“I told you… a telephone call.”
“From whom? And what happens then? If we only knew what to expect, we’d be prepared.”
“I’ve told you several times,” he reminded her patiently, “that you’re better off without knowing ahead. You’d only argue about it if you knew.” He glanced at his watch as he set the cup down. “Besides, it may not come off at all. If the call doesn’t come through pretty soon…”
At that moment the instrument at his elbow rang. He snatched it up and said, “Shayne speaking.”
A man’s voice said, “Ned Frazier told me to call you as soon as a lawyer named Drake came to visit Joel Cross.”
“Right. Is Drake there?”
“Just went in to see Cross.”
“Hang around the entrance until I get there. About five minutes. Do you know me by sight?”
“I’ve seen you around.”
“Good.” Shayne slammed the phone down and got to his feet, telling the two women, “Come along down to my car.”
He hustled them out of the apartment and down through the lobby to his sedan parked near the entrance. He put Mrs. Groat in the back seat, told Lucy, “Get in front with me. You may have to do some driving.”
As he drove rapidly toward the city jail, he explained to her, “I’m going to park in front of the jail and wait for a man to come out, and then follow him. If he goes on foot, I’ll follow the same way, and you mosey along behind in the car without letting me out of sight.”
“Who’s the man, Michael?”
“Alfred Drake. A lawyer. I don’t know what he looks like myself.”
He said no more, but concentrated on his driving, and a few minutes later pulled into the curb in front of the jail in a spot marked Official Parking Only.
As he got out under a street light, a toothy man wearing a faded gray sweater and a cap sauntered forward. “Aren’t you Mike Shayne?”
“Right.”
“I’m Tinkham. With Frazier. Your man’s still inside. He arrived in a cab.”
Shayne nodded, moving back to stand beside his car where his features were shaded. The private detective moved with him, and said, “Drake’s middle-aged. Gray mustache cut short and a panama hat. Blue serge suit and a potbelly. Five-ten. About a hundred-eighty.”
Shayne nodded and got out cigarettes. Tinkham took one from the pack, and they smoked quietly. Inside the car beside him, Lucy put her hand through the open window and touched his arm, and whispered, “Why did you want Mrs. Groat along, Michael? I don’t see…”
He said, “Just follow my lead and you will.”
A man came down the steps from the jail. Tinkham nudged Shayne and said, “That’s him,” and walked away briskly.
Drake stepped to the curb and looked up and down the street for a cab. Shayne unobtrusively circled around behind his car and slid under the wheel. A cruising taxi pulled up at the lawyer’s signal, and he got in.
Shayne started his motor and waited until the taxi started to turn the next corner, then swung out behind it and flicked on his lights. He followed along a full block behind until the taxi turned south on Biscayne Boulevard and stopped in front of the News Tower.
Drake was getting out as he cruised slowly past, and he edged in to the curb between two parked cars, nodding with satisfaction when he saw the cab did not pull away.
He cut his motor and told Lucy, “This is it. I think Drake will be coming back out in a minute. I’m going back to his cab and wait. As soon as you see him come out, bring Mrs. Groat back to me with you. I’m going to need her.”
He sauntered back to the cab with its flag down and motor idling, and asked the driver, “Want a fare?”
“Sorry, bo. I’m taken. Party just went into the News asked me to wait.”
Shayne leaned on the door and got out a pack of cigarettes and offered the driver one. He said, “Thanks, but I don’t smoke. Quit two months ago… just like that.” He snapped his fingers loudly. “I read this here book, see? How to Quit Smoking. By some guy named Breen, or something like that. You know what?”
“Sure,” said Shayne. “You quit smoking. Same man has recently written another How to Quit Drinking. That one I’m staying away from like poison.”
He heard footsteps on the concrete behind him. He turned and stood solidly in the lawyer’s way. “Are you Drake?”
“I am.” Drake looked him over and added, “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 and said, “There’s a little matter of stolen property, Mr. Drake,” making his voice loud and hard.
“Stolen property?” The lawyer drew himself up stiffly. “I don’t know what…”
“Belonging to Mrs. Jasper Groat,” Shayne continued harshly. “That diary you just picked up in the News office. This is Mrs. Groat who demands the return of her property.”
The lawyer blinked at Mrs. Groat and looked bewildered. “I don’t understand at all.”
“The hell you don’t,” snarled Shayne. “It’s right here in your coat pocket.” He took a quick step forward and pinned Drake’s arms to his paunchy body, reaching down with his left hand to grab the top of a leather-bound book protruding from Drake’s side coat pocket.
He released Drake and shoved him back, handing the book to Mrs. Groat and asking her, “Do you identify this as being your dead husband’s property, Mrs. Groat?”
“This is an outrage,” wheezed Drake. “The News has purchased publication rights in that diary. I have every right…”
“Not purchased, Drake. Nothing has been signed and not a penny has changed hands to validate the transaction. Do you identify it, Mrs. Groat?”
“Oh, yes. This is Jasper’s.” The widow was scanning the pages under the street light with tears in her eyes.
“You can’t resort to violence,” protested Drake. “I’ll call an officer and have you arrested.”
“That’ll be just fine,” said Shayne indifferently. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to have the police in on this. It’ll make a nice story… concealing stolen property and suppressing evidence in a murder case. Go right ahead and call a cop. And you hold onto that diary in the meantime,” he told Mrs. Groat. “It belongs to you and you have a perfect right to it. Are you calling the police?” he demanded of Drake.
“I’m afraid… I… I guess I didn’t fully realize…”
“Fair enough,” said Shayne, turning away and taking Lucy and Mrs. Groat firmly by their arms and leading them back to his car. He helped them in, then trotted around and got under the wheel and whirled away while Drake still stood on the sidewalk looking after him undecidedly.
“Michael!” gasped Lucy. “You can’t get away with it, can you? Mr. Groat did agree to let them publish it.”
“I have got away with it,” he told her cheerfully. “Don’t forget I just earned a thousand-dollar fee from Mrs. Meredith. That’ll help bail me out if Drake decides to prefer charges… which I don’t think he will.”
He made a U-turn on the Boulevard and drove back northward in the outer lane, glancing aside as he passed the News building again, and seeing Alfred Drake just getting into his taxi.
He stopped in front of Mrs. Groat’s apartment building, and said, “I need the diary just for tonight, Mrs. Groat. Do you trust it to me?”
“Of course, Mr. Shayne.” She put the book in his hand.
“You go in with her, Lucy.” Shayne put his arm tightly about her slender shoulders and grinned at the look of fright on her face. He bent to brush her lips reassuringly with his, and said, “See that she’s securely locked in before you leave, angel, and you keep your door locked tonight, Mrs. Groat. Don’t let anyone in on any pretext. If you have any phone calls or any callers, refer them to me.”
Back in his own sitting room, he double-locked-the door and laid the leather-bound book on the center table, staring down at it with pursed lips, working them as though he tasted something good. He opened it to the flyleaf and read in boldly legible script: The Private Journal of Jasper Groat.