Matie Meredith did not waste time reading further. She stepped back and said bitterly, “I think I’ve known the truth all along. I’ve kidded myself trying to think the diary would say otherwise, but I think I knew I was kidding myself.”
Sims was still leaning over Shayne’s shoulder, reading from the page. He reached for the book with clawlike fingers, croaking with suppressed rage, “Lemme read a little more. Maybe I can…”
“Nuh-uh.” Shayne pushed him back ungently, closing the diary and placed it in his hip pocket. “I earned my grand by giving you this prepublication look at the diary. Nothing was said about letting it out of my possession. Either of you in a mood for that drink now?”
“I’ll have one. Thank you,” said Matie, moving to the sofa and sitting down to cross her ankles pensively. “Scotch on the rocks?” She regarded him steadily with a searching, probing gaze.
“One Scotch on the rocks,” Shayne repeated affably. “You, Jake?”
Sims shook his head. “I think I’d better stay sober to see what sort of proposition you have in mind.”
There was a light rap on the door as Shayne nodded. He went to it and admitted Lucy Hamilton, bareheaded and carrying a bulky leather bag on a strap over her shoulder. He said, “Just in time, angel. I’m taking orders for drinks.”
“I didn’t know it was a party.” Her brown eyes glittered as she took in Mrs. Meredith apparently making herself very much at home on the sofa. “You told me to bring my notebook.”
“So I did,” agreed Shayne.
“So it’s business,” she said a little too sharply. “And you know I never drink during business hours.”
Shayne said, “Sit down, then, and make like a secretary.” He carried a bottle of Scotch into the kitchen and reappeared after a moment with two cubes of ice floating in amber liquid which he handed to Matie.
Then he seated himself comfortably and poured himself a moderate portion of cognac, explained to Lucy, “Our client has just read the bad news in Groat’s diary. Her ex-husband died in the night preceding his uncle’s death. Thus he did not inherit, and not one cent of Ezra Hawley’s fortune will be legally passed on to Mrs. Meredith. I think the situation is clear to all of us.” He paused to glance at Matie and Sims.
She sipped from her glass and kept her eyes downcast without replying, while Sims prowled nervously about the room and exclaimed, “If no one else has seen that crucial entry… what’s to prevent our destroying it here and now? With it out of the way, Cunningham is perfectly willing to swear to anything that will assure Mrs. Meredith getting the money.”
Shayne said dryly, “I’m sure Pete Cunningham is perfectly willing to perjure himself to help Matie out. But don’t forget that Joel Cross, the reporter, has read the diary.”
“But he murdered the Hawley daughter, didn’t he? Right here in this room? I heard all about it on a newscast. His testimony won’t bear much weight if he’s in jail accused of murder.”
“I don’t know how long he’ll stay in jail. On the other hand,” Shayne went on briskly, “we have no reason to suppose he knew the importance of the date when he skimmed through the diary, and it probably made little impression on him. So it’s quite possible he wouldn’t dispute the date later on… without the diary to back him up.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Sims eagerly. “So let’s burn the thing here and now.”
“We can hardly do that. It’s Mrs. Groat’s property now.”
“Nuts!” snorted Sims. “What’s it worth to her? A few thousand bucks, perhaps, that the News will pay for permission to print it. We can pay her double or triple whatever they offer.”
“There is that,” agreed Shayne. “You probably can make a deal with her for cash. But there’s still my conscience to consider. Don’t forget, I’ve read the diary… and I realize the importance of the date of Hawley’s death even if Cross doesn’t.”
There was a little silence in the room. Then Matie Meredith lifted her head and opened her eyes wide and asked clearly, “What is the current quotation for Michael Shayne’s conscience?”
He said, “Let’s not be crude about it. There’s my license to consider as well as my conscience. My position here in Miami.”
“All right,” said Sims bitterly. “How much, Shayne? You’ve got us over a barrel and we know it as well as you do.”
“How right you are,” said Shayne affably. “So I’ve been trying to figure out a way to protect myself and at the same time do Mrs. Meredith a favor and make a buck for my declining years. Got your notebook, Lucy?”
She had been sitting at the table, stiff and silent, all the time they had been talking, and now she nodded and patted her bag but made no move to open it. “You can’t do it, Michael,” she said flatly. “It’s illegal and dishonest to suppress the evidence that’s in the diary. No amount of money in the world is enough to pay you to do a thing like that.”
He said lightly, “Suppose you let me decide that, Lucy.”
“I won’t let you do it,” she raged. “If you’re so infatuated with that woman smirking there on your couch that you’re willing to sell your soul to her for a mess of pottage… Well, I won’t let you do it. You’ve all been talking and acting as though I weren’t here,” she stormed on, her voice choked with tears. “Well, I’m a witness, too, don’t forget that. I’ll get up in court and testify that Albert died before his uncle. And no one can stop me.”
Shayne said, “Cut the histrionics, and get out your notebook, Lucy. You’re still on my payroll, remember? I want you to take this down in shorthand exactly as I give it to you. We can discuss the ethics of it later.”
While she hesitated, glaring at him mutinously, he added in an unexpectedly gentle tone, “You’ve worked with me for a long time, angel, and you’ve seen me cut corners before and always come out on top. Trust me a little bit. This is the big payoff, damn it. The one I’ve been waiting for a long time. Don’t spoil it with your little-girl tantrums. You’ll be riding around in a baby-blue convertible wearing mink if we pull this off.” His eyes glittered queerly as he stared her down. “Get out your notebook.”
She bit her underlip hard, and then dropped her gaze. Her fingers were unsteady as she undid the snap on her bag, groped inside to withdraw a stenographer’s notebook and half a dozen pencils. But they became steady as she opened the book in front of her and selected a pencil.
“This has to be very carefully worded,” Shayne explained dispassionately, “so I’ll have a document that will stand up in court after it’s all over and not lose my license on account of it. Let’s see now.” He took a sip of cognac and leaned back and studied the ceiling and began dictating.
“Memorandum of agreement between Mrs. Matie Meredith of Chicago, Illinois, and Michael Shayne, private detective, Miami, Florida, this date. Paragraph.
“Mrs. Meredith, the divorced wife of Albert Hawley and his legal heir, hereby retains Michael Shayne in his licensed profession as private detective to act for her in securing the necessary evidence to prove in court that her ex-husband was the legal heir to his uncle, Ezra Hawley, on said Ezra Hawley’s death.
“If Michael Shayne is successful in his endeavor, and if Albert Hawley is declared Ezra Hawley’s legal heir by a probate court and thereby inherits Ezra Hawley’s estate, then, for his invaluable services in bringing about this desired end, Mrs. Matie Meredith agrees to pay Michael Shayne one-quarter of Ezra Hawley’s estate… um… after deduction of inheritance taxes. Make that clear, Lucy, that my one-quarter share shall be based on the net amount after deduction of State and Federal taxes. Don’t you think that’s fair, Matie?” he added easily as Lucy’s pencil ceased racing over her shorthand pad.
“I think it’s highway robbery,” she choked out. “A quarter of the whole thing? My God. There’ll be over a million after taxes.”