Riordan hesitated, as if giving the matter careful thought. Then he shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”
“Come on into the bedroom,” Martin said.
They followed him into the bedroom where two lab men were checking for fingerprints. The one off-key note in the spare, ascetic room was the body that lay on the bed, staring sightlessly at the calcimined ceiling.
Meed had been strangled to death with one of his own soberly correct neckties. He had died painfully and messily.
After what seemed a very long time Martin said, “We can talk in the living room,” and led the way back. He closed the bedroom door and nodded to Riordan. “You have anything to suggest?” he asked.
Riordan hesitated, and then said, “Yes,” in a quiet, firm voice.
“Let’s have it,” Martin said.
Riordan sat down in an overstuffed chair by the window, deliberately unwrapped a cigar and lighted it; when it was drawing well he said, “This morning, at my orders, Avery Meed went to May Laval’s home to get her diary. That’s news to you, I’m sure, Lieutenant.”
Martin’s normally pleasant face took on a hard, unfriendly expression. “Yeah, that’s news,” he said. “Supposing you go right on surprising me, Riordan.”
Riordan appeared unimpressed by Martin’s tone and manner.
“First, let me give you some background,” he said. “I knew May Laval during the war. Knew her quite well, as a matter of fact. May’s home was a gathering place for important people then and I spent a good deal of time there. May, it has developed recently, kept a diary during those years, which she intended to publish in the form of an expose.”
“There’s material about you in the diary that wouldn’t look good in print, I suppose,” Martin said.
“That’s right,” Riordan said calmly. “And Lieutenant, remember this: No one can make the money I have without also cutting corners and making enemies. I’m having trouble right now with a Congressional investigation, and this book of May’s could have been very embarrassing. So last night I told Avery Meed to go to her home and get the diary.”
“What time was this?”
“That I told him? About twelve thirty last night I called him. I told him to meet any price she wanted, but to be damn sure he got all references from her diary that related to me.”
“That was twelve thirty, eh?” Martin said. “Where did you spend the night, Riordan?”
“In Gary. I had some production bugs to iron out with my plant manager there, so I went out and spent the night with him.”
“What’s your manager’s name?”
“Devlin. Robert Devlin. You want to check with him that I’m not lying?”
“Go on with your story,” Martin said.
Riordan smiled slightly. “Okay. This morning at seven o’clock Meed called me in Gary. He said he had the diary. He also had something important to discuss with me, but he wouldn’t talk on the phone. He had an appointment with Mr. Harrison here at nine, so I told him to keep that, and then meet me at my hotel at eleven.”
“He didn’t show up, of course,” Martin said.
“No.”
Martin glanced at Jake. “Then you saw Meed this morning?”
“Yes, at nine thirty. We talked until ten. That’s about all I can give you.”
“Did he seem upset?”
“He wasn’t that sort.”
Martin said, “Riordan, do you think Meed murdered May Laval to get the diary?”
Riordan knocked ash from his cigar and shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “I told him to get the diary. Meed was the kind of person who did what he was told. Maybe May wouldn’t go for the cash settlement. Meed’s reaction to that obstacle would have been interesting. Picture him, the perfect automaton, moving ahead under orders from on high. Suddenly, the way is blocked.” Riordan paused and glanced at Jake expressively. “You met Meed, Harrison. What do you think he would have done?”
“No comment,” Jake said drily.
“You think he would have killed her to get the diary?” Martin said, slowly.
“I honestly don’t know,” Riordan said.
There was a silence in the room for a few seconds, while Martin rubbed his jaw and stared moodily out the windows. Finally he shrugged, and said, “Here’s what we know for sure. Meed came in here this morning at about six o’clock. Later, around a quarter of nine, he left, presumably to keep his appointment with you, Jake. He got back here at approximately ten fifteen. He received a call from someone at ten thirty-five, which he answered. Later in the day he got two more calls, which he didn’t answer. Around two thirty the cleaning woman entered his room and found him lying on the bed just as he is now. She called the desk. They called us.”
“I called him here twice this afternoon,” Riordan said.
“He was dead then. The coroner put the time of death between ten thirty and eleven thirty.” Martin lit a cigarette carefully and studied Riordan. “Now we get to the big question: Where’s the diary now?”
“You didn’t find it here?” Riordan asked thoughtfully.
“We’ve been through this place pretty thoroughly. We didn’t find anything that looked like May’s diary. You got any ideas where it might be?”
“No, I haven’t,” Riordan said, in the same thoughtful voice. He drew slowly on his cigar, then crushed it out in the ash tray with a slow, deliberate gesture. The cigar broke under the pressure. Riordan continued to press downward until the last spark died, the last wisp of smoke disappeared. Then he said, quietly, “Meed got the diary. Somebody killed him and took the diary. That’s the person I want to find.”
“We have an interest in that, too,” Martin said.
Riordan stood and picked up his hat. “You may get him before I do,” he said. “I don’t know. But remember this: I was ready to pay nearly anything for that diary. I’m not going to be stopped now. Frankly, I don’t give much of a damn that Meed was murdered. To me, he was a well-oiled, smoothly-functioning cog that never gave any trouble. He’s no use to me now. But I want the diary.”
“Sure you do,” Martin said, with a humorless smile. “The dirt on you is now in somebody else’s hands, isn’t it?”
“That was my first thought when you called me,” Riordan said. “Now, if you don’t need me any more, I’ll run along.”
“Sure,” Martin said.
Jake said goodbye and left with Riordan. Downstairs Riordan shook hands with him, and then caught a cab to his hotel. Jake hailed the next one and rode back downtown to the office. There were a number of stray thoughts in his mind, but he couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm to fit them into a pattern. He felt tired for no reason at all, and vaguely depressed.
Sheila was typing with a concentrated frown on her face when he walked into her office. She stopped and pulled the paper from her typewriter.
“Ready for our bacchanalian binge?” he said.
“It’s only four thirty, Jake.”
“So?”
“Okay. But what about Meed?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Jake watched her as she touched up her lipstick, and smoothed her dark hair quickly and unnecessarily. She went to the wall mirror and he noticed the unconscious grace of her movements as she adjusted her small green hat. He sighed and looked out the window.
Fog had been rolling in from the lake, and the streets below were hidden in layers of swirling grayness; the towers of the Loop rested on this fog-cloud like the minarets of a ghost city.
Sheila came to his side and put her hand on his arm. “Depressing, isn’t it? Looks like one strong wind could blow it all away.”
“Yes, it does,” Jake said. “And in about five more seconds I’m likely to say something esoteric and mystical. So let’s get the hell out of here.”
They had cocktails and dinner at the Palmer House, and finally wound up at Dave’s on Michigan Boulevard. Jake lit a cigarette and tried to relax. Dave’s was good for that; the decor was stubbornly and restfully old-fashioned. There was a small circular bar, happily free from fancy bottle displays, neon lighting, drink-a-birds, and chromium popcorn bowls; there were also spacious wooden booths in the back, where conversation could flourish without the hamstringing influence of jukeboxes or television.