“Claims he looked at his watch. It’s a habit of his.”
Shayne grinned wryly. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I went window shopping for twelve minutes.”
Quinlan’s face reddened. He barked: “Window shopping!”
“Let’s go up and see what the boys have got,” Shayne suggested. “Maybe I’ll think of something better than window shopping.”
Doctor Matson’s assistant met them in the doorway of Shayne’s apartment. He said: “Death due to strangulation and possible fracture of the vertabrae. Not more than half an hour ago, and probably within the past fifteen minutes. The doc will have to give it to you closer than that.”
Shayne asked: “Could she have been strangled by a woman?”
The young assistant considered for a moment, then said: “It’s very doubtful. The contusions on her throat indicate a lot of strength in the hands that caused them.” He went on down the hall.
Shayne and Quinlan went inside the room where the photographer was putting away his equipment and the fingerprint men were finishing up their work.
Sergeant Donovan scowled at Quinlan. He said: “We haven’t got anything worthwhile. One set of prints everywhere, presumably yours, Mike. Her prints are on that brandy bottle on the table and on the arms of that chair behind her.”
“How fresh are any of my prints? The inspector is trying to hang the murder on me.”
Donovan looked apologetically at Quinlan and said: “We haven’t found a print of yours made later than noon, say.”
“How about the light bulb in the hallway?”
“Yours are plain enough at the top. Partial imprints on the bottom and sides,” Donovan said disgustedly.
“Try the back stairway and door for prints,” Shayne said to Donovan.
“You can call it quits if you don’t find anything worth reporting,” Quinlan said. He went over and sat down wearily on the sofa.
Shayne stood looking at the dead woman. Beatrice Meany did not look like a dipsomaniac as she lay there. Her naturally childish features had taken on a sort of dignity in death. There was a troubled expression on her face, as though she didn’t understand why this had happened to her.
Two men came up the stairs with a long wicker basket. They placed the body in the basket and took it away.
Shayne picked up the brandy bottle and squinted at it. “She’d helped herself to a couple of big slugs before she got it,” he said to the inspector. “Want a shot?”
“No, thanks. Why did she come up to your apartment?”
“She wanted to keep Ezra Hawley’s money away from her dead brother’s ex-wife. I suppose she wanted me to help her.”
“The woman in Room 319 at the St. Charles?” Quinlan asked, frowning deeply.
“That’s right — Mrs. Meredith.”
“I suppose she wants you to help her get the money.”
“That’s right.”
“And Leslie Cunningham, Groat’s companion in the lifeboat, was with Mrs. Meredith when I talked to them.”
“That’s right. Cunningham is the only one left now who can testify when Hawley died.”
“Is he working with Mrs. Meredith?”
Shayne hesitated, then said: “My impression of Cunningham is that he’s out for whatever he can get. Mrs. Meredith has quite a lot to offer, I’d say.”
“And you think she’s offering it to him?”
“She’s hard-boiled and she’s plenty smart. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get hold of a million dollars.”
“What about Groat’s diary?”
“That’s still the stumbling block. The hell of it is,” Shayne admitted irritably, “we don’t know which side the diary favors — the Hawleys or Mrs. Meredith. Cunningham pretends he isn’t sure whether Hawley lived four or five days. That may be the truth, or he may just be waiting to make sure the diary is out of the way before he comes forward with definite testimony. Both parties are anxious to get hold of it to substantiate their claim or to suppress it if it doesn’t substantiate their claim.”
“Doesn’t anyone actually know what’s in the diary?”
“Cunningham may, but he’s not saying. And Joel Cross should know, whether he realizes what it means or not.”
Quinlan blinked at him. “Cross must know plenty or he wouldn’t have advertised he was going to print the diary.”
“Yeah.” Shayne took a long drink from the brandy bottle. Cradling the bottle in his arm, his gray eyes brooded across the room. He sat down on the sofa beside Quinlan. “Cross could be playing a deep game,” he mused. “What have you done about alibis for Groat’s death?”
“Not much. I haven’t checked yours, for instance.”
Shayne grinned. “What time?”
“Matson puts the murder between eight and nine last night. If he’s right—”
“Let’s assume it’s correct,” Shayne suggested.
“He was murdered with the old familiar blunt instrument, and tossed in the river soon afterward,” Quinlan said heavily.
“Any way of telling how soon?”
“I asked Matson that. He grumbled about expecting miracles from a mere man of science and then admitted there were indications that it was not more than ten or fifteen minutes later.”
“Just about long enough to get from the Hawley house to the river.”
Quinlan nodded unhappily. “I got exactly the same information you did, except the old woman said the girl was nuts and that her saying she talked to Groat and invited him out wasn’t worth a damn as testimony. Which reminds me—” He went to the telephone.
There was a knock on the door. Shayne opened it. A girl in messenger uniform said: “Telegram for Mrs. Mer—”
Shayne said, “Sh-h,” and shoved her into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “Im Mr. Meredith. I’ll sign.” He fished out a half-dollar and put it in her hand, signed for the message and thrust it in his pocket.
Quinlan was just hanging up the receiver when Shayne returned. He asked: “Who was that?”
“Telegram for me.”
Quinlan grunted and said: “Gerald Meany is missing — since a little before five. From what my men learned out there it looks as though he may have followed his wife over here.”
“Followed her?”
“Here’s the way they got it,” Quinlan said. “Mrs. Meany called a taxi and left the house around four o’clock. Seems she had some sort of an argument with her husband before she left, and a short time later he came down from her room with a scrap of paper and asked the Negro butler and Mrs. Hawley if either of them knew whose address it was.
“They both claimed they didn’t know. The Negro did remember the street name, and told my men it was a number on Carondolet. It was on a sheet tom from the telephone pad in the Meanys’ suite. The butler testified that Meany went out to his car and drove away immediately afterwards. He hasn’t returned. I’ve got a pick-up out for him.”
Shayne said: “It adds up to fit Jake’s story. Funny — he didn’t act like the jealous type.”
“That does it,” Quinlan said briskly. “He got sore about the way she carried on with you when you were out there. He brooded about it all day. When she came over here this afternoon it was too much for him. So he let her have it when he found her waiting here.”
Shayne’s gaunt face was expressionless. He said: “It sounds O.K., but he was crazy if he was jealous of his wife on my account.” He grimaced at the memory of the few moments he had spent with her in her living room. Then he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, and read:
YOU KNOW UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO COME. CALL ME TONIGHT. EXTREMELY ANXIOUS.