“Let’s not go into details,” Shayne reproved him. “The least said about this diary, the better. If it disappears...” He shrugged and replaced it in his pocket. “According to the agreement Lucy is typing, I don’t collect a cent unless you get the estate.”
“What about Cunningham’s testimony?” Sims grated.
“I think he will play ball without the diary to contradict him. Let me worry about Cunningham.”
Lucy came in with two typed sheets. She closed the door and told Shayne: “Mr. Cunningham is outside.”
“Let him stay there until we get this thing signed. You and Sims can witness it.” Shayne passed his pen to Mrs. Meredith. “I’ve got you in a tight spot,” he reminded her. “I’ve been offered five grand to throw the estate in the other direction.”
She studied him coolly for a moment, read the document through, then signed her name. Shayne put his signature beneath hers. Lucy and Sims both signed as witnesses, and Shayne gave one copy to Mrs. Meredith. He folded the other and put it in his pocket.
He said to Lucy: “Now send Cunningham in. And you skip down to the newsstand and pick up a copy of the paper carrying the rescue story. He always keeps back copies for at least a week.”
Lucy went out. Leslie Cunningham strode into the office. He stopped on wide-spread feet and looked at the others.
Shayne said: “Let’s get this over fast before the others arrive. Quinlan is bringing two murder suspects with him and I’ve promised him enough to hang the guilty party. I’ve got Groat’s diary, Cunningham. As you know, it proves that Hawley died one day too soon for him to inherit his uncle’s estate. However, Mrs. Meredith is making it worth my while to see that she gets the money. Why don’t you and she talk the same sort of a deal over? Or maybe you already have an understanding.”
“Sure,” Cunningham said huskily. “We understand each other. You’ve got the diary, huh?”
“I’ve got it. And I’m going to see to it she gets the estate. Suit you?”
“Suits me.”
Shayne heard someone entering his outer office. He opened the door and said: “Come in, Mr. Hastings. I believe you know Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Sims. And Mr. Cunningham — the missing witness who is prepared to testify that Albert Hawley did not die until the fifth night after the ship was torpedoed.”
“Cunningham, eh?” Hastings took off his glasses and looked at the bronzed sailor. “Does he have Groat’s diary to back up his testimony? I understand it had disappeared.”
“It seems to have done just that,” said Shayne. “So that leaves Cunningham the only witness.” “By heavens, Shayne, I don’t—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of a plain-clothesman with Gerald Meany in tow. Behind them were Quinlan and Joel Cross.
Shayne greeted them with a wide grin, saying: “I’m sorry there aren’t enough chairs to go around, but this won’t take long.” He brought in two chairs from the outer office. “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can and we’ll see if we can figure things out.”
“What sort of hocus-pocus is this, Shayne?” Quinlan took the center of the floor and glared at the detective. “Who are all these people and how do they figure in murder?”
Shayne paused momentarily, then said: “I’ve been doing some more digging into this thing, Inspector. Remember the woman who came up to meet Groat the morning after he was murdered — Mrs. Leon Wallace from Littleboro? Her husband disappeared two years ago while working as a gardener for Mrs. Sarah Hawley. He wrote his wife a curious letter telling her not to look for him and enclosing ten grand. He promised her an additional grand every six months if she kept her mouth shut and didn’t raise a stink about his disappearance. She didn’t, and every six months since she has received the money in an envelope addressed by her husband and mailed in New Orleans. I have those envelopes here. I think laboratory tests will prove they were all addressed to her by Wallace at the time he disappeared — just prior to Albert Hawley’s induction into the army and while Mrs. Albert Hawley was in Reno getting a divorce. Does that suggest anything to you?”
Quinlan said gruffly: “I recall Mrs. Wallace claiming she had a phone call from Groat. Claimed he had information about her husband and asked her to come to see him.”
“That’s right. So it was quite evident that Albert Hawley, who was at home when Wallace disappeared, had some guilty knowledge which he confided to Groat before he died. Right?”
“What has all this to do with a couple of murders?”
“I think it’s at the bottom of them,” Shayne told him calmly. “As you must have guessed, it was Groat’s diary that I got from Drake last night after Cross had told his lawyer where to find it. I’ve checked the diary carefully and I admit Cross told the truth — no material for blackmail, or murder.”
Mrs. Meredith sighed and relaxed in her chair.
Lawyer Hastings stepped forward and demanded: “Does the diary back up Cunningham’s story about Hawley not dying until the fifth day?”
Quinlan roared: “Sit down. We’re talking about murder. Are you saying it wasn’t Cross, Shayne?”
“I’m afraid his arrest was a mistake,” said Shayne pleasantly, “except it did provide a lever to bring the diary into the open so I could get my hands on it. And Cross was safer in jail.”
“I told you it was a frame-up,” Cross interjected angrily. “That janitor’s identification was a phony.”
“I’m afraid something like that did happen, Inspector. Not that I meant to frighten Jake. He didn’t understand me. Right now, I’m convinced Meany is the man who visited his wife in my apartment.”
Hastings got up again. “I protest that unfounded accusation, Inspector. You and I were present when the Negro positively identified this other man. He can’t change his testimony at Shayne’s whim.”
“He’s right,” Quinlan raged. “We’ll never be able to prove it was Meany now.”
“I don’t think we’ll need to. I think we can prove that Mrs. Meany’s murderer also killed Jasper Groat. That’s the only possible motive for her death. She was expecting Groat and must have seen the murderer attack him after he arrived by taxi at the Hawley house. The murderer thought she was going to spill everything to me, so he had to get rid of her before she did.”
Lucy came in with the newspaper. Shayne took the folded paper from her and placed it, front page up, on his desk. It carried big headlines proclaiming the rescue of the drifting seamen, with a picture of Groat and Cunningham taken at the dock. There was a photograph of Albert Hawley in civilian clothes, evidently dug out of the newspaper morgue for the occasion.
Quinlan grew restive. “Beatrice’s husband knew she was coming to see you,” he growled. “We know he found your address scribbled on a pad in her room, and followed her immediately.”
Shayne said: “But let’s get back to Groat’s diary and the secret confided by the dying soldier which weighed so heavily on his conscience.
“Unfortunately, Groat doesn’t tell us what that secret was. He doesn’t even mention Leon Wallace’s name. See for yourself, Inspector.” He took the book out and tossed it carelessly to Quinlan.
An audible gasp escaped Mrs. Meredith’s lips. She sat erect, her eyes blazing defiantly at Shayne.
Jake Sims wet his lips and frowned, glancing quickly from Shayne to Cunningham who stood back with arms stolidly folded, dark brows drawn down and lips clamped together.
Hastings uttered an exclamation of surprise and stepped forward to peer over Quinlan’s shoulder as the inspector flipped the pages after glancing hurriedly at the entries.
“There it is,” said Hastings triumphantly. He pointed a finger at the line. “There’s the death story in black and white. H died quietly during the night. That must be Hawley. He was buried on the fifth day. He died the previous night, before his uncle died.” He looked at Shayne sharply. “I understood you to say Albert did not pass away until after his uncle died.”