Dead Man's Diary & A Taste for Cognac by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online

steps from the sidewalk and into a long room with a bar along one side and booths lining the other. Half a dozen men were at the bar, and some of the booths were occupied.
    He saw Roger Deems’s saturnine face at once. He was long and loose-jointed, a sports writer for the Item, and an old-timer in the city. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the bar, looking down with a melancholy expression at a highball glass half full of a greenish and bilious-looking mixture.
    Shayne went over to him and said, “You don’t have to drink that thing. I’ll buy you something decent.”
    Deems cocked one eye at him and said, “I love ’em, Mike. Mixture of rum and gin. Very healthy. Know what a Lafitte reminds me of, Mike?”
    “Juicy green worms run through a wringer,” Shayne told him. He held up two fingers and Henri brought a double shot of cognac in a big-topped glass.
    “That’s why I love ’em,” Deems said. He sighed and lifted his glass, emptied it, and shuddered the length of his lanky frame. “Got anything for me, Mike?”
    Shayne warmed the big glass between his palms. “Nothing right now. Do you know a guy named Joel Cross?”
    “Good ol’ Joel. The literary light of the fourth estate. I’m proud to say, suh, I have the honor of his acquaintance.” He turned his head and called to one of the men sitting in a booth behind him. “You’re being discussed, Mr. Cross.”
    A stocky, sandy-haired man with a bristly, reddish mustache and a square, aggressive face said, “Hi, Deems.”
    Deems waggled a long forefinger at him. “Don’t know what you’ve done now, but here’s a hellhound on your tail. The sleuth of the Everglades. Wherever you hid the body won’t be good enough once he starts sniffing.”
    Joel Cross had been smiling, but now a curious mask of hardness replaced the smile on his face. His lips tightened and his jaw jutted. He said something to his companion in the booth in a low tone, then got up and came toward them. He held his shoulders consciously squared and walked with a precise stiffness that was almost a strut. His voice was thin and metallic. “Who’s taking my name in vain?”
    “Mr. Shayne.” Deems jerked a thumb toward the detective.
    Cross said, “I’ve heard about you.” He held out a square hand. The flesh was hard and cold. He was a head shorter than Shayne, but his shoulders were as broad and he was built solidly.
    Henri set another greenish drink in front of Deems and laid Shayne’s change on the counter. Shayne gathered up his change and said to Cross, “I don’t want to interrupt you, but I have something I’d like to talk over with you.”
    Cross said, “You’re not interrupting anything. There’s a vacant booth in the back.” He went toward it, his heels hitting the floor hard before the soles came down.
    Shayne picked up his drink and followed him, slid in opposite the feature writer for the Item, and asked, “Drink?”
    “I never touch the stuff.” Cross’s bristly mustache lifted slightly. “Are you on a case?”
    “Sort of. I’m interested in Jasper Groat’s diary.”
    Cross peered at Shayne.
    “What about it?”
    “Is the stuff any good?”
    “It’s terrific. Raw, elemental emotion. It wasn’t written for publication. That’s why it’s good. We’ll publish it as is—no editing.”
    “Do you have it?”
    Cross didn’t answer at once. He coddled his mustache, first on one side, then the other. “I had to look it over to see if it was worth what Groat wanted,” he said cautiously.
    “How much was that?”
    “What’s your interest?” Cross parried.
    “I have an idea a lot of people are going to be interested after reading the announcement in the Item.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Frankly, I’d like to know how much it would cost to keep it unpublished.”
    Cross stiffened, his eyes suspiciously alert. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the newspaper business, Shayne. That diary is a scoop of the first magnitude.