Shayne groaned and took another drink. Maybe he was all wet. Maybe he didn’t know a damned thing about anything. Maybe he wasn’t all wet, by God! Maybe Cross was doing a slick job of lying.
Shayne said harshly: “Are you willing to back up what you say by letting me read the diary?”
“No. I’m not interested in whether you believe me or not. Why should I prove anything to you?”
“To keep yourself out of a murder frame.” His face was taut and grim. He got up and went to the wall speaking tube, lifted it and said: “Jake — this is Shayne. Come up here at once.”
“Yassuh, Mist’ Shayne. Ah be right up.”
Shayne whirled to face Cross. “Men have burned on less evidence than I can produce against you.” He sat down again. “Get smart, Cross. The inspector is looking for a murderer who answers your general description. If Jake decides you’re the man, all hell won’t change his identification.”
Cross fidgeted in his chair. “This is preposterous,” he burst out.
Jake knocked timidly on the door. Shayne stayed in front of him so that he couldn’t see Cross. He said: “You let a man into my room this afternoon, Jake, and a girl was murdered. If you identify this man now, the police won’t do anything to you for letting him in.”
“You’re coaching him,” shouted Cross. “You’re telling him to say it was me.”
Jake rolled his eyes at Cross when Shayne stepped aside. His old eyes sidled to Shayne, then back at Cross. “Looks lak him all right. Yassuh, sho does. Ah reckon thass him. How come you-all kotch him so fast, Mist’ Shayne?”
“This is an outrage,” Cross began, stopped when he heard a loud rap on the door.
Shayne said softly, “Turn the diary over to me...” then opened the door.
Inspector Quinlan strode in, followed by Lawyer Hastings. Quinlan shot a quick glance at Cross and demanded: “What are you doing here.”
Jake, standing close to Shayne, said in a quavering voice: “Dat’s him, Mist’ Policeman. Ah seen ’im come up heah jest lak I done told.” Shayne gritted his teeth and shook his head at Jake, but the aged Negro had his cue and was determined to clear himself by identifying Cross as the afternoon visitor.
“Ah did’n’ mean nothin’ wrong lettin’ ’im in heah dis afternoon, boss,” he told the inspector earnestly. “Ah sho didn’ know he was gonna kill dat gal.”
“What’s all this about?” Quinlan demanded of Shayne.
“It’s a frame-up.” Cross’ voice trembled with anger. “Shayne put that janitor up to saying he saw me here this afternoon. It’s a lie. I wasn’t here. I don’t know a damned thing about the woman who was murdered!”
“A frame-up, eh?” Quinlan scowled at Shayne. “I’ll book you, so help me God, if you’re pulling a fast one. And you, too.” He whirled on the janitor. “Do you know you can go to jail for this?”
“Nossuh. Yo’ ain’ gonna do nothin’ to me now after Ah done said it’s him. Kin he, Mist’ Shayne?”
Shayne said gently: “Don’t worry, Jake. The inspector just wants to be sure.”
“This is excellent,” said Hastings, stepping forward briskly. “Most fortunate that you have apprehended Mrs. Meany’s murderer, Mr. Shayne. You’ll release my client at once,” he demanded of the inspector.
“Looks as though we haven’t much on him now.” Quinlan admitted. He said to Shayne: “We’ve got Gerald Meany downstairs. Brought him over to see if the janitor could identify him. He was picked up half drunk in a joint not far from here. He swears he didn’t come here this afternoon — doesn’t remember it, anyway. He admits he started out to follow his wife, but stopped for a drink and doesn’t remember anything else very clearly. If your man has already identified this fellow...”
“But it’s a lie! He didn’t actually identify me. Not until Shayne told him to. Ask him yourself,” Cross challenged.
“How about it?” Quinlan turned to Jake. “Give it to me straight. Did Mr. Shayne tell you to say this was the man?”
“Nossuh,” Jake said earnestly. “He did’n’ say nothin’ lak dat. Nossuh.”
“All right,” said Quinlan shortly, turning to a plainclothesman lounging in the doorway. “Go downstairs and release Meany. He’s in no condition to drive. You’d better take him home.”
Chapter Seven
Infamous Last Words
Inspector Quinlan said to Shayne: “Now give what you’ve got on this bird.”
“Of all the God-blasted frauds!” Cross shouted.
“Remember I told you about him planning to publish Groat’s diary in the Item,” said Shayne.
“That’s right, you did.” Quinlan looked at Cross with new interest “You pointed out that he was one of the few who might have had a motive for killing Groat because of the diary.”
“You’ll have to do some work,” Shayne told him. “I’m handing him to you on the Meany murder. I presume he had to get rid of her because she knew too much about last night.”
“Is that the way it was?” Quinlan threw at Cross.
The reporter said stiffly: “I’ll have a nice case of false arrest if you go ahead with this. I never saw Mrs. Meany. She asked me to come here this afternoon, but was apparently murdered before I got here.”
“Don’t forget,” Shayne reminded him, “to explain about her calling you at four-thirty and you not getting here until seven.”
“I’ve already told you I was busy with some work.”
Quinlan raised his frosty eyebrows. “Do you still claim you aren’t the man the janitor let in?”
“I not only claim I’m not, but deny it emphatically.”
“That’s your story,” Shayne said blandly, “but you can’t prove it. Frankly, Inspector, I like him for both jobs a lot better than Gerald Meany.”
“He is more the type,” Quinlan agreed. “Meany seems pretty much of a weakling. And there won’t be any unwritten law to mess up this case.”
“Dammit,” Cross protested, “stop discussing me as though you were deciding on which horse to back in the fifth.”
“Where were you at eight o’clock last night?” Quinlan asked.
Cross scowled and tightened his lips. He didn’t reply.
“Did you follow Groat out to the Hawley home, or did the girl call you ahead of time to warn you he was coming?”
Cross continued his stubborn silence. Quinlan made an angry gesture toward the door and gave an order to one of his men. “Take him in and book him on an open charge.”
When Cross was out of the room, Quinlan said: “I don’t like this too much. If your janitor messed up his identification and it was Meany who was here, we’ll never prove it now. Hastings will tear down any story Jake might tell in court.” He got up and picked up the brandy bottle, gauged the meager contents and emptied it. He set it down and said soberly: “Frankly, I think you’re pulling one on him. I think the janitor is saying what you told him to say.”
Shayne started to protest, but Quinlan waved for silence. “I’ve worked with you before, Shayne. Cross may be our man. But if he isn’t,” he went on wearily, “and if you did fix that janitor’s testimony to place him here, you’ve practically handed Meany his freedom on a silver platter. And God help you if you’ve done that.”
“If he isn’t the killer he’ll be safer in jail tonight,” Shayne argued, “because someone who’s already pulled two murders is still after Groat’s diary. And he suspects Cross has it.”
“I’d like to have a look at it,” Quinlan muttered. “Any idea where Cross has it stashed?”
“All I could get out of him was that it’s in a safe place.” Shayne got up and stretched. “Aren’t you ready to call it a day with Cross locked up?”