Shayne crumpled the yellow sheet and tossed it aside carelessly. He asked pointedly: “Anything else you want with me?”
“Not until we pick up Meany and find whether he’s got an alibi for this.” Quinlan went out, reminding Shayne as he went to the door: “You’re still got twelve minutes unaccounted for — and I don’t believe you were window shopping.”
Shayne jumped up and rummaged in the top drawer of a chest of drawers, returned to the sofa with a memorandum book which he hadn’t used in many years. After taking a big drink from the brandy bottle, he settled himself and slowly turned the yellowed pages of the book.
Halfway through the memo pad he nodded with satisfaction. Holding the pages open with his thumb, he reached for the telephone and rang long-distance.
When the operator answered he said: “I want to place a person-to-person call to Chicago to Benjamin D. Ames, private detective, formerly associated with World Wide Detective Agency. He has a home in Chicago, I think. This is urgent police business. Please rush it.” He gave his name and telephone number, hung up, took another drink, and settled back to wait.
He was staring into space and massaging his left earlobe when the phone rang. The operator said: “Ready on your call to Chicago, Mr. Shayne.”
A reedy, nasal voice said: “Hello.”
Shayne said: “Ben Ames? This is Mike Shayne in New Orleans.” After a few brief explanations between them, Shayne said: “Here’s a little job I need whipped up in a hurry. Got a few hours free and a pencil and paper to take this down?”
“Both,” said Ben Ames. “Shoot.”
“Theodore Meredith.” Shayne gave him the street address. “I need a picture of him. He won’t give you one, if my hunch is right, so you’d better take along a photog to steal one. But get it, Ben! And get all the dope about him you can pick up in a hurry. Here’s your in to get at him: he’s in the headlines in New Orleans as husband of the ex-wife of Albert Hawley, soldier recently lost at sea, and through Hawley, Meredith’s wife is in line to inherit a million or so left to Hawley by his uncle, Ezra Hawley. A Chicago reporter could be interested in the story.”
“Sure. I’ll get to him, Mike. How fast, and how much do you want to lay on the line?”
“There’s a plane leaving Chicago about midnight. Get the pic and anything else you can on that plane and you’ll be a C-note richer.”
“Can do,” Ames assured him. “Air express to you in New Orleans?”
“Right.” Shayne gave his address and hung up.
There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He recognized the sign. He took a drink of brandy as an antidote. He was beginning to move now... The plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive about nine in the morning. If his hunch was right...
He heard a strong, authoritative knock on his door. He opened it, and Joel Cross blinked at him in surprise. Cross’ bristly mustache and square jaw appeared more aggressive than ever.
Shayne said: “Come in and have a drink.”
Cross walked swiftly into the room, darting suspicious glances everywhere. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Who?”
Cross said: “Mrs. Meany.” He sat on the edge of a chair and planted both hands on his knees.
Shayne sat down leisurely and asked: “What do you know about Mrs. Meany?”
“Very little. I know she’s Mrs. Sarah Hawley’s daughter.”
“If you knew anything about her,” Shayne said casually, “you’d look in the bedroom. She always goes to bed when she passes out.”
“In there?” Cross locked quickly at a closed door on the left. He got up, said, “I think you’re lying, Shayne,” walked stiffly to the door and opened it. He stood hesitantly on the threshold, then snapped on the light. He turned back to Shayne and said angrily: “What have you done with her?”
“What makes you think she’s been here?” Shayne countered.
“She told me she was coming and asked me to meet her here.”
“What for?”
“Something about the Groat diary. She seemed quite upset over the telephone.”
“When?”
“Around four-thirty. See here, Shayne, if she isn’t here — if this was just a trick to get me over here...”
Shayne slowly came to his feet. He was between Cross and the outer door. “I’ll take the diary for her.”
“I don’t have it with me.” There was a trace of a smirk in Cross’ voice. “I’m not admitting that it’s in my possession.”
Shayne remained standing. He said: “It’s almost seven o’clock. What took you so long to get here?”
“I didn’t come here to be cross-questioned, by you.”
“You’re going to be.” Shayne’s voice was inflexible. He moved backward to the door, leaned against it, and folded his arms. “Two hours and a half, Cross. Did you think she’d wait for you all night?”
“I was busy and didn’t realize how much time had passed. Are you going to tell me where she is?”
“In the morgue.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed fiercely.
Joel Cross’ face went lax for a second. He stared at the detective and repeated: “In the morgue?”
“Sit down. It’s time you and I did some talking.” Shayne waited until Cross sat down before going to the couch. He asked harshly: “Where were you this evening between five-thirty and six?”
“In my room working. Good heavens, do you think I killed her? I didn’t even know the girl.”
“You knew she was coming here to see me.”
“Do you mean she was killed here?”
“In that chair you’re sitting on.”
Cross jumped involuntarily, stared at the floor, wet his lips and said: “Suppose I did know she was coming here?”
“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to spill what she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder,” Shayne mused. “You fit. You had a motive for killing Groat before he reached the Hawleys and told his story. You’d read the diary and knew the value of the entries concerning Albert Hawley’s death. And whoever killed Groat also killed Beatrice Meany this afternoon. You had the opportunity. She practically invited you over to kill her.”
Cross’ sandy mustache no longer bristled. His voice was shaky when he said: “I didn’t. I was working, I tell you. I’ve never been in this room before.”
Shayne shrugged. “I can place you here between five-thirty and six,” he warned. “The Negro janitor let a man in while Mrs. Meany was waiting for me. You fit the description all right. Of course,” he went on pleasantly, “the old man’s eyesight isn’t very good and he might not be too positive about making an identification unless I tell him what to say.”
“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” Cross snapped.
“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I don’t like you. Inspector Quinlan is checking your alibi for last night. If you haven’t a better one than your story about this afternoon — and if I have a little talk with the janitor...”
“Damn you,” said Cross passionately, “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 understand why people are being killed on account of it.”
“You’d have a hell of a time convincing a jury of that,” Shayne snarled. “It’s right there in black and white, isn’t it?”
“I studied it this afternoon after the girl called—”
“Then you admit you’ve got it.”
Cross smiled unpleasantly. “In a very safe place.”
“You know what the diary says about Leon Wallace, don’t you?”
“I don’t recall any such person,” Cross returned. He was becoming stiff and aggressive again.