Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac Read Online Free Page A

Groat and Cunningham marooned in a lifeboat with a wounded soldier who died after being adrift a few days. Groat was a religious cuss and nursed Albert Hawley the best he could, but he died in Groat’s arms. Hawley must have known he was dying and confided something that weighed on Groat’s conscience, so his wife thinks. Groat also talked about coming into a sum of money soon. Probably the diary, according to Cunningham. We can check on that. Groat secretly called Mrs. Wallace and asked her to come to New Orleans to learn the truth about her husband, then angrily denied the call to his wife. Groat went out at eight, promising to be back at nine, asked the switchboard operator how to get out to Labarre Road where the Hawleys live, then made a phone call and left. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”
    “Check,” said Lucy.
    Shayne stopped making marks on the paper and flung the pencil across the room. He got up and strode over to pick up his hat.
    “Where are you going?” Lucy asked.
    “Right now I want to find out if Albert Hawley was at home two years ago when Leon Wallace took a run-out powder and sent his wife that screwy letter with ten grand enclosed.” He stopped on his way out and turned to Lucy, frowning. “Do you know how to get hold of Mrs. Wallace before she goes back?”
    “No. But I know when her train leaves.”
    “Catch her at the depot. Have her paged. I want to know if she has any of those later envelopes containing the semiannual payments. I want them. And I want the name of the bank where she claims the money is deposited, and a picture of her husband. If you don’t catch her at the depot, phone her at Littleboro as soon as she gets home.” He rammed his hat down and went out in long, driving strides.
    Shayne went directly to the Missing Persons Bureau at Police Headquarters. Sergeant Pepper sat at his desk, a big, hulking man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair. He had been in charge of the Bureau for twenty years and carried more information in his head than in the filing-cases behind him. He nodded to Shayne.
    Shayne slid into a chair in front of the desk and asked, “Anything on Jasper Groat?”
    The sergeant had no discernible sense of humor. He blinked his eyes and looked meditative. “Missing since last night. Nope. You in on that, Mike?”
    “Friend of his wife,” Shayne explained casually. “I was over last night and reported it for her. Here’s the only lead I could pick up. He may have taken a taxi from his apartment house out to the Hawley residence at eight last night. Will you check that?”
    A flicker of interest showed in the Sergeant’s cold blue eyes. He rumbled, “Hawley? Son died in the lifeboat with Groat. Rich as all get-out.”
    “That’s the one. Have you got him in your files?”
    “Nope.”
    “Or Leon Wallace?”
    “Nope.”
    “You may be able to find the cab driver who took Groat out there.”
    “That’s our business,” Sergeant Pepper agreed dryly.
    Shayne said, “If you pick up anything, let me know.”
    The Sergeant nodded and Shayne went out to his car. He drove out to South Claiborne and angled out on the Jefferson Highway to Labarre just a short distance north of the levee.
    Shayne drove between concrete gateposts onto a curving gravel drive that led through a grove of moss-draped oaks to an aged two-story plantation house whose stately columns supported a broad second-story gallery. Magnolia and crape myrtle trees pressed in close to the house, and to the left a sunken garden lay untended and desolate.
    Silence enveloped the proud old mansion, and an atmosphere of decay pervaded the neglected exterior and the neglected grounds. The land was low and luxuriant ferns grew rampant in the damp soil around the veranda.
    Shayne parked directly behind a black sedan in the driveway. The air was hot and humid, heavy with cloying, tropical odors. He mopped his brow as he went up the steps and pounded on the door with a bronze knocker.
    The door