“There’s no time now. Just follow my lead.”
He went back to the cab and asked the driver: “Want a fare?”
“Sorry, bo. I’m taken. Party just went into the newspaper office a minute and asked me to wait.”
Shayne casually took out a pack of cigarettes and offered the driver one. He struck a match for both and asked: “Gas rationing bother you guys much these days?”
“It ain’t too bad. Can’t do much — here he comes now.”
Shayne hurried forward and got in the lawyer’s way. He asked: “Are you Drake?”
“I am.” Drake looked Shayne over and said: “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.”
Shayne said: “You don’t.” He saw Lucy and Mrs. Groat coming toward them, said: “It’s about a little matter of stolen property.”
“Stolen property?” Drake drew himself up. “I don’t know...”
“Belonging to Mrs. Jasper Groat,” Shayne said harshly. “That diary you just picked up. Mrs. Groat is here and she wants it.”
Lucy and Mrs. Groat stood a little aside, watching them.
The lawyer wet his lips and looked at them, bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s right here in your coat pocket,” Shayne snapped. He took a quick step forward and pinned Drake’s arms to his pouchy body with one hand, groped in his coat pocket and withdrew a leather-bound book which he tossed to Mrs. Groat. “Do you identify that as your dead husband’s property?”
“See here,” Drake wheezed indignantly, “you can’t get away with this. I’ll call an officer.”
“That’ll be just fine,” said Shayne, releasing him. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to call the police in on this. It’ll make a nice story — concealing stolen property and suppressing evidence in a murder case. Go right ahead. Is that it, Mrs. Groat?”
“Yes, oh, yes, This is Jasper’s.” Mrs. Groat was scanning the pages in the dim light, tears splashing her glasses.
“Hang onto it,” Shayne advised her grimly. “If Drake calls the police, all you have to do is prove it belonged to your husband. How about it?” he demanded of Drake. “Do you want to tell the police why you’re trying to keep Mrs. Groat’s property from her?”
“I... I didn’t realize...”
“Fair enough,” Shayne interrupted. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and we won’t make any complaint this time.” He turned away and took Lucy and Mrs. Groat by the arm, led them swiftly to his car and trotted around to get under the wheel.
“Michael!” Lucy gasped as he whirled away. “You can’t get away with it, can you?”
“I have, though.” He grinned at her. “Mrs. Groat is my client. You can’t arrest a man for protecting his client.”
He drove speedily toward the French Quarter and stopped in front of their apartment building. He turned to Mrs. Groat and said: “Let me have the diary for tonight. You stay in Lucy’s apartment tonight, and keep your door locked! Don’t open it for anyone!”
Lucy grasped his arm. “Mike! I’m frightened for you.”
Shayne leaned over and kissed her, gave her a little shove and said: “Beat it. I’ve got to go home and settle down to some solid reading.”
Back at his own apartment, he bolted the door and scowled curiously at the black book in his hands. His lips worked as though they tasted something good. He opened it to the fly-leaf and read, Property of Jasper Groat, Third Engineer, S. S. Okeechobee.
He removed his hat and coat, settled himself with a glass of brandy and balanced the diary on his knees. He flipped the pages swiftly until he came to the date of the torpedoing of the S. S. Okeechobee. Here he slowed down, reading each page carefully.
On the third day, Groat had written: H is bad today. Vomited some blood after breakfast. I prayed for him but he wouldn’t join me. Think he will die soon if not rescued. C sneaked some extra water at dawn. Pretended I didn’t see him...
Later that same day he noted: H weaker. He repeated Lord’s prayer with me. I think he will find God...
On the morning of the fourth day: H very bad. Feel sure he can’t live long. Something preys on his conscience. Trust he will turn to God before the end...
Late in the afternoon of that day: H knows he is dying. I read from the Psalms and he received comfort. He is burning with fever. I think he wishes to confide in me...
On the morning of the fifth day: (Shayne sustained himself with a long drink of brandy and a deep breath before reading this entry). H died quietly during the night. We held a simple service this morning and gave his body to the sea. C pretended to sneer, but I think he was affected. I have a great weight on my conscience and must struggle with it. C crept close to us last night as H passed on. Certain he heard a portion of dying man’s confession, but don’t know how much. He looked at me curiously this morning and has tried to draw me out. I must ask God to help me decide...
Shayne exhaled slowly and leaned back. Albert Hawley had died on the fourth night — before Ezra Hawley had passed on. Mrs. Meredith was not legally entitled to one penny from the estate.
He read on slowly. There were vague references to the “dying confession” and “arguments with C,” and a simple notation: C argues we would be fools to let this opportunity pass. I pray God for strength to withstand this temptation.
Groat had not trusted Albert’s secret to the pages of his diary. There was no mention of Leon Wallace, nothing to indicate what Albert Hawley’s dying statement had been.
Shayne reached the airport at 8:45 the next morning, and went into an immediate huddle with officials of the airline. By showing his credentials and talking fast, he managed to get reluctant consent to pick up the package from Ben Ames in Chicago.
The big airliner swooped in gracefully and on time, and at ten minutes after nine he had the parcel tucked securely under his arm.
He entered his office twenty minutes later. Lucy was walking up and down the front office. She whirled on him and said: “I’ve been trying to call you. Your phone didn’t answer. I worried all night — couldn’t sleep.”
Shayne patted her cheek. “We’re sitting in the driver’s seat,” he assured her heartily. “Morning mail in yet?”
She looked at her watch. “The first delivery is due now.”
Shayne threw his hat at a hatrack and began ripping the wax seals from the parcel. His eyes glowed hotly as he separated two heavy cardboard sheets and drew out a glossy print of a man standing in a doorway glaring at a camera.
Lucy wrinkled her forehead quizzically as Shayne laid down the photograph and explained to her: “This is a shot of Theodore Meredith in Chicago. He’s the man Mrs. Meredith married after divorcing Albert Hawley.” Shayne grinned. “What’s he got that would attract her?”
The picture showed Theodore Meredith to be a rather nondescript man. He might have been twenty or thirty-five, with the sort of plump features that would remain boyish-looking well up to middle age. Shayne regarded it with moody dissatisfaction, then picked up a terse typewritten report included by Ben Ames.
The report was singularly unenlightening. It told him that Meredith held a minor executive position with a garden seed concern, and his manner of living suggested some outside income beside his salary. The Merediths had moved to that address immediately after their marriage some two years previously, and in the short time allotted to him, Ames had been unable to locate anyone who had known either of them prior to their marriage. Ames ended his report by asking Shayne to wire if he wanted any more dope on Meredith.