Blood on Biscayne Bay (11 page)

He tilted the driver’s cap forward, went into the bathroom and looked in the cabinet mirror. He decided that it didn’t look too bad.

Then he took it off and went out into the corridor, closing his apartment door, and went down in the elevator with the cap tucked inconspicuously under his arm.

Shayne found an empty taxi outside the hotel and got in. Wilson’s keys fitted the ignition. He put the cap on at a jaunty angle and started the motor and drove across the County Causeway to Miami Beach.

MICHAEL SHAYNE and Christine Hudson were alone in the living-room of the big bayfront house. Neither Leslie nor Floyd Hudson was at home.

Shayne said, “Don’t hold out on me, Christine. For God’s sake give it to me straight. Did Victor Morrison write those letters to you?”

She said, “No—not unless he was completely out of his mind. And they were never mailed to me. I have never seen the originals of those photostats.”

Shayne said, “Everything I’ve turned up thus far points to their genuineness. I’m sorry as hell, but it’s your word against a lot of facts.”

“Does Mr. Morrison claim he wrote them to me?”

“Naturally not. He declares they’re forgeries. But we know they’re not.”

Christine sighed faintly but her chin remained defiantly lifted. “I can’t help it, Michael I’ve told you the truth. I swear Mr. Morrison never so much as made a pass at me during the two and a half years I worked for him.”

Shayne argued quietly, “It doesn’t make sense that way, Christine. At first I worked on the theory that he was secretly in love with you and had worked out a devious plan for discrediting you with your husband so you’d be forced to go to him to avoid public scandal. But it looks now as though he had no part in sending those men here to find the letters. Hampstead, the lawyer, is retained by Mrs. Morrison to file a divorce suit against her husband. A man with his sort of ethics wouldn’t lend himself to any legal trickery. The detective was also employed by Mrs. Morrison to get evidence against her husband. She freely admits she had planned something like this in New York when she urged Morrison to go out with you after you resigned your position. Don’t you see that I have to know the truth?”

Christine said, “How many times do I have to tell you I’ve told you the truth—about everything,” in a tone of exasperation.

Shayne sighed, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. He spun the match away and said savagely, “All right. You dope it out on that basis. The letters mentioned a plan to get rid of the present Mrs. Morrison. I’ve discovered that Morrison put that plan into effect as soon as they reached Miami. He put a private detective on her trail and got enough evidence to kick her out without a dime. Don’t you see what an utter fool he would be to let those letters get into her hands? It slashes his case against her all to hell. She can enter countersuit and demand a whopping big cash settlement. So he certainly didn’t have the letters planted here for her to find. Then who did? Who else could have?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they are forgeries and Mrs. Morrison arranged it all.” Her voice was cold and distant.

Shayne shook his head. “Bernard Holloway doesn’t make mistakes like that. No. I’ve got to believe Morrison wrote them but didn’t plant them here. That leaves only one answer.”

“That I’m lying,” she said listlessly. “That he did write them to me and I did tie them up in a pink ribbon and hide them in my vanity drawer.”

Shayne said, “I’m sorry as hell, Christine.”

“So am I,” she murmured.

“There are some other things you haven’t told me,” he pointed out. “For instance, that the Morrisons have visited you here since your marriage.”

“They dropped in for a picnic supper on the lawn one evening.” She sounded surprised. “I didn’t think that was important.”

“Was your husband here to help entertain them?”

“No.” Christine lowered her eyes and bit her underlip. “I admit Leslie has some foolish notion of being jealous of Mr. Morrison. He pretended he had to go to the office that night and refused to stay here and help entertain them.”

“What reason has he for being jealous?”

“None at all. I don’t think he really is.” She paused thoughtfully, then said, “I believe it’s a sort of false pride in Leslie. His family have always been wealthy, and I was just an ordinary working girl. I think he didn’t relish the idea of having the man whom I’d worked for around.”

“So you entertained them alone?”

“No. Floyd was here.”

“Is Floyd in love with you?” Shayne demanded. Even in the dimness of the room he saw color flame in her cheeks.

“He—” she began, and stopped.

“He is, isn’t he?”

“When he drinks too much, he gets—ideas. The night the Morrisons were here he drank a great deal. He embarrassed me with his insinuating remarks. But it wasn’t me, particularly. After I put him off he turned his attentions to Mrs. Morrison. She didn’t discourage him.”

Shayne drew in a long breath. “These things may be very important, Christine,” he said gravely. “If I have to dig each one of them out of you I’ll never get anywhere.”

“I didn’t realize it was important,” she told him. “Nothing happened really. Floyd made a nuisance of himself, but he’s always doing that.”

“And he and Estelle Morrison became friendly?”

“Nothing more than the usual sort of thing that’s likely to happen when there’s a lot to drink. Mr. Morrison didn’t seem to mind at all. We just laughed about the way they carried on.”

“Does Floyd run around with Estelle?”

“No. That is, not that I know of.”

“The Morrisons came across in their boat that night, didn’t they?”

“Yes. A little fishing boat with an outboard motor.”

“Has Morrison ever been here since?” Shayne asked. “Without his wife?”

Christine Hudson stood up, slim and straight and angry. “I think you’d better go now,” she said. “I’m beginning to realize I made a mistake in ever going to you.”

“You did if you’ve got something to hide,” he grated.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any inconvenience. I’ll have Leslie mail a check to pay for your time.”

“You can’t turn a murder investigation on and off like that,” he warned her. “I’m on this case whether you like it or not.”

She said, icily, “You’d better go now.”

Shayne got up and went past her into the hallway and to the front door. She stood stiff and unmoving, and watched him go.

Outside, the shadows across the lawn were long and the first faint coolness of evening was in the air. As Shayne approached the front gate a taxi stopped behind the one he had parked there, and Floyd Hudson got out. He reeled slightly as he approached.

“What’re you hanging around here for?” he demanded drunkenly.

Shayne stopped and surveyed him coolly. “I might ask you the same question.”

“I live here,” Floyd snarled. “I know what your game is. Hanging around Christine, eh? I understand you’re an old friend of hers.” His tone twisted the word “friend” into an entirely different meaning.

Shayne said, “You’re drunk. You’d better go in and sleep it off.”

“Sure I’m drunk. Who cares? I’m telling you to stay away from Christine.”

“You might try having the decency to stay away from her yourself.”

Floyd Hudson stood swaying back and forth, his feet spread apart “I’m telling you,” he said thickly. “I know what your game is. Maybe you can fool Leslie, but not me. Another damned private dick causing trouble.”

“What other private dick?”

“I’m telling you,” Floyd blustered. “Stay away from here if you don’t want to get hurt.” He turned and made his unsteady way up the path of the house.

Shayne shrugged, went on through the gate and got in Ira Wilson’s taxi. He drove away with his face set in harsh, stubborn lines, and his eyes were hot with anger. This case was fast approaching a point where he was going to have to take certain people by the throat and choke the truth out of them. The first candidate for this treatment, he decided, should be Angus Browne.

The outer door of Browne’s office was locked when he tried the knob. He recalled distinctly having left it unlocked earlier in the afternoon. He got out the key he had used before, unlocked the door and went in. The anteroom looked exactly as it had before.

Stepping into the inner office he snapped a switch and flooded the room with light. He stood in the doorway for a moment looking around, then went over to the dusty desk and picked up an empty air mail special delivery envelope that had been mailed in New York the previous day.

The envelope was a long one, addressed to Mr. Angus Browne, and judging from its condition the contents had been bulky. Three air mail stamps were affixed to it. The return address was printed in the upper left-hand corner:
The Turnbull Detective Agency,
with a Madison Avenue address.

Shayne turned the envelope over and over in his hands, studying it intently, as though he hoped it could give him some hint of what it had contained. He dropped it back on the desk finally, and looked around the office.

Two fairly fresh cigarette butts had been toed out on the floor just in front of the desk chair. The film of dust on the desk’s surface appeared to have been further disturbed since he had sat there examining the Morrison folder.

Shayne went over to the filing cabinet and pulled the second drawer out. The folder was still there in its place, just as he had put it back, but nothing had been added to its contents.

He turned from the filing cabinet, his forehead furrowed in thought, stopped by the desk and looked speculatively at the empty envelope again. A telephone stood a few inches away from the envelope.

Without hesitation he lifted the receiver and dialed Operator. When she answered he said, “I want to make a station-to-station call to New York. I don’t know the number, but it’s the Turnbull Detective Agency at 260 Madison Avenue.”

She said, “Your number, please?”

A grin quirked the corners of his mouth as he gave her the number on the instrument before him.

After some time the operator said, “Here’s your party. Go ahead, please.”

Shayne said, “Hello.”

A feminine voice answered, “Turnbull Detective Agency.”

“This is Angus Browne in Miami, Florida. You’re supposed to be doing some work for me and I’d like an immediate report.”

The voice said, “One moment, Mr. Browne.”

Shayne waited, then he was told, “I’ve checked Mr. Turnbull’s file on your case and I find that he wrote you yesterday enclosing a full report on the matter.”

Shayne growled, “I haven’t received it yet. Did he send it by Pony Express?”

“No, sir. I recall it distinctly. It went to you by air and special delivery. You should have received it today.”

“I didn’t and it’s damned important. Can you put Turnbull on?”

“Mr. Turnbull isn’t in just now.”

“Can you get the report and read it to me?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that without consulting Mr. Turnbull.”

Shayne swore a little and pleaded a lot, but the voice at the other end of the wire was adamant. She refused to take the responsibility.

“Okay,” Shayne growled finally. “How soon can you get in touch with Turnbull?”

“He’ll probably call or come in within the hour.”

“Have him call me the minute you get hold of him. Not my office phone. I won’t be here. Have him call this number.” Shayne gave her the number of his hotel and asked her to repeat it. “If I’m not in when he calls, ask him to leave a number where I can reach him immediately. It’s extremely important.”

She promised she would do as he requested and Shayne hung up. He then dialed his hotel and instructed the switchboard operator that he was expecting an important call to come through in the name of Angus Browne—that such a call would actually be for him and she was to accept it. The operator had been on the switchboard during the years when Shayne conducted his business from the hotel, and she accepted his instructions without surprise.

Shayne looked in the directory after hanging up, but could find no home address listed for Angus Browne.

He took the empty envelope with him when he went out, perversely left the door unlocked again, and went down to the taxicab parked outside the office building.

It was almost sundown now and noticeably cooler as he drove out to Victor Morrison’s residence.

THE SAME PRETTY LITTLE MAID opened the door for him. She said sullenly, “Mrs. Morrison isn’t in.”

Shayne grinned. “It’s Mr. Morrison I want.”

“He’s not in either.” She started to close the door.

Shayne put his foot in the crack. “Are you sure? He promised to take me out in his boat this afternoon.”

“He’s already been out. Now he’s taking Howard horseback riding.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Then I guess it’ll be all right if I take the boat out myself. He asked me to use it any time I wished.”

She said, “I guess it’s all right.”

He turned and went down the steps and across the sloping lawn to the dock. There was no one around, and Shayne stepped into the boat tied alongside. He untied the painter and pushed off, then gave the outboard motor a spin. It was still warm and kicked off immediately.

Shayne settled himself with his hand on the tiller and looked at his watch. It was 5:03. He headed the prow of the small boat directly across the bay, opening the motor wide.

As soon as he was away from shore a rather strong easterly breeze came up and there was quite a swell farther out which caused the small craft to dip sickeningly each time she surmounted a wave. Shayne gritted his teeth and kept her wide open and headed for the opposite shore. There were only a few pleasure craft dotting the bay at this hour, and nothing got in the way of his course to upset the experimental run.

He studied the east shore of the bay carefully as he drew nearer, trying to recognize the rear of the Hudson house as soon as possible in order to alter his course to take him there in the shortest possible time. It was rather difficult, because many of the bayfront homes had similar boathouses extending out into the bay. He was quite close to shore before he recognized the one for which he was looking.