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

opened so silently it startled him. A bent old Negro said, “Yassuh,” softly.
    Shayne said, “I want to see Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”
    “Nossuh, Ah’m sorry. Not ’thout you got a ’point-ment.”
    Shayne put his hand against the edge of the door and pushed. He strode past the servant into a wide, gloomy hall running the length of the house. He heard a murmur of voices from a room halfway down the hall and started walking in that direction. The old Negro shuffled along behind him, protesting loudly.
    A tall man carrying a briefcase in one hand and a Panama hat in the other emerged from the doorway. His hair was a silvery mane flowing back from a strong, bony face, and he wore an outmoded suit of light gray.
    He stopped in front of Shayne and asked, “Sir, what is the meaning of this?”
    “I’m looking for Mrs. Sarah Hawley.”
    “And who are you, sir?”
    “A detective.”
    “May I see your credentials?”
    “Who are you?” countered Shayne.
    The man extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. It read: Hastings & Brandt, Attorneys-at-Law. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner was the name, B. H. Hastings.
    “I am legal counselor to Mrs. Hawley. I’ll have your credentials and hear your business.”
    Shayne said, “I’m private and my business is with Mrs. Hawley,” and moved forward.
    “Mrs. Hawley is—ah—overcome with grief,” Hastings appealed, moving beside the detective. “Her son was recently lost at sea and I have just completed the sad task of reading the will of her brother-in-law, who died unexpectedly only ten days ago.”
    Shayne said, “I know about her son. Brother-in-law, too, eh?” He went through the open doorway.
    The room was large and gloomy. Heavy drapes shut out the light from long French windows, the rugs were faded and worn, the upholstery of the antique furniture in need of repair.
    A tall woman rose from a spindle-legged chair and stood very erect. Everything about her came to a peak—her long, thin nose, the high mound of white hair, her cheekbones, and her prominent, pointed chin. Her eyes were cavernous and glowing beneath heavy gray brows. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that came down to the pointed tips of small black shoes. She looked at Shayne who stood in the doorway and said harshly, “Well, who is it?”
    An overstuffed young man lounged on an antique sofa. He wore a velvet smoking-jacket and dark trousers. He was partially bald and his lips pouted sullenly. He didn’t look up at Shayne.
    The third occupant of the room was long and lanky and shapeless. She wore clinging silk slacks and slouched on a horsehair sofa. Her black hair was short with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. Except for a short upper lip, she was a replica of Sarah Hawley. She made no move at Shayne’s entrance except to turn her head slightly in his direction to survey him with half-closed eyes.
    Shayne went over to the group, followed by the family lawyer. He asked, “Are you Mrs. Hawley?”
    “Suppose I am,” she snapped.
    “Did Jasper Groat come to see you last night?”
    “You’re not required to answer that, Mrs. Hawley,” Hastings said hastily. “This man has forced his way into your home. He has no legal standing whatsoever.”
    “Nonsense,” snorted Mrs. Hawley. “Why shouldn’t I answer him? I don’t know any Jasper Groat. No one came here last night.”
    “Did you expect him?” Shayne persisted. “Did he telephone you yesterday to say he was coming?”
    “Why should he? I don’t know the man.”
    “Do you read the newspapers?”
    “I know who he’s talking about.” The girl’s voice was languid and she spoke with almost no movement of her lips. “Jasper Groat is one of the men who was in the lifeboat when Albert died.”
    “He didn’t come here,” Mrs. Hawley persisted.
    Shayne shrugged. “Most people would have looked Groat up under the circumstances. It was reasonable to suppose he might have brought a dying message