“Leaving everything to Albert?”
She took the last of the whisky and said thickly, “That’s right. You know all about it, don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything about anything,” Shayne said. “Take your finger out of your mouth and say what you have to say if you want me to help you.”
She pouted her lips around the tip of her finger, then took it out. “It makes all the difference in the world whether we get the money or that hellion of an ex-wife of Albert’s gets it. God, but you’re dumb. Uncle Ezra died ten days ago.”
Shayne said slowly, “Do you mean it’s important whether your brother died before your uncle or after — on account of the will?”
“Sure. That’s what I told you. It can’t be five days. That’d be too long. His wife would get the money even if she is divorced from him and married again. And she’s right here in town, too. You can bet on that. The way she twisted Albert around her little finger!”
Shayne got up and said impatiently. “You don’t need me.”
She sprang up from the ottoman, swaying a little, and caught his arm. “We do need you. Somebody’s got to get the men to say it was four days. To prove Albert was dead first. Then the money stays where it belongs instead of going to her.”
“Are you suggesting a bribe?”
“Why not? There’s plenty. Couple of millions.”
Shayne went to the window, stood staring out for a moment, then stalked out the door. He drove directly to his apartment, went up and showered, dressed from the skin out in fresh clothes. He took a long drink of cognac, and felt cleansed of the humid stench of the Hawley estate and Beatrice’s rotgut whisky.
Lucy Hamilton was seated at her desk in the reception room when he reached his office an hour later. “Any progress?”
“Not unless Sergeant Pepper called,” said Shayne.
“He didn’t.” She studied him disapprovingly. “Are you just sitting around letting the police hunt for Mr. Groat?”
Shayne grinned and tossed his hat on the rack. “They’re the ones to do it. Mrs. Groat hasn’t any money to pay a fee, has she?”
“She’s terribly upset, Michael. She’s depending on you to do something. I promised you would. And there’s Mrs. Wallace,” Lucy went on. “She’s got plenty of money.”
“To pay for finding her husband.”
“Isn’t it the same, thing? Find Mr. Groat and you’ll find out about Mr. Wallace.”
“A reasonable assumption. Did you get in touch with Mrs. Wallace?”
“At the depot. She saved those envelopes. She’s going to mail them to you when she gets home. I got the name of the bank, too.”
“Good girl.” He went into his inner office, sat down in the swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, and settled back.
The telephone rang in the outer office. He heard Lucy answer it. His telephone buzzer sounded. He called, “Who is it?” without opening his eyes.
“Answer your phone and see,” she called back.
He picked up the receiver and said, “Shayne speaking.”
“I have need of the services of a competent private detective, Mr. Shayne,” a precise and resonant voice told him. “You have been recommended to me as capable and — ah — discreet.”
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Hastings, of Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law, in the Downtown Building. If you could call at my office at once we will discuss the assignment.”
“I’ll be right over.” Shayne hung up, an oddly speculative grin lighting his angular face.
Lucy came to the door and asked hopefully, “Another client?”
Shayne said, “A lot of people are becoming interested in the whereabouts of Jasper Groat.” He swung his feet from the desk and asked, “Do you know how to get in touch with Cunningham?” He grinned and added, “The one who looked at you last night.”
Faint color came to her face. “He called me early this morning to find out if we had any word of Mr. Groat.”
“And—”
“He said he’d call again this evening. I’ll find out where you can reach him.”
Shayne got up and yawned. “Get hold of all the papers telling about the sea rescues, Lucy. Try to get the names of all the reporters who interviewed the two men. Call the papers if the stories don’t carry by-lines.”
She went to her desk for a shorthand pad, made the notations in it, and asked, “Is that all?”
“What I want,” he explained, “is the name of the reporter who was interested in buying publication rights to Jasper Groat’s diary. Remember Cunningham mentioning that last night?”
She nodded.
“That’s all. Just get his name and try to arrange an appointment. I’ll be back presently.”
The offices of Hastings & Brandt were on the fourth floor of the Downtown Building. The dingy front office was presided over by a gnomelike little man wearing a shiny alpaca coat. He was humped over a huge legal volume. He peered at Shayne with near-sighted irritation and said, “Yes, yes. What is it?”
“I’m Michael Shayne. I think Mr. Hastings expects me.”
“I guess it’s all right for you to go in,” he said, after consulting a memo pad. He pointed to a door marked Private.
Shayne opened the door without knocking. Mr. Hastings sat before an ancient roll-top desk. He looked up as Shayne entered and said, “It’s you again.”
“Didn’t you expect me?” Shayne crossed over to an armchair beside the desk.
Mr. Hastings was confused, “Certainly not. I have no idea why you’re here and I have nothing to say to you.”
“I’m Michael Shayne, the private investigator who was recommended to you as being ah — discreet,” Shayne told him. “I introduced myself at the Hawley house.”
Mr. Hastings grew more confused. He fussed with some papers on his desk, said, “I’m sure I didn’t catch the name.”
“You need a private detective, don’t you?” Shayne stretched his long legs. “You’re on the spot with that will of Mrs. Hawley’s brother-in-law leaving everything to Albert Hawley, but not to his heirs and assigns if the young man predeceased his uncle. In that case, as I understand it, his entire estate goes to Mrs. Hawley and her daughter.”
“I don’t care to discuss it with you, sir. I don’t know what you’re after or where you got hold of this information. I shall arrange for another investigator at once.” He turned back to the legal forms on his desk.
Shayne said, “You’ve got to get hold of the two men who were in the lifeboat with Albert when he died and find out the exact date. The newspaper reports were vague on that point. The men reported that Hawley was alive either four or five days. I’ve checked back on the dates and find that Uncle Ezra died on the fifth day after young Hawley’s ship was torpedoed. If Albert died on the fourth night, Ezra Hawley’s estate goes to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sarah Hawley, and her daughter. But if he didn’t die until the fifth night after his ship was torpedoed, he was alive at the time of his uncle’s death, and his subsequent demise will turn the entire fortune over to his divorced wife, according to the terms of the will. Am I correct thus far?”
Mr. Hastings was disturbed. He hadn’t looked at Shayne during his lengthy and rapid discourse. The lawyer jerked around in his creaking swivel chair, took off his glasses with an unsteady hand, and glared at the detective. “I’m sure I don’t know how you’ve gathered this information,” he said testily, “or why you’ve wasted your time gathering it.”
Shayne looked at him in surprise. “I always try to familiarize myself with every aspect of a case when I’m called in on it.”
“But you haven’t been called in on this case,” Hastings said angrily.