“Sure. I’ll get to him, Mike. How fast and how much do you want to lay on the line?”
“There’s a plane leaving Chicago tonight. Get the pic and anything else you can on that plane and you’ll be a C-note richer.”
“Can do,” Ames assured him. “Air express to you in New Orleans?”
“Right.” Shayne gave his address and hung up.
There was a gnawing sensation in his stomach. He recognized the sign. He took a drink of brandy as an antidote. He was beginning to move now. The plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive about nine in the morning. If his hunch was right—
He heard a strong, authoritative knock on his door. He opened it, and Joel Cross blinked at him in surprise. Cross’s bristly mustache and square jaw appeared more aggressive than ever.
Shayne said, “Come in and have a drink.”
Cross walked swiftly into the room, darting suspicious glances everywhere. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Who?”
Cross said, “Mrs. Meany.” He sat on the edge of a chair and planted both hands on his knees.
Shayne sat down leisurely and asked, “What do you know about Mrs. Meany?”
“Very little. I know she’s Mrs. Sarah Hawley’s daughter.”
“If you knew anything about her,” Shayne said casually, “you’d look in the bedroom. She always goes to bed when she passes out.”
“In there?” Cross looked quickly at a closed door on the left. He got up and said, “I think you’re lying, Shayne,” walked stiffly to the door, and opened it. He stood hesitantly on the threshold, then snapped on the light. He turned back to Shayne and said angrily. “What have you done with her?”
“What makes you think she’s been here?” Shayne countered.
“She told me she was coming and asked me to meet her here.”
“What for?”
“Something about the Groat diary. She seemed quite upset over the telephone.”
“When?”
“Around four-thirty. See here, Shayne, if she isn’t here — if this was just at trick to get me over here—”
Shayne slowly came to his feet. He was between Cross and the outer door. “I’ll take the diary for her.”
“I don’t have it with me.” There was a trace of a smirk in Cross’s voice. “I’m not admitting that it’s in my possession.”
Shayne remained standing. He said, “It’s almost seven o’clock. What took you so long to get here?”
“I didn’t come here to be cross-examined by you.”
“You’re going to be.” Shayne’s voice was inflexible. He moved backward to the door, leaned against it, and folded his arms. “Two hours and a half, Cross. Did you think she’d wait for you all night?”
“I was busy and didn’t realize how much time had passed. Are you going to tell me where she is?”
“In the morgue.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed fiercely.
Joel Cross’s face went lax for a second. He stared at the detective and repeated, “In the morgue?”
“Sit down. It’s time you and I did some talking.”
Shayne waited until Cross sat down before going to the couch. He asked harshly, “Where were you this evening between five-thirty and six?”
“In my room working. Good heavens, do you think I killed her? I didn’t even know the girl.”
“You knew she was coming here to see me.”
“Do you mean she was killed here?”
“In that chair you’re sitting on.”
Cross jumped involuntarily, stared at the floor, wet his lips, and said, “Suppose I did know she was coming here?”
“Maybe you were afraid she was getting ready to spill what she knew about Jasper Groat’s murder,” Shayne mused. “You fit. You had a motive for killing Groat before he reached the Hawleys and told his story. You’d read the diary and knew the value of the entries concerning Albert Hawley’s death. And whoever killed Groat also killed Beatrice Meany this afternoon. You had the opportunity. She practically invited you over to kill her.”
Cross’s sandy mustache no longer bristled. His voice was shaky when he said, “I didn’t. I was working, I tell you. I’ve never been in this room before.”
Shayne shrugged. “I can place you here between five-thirty and six,” he warned. “The Negro janitor let a man in while Mrs. Meany was waiting for me. You fit the description all right. Of course,” he went on pleasantly, “the old man’s eyesight isn’t very good and he might not be too positive about making an identification unless I tell him what to say.”
“Are you threatening to frame me for murder?” Cross snapped.
“I’m not sure it would be a frame. Personally, I don’t like you. Inspector Quinlan is checking your alibi for last night. If you haven’t a better one than your story about this afternoon — and I have a little talk with the janitor—”
“Damn you,” said Cross passionately, “you can’t get away with anything like that. I still don’t know what all this interest in the diary is about.”
“You admit you read it yesterday.”
“Sure I read it. But I still don’t understand why people are being killed on account of it.”
“You’d have a hell of time convincing a jury of that,” Shayne snarled. “It’s right there in black and white, isn’t it?”
“I studied it this afternoon after the girl called—”
“Then you admit you’ve got it.”
Cross smiled unpleasantly. “In a very safe place.”
“You know what the diary says about Leon Wallace, don’t you?”
“I don’t recall any such name or person,” Cross returned. He was becoming stiff and aggressive again.
Shayne groaned and took another drink. Maybe he was all wet. Maybe he didn’t know a damned thing about anything. Maybe he wasn’t all wet, by God! Maybe Cross was doing a good job of lying.
Shayne said harshly, “Are you willing to back up what you say by letting me read the diary?”
“No. I’m not interested in whether you believe me or not. Why should I prove anything to you?”
“To keep yourself out of a murder frame.” His face was taut and grim. He got up and went to the wall speaking-tube, lifted it, and said, “Jake — this is Shayne. Come up here at once.”
“Yassuh, Mist’ Shayne. Ah’ll be right up.”
Shayne whirled to face Cross. “Men have burned on less evidence than I can produce against you.” He sat down again. “Get smart, Cross. The Inspector is looking for a murderer who answers your general description. If Jake decides you’re the man, all hell won’t change his identification.”
Cross fidgeted in his chair. “This is preposterous.”
Jake knocked timidly on the door. Shayne stayed in front of him so that he couldn’t see Cross. He said, “You let a man into my room this afternoon, Jake, and a girl was murdered. If you identify this man now, the police won’t do anything to you for letting him in.”
“You’re coaching him,” shouted Cross. “You’re telling him to say it was me.”
Jake rolled his eyes at Cross when Shayne stepped aside. His old eyes sidled to Shayne, then back to Cross. “Looks lak him all right. Yassuh, sho does. Ah reckon thass him. How come you-all kotch him so fast, Mist’ Shayne?”
“This is an outrage,” Cross began, stopped when he heard a loud rap on the door.