainly hadn’t been earning his wages as a gardener at the Hawley place for at least a year.
The driveway curved from beneath huge Cyprus trees into bright sunlight that glared down pitilessly on a huge stone fortress of a house with cupolas and turrets and outside stairways of wrought iron that led up to second and third story balconies and embrasured windows. Shayne braked to a stop, directly behind a heavy black sedan that was at least five years old.
There was utter silence after he cut off his motor. The old house seemed completely withdrawn from the world and there was nothing to indicate that a single person lived behind the thick stone walls in front of him. He
