The postman came with the early morning mail while Shayne was glancing over the report. Lucy took it and fished out a long envelope from Mrs. Wallace. She asked: “Shall I open it?”
Shayne said: “Hell, yes!” He gathered up the contents of Ames’ package and went into his inner office. Lucy followed him with the open envelope and laid it before him.
It contained four empty envelopes, all addressed in ink, to Mrs. Leon Wallace, and postmarked New Orleans at six-month intervals covering the past two years. There was also a faded photograph showing a man and woman standing close together with their arms interlocked. The man was tall and lean and dark. He hadn’t been more than twenty when the picture was taken. Shayne recognized the woman as Mrs. Wallace.
He studied it hungrily. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he glanced aside at Lucy with an odd grimace. He laid the picture beside the fresh one of Theodore Meredith and muttered: “No man can change that much in a few years.”
Lucy bit her lip and looked up from the photographs with wide eyes. “I didn’t know. Did you suspect that Theodore Meredith was really Leon Wallace?”
Shayne’s red brows were drawn down fiercely over questioning eyes. “It was a good hunch,” said Shayne, avoiding Lucy’s anxious gaze. “It would have explained a lot of things.”
He took a bottle of brandy from the desk drawer, poured a long drink and swallowed it. He sighed and reached for the four empty envelopes accompanying the photograph, then opened a drawer and brought out the original letter Wallace had written his wife at the time of his disappearance. He compared the handwriting with that of the other four and nodded gloomily. “The same handwriting and the same ink, by God, and all written at about the same time.”
He yanked his swivel chair forward and straightened up alertly. “This may be something, Lucy. I’m not an expert, but it’s my guess these envelopes were all addressed at the same time Wallace wrote that letter. Someone else has been mailing his wife those thousand-dollar bills in the pre-addressed envelopes. That means he hasn’t necessarily been around town to mail them. It means he isn’t necessarily alive. There’s no proof that he’s been alive for two years as the semi-annual payments seemed to indicate.”
Lucy stood silently beside his desk.
Shayne tugged at his left earlobe and a look of intense concentration settled over his face. He didn’t move for five full minutes. Then he said softly: “It could be.” He asked Lucy: “Have we still got a copy of the paper carrying the first story of the sea rescue — the day Cunningham and Groat were brought in?”
“I don’t think we have it here, Michael. There’s a copy in my apartment I’ve saved for the paper drive. Do you want—”
He cut her off with a swift gesture. “We’ve got other things to do first.” His doubled fist struck the desk. “That has to be it. It’s the only way things fit. We’re going to have bad news for Mrs. Wallace.”
“Is her husband dead, too?”
He nodded soberly. “I’m afraid he is.” His voice crackled with sudden energy. “Get me the St. Charles. Room 319.”
Lucy hurriedly called the number, asked for Mrs. Meredith’s room and handed him the instrument. “Mike Shayne talking,” he said briskly. “You’d better get over here in a hurry. Bring your lawyer if you want to.” He hesitated a moment before adding: “I have that diary — and it might be for sale.” He hung up and swung on Lucy. “Do you know how to reach Cunningham?”
“Yes. He gave me his telephone number yesterday.”
“Call him. Tell him I have the diary and we’re having a meeting in my office to decide what to do about it.”
Shayne sat back and thoughtfully rubbed his jaw while Lucy made the call from her desk. She came to the door and announced: “Cunningham is on his way over.”
Shayne said: “Get me Inspector Quinlan at Homicide.”
Lucy used her desk telephone. She buzzed Shayne who picked up his receiver and said heartily: “Good morning, Inspector.”
“What’s good about it?” barked Quinlan. “I was going to call you. What’s this about you assaulting a lawyer last night?”
“Drake?”
“He threatens to swear out a complaint against you.”
“Fine. Tell him to be sure he specifies what I took from him.”
“What’s it all about, Mike? I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Have you charged Cross with murder yet?”
“No. I don’t know about that janitor’s identification. Cross swears you put him up to it. One of my men had another talk with the Negro this morning, and showed him a picture of Gerald Meany and got him all confused. Right off he said Meany was the man. Then he got confused and denied it. You’ve got things so damned balled up I don’t believe we’ll get anywhere in court.”
Shayne said: “That’s too bad, Inspector. Will it square things if I hand you the case all sewed up in a knot?”
“Which case? Groat or Meany?”
“Both,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “That is, they’re the same one. Why don’t you pick up Meany and bring him and Cross to my office in half an hour?”
“More rabbits out of your hat?”
“You’ll be surprised. Call Lawyer Hastings and ask him to come over to see that his client’s rights are protected.” He hung up before Quinlan could ask more questions.
Chapter Eight
The Great Impersonation
The first to arrive were Mrs. Meredith and Jake Sims. Lucy ushered them in. Shayne said: “Get your notebook, Lucy.” Then he said, “Good morning,” to Mrs. Meredith, and nodded to Sims.
Mrs. Meredith was perfectly groomed and alert. She advanced toward him with narrowed eyes and asked sharply: “Where is the diary?”
He took it from his pocket and laid it on the table, waving her to a seat beside his desk. Lucy came in with her notebook and he said to his visitors: “Excuse me while I dictate a memorandum agreement. The date, Lucy. U-m-m...
“Agreement entered into this day between Mrs. Theodore Meredith and Michael Shayne relative to certain professional services performed and to be performed by said Michael Shayne in the matter of a legacy from the estate of the late Ezra Hawley which Mrs. Meredith claims and is desirous of acquiring.
“As payment for his professional services in substantiating her claim to the said estate, Mrs. Theodore Meredith hereby agrees to pay Michael Shayne the sum of ten thousand dollars if and when the estate legally comes into the possession of Mr. and/or Mrs. Theodore Meredith by due process of law.
“In the event that this claim is disproved and said estate does not accrue to Mrs. Theodore Meredith and/or her husband, it is further agreed that Michael Shayne’s fee for professional services in this matter shall be exactly no dollars and no cents.”
“What on earth makes you think I’ll sign that agreement?” demanded Mrs. Meredith.
Shayne said to Lucy: “Type it out in duplicate and bring it right in.” He turned to Mrs. Meredith. “You’ll sign it if you want to get your hands on a million or so dollars.” He opened the diary, flipped the pages to the entry concerning Albert Hawley’s death. “Hawley died the fourth night after the ship was torpedoed,” he pointed out. “Ezra Hawley died the next night. What does that do to your claim?”
Mrs. Meredith bit her underlip. She and Sims both leaned forward to look at the entry. Shayne held the book in his hands. He asked: “Do you think my services will be worth ten grand?”,
“What do you plan to do?” Sims asked. “Destroy the diary?”