“In dollars and cents?”
“What other medium of exchange will you consider?” Her eyes were bold and her smile provocative.
Shayne studied her gravely for a long moment. “Perhaps we could discuss that privately some other time, Mrs. Meredith. Right now… just to put me in a legal position… let’s agree that I am representing you in my efforts to learn what the diary says before it is published… and if I succeed you will pay me a thousand dollars for my services.”
“I agree,” she said promptly, still holding his gaze. “And if it should state in the diary that Albert died before his uncle… what then, Mr. Shayne?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” He got up and went to the door. “I’ll have my secretary type up a brief memo for you to sign.”
As he entered the outer office Lucy Hamilton snapped off the inter-com over which she had been listening and looked at him with an angry flush on her face.
“Exactly what medium of exchange do you and Mrs. Meredith have in mind, Michael Shayne?”
He grinned and told her, “A nice girl like you shouldn’t have the faintest idea what Mrs. Meredith and I have in mind, Lucy. Type up a memo retaining me to try and get a preview of the diary, and have her sign it.” He took a panama from a rack near the door and strode out while Lucy glared at his retreating back.
9
At The Steakhouse on Northeast 3rd Avenue, Shayne pushed in at the busy bar beside Timothy Rourke who was nursing a rye highball. Rourke glanced obliquely at him and shifted his weight to the other hip to make a couple more inches of room, and asked with interest, “How’d you make out with the Hawley clan?”
“I met them all… including Beatrice.” Shayne caught the bartender’s eye and lifted one ragged red eyebrow.
Rourke said, “U-m-m. I’ve heard rumors.”
“They’re all true,” Shayne told him flatly. The bartender set a four-ounce glass and an open bottle of cognac in front of him, and turned away for a glass of ice water. Shayne splashed liquor into the glass and asked, “Is Joel Cross around?”
“I saw him come in a few minutes ago.” Rourke twisted around to survey the crowded room and nodded toward a heavy-set young man with an aggressive crew-cut, wearing thick-lensed tortoiseshell glasses, who leaned against one of the booths, talking to four men eating lunch.”
“That’s our white hope of journalism, God help us. He’ll be completely insufferable if that pilot’s journal turns out to be as hot stuff as he thinks it is.”
“You don’t like Cross?”
Rourke shrugged thin shoulders and turned back to his drink. “He’s young,” he said indifferently. “He’ll learn.”
“I take it you haven’t read Groat’s diary.”
“No one has. It’s Joel’s very own exclusive scoop. He’s guarding it like the Kohinoor for fear some advance quotes will get printed.”
“One thing I wonder about it, Tim,” Shayne mused, taking a long appreciative sip of cognac and keeping his voice carefully casual. “What sort of arrangement has he made with Groat for publishing it? Specifically,” he went on quickly, “whether the rights have been signed, sealed and delivered… formally and irrevocably.”
A glint of interest appeared in Rourke’s eyes. He recognized Shayne’s carefully casual tone, and reacted to it. “He must have made some sort of arrangement with Groat else he wouldn’t have splashed that announcement over the front page today.”
Shayne took a swallow of ice water. “But I wonder whether it’s been formalized by the business office. Boil it down this way, Tim. Groat hasn’t been seen alive since seven-thirty last night. Has your paper a definite commitment from Groat, giving you legal publishing rights to the diary?”
The glint became more pronounced in Rourke’s eyes. “Hypothesizing that something has happened to Groat?”
“Keep this under your hat,” Shayne said quietly. “Groat is dead. Has been since about eight o’clock last night when he was supposed to show up at the Hawley place to keep an appointment with Beatrice. The simple question is: Does the News have authority to go ahead and publish the diary without further ado?”
“Does Joel know he’s dead?”
“It hasn’t been officially announced. Whoever knocked him over the head and threw his body in the Bay last night knows he’s dead.”
“Joel?” The glint in Rourke’s eyes had become a fervid glow.
Shayne shrugged. “You know him better than I do. Would he murder a guy for a scoop? Here’s what I mean,” he went on hastily before Rourke could reply. “Suppose Groat changed his mind about allowing publication of the diary yesterday afternoon… and told Cross it was all off. How would Cross react?”
“Joel would strangle his grandmother if she got in his way,” Rourke said grimly.
“But is the diary important enough?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it. Why don’t you ask Joel?”
“I will,” said Shayne, “in a minute.” He lifted his glass and studied it for a long moment. “Before I do I’d like to know one more thing about Cross.” He hesitated, frowning at the cognac to clarify his thoughts. “How important is money to Joel Cross? Per se? That is: If he had the choice of a good hunk of cash in hand as opposed to making a big splash journalistically… which way would he jump?”
Rourke shrugged. “It would depend, I suppose, on how big a piece of money and how important the journalistic splash. Why not lay it on the line, Mike? I suppose you’re wondering how much cash would induce Joel to give up his plan to print the diary?”
“Something like that.”
“Why, Mike?” Rourke clutched his forearm with talon fingers that bit into the redhead’s flesh. “Why do you want the diary suppressed? What’s your angle on it?”
“I didn’t say I wanted it suppressed. I happen to know there are certain parties who might be willing to pay a lot of money to prevent the diary from being printed. I’m wondering whether money or fame means more to Cross.”
Rourke said thoughtfully, “I don’t think there can be a positive answer to that. How much money… what degree of fame? For a million bucks, for instance, you can buy a damned newspaper.”
“Yeah,” Shayne muttered, “I know there are too many imponderables.” He sighed and finished his cognac, drank two gulps of water and pushed back from the bar. He looked back and saw that Cross had left the four men with whom he had been talking and was now seated alone at the rear booth where a waiter was setting a luncheon place for him. “Want to introduce me to your buddy?”
“Sure.” Timothy Rourke moved toward the back of the bar beside him, and asked in a low voice, “Shall I sit in?”
“I don’t think so, Tim. I’ll tell you the whole damned story as soon as I’ve got my finger on it.” He held back a little to let Rourke precede him to Joel Cross’s booth, where he stopped beside the younger reporter and said, “You’re being paged, Joel. If you’ve got any guilty secrets, clam up tight because this here individual is Mike Shayne.”
Cross turned a square aggressive face toward the detective and his upper lip lifted a trifle as he said, “I’ve heard about you,” in a tone that indicated the things he’d heard weren’t good. He had pale blue eyes behind the thick lenses, and he hesitated momentarily when Shayne grinned goodnaturedly and held out his hand, explaining, “I asked Tim to introduce me.”
Cross said, “Why?” and reluctantly held out a square hand. The flesh was hard and cold. Shayne let go of it quickly and slid into the seat opposite Cross without waiting to be asked. He didn’t answer the question, but asked instead, “Have a drink with me?”
Cross said, “I never touch the stuff,” and persisted, “Why did you want to meet me?”
Shayne settled his forearms on the table and hunched heavy shoulders forward, glancing obliquely up at Rourke who still hesitated there.
Rourke raised one eyebrow expressively and said, “You two have fun together,” then turned and strolled back to the bar.
Cross sat solidly erect across from Shayne with his shoulders precisely squared, his myopic eyes studying the redhead with open hostility.