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

You can’t measure the intrinsic value of something like that to a paper.”
    “I’d like to have a look at it,” Shayne said idly.
    “You can read it in the Item.”
    “I mean a preview.”
    Cross shook his head emphatically.
    “It can’t be done.”
    Shayne took a drink of cognac and asked, “Do I understand that you’ve made final arrangements with Groat?”
    “I don’t know why our arrangements with Groat should interest you.”
    “I’m not at liberty to explain my interest right now. One thing you can tell me: If Groat should disappear—if he should die suddenly before you see him again—have you the legal right to publish his diary?”
    “What is this?” Cross demanded. “Where is Groat?”
    “Don’t you know?”
    “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
    “You haven’t answered my question,” Shayne reminded him.
    “I’m not going to answer it, Shayne.” Cross was bristling all over. “I’ll give you the same answer I gave that shyster, Jake Sims, a little while ago. He phoned me at the office to ask me the same question. I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
    Shayne mused, “Jake Sims… Well, it’s nice to have met you, Cross,” and got up. He went back to the bar to rejoin Deems. Joel Cross returned to his seat in the booth where his friend waited.
    Deems asked, “How’d you get along with friend Joel?”
    “Not too well,” Shayne admitted.
    “He’s a cold-blooded number,” Deems said cheerfully. “The kind who’d take a notebook with him on his honeymoon to record his bride’s emotions for a true-confession magazine.”
    “By the way, where does Cross live?”
    “He’s got a room at the Corona Arms Hotel. Does all his work there. Too high-class to pound a typewriter at the office like the rest of us.”
    Shayne looked across at the booth where Joel Cross sat. The waiter was just beginning to serve lunch. He said, “Well, so long, Roger. Be seeing you.” He stalked out the door, walked three blocks at a brisk pace, and turned into the lobby of the Corona Arms Hotel.
    A young man at the desk looked up when he went past, but Shayne went on toward the elevator. He then turned, went back to the desk and said, “I’ve forgotten the number of Joel Cross’s room.”
    The clerk said automatically, “Room 627, but I haven’t seen Mr. Cross come in.”
    Shayne said, “He’s expecting me, but maybe I’d better call him to be sure.” He went to a house phone, lifted the receiver and said, “Room 627, please.”
    He waited a moment, listening to the phone ring, then said, “Joel? Swell. I’ll be right up.” He hung up, thanked the clerk, and went to the elevator.
    The sixth-floor corridor was deserted. Shayne examined the lock on the door and selected three keys from a well-filled ring. The second key opened the door. He stepped in and closed it behind him. The shades were drawn, darkening the room. He switched on the lights and stood very still while his gaze went around the disordered room.
    Bureau drawers had been pulled open and dumped on the floor. The mattress was turned back, disclosing bare springs. The typewriter-desk drawers were open and copy paper scattered on the floor.
    Shayne went over and started to paw through the papers. He heard a faint click, and turned to see Joel Cross standing on the threshold. The reporter’s mustache bristled; his upper lip drew back to show his teeth. He took a .32 automatic from his pocket and held it carelessly at his side, the blued muzzle pointing at Shayne.
    Cross said, “Stand right where you are while I use the telephone.”
    Shayne grinned and made a wide gesture around the room. “You think I did this?”
    “I’ll let the police ask the questions.” Cross was sidling across to the telephone.
    “I got here about a minute before you did. You know that,” Shayne expostulated. “You saw me leave Henri’s not more than five minutes ago. How in hell do you think I managed all this in that