“You mean if Groat is dead?” Shayne asked casually.
“Yeah.”
Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “That would depend on whether they had legally completed a deal, I suppose. Or whether the newspaper could make a deal with Mrs. Groat. It would become her property on her husband’s death.”
Cunningham sucked in his breath sharply. “Then I got to get it back.” His voice was harsh, and he pounded the table with his fist.
The waitress hurried to the table, glared at the sailor, started to say something, but Shayne stopped her by saying, “Two more, sister,” pushing his glass toward her.
“You can sue if they print anything libelous,” Shayne told him when the girl had swished angrily away.
“It ain’t that,” he grated. He ground his teeth together and added: “Suing wouldn’t do any good. I don’t want it published.”
The girl came with the drinks, slammed them on the table, slopping liquor over the rims of the glasses. “What the hell!” Cunningham yelled.
“I’m a lady, see?” she said, with arms akimbo. “Next time you want service, don’t go pounding on the table.”
Shayne chuckled. “He wasn’t pounding for you,” he explained. “It was — for another reason altogether.”
She looked down her nose at Shayne, said, “Huh!” and marched regally away.
Shayne asked sharply and suddenly: “Are the Hawleys mixed up in this thing?”
Cunningham’s lower jaw sagged and his black eyes stared at Shayne, frightened. “What makes you think that?” he stammered.
“Groat went out there at eight o’clock.”
“Look here, fella, how the hell do you know that?”
“I’m a detective,” Shayne reminded him.
“Maybe I got things wrong,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you came into the picture until your secretary called you.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how — what do you know about the Hawleys?”
“I know he went out there at eight. He called you and told you he was going, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” snarled Cunningham. “The fool! I told him to lay off. I told him it was dangerous. But he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Dangerous?” Shayne lifted one bristly red brow.
“Albert Hawley told us about his folks before he died,” Cunningham muttered angrily. “They’re rich and the old lady’s plenty tough, I reckon. From what Albert told us I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
“What about Leon Wallace?”
Cunningham’s glass was halfway to his lips. His arm jerked and liquor spilled on his hand. “You know about him, too?” he said slowly.
Shayne didn’t say anything. His gaunt feature were expressionless. He watched the sailor gulp the double shot.
“I don’t get it,” Cunningham said. “How do you fit in the picture? Was that whole thing a plant tonight? Pretending all of it was news to you when you come over to Miss Hamilton’s apartment?”
Shayne said: “It’s my business to know things.”
“From the reporter, huh? After he read the diary he knew what kind of dynamite was tied up in it. And you knew the whole story all the time.”
“I’m adding up as we go along,” Shayne told him placidly.
Cunningham lit a cigarette, squinted at Shayne through half-closed eyes as he puffed.
Shayne settled back, sipped his brandy with an expression of distaste and watched the sailor struggle with an unpleasant decision.
“So you’re cutting yourself a slice,” Cunningham said finally. “That’s all right. There’ll be plenty for both of us. Do you know where the diary is now?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“We got to get hold of it,” Cunningham said.
Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. Cunningham hunched his thick shoulders over the table and drummed his stubby fingers in spilled liquor.
“Publication is the surest way of ruining the blackmail value of the diary.” Shayne watched him closely.
Cunningham gave a surly grunt. “I don’t know how much Jasper told Mrs. Wallace over the phone. Damn him! If only he’d played along and let me handle it...”
“But he had to stick his neck out?” Shayne prodded.
“Too damned much religion,” Cunningham assented moodily. “When a guy gets fanatical like that, there’s no reasoning with him.”
“Do you think the Hawleys bumped him off tonight?”
“I don’t know what he walked into out there. I warned him about what might happen.”
“If he had the diary with him it may be too late to do anything about it,” Shayne said casually.
“I don’t see why. If he’s dead and it’s been destroyed, that’s all right, too. Just so we can keep it from being published.”
Shayne said: “I see.” He didn’t see at all.
“What’s your hook-up with the reporter?” the sailor demanded. “You admitted you got all the dope from him.”
“That was your idea.”
Cunningham turned a murderous glare upon Shayne’s tranquillity. “It must have been the reporter,” he growled. “Mrs. Groat didn’t act as if she even knew you tonight. Jasper wouldn’t go to a private dick about it.”
Shayne spun his empty glass round and round and made no reply.
“It must’ve been the reporter,” Cunningham argued. Then after a moment of frowning thought: “Unless it was the Hawleys.” He clamped his thick lips together and stared suspiciously at Shayne. “That could be it. They might’ve gone to a private dick. Maybe, by God, you’ve been stringing me along all this time!”
Shayne went right on keeping his mouth shut.
“Letting me spill my guts,” Cunningham muttered. “Pretending to be on my side while you’re working for them all the time.”
Shayne said pleasantly: “I’ll buy a drink.” He saw the girl across the room, beckoned to her, and said to the sailor: “You’ve got a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.”
After the waitress took the empty glasses away and brought their drinks, Shayne said: “You’re too jumpy for this sort of work, Cunningham. If the police get hold of you they’ll wring you dry in a couple of hours.”
Cunningham half-rose from his chair, his fist clenched. Shayne didn’t move from his relaxed position. The sailor slowly settled back and said: “Yeah. I reckon I’m on edge. What the hell! Arguing with Jasper in that damned lifeboat...” He let the sentence trail off.
Shayne emptied his glass and asked: “Where can I get in touch with you?”
“I don’t know if I want you to.”
“O.K.” Shayne got up. He gave Cunningham his apartment address and telephone number. “You’ll find my office listed in the directory.”
Chapter Two
Missing Male
Shayne had just finished his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee royal when his telephone rang. He hastily consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock.
Lucy Hamilton’s reproachful voice answered when he picked up the receiver. “How long do you think I can keep a client waiting?”
“We haven’t any clients,” he protested.
“That’s fine, Mr. Shayne,” she answered brightly. “I’ll tell Mrs. Wallace you’ll be right down.” She hung up.
Half an hour later he was facing Mrs. Leon Wallace across his office desk. Although she was sitting perfectly still, she looked brisk. There was a hard slimness about the woman in spite of her broad hips, a weathered, healthy glow in her browned face. She wore a brown tweed skirt and a tan, mannish blouse. Her straight brown hair, cropped close, looked windblown, and a cloth hat lay in her lap. Her light brown eyes were grave and anxious, yet managed to give the impression that she was in a hurry.