HEROISM AT SEA
It was an excited and effusive announcement that feature writer Joel Cross had made arrangements with Mr. Jasper Groat for the exclusive publication of Groat’s personal journal kept during those harrowing days at sea while he and two companions drifted helplessly on an open life raft after their plane crashed.
The announcement contained such phrases as: Authentic account of heroism on the high seas… vivid first-hand narrative of suffering and near-despair… what ordinary men say and think when faced with almost inevitable Death… a record of the last words of One Who Did Not Come Back… the simple story of a burial at sea that will wring the heart-strings of every reader…
Shayne folded the paper with a frown and got into his car. The whole thing was out in the open now. Anyone reading the News, with knowledge of the importance of the actual time of Albert Hawley’s death, would realize that Groat’s diary held the key to a fortune. As he drove east on Flagler toward his office he wondered if Joel Cross was yet aware of the dynamite contained in the pages of the diary.
Lucy Hamilton looked up with a frown puckering her smooth forehead when he entered his office. “Chief Gentry just called, Michael. You’re to call him. And Mrs. Groat telephoned earlier. She’s frantic and wants to know what you’re doing about finding her husband.”
Shayne shook his head soberly. “Not very much. I’m afraid we’d better give it to the police.”
“What do you think has happened to him, Michael?”
He said harshly, “I think he’s dead.”
He went into the inner office, circled his desk and opened the second drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a bottle of cognac. It was Three-Star John Exshaw, privately imported from France by a local dealer, which Tim Rourke had introduced to him recently, and his gaze dwelt pleasurably on the label as he carried it to the water cooler and fitted two paper cups together, filled the inner one almost to the brim and ran a cup of cold water to accompany it.
Carrying the cups to his desk he ranged them in front of him, sat down and took a deliberate sip of cognac, savoring the taste happily before letting it slide down his throat and chasing it with a sip of water. Then he lifted his phone and dialed Chief Will Gentry’s private number at police headquarters.
Gentry’s gruff voice answered and he said, “Mike Shayne, Will.”
“Mike! What’s with you and a man named Jasper Groat?”
Shayne hesitated a moment. “I’d like to find him.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Groat asked me to last night when she became worried about his not returning home.”
“Didn’t return from where?”
“Mrs. Groat didn’t know where he was headed when he left a little before eight,” Shayne said truthfully. “But I’ve been doing some digging and I can make a guess.”
“Make it,” said Will Gentry.
“I don’t know that I’m ready to, Will. What’s your interest?”
“We’ve got his body,” Gentry said. “At least… a body with identification indicating it’s Jasper Groat. His wife is on her way to the morgue right now to make a definite identification.”
Shayne’s mouth was dry. He took two long swallows of cognac to rectify that.
“Where and when was he found, Will?”
“In the water just a while ago. Just offshore from Coral Gables. Knocked on the head and dead at least twelve hours. Now it’s your turn.”
“One more question, Will. Anywhere near where Bayside Drive dead-ends at the Bay?”
“Hold it.” Shayne drank more cognac and listened to a mumble of voices at the other end of the wire. Then Gentry said, “Less than a quarter of a mile. That mean anything?”
Shayne said, “Probably. The Hawley estate is on Bayside Drive near the water. I have information that Groat was supposed to call on a member of the Hawley family at eight last night… but never showed up. You might try checking taxis for information on that. He didn’t own a car.”
“Hawley?” Gentry’s voice was ruminative. “The rich ones? With a son who died on a life raft with Groat?”
Shayne said, “You’re getting the picture. They all deny that Groat was there last night. Look, Will.” Shayne’s voice became urgent. “Were there any papers on Groat? Anything like a diary, for instance?”
“Nothing like that. Just a wallet with identification. Enough cash in it to rule out robbery. What else can you give me, Mike?”
“Nothing else right now. I mean it, Will,” Shayne went on hastily when he heard an angry snort from the other end. “This changes things and I’ve got to move fast. Follow up on the Hawley end, and I’ll be in touch.” He replaced the telephone before Gentry could protest further, and sat very still for a moment, scowling across the office.
One down and one to go. With Groat out of the way, that left Cunningham as the only living person who could testify to the exact date of Albert Hawley’s death. Cunningham and Groat’s diary.
He lifted the pair of nested paper cups and drank off the rest of John Exshaw’s excellent cognac, turned his head slowly to look at Lucy Hamilton as she appeared in the doorway.
“I listened in on Will,” she said breathlessly. “Isn’t it terrible about Jasper? Poor Mrs. Groat.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “No matter how long I work for you,” she said angrily, “I can’t get used to corpses popping up all over. I keep thinking about Mrs. Groat going through all that period when she knew her husband’s plane had crashed and giving up all hope for him. And then he did come back to her safely… only to be murdered a few hours later. It just isn’t right, Michael.” Two tears rolled down her cheeks as she advanced toward him.
Shayne said, “Lots of things in this world aren’t right, angel.”
“Do you think it had something to do with Mr. Wallace? About Mr. Groat calling Mrs. Wallace and making a date to see her this morning to tell her something important. Is that why someone killed Jasper Groat last night?”
Shayne shrugged his shoulders and said mildly, “All we can do right now is a lot of guessing. It stands to reason that if Albert Hawley had any guilty knowledge about Wallace’s disappearance last year, he might have confided it to Groat when he knew he was dying on the life raft. From Groat’s wife and Cunningham, I gathered that Groat was some sort of religious fanatic who would feel it his bounden duty to reveal any deathbed revelations made to him. But how many people knew he had telephoned Mrs. Wallace and arranged to see her this morning?” He stood up abruptly behind his desk, his gaunt face tightening. “That’s one more question we have to get an answer to.”
Lucy started to say something further, but turned her head toward the outer office with a questioning look as she heard the outer door open. She moved out into the reception room, and Shayne heard her say, “Is there something I can do for you?” as she closed the inner door behind her.
Shayne stood undecided behind his desk for a moment, glowering down at the two paper cups. He picked them up after a moment and carried them across to the water cooler to dispose of them. Turning, he saw Lucy stepping back inside his office again.
“Two people to see you, Michael. Jake Sims and a woman. A Mrs. Meredith, he said. Shall I send them away?”
“On the contrary,” Shayne told her happily. “I can’t think of any two people I would rather see.”
“But you don’t like Jake,” she reminded him. “Don’t you remember a couple of years ago…?”
“I don’t have to like Jake to want to see him,” Shayne told her, moving back to his desk and dropping into the swivel chair. “Up to this moment I’ve been wondering how I was going to make a buck out of this affair. Does Mrs. Meredith look as though she has any bucks to spare?” He looked at Lucy hopefully.
She tightened her lips and said, “Mrs. Meredith looks to me as though she is in the habit of paying off her obligations in some other coin instead of United States currency, Michael Shayne. Do you still want to see her?”
“More than ever,” Shayne told her heartily. “After all, we’re not exactly broke. Send her in, Lucy.”