Free Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac by Brett Halliday Page B

lot of strength in the hands that caused them.” He went on down the hall.
    Shayne and Quinlan went inside the room where the photographer was putting away his equipment and the fingerprint men were finishing up their work.
    Sergeant Donovan scowled at Quinlan. He said, “We haven’t got anything worth while. One set of prints everywhere, presumably yours, Mike. Her prints are on that brandy bottle on the table and on the arms of that chair behind her.”
    “How about the light bulb in the hallway?”
    “Yours are plain enough at the top. The imprints on the bottom and sides are smudged,” Donovan said disgustedly.
    “Try the back stairway and door for prints,” Shayne said to Donovan.
    “You can call it quits if you don’t find anything worth reporting,” Quinlan said. He went over and sat down wearily on the sofa.
    Shayne stood looking at the dead woman. Beatrice Meany did not look like a dipsomaniac as she lay there. Her naturally childish features had taken on a sort of dignity in death. There was a troubled expression on her face, as though she didn’t understand why this had happened to her.
    Two men came up the stairs with a long wicker basket. They placed the body in the basket and took it away.
    Shayne picked up the brandy bottle and squinted at it. “She’d helped herself to a couple of big slugs before she got it,” he said to the Inspector. “Want a shot?”
    “No, thanks. Why did she come up to your apartment?”
    “She wanted to keep Ezra Hawley’s money away from her dead brother’s ex-wife. I suppose she wanted me to help her.”
    “The woman in Room 319 at the St. Charles?” Quinlan asked, frowning deeply.
    “That’s right—Mrs. Meredith.”
    “I suppose she wants you to help her get the money.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And Leslie Cunningham, Groat’s companion in the lifeboat, was with Mrs. Meredith when I talked to them.”
    “That’s right. Cunningham is the only one left now who can testify when Hawley died.”
    “Is he working with Mrs. Meredith?”
    Shayne hesitated, then said, “My impression of Cunningham is that he’s out for whatever he can get. Mrs. Meredith has quite a lot to offer, I’d say.”
    “And you think she’s offering it to him?”
    “She’s hard-boiled and she’s plenty smart. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get hold of a million dollars.”
    “What about Groat’s diary?”
    “That’s still the stumbling block. The hell of it is,” Shayne admitted irritably, “we don’t know which side the diary favors—the Hawleys or Mrs. Meredith. Cunningham pretends he isn’t sure whether Hawley lived four or five days. That may be the truth, or he may just be waiting to make sure the diary is out of the way before he comes forward with definite testimony. Both parties are anxious to get hold of it to substantiate their claim or to suppress it if it doesn’t substantiate their claim.”
    “Doesn’t anyone actually know what’s in the diary?”
    “Cunningham may, but he’s not saying. And Joel Cross should know, whether he realizes what it means or not.”
    Quinlan blinked at him. “Cross must know plenty or he wouldn’t have advertised he was going to print the diary.”
    “Yeah.” Shayne took a long drink from the brandy bottle. He sat down on the sofa beside Quinlan. “Cross could be playing a deep game,” he mused. “What have you done about alibis for Groat’s death?”
    “Not much. I haven’t checked yours, for instance.”
    Shayne grinned. “What time?”
    “Matson puts the murder between eight and nine last night. If he’s right—”
    “Let’s assume it’s correct,” Shayne suggested.
    “He was murdered with the old familiar blunt instrument, and tossed in the river soon afterward,” Quinlan said heavily.
    “Any way of telling how soon?”
    “I asked Matson that. He grumbled about expecting miracles from a mere man of science and then admitted there were indications that it was not more than ten or