Brett Halliday

Blood on Biscayne Bay

Chapter One:  $10,000 BY MIDNIGHT

IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON of a day in late November when Michael Shayne sauntered into the lobby of a downtown apartment hotel in Miami, Florida. An indefinable feeling of restlessness possessed him. He recognized the symptom, and he welcomed it.

Very simply and very definitely he knew it was time he was moving on. His vacation had been a long and lazy one, and he had enjoyed every moment of it. But now it was over.

With the end of summer, the Magic City’s tempo was quickening. This was the first “Season” since peace had come to a war-weary world, and already tourists were crowding in, eager to spend their inflated money and clamoring for the frenzied gaiety which Miami knows so well how to offer.

Shayne was suddenly very tired of the tourist-filled city, and bored with inaction. He wanted to get back into the harness. Thinking of Lucy Hamilton, his attractive secretary in New Orleans, trying to keep his office intact while he was away, gave him a feeling of nostalgia which had never touched him before. He wondered about Lucy a lot. In a sense, he realized that this protracted vacation in Miami had been an inward protest against his growing fondness for her. He had felt after the Timothy Rourke affair had been cleared up that he needed to stay away from his New Orleans office for a time to gain perspective, and to examine impersonally his feelings toward the dark-haired and brown-eyed girl who was so much like Phyllis.

There were a few people seated in the lobby as Shayne crossed to the desk. The clerk, a small neat man with harassed blue eyes, saw him coming and swung around to get a telegram from Shayne’s pigeonhole. He smiled and laid the yellow envelope before the tall red-headed detective and said, “This came while you were out, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and tore the envelope open. He had no sensation of surprise. The message seemed to answer some of the disturbances he had experienced within the past few days almost telepathically, for it was signed, Lucy Hamilton. The message read:

Have accepted thousand dollar retainer for you to investigate Belton murder contingent your arrival prior tomorrow noon. Have reserved space National Airlines plane leaving Miami midnight. Please confirm your departure.

He leaned against the counter and tugged at his ear lobe with his right thumb and forefinger, his gray eyes blank and expressionless, staring at the telegram.

Shayne was standing like that when he sensed movement behind him and felt a hand touch him lightly on the arm. He turned his head and looked downward into the girl’s face. Big, slatish-gray eyes gazed appealingly into his. Long and very black eyelashes curled against her brow. She was a slender girl, about twenty-five, wearing a light blue linen suit that looked expensively simple, and a blue flower peeked above her high, dark pompadour. Her cheeks were softly rounded, her lips full and vividly rouged and slightly parted.

She said breathlessly, “Mr. Shayne. You don’t remember me, of course.” There was disappointment in her eyes and her pointed chin grew taut.

Shayne shook his head slowly, his gray eyes studying her face. He stopped tugging at his ear lobe, straightened up and lifted his hat, crumpled Lucy’s telegram and put it in his pocket.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I’m Christine Teilhet.” She waited a moment, still breathlessly hopeful, but when Shayne continued to stare at her and shake his red head slowly she went on hurriedly:

“That is, I used to be Christine Teilhet. I’m married now. I’m Mrs. Leslie Hudson.” Her voice took on a tone of dignity and pride as she pronounced the name.

Shayne said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. You see, I’ve been away from Miami for a long time.”

“I know. In New Orleans and El Paso. I’ve kept up with you through the newspapers.” She caught her lower lip between even white teeth and a frown of annoyance came between her arched brows. Her hand had remained lightly on his arm, and now her fingers tightened. She smiled and the tautness went out of her chin and throat “Of course—you must remember. I went to college with Phyllis, and I visited here one fall—just before Phyl died. I was in your apartment a couple of times when you were there. Remember?”

Shayne grinned suddenly and sheepishly. “You’re Christine,” he said. “I don’t think I ever knew your last name. You were just a kid back in 1942.”

The gaunt contours of his face tightened perceptibly as he remembered. Christine had been Phyllis’s best friend. He now recalled vaguely that she had done secretarial work in New York, and had taken a couple of months’ vacation in Miami between jobs.

Watching his face, she saw his eyes grow bleak and a muscle twitch in his cheek. The smile faded from her lips and she said, “I’m sorry, Michael. Phyl would have so loved having—the baby.”

Shayne jerked his body around and said harshly, “What is it you want with me?”

She took her hand from his arm and stepped back. “Sorry,” she murmured again. Turning her eyes from the fierce expression on his face, she went on soberly, “I’m in terrible trouble, Mr. Shayne. I thought—perhaps you would help me.”

“Of course.” He glanced around the lobby and lifted his ragged red brows. “Shall we go upstairs where we can talk?”

She turned toward the elevator with him. They went up two flights, and as they walked down the corridor to the right, Shayne said easily, “I was lucky enough to get my old apartment back when I landed here a few months ago.” He had his key ring out, and he unlocked a door opening into a large square living-room with east windows looking out over Biscayne Bay. There was a studio couch against one wall, a narrow center table, and three comfortable chairs. An open door revealed a kitchenette, the bedroom door was closed. Shayne stood aside to let Mrs. Leslie Hudson enter before him.

She stopped a couple of feet inside and looked around the room, a tiny frown between her eyes. “I don’t remember this apartment. I thought it was much larger—a corner apartment.”

“You’re thinking about the one upstairs one flight where we were living when you were here.” Shayne closed the door and went across the room, moved one of the chairs closer to the table and said, “Have a seat.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and sat down.

“This apartment was my hangout before I married Phyl,” he explained. “I kept it for an office after we were married.” He offered her a cigarette.

She shook her head. She carried a small blue handbag with a turquoise clasp and her fingers trembled as she gripped it tightly. “Not just now. You see, Mr. Shayne—”

“You called me Michael,” he reminded her, “three years ago.” His big mouth widened in a grin and his voice was gentle. “Just relax now. You know I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

“Thank you, Michael,” she murmured.

Shayne turned to a wall cupboard and lifted down a bottle of Three Star Hennessy. He set it on the table and went into the kitchen, where he put ice cubes and water in two tall glasses and carried them into the living-room. He took two wineglasses from the cupboard, filled one to the brim, and poured about three ounces into the other.

Christine was sitting stiffly erect, her feet close together and flat on the floor, watching him with impatient restraint. He set the partially filled glass and a glass of ice water on an end table beside her chair, moved another chair around to face hers, and sat down. She made no move to touch her drink.

Shayne said quietly, “Relax, Christine. That’s real cognac at your elbow.” A reassuring smile accompanied his words. He lifted his own glass and took a long drink. “Now, let’s have your story.”

“First—I want to tell you one thing, Michael. It’s about Phyllis—the time I visited her.” She looked levelly into his eyes and spoke with determination.

When his pleasant expression did not change, she went on rapidly, “I want you to know how happy she was, married to you. That fall when she was expecting the baby she made me feel that marriage could be wonderful. Seeing her so happy changed a lot of my ideas. I guess I was pretty cynical about men and marriage. I honestly don’t believe I’d be Mrs. Leslie Hudson right now if it hadn’t been for Phyllis—and you.” She slumped back in her chair when she finished, and her hand groped toward the glass of cognac.

“I hope you’ll be as happy,” he told her soberly.

“We are. That is, I am sure we will be.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Only a month. That’s why this is so dreadful—and why I’ve come to you for help.” Her hand shook when she set her glass down and picked up the glass of ice water.

Shayne leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Why don’t you bring me up to date from ’42? Weren’t you changing jobs when you visited here?”

“Yes. I went to work for a brokerage house when I returned to New York—Morrison and Disdale. I was Mr. Morrison’s private secretary. It was a good position and I enjoyed the work. I met Leslie six months ago when he was in New York on a business trip. He manufactures plane parts here in Miami.” She paused expectantly.

Shayne nodded. It was evident that she expected him to know something about her husband and his business.

“We fell in love almost at once,” Christine went on dreamily, as though for a moment she forgot the urgency of her call. “It was like living through the pages of a love story. I resigned my position a couple of months ago and closed my apartment and came down here. Leslie and I were married four weeks ago.” A flush came into her unrouged cheeks and the long fringe of her lashes lowered over her shining eyes.

“And?” Shayne prompted.

“Leslie is wonderful. Marriage is what I had hoped it would be. He has a beautiful home on the Beach and I have—everything any woman could want to make her happy.” Her voice broke on the final word. She closed her eyes over a sheen of tears and emptied the cognac glass.

“I’m in a hell of a jam,” she told him, straightening her body and leaning toward him. “If Leslie finds out about it our marriage will be ruined.” Her mouth and chin were taut.

“What sort of a jam?” Shayne asked mildly.

“I—owe a great deal of money,” Her voice was listless, almost dead-sounding.

“A debt contracted before your marriage?”

“No. I want you to understand about Leslie. He’s quite wealthy and terribly generous. I have charge accounts at all the stores and an extravagant allowance for household expenses, but I have no money of my own. That is, no actual cash. I had saved some money from my salary, but I spent every bit of that on my trousseau before I came to Miami. I wanted everything to be—just right.”

“And now you owe a great deal of money? A month after your marriage?” Shayne’s ragged brows contracted in a deep scowl. He watched her narrowly as she fumbled with the turquoise catch on her purse. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help you very much if you owe a lot—”

“Oh—no,” she cried out, “you don’t think that I—” She dug frantically in the purse and brought out a string of pearls. The glow of tropical twilight streaming through the windows touched the pearls with shimmering iridescence. She held them out to him and said, “I haven’t any money, Michael, but I have these. I’m sure they’re worth a great deal—at least ten thousand dollars, don’t you think?”

Shayne extended a big hand with his open palm up. She dropped the pearls into it. His gray eyes brooded upon them for a moment. He remembered another scene so much like this that it seemed an impossible coincidence. Phyllis Brighton had come to him for help on that other occasion. She, too, had brought a matched string of pearls and had offered them in payment for his help.

He said, “At least ten thousand,” and put them on the table beside his chair. “Do they belong to you?”

“Certainly.” Anger flared briefly in her eyes and her cheeks flamed. “Leslie gave them to me for a wedding present,” she explained in a stifled voice. “They were his mother’s.”

“And you want me to hock them for you?” he asked harshly.

She lifted her head quickly as though to protest, but instead she said slowly, “Yes. I suppose that’s what I want. I have to have ten thousand dollars—and I must have it tonight.”

Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette. “I suppose you want it handled without your husband’s knowledge?”

“Yes. It has to be that way. If he ever found out—” She shuddered and her face was suddenly deathly pale. “That’s why I thought of you,” she went on resolutely. “I know there are places where you can get the money for them and they won’t ask any questions.”

“Tonight?”

“It has to be tonight—before midnight.” Her voice was agonized now. She drew in a sharp, frightened breath. “Everything depends on it.”

Shayne picked up the pearls again and let them dribble back and forth in his palm. They were worth several times ten thousand dollars. He muttered, “I presume they’re insured.”

“Oh, yes, for quite a large sum—I think.”

Shayne shook his red head stonily. “I don’t play that sort of game. Not even for an old friend of Phyl’s. Hooking an insurance company is one racket I want no part in.”

She stared at him with surprise and amazement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said angrily. “I have no intention of trying to pretend they’re lost or stolen and collect insurance on them. And I don’t want you to do anything dishonest. I’ve got to have ten thousand dollars on them tonight. After that, I’ll have to get the money somehow to redeem them,” she ended in a tone of utter despair.

“And suppose you can’t get the money? As soon as your husband finds out the pearls are gone he’ll hold the insurance company liable. How would you wriggle out of that?”

“I’ve had a replica made,” she murmured. “I can scarcely tell them apart when I hold the two together. I’m sure Leslie will never dream anything like that has happened. I wear them so rarely, I’m sure he won’t notice—at least until I can get them back.”

“You’re playing with fire,” Shayne snapped. “You’d better tell your husband the whole story. If he really loves you and has plenty of money, ten grand shouldn’t make much difference to him.”

“I can’t. You don’t understand! I can’t tell him.”

“You realize, of course, that this is a lousy way to start a marriage,” he said gently.

Two spots of color burned in her cheeks. She met his gaze defiantly. “I’m the best judge of that. I’m sorry if I’ve imposed on you.” She started to get up.

Shayne wearily gestured her back. “I haven’t said I won’t help you. But I have to know more about this thing. How much is your debt?”

She sank back in her chair. “Ten thousand dollars. I thought I told you.”

“Why does it have to be paid tonight?”

“Because—tonight’s the deadline. If I don’t pay it tonight he threatens to go to my husband.”

“Who?”

“A man named Arnold Barbizon.”

“The gambler?”

“Yes. He—owns a club on the Beach.”

“And you’ve been gambling there?”

“He has my IOU for ten thousand dollars,” she told him, turning her eyes away from his intent gaze. “If it isn’t paid by midnight tonight he’ll turn it over to Leslie.”

Shayne said, “Ten grand is a pile of cash to put in a crooked game in one month. And while you’re honeymooning, at that.”

Christine Hudson spread out her slender hands and studied her bright nails. “I know I was a fool. Leslie is out a lot in the evenings and I—” She drew a deep breath and looked up at Shayne with dark, hopeless eyes. “I’m not trying to excuse myself. I admit it’s a hell of a jam. If I can just get out of it, I will have learned my lesson, Michael.”

Shayne lifted the pearls again, held them up to the light. “You’ll take a big loss if I’m forced to raise ten thousand on these by midnight. If I had a little more time, I could do a lot better.”

She shook her head slowly and said in a low, strained voice, “I can’t help it. It has to be—tonight.”

Shayne took a sip of cognac and said, “I know Barbizon slightly. I might have a talk with him—stall him—”

“No!” Her voice was sharp with fear. “Don’t you see? I can’t risk that!”

“I’m catching a plane at midnight,” Shayne told her coldly. “Do you want me to handle the pay-off for you, too?”

“If you would,” she breathed. “Just pay him the money and get my IOU and tear it up. You might phone me to let me know everything is all right.”

Shayne nodded casually. It wouldn’t add to her peace of mind any to explain that after being out of touch with such matters in Miami for so long it would be utterly impossible for him to locate a fence who would put up ten grand for the necklace on such short notice. He said, “Consider the matter taken care of. Where can I reach you by telephone?”

She gave him a Miami Beach number. “It’s in the phone book. Leslie P. Hudson.”

Shayne made a note of the number. “If there’s anything left over from the amount I get, I’ll mail it to you before I leave town.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “You keep it. It’s the only way I can possibly pay you.”

Shayne said, “Okay,” carelessly.

“I feel so—relieved,” she sighed.

“I could go to your husband,” he said after a short silence between them. “He might listen to me. After all, gambling is no sin and if he has plenty of money—”

“No!” She was sitting erect again and trembling. “Promise me faithfully you won’t do that, Michael. You don’t know how he is. He’s terribly strict about gambling, and things like that. He simply wouldn’t understand. Promise me you’ll go straight to the Play-Mor Club and pay Mr. Barbizon—as soon as you get the money—and get my IOU.”

“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He finished his drink and stood up.

Christine arose swiftly and went to him with her hands outstretched. She put them on his shoulders and said with passionate conviction, “I don’t know what I would have done without your help, Michael. I was just about ready to—to do something terrible when I read in the paper that you were in Miami.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders and she pressed against him for an instant. Then, she turned with a stifled sob and ran from the room Shayne stood flat-footed with his long arms hanging loosely and looked after her as she fled, a frown on his gaunt face. He waited until the door closed and until he heard the elevator stop to take her down, then turned grimly to pick up the pearl necklace. He moved across the room, switched on a floor lamp and carefully examined the gleaming pearls under the bright light.

His frown deepened into a scowl. They were an authentic heirloom. There was no doubt of that. In the inflated gem market they were worth a lot of money. Arnold Barbizon would be very happy to exchange a ten-grand IOU for the string.

He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grinned wryly at a head of lettuce in the hydrator. Once before he had used a head of lettuce in that same hydrator as a hiding place for another string of pearls belonging to Phyllis Brighton. He had returned them to her after the case was closed and she was convinced she hadn’t murdered her own mother.

He placed the pearls in the bottom of the hydrator, tore up the head of lettuce and covered them thoroughly and carelessly. Going back to the living-room, he got his hat and went downstairs to the lobby for an evening newspaper.

Chapter Two: OLD FACES—NEW ANGLES

BACK IN HIS APARTMENT, Shayne found a story about the Belton murder case in New Orleans about which Lucy had wired him, on page two of the evening newspaper. He settled himself comfortably and read the press association account of the affair with deliberate care and with mounting interest.

Mrs. Belton was described as the “lovely young wife” of Jason T. Belton, New Orleans industrialist and sportsman. Her body had been discovered in the back room of a dive in the French Quarter chastely described as “a lower class night club noted among the frequenters of the Quarter for the amorality of its habitués which included members of both the Negro and white races.” Mrs. Belton’s nude body lay on the bare wooden floor at the time of discovery. There were no outward marks of violence. A near-by table held a variety of “curious objects” supposed to be indispensable to the practice of voodoo.

Mrs. Belton had left home earlier that evening in the company of a young business associate of her husband’s who was still missing at the time the story was written. No one knew why she had gone to that particular spot in the Quarter; and none of the customers or employees of the dive would admit knowledge of her presence there. Captain Denton of the French Quarter precinct had told reporters that a dragnet was out for every person present at the club that night, and intimated that many socially prominent people might be dragged in for questioning.

Altogether, Shayne mused as he laid the paper aside, the Belton affair had many luscious angles. It was the sort of case a man could get his teeth into, and another chance to make a public fool out of Captain Denton.

He took Lucy’s telegram from his pocket and reread it carefully. A thousand-dollar retainer wasn’t the least of the alluring angles.

His time was running short in Miami. He sat for a moment looking at the chair where Christine Hudson had been sitting only a short time before, remembering the terror in her eyes and in her voice. By turning his head he could see the headlines of the Belton murder story in New Orleans. He got up and paced the floor briefly, a frown of indecision deepening the line between his eyes.

Pacing into the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out the hydrator, pushed the lettuce leaves aside and stood staring at the moist, gleaming string of pearls. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he shoved the hydrator back, closed the refrigerator door, and stalked into the living-room.

He poured a small drink, gulped it down, then moodily dragged out an empty Gladstone bag, put it on the table, and began carelessly packing the few clothes he had acquired on his vacation in the Magic City. His gaunt face held a look of abstraction, as though his thoughts were far away from the business at hand.

He had almost finished his packing when he suddenly straightened, moved swiftly to the telephone and called the airport to check on the reservation Lucy Hamilton had made for him on the midnight plane to New Orleans. After being assured the reservation was in order, he asked, “When is your next plane leaving for New Orleans?”

He was told that there was another flight at noon the next day, and he asked curtly if he could exchange the midnight reservation for space on the noon flight. After a slight delay, he was told that it might be arranged but that the airline could not guarantee the vacancy on the noon plane.

“I’ll take a chance on it,” Shayne said, hung up, then lifted the receiver again and asked to be connected with Western Union. When the connection was made, he said, “I want to send a straight message to Miss Lucy Hamilton in New Orleans.” He gave his New Orleans address, and continued, “Departure delayed until noon tomorrow. Keep a tight hold on retainer. Stall Belton until I arrive. Sign that ‘Mike.’”

Sweat was standing in the trenches in his face when he hung up. He mopped his face, poured another short drink, tossed it down and picked up his hat. He left his partially packed suitcase on the table and went out. He walked up to Flagler Street and found an empty taxi half a block from Biscayne Boulevard. He got in and said, “The Play-Mor Club on the Beach.”

The Play-Mor Club was an imposing structure, formerly a private estate north of 79th Street on the ocean front, and the grounds consisted of 20 acres surrounded by a high wall of native rock and cement. A wide arched gateway led in from Ocean Drive, and a red and green neon sign invited passers-by to Come In and Play-Mor.

Inside the high walls was a beautifully landscaped area with lush green lawns and tropical shrubbery softly lighted by colorful floodlights high among the fronds of palm trees. A driveway curved through the grounds, and rows of private cabanas lined the beach.

A smartly uniformed doorman opened the door of Shayne’s cab when it pulled up at the canopied entrance. Shayne gave the driver a generous tip, then went up a low flight of stone steps and into a foyer where he checked his hat. Turning left, he went a few steps down a corridor and into a long, dimly lighted cocktail lounge.

Shayne ordered cognac and was surprised to have a pony and a bottle of Hennessy slid in front of him. He was further surprised when the bartender poured cognac well above the one-shot mark on the glass. His gray eyes narrowed suspiciously when he received a cordial “Thank you, sir,” and sixty cents in change from the dollar bill he laid on the counter.

His suspicion of Arnold Barbizon, manager of the club, grew as he sipped his forty-cent drink. Most clubs such as this would charge at least a dollar for a drink of domestic brandy. It was quite evident that the Play-Mor Club made no profit on the bar. The idea, he felt certain, was to get a sucker in an expansive mood and take him at the tables.

His eyes widened speculatively as they came to rest on a man sitting alone at a table against the wall near the entrance. He was a small man wearing a baggy gray suit and a limp felt hat pulled well down on his forehead. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent, and as Shayne watched, he saw that the man scarcely wet his thin lips each time he lifted the tall glass from which he drank. His eyes were small and deep-set, and he never moved them from the bar entrance.

Shayne’s face hardened a trifle. Presently he swung back to the bar, emptied his glass and shoved the pony toward the idle bartender. He laid a half dollar on the counter and watched appreciatively while another generous portion of cognac was poured into his glass.

With the glass in his hand, he circled between the tables until he reached the one occupied by the lone and watchful little man. He toed a chair out and sat down, saying heartily, “Working, Angus?”

Angus Browne ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. He said, “It’s Mike Shayne,” as though he were surprised and not too pleased.

“Don’t tell me you missed me when I came in,” said Shayne. “I haven’t seen you for years, Angus. Still partners with Brockson?”

The man shook his head, turning slightly toward Shayne, but keeping his eyes on the entrance. “Brockson got blasted in a shakedown two years ago,” he said in a husky voice with a faint burr in it. “I’ve been on my own since then.”

“Good pickings?”

Browne shook his head and sighed. “Not so good these last few years. Damned war slowed things up.” He made a circular movement in the air with his right forefinger. “Some cheap divorce stuff and not much else.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’re back in town things must be looking up.”

“Not for me. I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow.”

Browne’s thin face showed a hint of relief. He muttered, “You always had a way of stirring things up.” He wet his lips with the whisky and soda.

Shayne said, “You need a fresh drink. That one looks hot and stale.” He turned to beckon a waiter.

He saw Angus Browne stiffen slightly and turn his head aside from the door as a couple entered. Shayne waggled a finger at a waiter and looked at the couple.

The man was short and fairly heavy without being fat. He was thirtyish, swarthy, with thick, pouting lips loosely parted over three large protruding teeth. Coarse black hair grew low on his forehead and his eyes were too close to a blunt nose. He carried himself with an air of conscious arrogance, as though he knew he was repulsive-looking and dared anyone to mention it. He wore pearl-gray striped trousers and a short white jacket over a white silk shirt with white bow tie. His pearl-gray and white sports shoes were an exact match for the trousers, and spotlessly clean.

A frizzled blonde, as tall as he, clung tightly to the man’s arm as though she feared someone might jerk him away from her. Her dinner gown was obviously expensive, and just as obviously had not been originally designed for her. She advanced with her companion with a set smile on her broad face and gave the impression that she would burst out giggling at any inanity that offered the slightest excuse for a giggle.

Shayne’s eyes followed them to a table across the room where the man pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving the girl standing. After a moment’s confused hesitation, she drew out a chair for herself and sat down opposite him, propped both her elbows on the table and giggled happily at something he said.

The waiter was standing beside Shayne. “A Scotch and soda,” Shayne said, and the man slid away.

Browne was staring moodily at his glass. Shayne took a sip of cognac and asked, “Did you pipe the couple that just came in?”

“Which ones?” Browne growled. “I didn’t notice anybody particular.”

“They’re sitting at that table over there.” Shayne pointed a knobby forefinger in their direction, blandly ignoring Browne’s sullen and obvious lie. “He looks like a guy who would enjoy feeding babies to the crocodiles, and she looks as though she’d be willing to mother the raw material for him.”

Browne glanced furtively in the direction of Shayne’s pointing finger and laughed mirthlessly. “Never saw either one of them before.”

“I didn’t say you had,” Shayne said.

The waiter brought a Scotch and soda and Shayne paid for it. Browne thanked him without enthusiasm, and Shayne finished his cognac. He got up and said, “Be seeing you around,” and wandered to the other end of the cocktail lounge and through an open door leading into the main dining-room.

Here there were also soft lights and courteous service. Only a few of the tables were occupied; the others were set with white linen, gleaming silver, and sparkling crystal. Shayne was obsequiously seated at a small table near one corner of the spacious room and a menu was spread before him. An intriguing array of a la carte dishes with no printed prices stood out in bold, Old English type.

Shayne ran an eager eye over the menu. There were no steaks listed. He turned to the waiter and asked,

“No filets today?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Rare, sir?”

“Rare—and I mean rare. French fries and a green salad. Coffee with it.”

The waiter bowed himself away. He returned presently with a filet mignon such as Shayne hadn’t seen for years. Red blood ran across his plate when he cut it through the center.

“All right, sir?” asked the waiter.

“Tender as a lovesick maiden’s heart,” Shayne said cheerfully, and stabbed a hot, crisp French fried potato. The salad was a highly paid chef’s dream, the coffee clear and strong.

Shayne blinked in consternation at the bill when it was laid beside his plate. The sum was a dollar and a half. He put two one-dollar bills on top of it. He was beginning to feel exactly the way the management wanted him to feel, well-fed and grateful, and he certainly felt that a man could not do less for so genial a host than drop a few bucks in one of his games.

He got up and strolled across the dining-room to a pair of closed doors discreetly lettered, Play Rooms. They opened onto what had formerly been a private ballroom, now transformed into a luxurious casino.

Only two tables were getting any play when he entered. Half a dozen men were gathered around a crap layout in one corner, and a dozen or more men and women were at the roulette table.

Shayne walked over to a barred grill and shoved two twenties toward the cashier. “Tens,” he said.

The cashier was a pleasant-faced and elderly man. He said, “Yes, sir,” as though this modest transaction were the apex of the evening’s work, and pushed out four red chips.

The thickset man and the frizzled blonde he had seen enter the bar earlier were at the roulette table. The man had a stack of blue chips in front of him, and the blonde had reds and whites. The smell of expensive perfume too liberally applied floated to Shayne’s nostrils as he came up behind the couple.

Shayne stepped back a pace and turned his nostrils away from the perfume. It was then that he saw Timothy Rourke. Rourke was swaying toward the roulette table with blue chips in his hand.

Shayne said, “Hi, Tim,” very casually, concealing his surprise, and moved around behind the croupier to the reporter’s side.

Tim’s deep-set eyes glittered queerly when he recognized Shayne. He had been months recovering from the bullet wounds in his chest, and was thin almost to the point of emaciation. He hiccoughed gently, grinned, and said, “Thought you were getting out of town, Mike.”

“Tomorrow,” Shayne said

Rourke placed a blue chip on each of three numbers, supporting himself with one hand on the table, and leaning against Shayne. Shayne slid a red chip on EVEN.

He looked up and saw the blonde looking intently at him from across the table. Her eyebrows and lashes were very thin and the color of bleached straw, giving her enormous dark eyes a vacant appearance. Shayne couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or Rourke, but her gaze did not waver before his challenging stare. She had half a dozen assorted chips spread out across the board, and her low-browed companion placed three blues carefully on Number 30.

The wheel went around and the croupier spun the ivory ball. All eyes except those of the tall blond girl were focused on it eagerly. She continued to stare at Shayne and Timothy Rourke. The ball dropped into the Number 16 slot and the croupier raked in a lot of chips, and doled out a few.

Shayne played EVEN half a dozen rolls, and was down to his last chip. He placed it on Number 14 and waited.

The ball rolled into the 24 slot. Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match to it, turning his head away slightly while the croupier raked in and paid off. He waited until the ball was lifted from its resting place before simulating a start of surprise and exclaiming angrily, “How about paying me off? I was on Number 14.”

“But 24 was the winning number,” the croupier assured him softly.

“The hell it was,” raged Shayne. “What sort of game are you running here? Can’t you win sucker money fast enough on your crooked wheel without pulling a gyp like that?”

There was a murmur of polite protest from the other players, and Timothy Rourke complained thickly, “For crissakes, Mike—” but Shayne continued his angry protests, leaning forward to shake his finger in the croupier’s face.

A bulky man came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A harsh and grating voice said, “Maybe you’d like to take your kick to the boss.”

“I sure as hell would,” Shayne told him violently, turning about to meet a pair of cold eyes level with his own. “If he’s running this sort of gyp game I intend to call his hand.”

“Take it easy, pal,” the burly man muttered, tightening his fingers on Shayne’s shoulder and putting 220 pounds into a pull that moved Shayne away from the table.

Shayne shoved the big hand off angrily and stalked behind the man while the other gamblers looked on in disapproving silence. They stopped at a steel door down the hall marked Private, and cleverly painted and grained to look like oak. The man knuckled the door and turned the knob.

Shayne pushed past him into a brightly lighted office. The bouncer stuck his head in and growled, “This guy has got a wrong beef, boss, and—”

He didn’t get any further with his explanation. Shayne hit the inner edge of the door with his shoulder and the bouncer jerked his head back to avoid being struck.

Shayne slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bolt on the inside. He turned to look into the muzzle of a .45 in the hand of Arnold Barbizon, who was standing in a half-crouch behind a shining mahogany desk in the center of the room.

Chapter Three: THE STAGE IS SET

THE MANAGER OF THE PLAY-MOR CLUB straightened quickly from his crouched position. His breathing was rapid and audible, but he managed to say with some dignity, “Shayne—what’s all this fuss about?”

At the instant Barbizon spoke the doorknob rattled on the outside and the bouncer’s gruff voice dimly penetrated the steel door. “What goes, boss? Should I bust in?”

Shayne shook his red head gravely at Arnold Barbizon. “You’d better talk with me privately,” he said. His eyes darted around the room. There was one other door to the left, an ordinary door with a Yale lock. He had no way of knowing whether it would open from the outside or not.

Barbizon moved forward, the gun steady in his hand and pointed at Shayne’s belly. He lifted his voice and said, “It’s all right, Smithy. Just an old friend pulling a gag on me.”

The gambler was a slim man of medium height with an olive complexion. His full lips were red, as though delicately rouged; his eyes were startlingly pale in color. He wore a carefully tailored Palm Beach suit, a tan shirt, and a four-in-hand tie to match. His cold pale eyes regarded Shayne steadily, but the fear had gone away from them. He said, “Well, Shamus?” His lips scarcely moved.

“Put down the rod and we’ll have a talk,” Shayne snapped.

Barbizon moved his head negatively and almost imperceptibly. “I like it better this way. What’s your gripe?” His voice was low and harsh.

Shayne took a deliberate step toward him. “I’ve got a couple of friends outside waiting for me. They know I’m here with you.” He kept moving forward, circling around the desk.

Barbizon’s red lips tightened against his teeth. He hunched forward a trifle more, then slowly sank into his chair. He laid the .45 carefully on the desk and said, “So, we’ll talk.”

Shayne stopped and eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk. He said, “I just donated forty bucks to your crooked wheel.” He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose and offered it to Barbizon.

The gambler accepted it with a murmur of thanks, produced a lighter from his pocket, lit Shayne’s cigarette and then his own. He leaned back and exhaled smoke through his nostrils and said in a tone of dry amusement, “You’re supposed to be dry behind the ears.”

“I’m supposed to be,” Shayne agreed.

Barbizon sighed heavily. There was a short silence between them, smoke rolling from the nostrils of each. Then the gambler slid his hand inside his coat pocket and brought out a billfold. He extracted four bills—a twenty, a ten, and two fives—shoved them toward Shayne and asked, “That fix it?”

Shayne said, “That’s generous of you.” He picked up the bills, creased them thoughtfully, flipped one five back. “I had a couple of cheap drinks and a swell dinner on you,” he explained.

Barbizon nodded pleasantly and put the five back in the billfold. “Are we through talking?”

“We haven’t started yet. I’ll take the ten-grand marker you’re holding on Christine Hudson.”

The suave gambler’s cigarette stopped a couple of inches from his parted lips. His hand was steady. A slight widening of his strangely pale eyes was his only indication of surprise. He said, “Come again.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for ten thousand. I want it.”

“The hell you do.” His lips smiled in faint amusement as he placed the cigarette between them.

“Make it easy on yourself,” said Shayne casually. His hand darted out and caught up the .45. It was a double-action Colt. He broke it and pressed the plunger that dropped six cartridges into his palm. He pocketed the cartridges and laid the empty gun back on the desk.

Barbizon, leaning back comfortably in his chair, did not move, but murderous rage glittered in his eyes. He said, “You’ve got a way of making yourself at home.”

“I’ll take that marker,” Shayne growled.

“Is this a pay-off?”

“It’s a brush-off,” Shayne told him easily. He held out a broad palm. “Give.”

The gambler’s hand trembled when he tried to put the cigarette to his lips again. He ground it savagely in an ash tray.

“You can’t get away with this,” he said in a low and furious voice.

“My friends who are waiting for me,” Shayne told him quietly, “are an ex-cop and a newspaper reporter. We’ll do a job on this place if you want it that way.”

Barbizon drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “How do you figure in it?”

“Christine Hudson is a friend of mine,” Shayne told him. “She’s in a jam and I’m getting her out of it.”

Barbizon’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “What makes you think I’ve got a thing like that here?”

“The pay-off was set for tonight. Here.”

The gambler shrugged his padded shoulders, leaned forward and opened a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. He took a key ring from his pocket and inserted a flat key in the lock of a long steel box. The top jumped open. He reached inside and drew out a doubled sheet of heavy note paper. His only expression was complete boredom as he pushed the paper toward Shayne.

Shayne unfolded it. Engraved across the top was “Mrs. Leslie Hudson, 139 Magnolia Lane, Miami Beach, Florida.” Below, written in blue ink, in a firm and clear handwriting, was “IOU $10,000.” It was signed, “Mrs. Leslie Hudson.”

Shayne studied it for a moment, then ripped it into thin shreds and dropped them into his coat pocket. He stood up and said, “Thanks.” Turning his back on Barbizon he went to the door, unbolted it, and walked out into the empty corridor.

He returned to the gaming room and stopped just inside the door to look around.

Business had picked up since be left. Two blackjack games had started, and another crap table was going strong. At the roulette table, he saw Timothy Rourke standing beside the frizzled blonde with the expensive perfume and the dress that did not fit her. He didn’t see the stocky man who had come in with her.

The blonde was pressed close to Rourke and talking earnestly to him.

After studying the crowd carefully and not seeing Angus Browne, Shayne stalked across to the door leading into the cocktail lounge. The lounge was filled with people and with cigarette smoke and loud talk. He strolled slowly along the bar, but neither Angus Browne nor the blonde’s earlier companion were present.

In the checkroom he got his hat, went down the stone steps to the curb where the doorman was assisting a couple from a chauffeured limousine. When the big car pulled away, Shayne asked the doorman, “Any chance of getting a cab?”

“As soon as one comes in with a load, sir. There’s one turning in now.”

Shayne stepped back when the taxi pulled up. A young sailor and a very young girl got out. They were both quite drunk. They refused the doorman’s assistance, and staggered away arm in arm. The doorman nodded to Shayne, who started toward the empty cab.

“Cab! Cab!” A shrill voice called from the top of the stone steps. The blonde was running toward the taxi, her face white in the dim light, holding the long skirt of her dinner gown up to make more speed.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the doorman said. “This gentleman has already—”

The girl rushed on, crying, “I must have this cab,” and started to climb in.

Shayne stepped up to the driver and asked, “Any reason why you shouldn’t earn a double fare?”

“Okay by me,” the driver told him with a wide grin.

Shayne put a quarter into the doorman’s hand and got in beside the girl who was huddled in the far corner of the seat. “If you don’t mind sharing the cab with me,” he told her cheerfully, “I’ll be glad to drop you first.”

“But—hurry,” she said in a shaky voice.

The taxi wheeled around in a circle and went out under the archway. The driver asked over his shoulder, “Where to?”

“You first,” Shayne said to the girl.

She was sitting erect now, stiffly alert. “One thirty-nine Magnolia Lane,” she said. “Please hurry.” Her voice broke on the last words.

Shayne repeated the address aloud, “One thirty-nine Magnolia Lane,” frowning at the sound of it on his lips. The address engraved on the shreds of note paper in his pocket. The blonde was going to Leslie Hudson’s house.

He settled back in his corner and lit a cigarette, shielding the match in his big cupped palms to hide his face. The odor of her perfume had worn off somewhat and was not too strong inside the cab. The girl shrank back in her corner and did not look at him. He wondered why she had been in such frantic haste to leave the Play-Mor Club. He wondered who her earlier companion had been, and what connection, if any, there was between her and Timothy Rourke. She was not the type to attract Rourke, yet he felt sure that it had been Rourke and not himself she had stared at across the roulette table.

The taxi sped south past the Roney Plaza a short distance, then turned west toward the bay. There was a half-moon and brilliant stars twinkled in the dark blue sky. The taxi followed a winding course westward along palm-lined streets, finally turning south again on a street paralleling the east shore of Biscayne Bay. The driver slowed and pulled up in front of a tall hibiscus hedge that concealed the lower story of the house, but there were lighted windows in the upper story.

The girl was fumbling in her handbag when Shayne opened his door next to the hedge and stepped out. He held the door open and said, “I’ll be glad to take care of the fare, Miss.”

She moved over on the seat and slid out the door, breathing a tense, “Thank you very much.”

For an instant he caught a glimpse of her broad face in the moonlight. Her features were strained and tight, and she seemed to shrink away from him. She opened a wooden gate, left it ajar, and he could hear her heels clicking rapidly up the concrete walk.

Shayne said quickly, “Hold it here for me just a minute,” and went quietly and swiftly after her. He saw her swerve from the path and disappear around the side of the house toward the rear.

He stopped for a moment and listened, then went up the front walk to the porch where a night light burned, and pressed the electric button.

There was a brief wait. The door was opened cautiously by a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and well-cushioned body clad in a simple print dress.

Shayne removed his hat and said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Hudson, I’m an old friend, and it’s rather urgent—”

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Hudson is not in.”

“Mr. Hudson, then?”

“Mr. Hudson isn’t in either. If you’d care to come in and wait—” She opened the door wide.

Shayne said, “Thanks. I’ll try tomorrow morning.” He went down the walk to the waiting cab, got in, and gave the name of his hotel in Miami.

The driver grinned as he pulled away. “That dame didn’t seem very friendly—you letting her ride in the cab, and all. I figured you and her didn’t know each other when you got in back there.”

Shayne said, “We didn’t,” shortly, discouraging further probing by the driver.

It was eleven o’clock when he reached his apartment. He glared at the half-packed Gladstone on the table, poured a slug of cognac, drank it neat, and went into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep.

Chapter Four: MURDER ON THE BAY

SHAYNE AWOKE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning. He lay blinking at the ceiling for a moment, then tossed the covers back and padded into the living-room in his pajamas. A stiff breeze blowing in the two open windows had a late November chill so early in the morning, and he stopped to close them on his way to the kitchen.

He set a pot of coffee on the stove to brew, then went into the bathroom where he hurriedly shaved and showered. Wrapping a towel about his middle, he went back to the kitchen, pulled the percolator off the fire, and returned to the bedroom to dress.

He drank a cup of black coffee, poured another and added a generous amount of cognac, and settled himself comfortably with a cigarette. This morning routine was accomplished with a minimum of movement and of effort, and without conscious thought

Now, he frowned meditatively as he took a deep pull on his cigarette and took a stiff drink of the coffee royal. The events of the previous afternoon and evening came to him in rapid succession. His visit from Christine Hudson, the securing of her IOU from Arnold Barbizon, Angus Browne loitering in the Play-Mor bar, the girl in the taxi, her companion, and Timothy Rourke’s connection with her.

He finished his cigarette and the coffee royal, sat for a moment looking at the Gladstone, sprang up and started packing. He had kept his promise to Christine Hudson. Her IOU was safely scrapped and in his pocket He decided that he was making a mountain out of a molehill, and that the only thing left for him to do now was to deliver the IOU and her pearls. He stopped packing to go in the kitchen and get the pearls from the hydrator and put them in his pocket.

He came back and packed the last of his things, snapped the bag shut, and went down to the lobby to arrange to have it delivered to the airport by 11:30. He then went out and found a taxi, got in and directed the driver to 139 Magnolia Lane on the Beach.

The Hudson residence was an imposing structure by daylight, of Moorish and Spanish architecture in high favor during the early period of Miami Beach’s development. A vast expanse of terraced lawn spread out to the water’s edge, bordered on two sides with coco palms and Australian pines, and dotted with fern-bedecked fish ponds over which tiny decorative coral bridges were fashioned.

Shayne told the driver to wait, and went briskly up the walk to the door. The same middle-aged woman answered his ring. She smiled and told him to step inside when he asked for Mrs. Hudson. She led him into a spacious living-room and asked him to sit down. Then she went out.

Christine hurried into the room a few minutes later, her dark eyes glowing eagerly. Her hair was brushed back from her face, and except for a little blue bow tucked on one side, she looked slim and boyishly youthful in white linen slacks. She caught both his hands in hers when he got up and went to her.

“Hurry and tell me, Michael,” she implored. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”

He grinned down at her. “Everything is fine,” he assured her. He took the torn shreds of the IOU from his pocket, took one of her hands and held it palm upward, and crushed the mass into it. “You’d better burn these. But I thought you’d like to see them first, just for your own peace of mind.”

Christine sat down and spread the bits of paper out. “Oh,” she breathed, “I can’t tell you how much I thank you, Michael. I feel free again—and alive!” She looked up at him with shining eyes and a smile parting her lips. She crushed the papers into a little ball and put them in the pocket of her slacks.

Shayne said, “I’ve got something else for you.” He took the pearls from his coat pocket and dangled them before her.

She drew in a sharp breath and cried, “Oh, no!” Her face went white and one hand went to her throat. “No!” She shrank back in the chair as though he had struck her.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed. “I’m not doing anything but returning your property. Take them—and consider the whole thing a bad dream. It’s all settled.”

“But I don’t understand,” she moaned. “If you didn’t—how did you get the IOU back?”

“I persuaded Barbizon to give it to me,” Shayne said cheerfully. “It wasn’t very difficult. He didn’t—”

“Oh, God!” Christine covered her eyes with her hands and an agonized moan came from her throat. “Oh, you’ve ruined everything! Now I’ll never—”

The sharp ringing of the front doorbell interrupted her. She took her hands from her eyes and there was a frantic, hunted look in them. She sprang up and ran to the front door.

Shayne stared down at the pearls still dangling from his knobby forefinger, then quickly put them in his pocket. He turned to the door and saw Christine admit a tall, lean man with finely chiseled features. His light brown hair was thinning in front, and he was heavily tanned. A man, Shayne guessed, in his early thirties; athletically trim, and he walked with a springy step and with complete self-assurance.

He didn’t look in Shayne’s direction, but put his arm around Christine, held her close, and said gently, “You mustn’t worry, dear. It’s just that they’ve found Natalie.”

A slow, sardonic smile twisted Michael Shayne’s wide mouth when he saw the man who entered the room behind Leslie Hudson.

Peter Painter, Chief of the Miami Beach Detective Bureau, strutted past Christine and Leslie Hudson. His black eyes darted around the room, and a manicured forefinger went up to caress a threadlike black mustache, but stopped in mid-air as he saw, then glared incredulously at the tall redhead who lounged against a chair. Painter drew in a sharp, audible breath and said, “Shayne! By God, if I ever walked in on a case without finding you, I’d—” He clenched his fists and took two angry steps forward.

Leslie Hudson turned with his arm around Christine. “This is Chief Painter,” he told her. “When I telephoned him from my office to report Natalie’s disappearance, he asked me to come right over.”

Shayne stepped forward and Christine said, “Leslie, this is Michael Shayne. You remember my telling you about Phyllis—”

Leslie Hudson held out his hand and said, “Of course. How do you do, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m leaving town today,” said Shayne, taking the other’s hand, “and dropped in to say good-by and wish Christine luck.”

“You’re acquainted with Chief Painter, of course,” Hudson said.

“We’ve met.” He let go of Hudson’s hand and stepped back. “Don’t let me interrupt anything. I have to catch a plane for New Orleans at noon.” He glanced aside at Christine’s miserable face.

“We don’t want to prevent that,” said Chief Painter. “You haven’t too much time to get to the airport.”

“I’ve a taxi waiting,” Shayne assured him easily. “What’s this about someone being missing?”

“Natalie, our maid,” Hudson explained. “She didn’t come in last night and we became worried this morning. I phoned the police and Chief Painter tells me—” He broke off with an inquiring glance at the chief.

Christine stepped back from her husband, her dark eyes fearful. She caught Shayne’s eye and pressed a finger to her lips, motioning him frantically for silence.

Painter strutted to the center of the room and whirled to face the trio. “We already had her body. Found it early this morning in the bay less than three hundred yards from here.”

“Her—body?” Christine cried out sharply. “Drowned?”

“Not exactly, Mrs. Hudson,” Chief Painter said. “She’d been struck over the head—” he paused and delicately cleared his throat. “Her throat was slashed,” he ended quietly.

Christine caught her husband’s arm and began to sob. “Now, now, dear,” he comforted her. “You mustn’t take it too hard. We’ve only had her with us a short time.”

Shayne raised ragged brows, looking from the couple to Painter, then went over and sat down in a chair.

Chief Painter confronted him “I suppose you wouldn’t know a damned thing about this, Shayne? You just happened to drop in this morning?”

Shayne looked up at the dapper little man who stood before him, immaculately turned out in the latest style, and stiffly erect. He said, “That’s right.”

“Nuts!” The dynamic chief turned on the heel of one small shoe and snapped to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, “Whichever one of you called Shayne in on this case, get this through your heads. I won’t have him interfering with police business. The woman was murdered, and I’m taking personal charge of the investigation.”

Shayne’s gray eyes shone with an angry and humid glow. “I told you I was catching the noon plane,” he said.

Painter disregarded him. He continued bitingly, “I’ve had experience with Shayne messing up cases before. I assure you that the Miami Beach officials are capable of handling this murder investigation.”

Leslie Hudson looked inquiringly at Shayne, then turned a puzzled glance on Painter. His right hand came up in a gesture of confusion and embarrassment. “I don’t quite understand,” he said, addressing Painter. “I’m sure it was a purely friendly gesture on Mr. Shayne’s part—dropping in to say good-by to Mrs. Hudson.”

Christine was still clinging to her husband’s arm. She dropped her hands to her side and stepped forward. “Of course it was,” she said, “but now that this terrible thing has come up about Natalie, I want him to find the guilty person. With your permission, of course, Chief Painter.” She appeared to have gained complete control of her emotions, and she flashed a smile at Painter.

Painter nervously fingered his mustache. He said, “But you heard Mr. Shayne say he was catching the noon plane.”

“Just a moment.” Shayne sprang from his chair. He said, “Mr. Hudson, will you describe the maid—Natalie—to me?”

“Of course. She was something under thirty, I suppose. Quite blond, and—” he twirled a hand above his baldish head “and frizzly.” He turned to his wife and asked, “Rather nice looking, wouldn’t you say?”

Christine laughed lightly. “Any maid would look good to us, Leslie,” she said. “She had a rather pleasant face and she liked to laugh and talk. I’d given her some of my old gowns and she looked very nice in them. And,” she added, turning to her husband, “she helped herself to the lovely perfume you gave me.”

Shayne was watching Christine. Her light laughter and her smile and the glow in her eyes went away when she turned away from Painter. He said, “My trip to New Orleans isn’t really important. I can easily put it off a day or so if you really want me to look into this.” He knew, suddenly, that there was more involved than the IOU which Barbizon held against Christine, and he deliberately shoved aside the urgent telegram from Lucy Hamilton and the thousand-dollar retainer in the Belton case.

Leslie Hudson was saying, cordially, “We’d appreciate that, Shayne. Natalie was a maid who’d been with us only a short time, but we owe her that much.”

Shayne scarcely heard him. When Christine’s husband stopped speaking, Shayne said to Painter, “You’re conducting an investigation?”

The chief raised his padded shoulders a trifle straighter and warned him bitingly, “Just try pulling a fast one, Shayne. Just one. That’s all I ask.” He turned his back on the redhead, whipped out a notebook and demanded, “The maid’s full name?”

“Natalie Briggs,” said Hudson.

“Age?”

“About—twenty-eight,” Christine answered when her husband looked at her inquiringly.

“Height and weight?”

Leslie Hudson’s eyes were a mixture of green and gray. He drew his brows together between them, but didn’t look at his wife. “I would say about five-feet-eight or nine inches. She was tall.” He thought for a moment, turned to Christine and said, “A hundred and thirty, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

“Fifty,” Christine murmured, her long lashes half-closed. Her tousled dark head was nestled against Leslie’s arm, and she didn’t look at Shayne.

“Any relatives? Close friends?” Painter asked officiously.

Hudson didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at Christine and said, “None that I know of. She was sent to us by an employment agency a few weeks ago. You know how it is these days. But she was perfectly satisfactory,” he maintained stoutly.

Painter’s small black eyes flashed. “H-m-m. So you don’t actually know anything about her.” His tone indicated that they knew everything about her and were directly responsible for her murder. “When was she last seen by any member of your household?”

Christine lifted her head and spoke in a steady voice. “I can answer that. It was right after dinner. Leslie had gone to the plant, and she had a date. She came in to show me how a green dinner dress looked on her—one I had given her. I was reading the evening paper in the living-room. She said there was something she had forgotten to do and went upstairs. When she came down, I could smell the perfume, but I didn’t care about that. Naturally,” she ended, “I didn’t ask her where she was going.”

“Did someone call for her?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Christine seemed to remember all of a sudden that she was a hostess. She moved wearily toward a chair and said, “Let’s all sit down.”

She sank down on a love seat and her husband sat beside her. Painter stood in his tracks, his notebook in his hand and his pencil poised above it. Shayne dropped into a chair and crossed his legs.

“When Natalie wasn’t here this morning, I asked Mrs. Morgan if she knew anything. Mrs. Morgan was in the kitchen just before Natalie left.”

“Who is Mrs. Morgan?” Painter asked.

“Our housekeeper,” said Christine.

Painter raised his right hand which held his pencil and ran a finger over his thin mustache. “Why didn’t you report the maid missing earlier?” he demanded. “Was she in the habit of spending her nights out?”

Leslie Hudson said, “The maid’s room is in the house. We naturally gave her a key to the back door so she could come in on her night out. I suppose she stays out quite late, which is none of our business as long as she does her work the next day. We didn’t know she hadn’t come in until just before I left for the office this morning.”

“There was no wind last night,” Painter asserted, “and your maid was found floating in the bay a short distance from here. It’s my guess she was killed right here and dumped in the bay. Where were you two all evening?”

“There was a pretty high wind this morning,” Shayne said.

Painter’s small black eyes darted to Shayne. “You keep out of this, Shamus,” he snapped. He turned back to the Hudsons. “Where were you last night?”

Leslie Hudson looked at his wife quickly, but she was staring at her pink fingernails. He said, steadily, “My wife and I were out.”

“Where?” Painter asked caustically.

Christine lifted her eyes and looked steadily at Painter. She did not smile. She asked, “Are Leslie and I suspects?”

Painter again cleared his throat delicately. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but it’s just as well to establish an alibi if you can.”

Hudson tightened his arm on his wife and said, “We will see to that when the necessity arises,” stiffly.

Painter said angrily, “If you’re not going to co-operate, that’s the way I’ll play it. Now, who else is in the house?”

“Mrs. Morgan,” said Leslie Hudson, “and my brother, Floyd.”

“Where are they? I want statements from them, and—”

The telephone rang in an adjoining room. Shayne saw Christine stiffen. Her dark, terrified eyes met his for an instant. It was as though she expected the ring and appealed to him for help.

“I want to inspect the girl’s room and her possessions,” Painter was saying, as Christine sat on the edge of the love seat, and they could all hear Mrs. Morgan answering the telephone.

A moment later Mrs. Morgan entered the spacious living-room and said, “It’s for you, Mrs. Hudson.”

As Christine dragged herself from the love seat and went slowly through the open doorway to the telephone, Peter Painter turned on one heel to face the middle-aged woman. “Are you Mrs. Morgan?”

“I am,” said the woman, her hands folded across her ample diaphragm. Her calm blue eyes ran the length of the chief’s short stature.

“You can come in right now,” Painter said. “I want you to give me everything you can about Natalie Briggs. Try to remember everything—”

All of them heard a stifled gasp from the adjoining room, and the faint sound of a body crumpling to the floor. Shayne and Hudson rushed into the room together.

Christine lay outstretched on the floor beside the telephone stand in a dead faint.

Chapter Five: ALIBI OR RUSE

MRS. MORGAN FOLLOWED Shayne and Hudson at once, took in the situation at a glance and went directly to a lavatory opening off the library for a wet cloth and smelling salts.

Mr. Hudson lifted his wife in his arms and carried her to a couch. Kneeling beside her, he stroked her hair and called to Mrs. Morgan to hurry. She was back in a few seconds and they administered cold cloths to the unconscious girl’s face and held the salts to her nostrils.

Shayne picked up the receiver dangling from the cord. He called, “Hello—hello,” into the mouthpiece, but the connection had been broken from the other end. He swore softly, and was replacing the receiver as Painter came in.

“See here now—” Painter began, but no one paid any attention to him.

Shayne grinned and said, “I bet the whole bunch are guilty as hell. You can see this is just a dodge to avoid answering your questions.”

“I’ll ask for your advice when I want it,” Painter snapped. He strutted over to the trio and said, “What does she mean by a stunt like that?”

Hudson turned a strained and anxious face up to him as Christine stirred and moaned faintly. “I don’t understand this any more than you do. It isn’t like Christine at all. As soon as she comes around I’m sure she’ll explain. There, there, dear,” he went on to his wife. “Are you all right now?”

Christine opened her eyes and looked around wonderingly, her stark gaze going slowly from one face to the other. Color came slowly into her cheeks and she said, “Oh! I—don’t know what happened. Everything went black and I—” She caught her husband’s hand and held it tightly.

“Who was on the telephone?” Painter demanded. “What was said that caused you to faint?”

“Nothing.” She drew herself up to a sitting position, still clinging to Hudson’s hand. “I did come in to answer the phone, didn’t I? I remember now. I’d just picked up the receiver when a wave of sickness struck me.” She managed a wan smile and turned her face toward Mrs. Morgan. “Silly, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” the older woman told her. “You’ll come up to your room now and rest.” She gave Hudson a significant look and said, “We’d best have the doctor in to see her right away.”

“I’ll carry you up,” her husband said, and gathered her in his arms. Mrs. Morgan followed them from the room.

Painter called out, “I want all of you back here. And Mr. Hudson’s brother. Send him down at once.”

Leslie Hudson returned to the library in a very few minutes. There was a puzzled look in his eyes. He muttered, “I don’t understand. Do you suppose—can Mrs. Morgan be right?” He cut himself off abruptly, as though he suddenly realized he was speaking aloud thoughts that were not for strangers.

Shayne laughed and slapped him lightly on the back. “It does happen on the best of honeymoons,” he assured the worried man. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But she hadn’t told me. I didn’t know—”

“You’ve been married only a month,” Shayne reminded him. He turned on Painter and said harshly, “You’ve got to be careful what you say to a woman in her condition.”

Tiny beads of sweat were standing on Painter’s face. He mopped it away with a handkerchief and mumbled, “How was I to know? I’m through with her anyhow for the time being. What about this brother of yours, Hudson?”

“I doubt whether Floyd’s up yet. I imagine Mrs. Morgan will send him down. Here he is now,” Hudson added quickly. “Suppose we go back to the living-room.”

The four men moved into the larger room. Floyd Hudson stopped in the center of the room and waited.

Floyd Hudson was the man Shayne had seen at the Play-Mor Club with Natalie Briggs the preceding night.

He blinked owlishly at the little group and demanded, “What in hell’s the excitement, Les? Mrs. Morgan said I was wanted down here.”

“Just a formality, Floyd,” his brother assured him in a gentle voice. “This is Chief Painter of the Beach police force. They found Natalie’s body in the bay this morning, and there are some routine questions he has to ask.”

“Natalie? In the bay,” Floyd Hudson looked shocked. “Are you serious? Did she commit suicide?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Painter stiffly. “How well did you know the maid, Mr. Hudson?”

Floyd shrugged and muttered, “What do you mean by a question like that? Are you insinuating—?”

“I’m asking,” Painter said.

“How well would I know a maid?” the younger brother demanded truculently. He pressed stubby fingers against his forehead. “Natalie wasn’t any prize, you know.”

“When did you see her last?”

Floyd turned his head slightly and looked at Shayne for the first time since he entered the room. He narrowed his bloodshot eyes and appeared to be concentrating on something. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Let me get this straight. When did she do it?”

“Natalie Briggs was murdered some time last night,” Painter told him. “Right here in your back yard if I’m not mistaken. Pending an autopsy, the doctor’s first guess is around midnight.”

Floyd looked at Shayne again and asked, “Is this another cop?”

“I’m sorry,” the elder brother said. “Mr. Shayne, my brother. Mr. Shayne is an old friend of Christine’s,” he went on, “a private detective who is helping the police clear up Natalie’s death.”

Shayne stepped forward and took Floyd’s extended and unresponsive hand. “I believe we ran into each other last night at the Play-Mor Club.”

“Did we? Maybe so.” Floyd wet his lips and groaned. “My head. God, but it’s splitting. I suppose I might as well give it to you straight,” he said to Painter. “I took Natalie to the Play-Mor last night.” He saw his brother give a start of surprise and added defensively, “She’d been after me to take her some place like that ever since she’d been here. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

Painter was making notations in his book. “Was this the first time you’d taken her out, Mr. Hudson?”

“Of course. God, you don’t think I’d make a practice of it.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “She got half-tight on a couple of drinks and insisted on gambling. After she’d dropped all her own money she wanted me to put up for her. I was sick of my bargain by that time, and I slipped away and left her there.”

“What time was that?”

“About ten o’clock.”

Painter looked at Shayne. “You say you saw him there with the maid?”

“I said I saw him at the Play-Mor. He was with a girl who answered Mr. Hudson’s description of the maid.”

“What time was that?”

“I saw them at the roulette table slightly before ten. I dropped forty bucks and went out for a few drinks and looked in again about ten-thirty. She was still there, but I didn’t see him.”

“That’s what I told you,” Floyd put in wearily. “I skipped out on her and went on and made a night of it by myself.”

“Where?” Painter asked incisively.

Floyd shook his head. “God only knows. I hit the Den first and tilted a few. And I think I was at the Yacht Club, and maybe the Tropical Tavern.” He managed a puffy-lipped smile. “Didn’t get in till about four-thirty.”

“You didn’t come back here in the meantime?”

“Hell, no. Home didn’t appeal to me right then.”

“How long were you at the Play-Mor?” Painter demanded of Shayne.

“I reached my apartment at eleven o’clock. I didn’t go back into the gambling room after I looked in at ten-thirty.”

“And the girl was there at that time?”

“She was at the roulette table when I went out and got a cab,” Shayne said steadily.

Mrs. Morgan entered the room unobtrusively. She touched Leslie Hudson’s arm and said, “I think you’d best go up to Mrs. Hudson, sir. She’s resting quietly, but she’d like to see you.”

“Of course” Hudson arose hastily. “You’ll excuse me.

“And I,” said Floyd, “have told you all I know about anything. Is there hot coffee, Mrs. Morgan?”

“On the stove. I’ll fix some—”

“You’ll stay right here,” Painter said sternly, “until you’ve answered a few questions.”

As she turned back looking flustered and unhappy, Floyd brushed past her, saying, “I’ll fix some myself. And don’t tell him any more than you have to.”

Mrs. Morgan sat down and folded her hands in her lap. She answered Painter’s questions steadily and clearly. She had helped rear Christine, and when Christine married she had been happy to come to Miami and take the position as housekeeper in the Hudson home. She hadn’t known Natalie Briggs until she came to work as a maid, and the girl had done her work competently. There had been no complaints. She knew nothing at all about the dead girl’s background or friends. She had had no callers during the few weeks she’d been employed at the Hudson house, and had received no letters to Mrs. Morgan’s knowledge.

She and the girl occupied adjoining rooms in the rear wing of the house, upstairs, and when she retired at midnight, Natalie was not in her room. She hadn’t tried to call her early this morning, supposing she was asleep, but had gone up after preparing breakfast and learned then that she had not returned during the night. She had heard no unusual sounds during the night, but she was a sound sleeper and would not have heard any noises had they occurred.

Peter Painter snapped his notebook shut with a snort of irritation after concluding his interrogation of Mrs. Morgan. He smoothed his thin black mustache with his thumbnail, shrugged, and strutted out the front door.

Shayne went out after saying good-by to Mrs. Morgan. He silently followed Painter around the side of the house to the rear, taking the same path he had watched Natalie take the preceding night.

A flagstone path led through the spacious lawn to stone steps going down into a boathouse built out from the breakwater into Biscayne Bay, large enough to house a thirty-foot motor launch. The roof of the boathouse was flat, and level with the top of the breakwater. A man was lying on his belly at the far end of the roof, looking down at the water.

He rolled over and sat up as Painter, with Shayne a few steps behind him, walked out on the roof toward him. “We got it just about figured out for you, Chief. Whatley is down there in a rowboat scraping off samples from the plank doors of the boathouse. Blood is what it is. Diluted with water and washed up there against the planking last night while she drifted away. Whatley and I figure she was bopped on the head when she come around back to get in last night, and then the guy carried her out here and slit her throat while he was holding her out over the edge so’s there wouldn’t be any bloodstains left. We figure—”

“Keep your figuring to yourself,” said Painter furiously. He turned on Shayne and said, “Keep out of my way. I’m warning you, just keep out of my way.”

Shayne grinned and nodded. He said, “Okay,” and turned and sauntered back across the lawn to the front.

A Buick roadster was pulled up behind his waiting cab, and behind that was Chief Painter’s official car. A Beach homicide sedan was parked behind it.

Shayne got in the cab and said to the driver, “Pull ahead a couple of blocks and then circle back where we can watch these cars without being seen. We may have a long wait.”

“Look, boss,” the driver remonstrated, “waitin’ around like this ain’t so good these days. A guy don’t put much on the meter standin’ still.”

Shayne gave him a five-dollar bill and asked, “Will that fix it?”

“Sure—you bet,” the driver said, and followed the instructions Shayne had given him.

Chapter Six: COMPROMISING LETTERS

SHAYNE HAD A LONG WAIT in the taxi. He had time to think things over, particularly with regard to his own unenviable position in the affair. Chief Painter would inevitably discover that he had ridden to the Hudson house in a taxi with Natalie Briggs. The doorman had ample opportunity to get a good look at him the preceding night, and the odd scene regarding the cab would cause him to remember vividly. As soon as the story and the dead girl’s picture appeared in the papers the taxi driver, too, would come forward with his story.

Shayne frowned and worried his left ear lobe. It looked now as though Natalie had walked around to the back of the house and met a waiting murderer at the moment Shayne was at the front door inquiring for Mrs. Hudson. The taxi driver had seen him follow the girl through the front gate, but couldn’t testify that she had hurried on to the rear while Shayne went up the front steps. The hibiscus hedge shut off his view. He would probably say that there had been sufficient time for Shayne to have done the job before he returned to the cab and was driven back to Miami.

There would be no point in catching the noon plane to New Orleans now, Shayne mused. Painter would jerk him back for questioning before he’d have time even to start investigating the Belton case. And it certainly wouldn’t do to make a clean breast of his part in the affair to Painter. There were too many implausible coincidences that couldn’t be explained. He was definitely behind the eight-ball, and the only way to get out was to turn up the real murderer in a hurry.

From his own predicament, his thoughts drifted to Christine. He realized he was more worried about that angle than about his own involvement. She hadn’t told him the truth. He recalled with a tinge of anger her reaction when he had tried to return the pearls to her. She had been very happy to get her IOU back until she learned he hadn’t hocked the necklace to pay off her debt What was it she had cried out just before her husband and Painter interrupted? He went over the scene in his mind. “Oh, God! You’ve ruined everything. Now I’ll never—”

How had he ruined everything? His anger mounted. Damn it, he had saved her ten grand at the very least. He had brought back a priceless heirloom, and saved her from having to reveal at some future date that the original necklace had been switched for a cheap duplicate. He had been rather proud of the way he had handled the affair up until that moment.

Sergeant Whatley and his partner came sauntering out the front gate and got into their sedan and drove away. That meant they were through taking fingerprints and checking the physical aspects of the girl’s room and the probable scene of the crime.

There was no doubt that Natalie Briggs was terribly frightened about something last night. He was sure she had recognized him as the man against whom Timothy Rourke leaned drunkenly as he played the roulette wheel. And there was something between her and Rourke. Perhaps, in her fright, she would have gone to the front door and rung for Mrs. Morgan to let her in if she hadn’t been running away from him. He winced as he recalled the frantic look she gave him over her shoulder, and her increased speed as though she sought to escape him.

Peter Painter came through the front gate and got in his car. That left only Leslie and Floyd Hudson at home. Shayne looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten o’clock. He wondered how long a busy executive would stay away from his office to comfort his wife. And he wondered whether Floyd would leave with his elder brother.

How did Floyd Hudson fit into the picture? Was it Barbizon who had called and asked to speak to Christine and caused her to faint from panic? It was easy enough to convince Leslie Hudson that his wife had fainted because she was pregnant, but Shayne didn’t believe it was true. Not with Christine married only a month. Unless, of course—

His musings were interrupted by the sight of the Hudson brothers coming out the gate and getting into Leslie’s roadster. It pulled away and disappeared around a corner.

Shayne opened the door and got out. He said to the driver, “Wait right here for me,” and walked rapidly away. He turned in the gate and went up the path to the door.

Mrs. Morgan opened it in answer to his ring. She showed no surprise, but said, “Mrs. Hudson asked me to bring you right upstairs as soon as you came back.” Shayne followed her down the hall to a stairway and they went up. There was a wide paneled hall at the head of the stairs. She turned to the right and tapped on the first door.

Christine’s voice called, “Come in.”

Mrs. Morgan opened the door and said, “It’s Mr. Shayne.” She stepped aside and Shayne went into a large pleasant living-room with a row of windows looking out on Biscayne Bay.

Mrs. Morgan went away and Shayne closed the door. His face was grimly purposeful as he stalked over and stood before Christine. He said curtly, “You’d better quit pretending and start telling me the truth.”

She looked up at him defiantly for a moment, then sighed and let her head loll back against the chair. She nodded and said meekly, “I know. I should have told you the truth yesterday.”

“Natalie Briggs might be alive if you had,” he told her, without a trace of pity.

Christine sat up abruptly, clutching the arms of her chair. “Why do you say that? What makes you think?—” She broke off, terror glazing her eyes.

“I don’t know enough of the truth to do any thinking.” Shayne pulled up a small chintz-covered chair and sat down in front of her. “You hadn’t actually lost ten thousand dollars at the Play-Mor.”

“What—why do you say that?” Her tone was lifeless.

“Barbizon gave up the IOU too easily. He acted as though it didn’t make much difference to him one way or the other.”

She looked away from his hard gray eyes and admitted, “I didn’t—really. I’m not a gambler.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, looked around for an ash tray, went over and took one from a table and sat down again. “You’d better tell me everything. From the beginning.”

She hesitated, twining her fingers nervously. “You won’t believe me,” she said listlessly. “No one would—and I don’t see how I can bear to tell you.”

“You’re going to,” he told her grimly. “I’ve passed up a thousand-dollar retainer in New Orleans to stay here and help you.”

“I’ll make that up to you.”

“It isn’t that simple. I’m in this thing up to my neck.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through flared nostrils. “Before many hours I’m going to be the principal suspect in the murder of your maid. I’ve got to find the murderer before Painter puts me in jail.”

She drew in a quick, sharp breath. “You? A suspect?”

He nodded. “By the merest chance I let Natalie share my cab when she left the Play-Mor last night. I followed her in and came to the front door while she went around to the rear—and was murdered.”

She was listening with awe-struck attention. “Mrs. Morgan said you called about eleven. That is, from her description I imagined it was you. But she didn’t say anything about you bringing Natalie home.”

“She didn’t know anything about it. From all indications, Natalie was being attacked while I was at the front door. As soon as they establish the exact time of her death—and the taxi driver puts the finger on me—I’ll be nominated for the hot seat. That’s why you’ve got to tell me the truth. All of it—in a hurry.”

Christine nodded slowly. “I see. Though I don’t know what connection it can possibly have with her death.”

“I’ll worry about that. You’re going to start at the beginning.”

“That was a little over a week ago,” she began softly. “One afternoon when I was in Miami shopping. Three men came to the door and asked for me. When Mrs. Morgan said I wasn’t at home, one of them showed her his police badge and demanded to search the house.”

“Cops?”

“I suppose so,” she nodded drearily. “At least one of them was. Mrs. Morgan was frightened and didn’t know what to do. She let them in and they snooped around downstairs a little, asked to see my writing desk, and then came up here. She followed them, protesting, but they didn’t pay any attention to her.

“They came in here, and then went into my bedroom.” She gestured toward a closed door in the upstairs living-room. “My bedroom is in there. That other door leads to Leslie’s room. They forced Mrs. Morgan to come in and witness that they didn’t take anything, and they searched my vanity and bureau drawers.

“They refused to tell Mrs. Morgan what they were looking for, but one of them suddenly found a packet of letters far back in the bottom drawer of my vanity, hidden under some of my things.

“If Mrs. Morgan hadn’t been watching every move, I would have sworn he just pretended to find them,” Christine went on. “But she swears they were there. That he couldn’t have put them there.”

“Was it the cop who found the letters?” Shayne interrupted.

“No. One of the others. From something that was said, Mrs. Morgan thinks he is a reporter. There were four letters—or rather notes. Just one page each. They were tied with a pink ribbon. They cut the ribbon and each man put his initials on the margin of each note, and they made Mrs. Morgan write her initials, too, so she could be forced to swear in court that they were the letters actually found in my room. They told her to keep quiet about it and went away.”

“What sort of letters were they?” Shayne asked.

“Wait a minute. I’ll come to that. Mrs. Morgan was terribly distressed when I came home. She was crying when she told me what had happened. I simply didn’t understand it. I kept telling her there must be some horrible mistake. You see, I didn’t have any letters hidden in my vanity. I simply couldn’t understand what it was all about.”

“Perhaps they were letters you’d put away and forgotten,” Shayne suggested.

Her eyes flared angrily. “Do you think I’d bring any silly love letters here when I married Leslie? How could I forget? Besides, I never had any letters such as Mrs. Morgan described.”

“How did she describe them?”

“Written in ink on one side of a sheet of folded note paper. When she initialed them,” Christine went on steadily, “she caught a glimpse of the superscriptions. They were addressed to ‘My sweetest love’ and things like that. I was bowled over. I didn’t know what to think. I never received any letters like that in my life.”

“So you told your husband about it when he got home?”

“N-o-o,” she confessed reluctantly. “Don’t you see? I didn’t know what to do. We’d been married only two weeks. It was all so strange and terrifying. I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me if I told him the truth. You have to admit it sounds utterly mad.”

Shayne nodded gravely. Looking into her pale face and distracted eyes he didn’t dare tell her how implausible it did sound.

“The next morning a special delivery letter came after Leslie had gone to the office. It contained photostats of four letters, each one with four sets of initials on the margin which Mrs. Morgan identified as the ones placed on the letters in her presence. That was all there was in the envelope. Just those photostatic copies.” She paused, biting her underlip and looking at Shayne imploringly. “Now comes the most awful part. You’ve got to believe me. I’ll die if you don’t.”

“I’ll do my best,” Shayne promised.

“None of the letters were dated. Just the day of the week. They each began with some mushy phrase. They were all signed “Vicky” and I recognized the handwriting, Michael.”

“Whose?”

“Victor Morrison’s, my former employer in New York. I recognized it at once. It’s quite distinctive and I’ve seen it often enough during the years I was his private secretary. The letters were the most awful things. And they sounded exactly as though they had been written to me during the month after I resigned and was getting ready to be married. They mentioned the terrible emptiness of the office since I’d left; they spoke of nights he’d spent in my apartment, with violent phrases of love. They begged me to reconsider and not do anything hasty while he arranged to get rid of his wife so we could be married.” When she stopped talking there were two red spots in her cheeks.

“And then—?” Shayne prompted her.

“I thought I was going crazy. I read the notes over several times, trying to see what they meant. The more I read them the more I realized how horribly I was trapped. No one would ever believe either Mr. Morrison or myself if we both swore he hadn’t written those letters to me. No one could ever think anything except that we’d been lovers. Don’t you see how fiendish the thing is? The position I would be in if Leslie ever saw those letters?”

“Forgeries?” Shayne muttered with a deep scowl.

She said hopelessly, “I thought of that at once. But I didn’t know why anyone would do a terrible thing like that. Nor who possibly could. They were his phrases. The way he thought and wrote. As I read them over and over I got the strangest feeling that they were written to me; that they couldn’t possibly have been written to anyone else. There were little intimate things about office routine; about the way he gave dictation—” She broke off with a shudder and covered her face with her hands. “I began to think nothing was real. That I was living in some sort of dream and had actually forgotten the truth.”

Shayne ground out his cigarette in the small ash tray he held in his left hand. “What happened next?”

She took her hands from her eyes and her slender body went lax in the chair. “A telephone call. A man whose voice sounded thick—and fuzzy—as though he might be drunk. He asked me if I had read the photostats and whether it was worth ten thousand dollars to me to keep the originals out of my husband’s hands. I told him I didn’t have any money, that it would take me some time to raise it. You see, I’d thought about the pearls and knew I needed time to have a duplicate made, and I also thought about somehow proving the letters were forgeries. So I asked him for a little time.

“He agreed as soon as I convinced him I didn’t have any large sum of cash. But he said, just to show my good faith and to put the transaction on more of a business basis, I should make out an IOU for ten thousand and mail it at once to Arnold Barbizon at the Play-Mor Club. Then, he said if I wanted to I could tell my husband I’d lost the money gambling and Leslie would pay it without realizing it was blackmail.”

Shayne’s jaw was set hard, the muscles in his lean jaw were quivering. “Smart,” he said angrily. “As soon as they had your IOU you could never prove it had been obtained by blackmail. And that’s also why Barbizon didn’t mind too much giving up the IOU last night. They still have the letters to fall back on. If I’d known the truth last night—”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I was ashamed to tell you. I thought no one would need to know. As soon as the money was paid I was to receive the original letters by special delivery.”

“You’d never have gotten them so easily,” Shayne told her. “A blackmailer is never satisfied with his first bite. You should know that. It would have gone on and on until you were drained absolutely dry.”

“I guess so,” she agreed tonelessly. “I didn’t think about it that way. I had no one I could turn to.”

“If you’re telling the whole truth,” said Shayne, “the letters are probably forgeries. We can prove that easily enough if we can get a sample of Morrison’s handwriting.”

“I’ve told you the truth,” she said, “but they aren’t forgeries.”

“How do you know?”

“I took them to a handwriting expert, a man named Bernard Holloway who is supposed to be very good. I had a note of Mr. Morrison’s for comparison. One he sent with a wedding present. Mr. Holloway made a long report listing a number of similarities, and concluded with a definite statement that there was no doubt that the letters were written by the same person.”

“Holloway is good,” he told her. “One of the best in the country. His testimony has a lot of weight in any court. Now why is your ex-employer trying to frame you? Would he be interested in ten grand?”

“Mr. Morrison? Why, he’s several times a millionaire.”

“Then why?”

“Do you think he—arranged it? On purpose?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Shayne asked angrily. “If he actually wrote the letters, though you claim there was nothing between you—”

“There wasn’t,” she interrupted desperately. “Ever. He was kind and generous and quite friendly, but there was never anything like that. I swear there wasn’t.”

Shayne was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then asked, “Could he have harbored a secret passion for you? Perhaps he wrote the letters to let off steam and someone got hold of them and realized how they could be used after you married a wealthy man.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flaming again. “I’m very sure Mr. Morrison never had a single thought like that about me. He’s quite happily married.”

“To a wife he’s planning to get rid of?” Shayne said sardonically. “All right—what do you make of it?”

“I don’t. What can I think? It’s utterly incomprehensible.”

“We’ll have to get in touch with him at once,” Shayne said with sudden decision. “With his denial, and with the testimony of people who knew you both that you weren’t having an affair, we should be able to tell your husband everything and squelch the blackmailer.”

“I’ve tried to get in touch with Mr. Morrison,” Christine admitted through trembling lips. “I’ve called him twice and left my number both times. When he didn’t call back as I requested, I didn’t know what to think.”

“Perhaps the long distance operator made a mistake.”

“Not long distance,” she told him. “Mr. Morrison is here.”

“In Miami? Wait a minute.” Shayne stared hard at her. “What’s he doing here?”

“Why, he and Mrs. Morrison are down for the season. They have a winter home here, but they haven’t opened it for several years.”

“How long have they been here?”

“A couple of weeks,” she faltered.

Shayne’s lean face hardened. “So, he followed you down here a couple of weeks after your marriage.”

“No. It wasn’t that. I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“It may look like that to your husband,” Shayne said with disgust. “All we need to make things perfect is someone to testify that he was in the habit of visiting you in your apartment while those letters were supposedly being written.”

Christine looked frightened and forlorn as she breathed, “I was going to tell you about that. You see, he did take me out to dinner twice, and I asked him up for a drink afterward—once. He was just being kind to me,” she went on desperately. “It isn’t what you think. His wife knew about it. In fact, he told me that she urged him to keep me from being too lonely.”

“He told you she did,” Shayne raged. “If you’re telling the truth this begins to look like one of the goddamndest frame-ups I ever ran into.” He got up and began striding up and down the room, ruffling his bristly red hair. “He must have planned the whole thing,” he growled. “Arranged to have those notes planted here and then sent the men to find them. The new maid explains that very neatly. Natalie. She’d been with you only a couple of weeks. And it supplies a motive for her death. She knew too much and may have threatened to blab.”

“I can’t believe it. Mr. Morrison was always a perfect gentleman in my presence.”

Shayne disregarded her, continuing to stride up and down while he filled out his vague theory. “Morrison wouldn’t be interested in blackmail, but that’s unimportant. One of his stooges could have had the photostats made on the side for his own purposes. It’s likely Morrison knows nothing about that angle.”

“But if the man was going to return the originals—”

“What makes you think he was going to?”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “He promised. Just as soon as I paid the ten thousand dollars.”

Shayne made a derisive gesture and snorted, “So, he promised.” He stopped beside her chair and asked, “Do you have those photostats?”

“Yes.”

“Get them for me.”

She hesitated, then asked miserably, “Do you have to see them? They’re so—I hate to have anyone read them.”

“Get them,” he commanded. His eyes were bleak. “I’m in this deeper than you are already. And call Mrs. Morgan up here,” he added. “I want to know more about those three men who found the letters.”

Christine got up and walked across the room and pressed a button. Then she disappeared through the door into her bedroom.

Shayne lit another cigarette and stood in the center of the floor scowling meditatively. He didn’t know whether to believe Christine or not. He wanted to believe her. For her husband’s sake if for no other reason. There had been adoration in Leslie Hudson’s eyes while he was kneeling beside his wife trying to revive her from unconsciousness. And there was another angle he hadn’t covered, Shayne remembered.

As Christine re-entered the room with an envelope in her hand, he turned on her and asked, “That telephone call this morning—Was it the same man who called before?”

“I think so. He sounded as though he were still drunk. He said, ‘So you want the letters to go to your husband, eh? Okay.’ And that’s the last I remember,” she added simply. “Coming on top of the news of Natalie’s murder it was more than I could stand. My husband thinks—” She stopped and blushed, the faint crimson spreading to the edge of her dark hair which was brushed back from her face, and pinking her ear lobes.

Shayne grinned. “Let him keep on thinking for a while. And Painter, too,” he added cagily. “He’ll be easier on you that way.” He held out his hand and she silently handed him an envelope addressed to Mrs. Leslie Hudson on a typewriter and bearing a special delivery stamp.

She said, “No wonder Phyl was so happy with you, Michael. You understand everything,” and sank into her chair.

As Shayne opened the envelope a knock sounded on the door. Christine called, “Come,” and Mrs. Morgan entered.

Shayne drew four stiff photostats from the envelope. The first one was inscribed, to, “My own dearest one.” Four sets of initials were scribbled across the left-hand margin. He studied them intently. The first was “B. J. H.”; followed by “T. R” “A. B.”; and “M. M.” The first set of initials was in bold and flowing script; the second shaky and almost unintelligible; the A and B were in small, neat letters, and the last painstakingly formed.

He turned to Mrs. Morgan and asked, “Are these your initials on the bottom?”

She moved over beside him and glanced at the note, then her calm eyes glanced aside inquiringly at Christine before she said, “Yes, sir,” when Christine nodded her approval.

Christine said, “Tell Mr. Shayne everything he asks you, Maria. He’s going to help me.”

An expression of stern apprehension crossed her placid face. She said, “I was that frightened when they made me sign them. I didn’t know what to do. The police,” she ended almost in a whisper.

Shayne said, “Even if they were the police, Mrs. Morgan, they had no right at all to enter a private house without a search warrant. Remember that in the future. Now, I want you to describe the men to me as best you can. Do you remember which one signed his initials first?”

“I do,” she said in her soft though solid voice. “He was the big one, and the best-dressed of the three. He was about fifty, I’d say, with gray hair and what you might call a ruddy complexion. He had broad shoulders and a bit of a stomach.”

“And the second one—T. R.”

“He’s the one who found the letters. As I told Christine, if I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes I’d never have believed it. He was almost as tall as you, Mr. Shayne, but he looked lean and sickly and had dark eyes that were away back in his head. He had been drinking and his hands shook. From things he said, I took him for a reporter. He said something about what a swell story the letters would make when they were printed.”

Shayne nodded casually, but a smoldering fire ate at his tight belly muscles. As soon as he saw those initials he recognized them as Timothy Rourke’s, and Mrs. Morgan’s description confirmed the knowledge he had tried desperately to put away from him. He had known for many weeks that Tim was still very ill from the wounds he had received, but he could not believe Tim was mixed up in a blackmailing scheme. His gaunt face hardened. Tim had been one of the best friends Shayne had ever had in Miami. But there was no shadow of a doubt that Natalie Briggs had held an earnest, almost frantic conversation with Rourke at the Play-Mor Club last night.

“And the third man?” Shayne asked Mrs. Morgan flatly.

“He was the policeman—the one who showed me his badge and pushed in when I didn’t want them to come in the door. He was dressed very shabbily in a gray suit and a hat not fit for a fishing trip.”

Shayne glanced at all four of the photostats to check the same sets of initials on the margins of each. He didn’t read them carefully, but a cursory glance assured him they were all written in the mushy style Christine had described. Replacing them in the envelope, he said, “Mrs. Morgan, you were not asleep last night when Natalie came in. I’m afraid your alibi of sound sleeping won’t work if the autopsy proves she was killed near the time I rang the doorbell and you answered.”

Mrs. Morgan retained her calm, impassive manner. She said, “I heard nothing, Mr. Shayne, except the ringing of the doorbell. Natalie must have been murdered after I retired, or the commotion, if any, was far enough away so that I wouldn’t hear it.”

The woman turned away and left the room.

Christine gasped. “Surely you don’t think Mrs. Morgan—”

Shayne said harshly, “I think Mrs. Morgan would protect you against anything and everything if she could.”

“But murder—” Her eyes were filled with horror.

“I have a couple of leads,” he told her. “You’ll have to trust me, and try not to worry. If I’ve guessed this setup correctly you have no need to fear that the original letters will be shown to your husband. You’ll probably receive another call from the blackmailer. Stall him if you do. Tell him you’re trying to raise the money and try to arrange a rendezvous with him. In the meantime, I’ll be working on every angle.”

“But—Maria,” she wailed “You can’t think Mrs. Morgan had anything to do with Natalie’s—death.”

Shayne whirled toward her on his way to the door. He said, “Here, take these and keep them for the time being. If we have to raise money on them—then we’ll have to.” He caught one of her hands and poured the string of pearls into her palm, squeezed her fingers over it, and hurried from the room.

Chapter Seven: COMPLICATED COINCIDENCES

SHAYNE SUDDENLY REALIZED that he didn’t have much time in which to cancel his reservation on the noon plane. He found the faithful taxi driver asleep in the cab when he reached it. There was a chance he might have his old apartment for the night, and he shook the driver awake, gave him the address and got in.

The driver yawned, sat erect and looked at his clock. “Golly, Mister—”

“I’ll make it worth your while. Step on it.”

“You bet,” the driver said, and shot forward.

The clerk, the same anemic young man who had been at the desk when Shayne had checked out said, “Oh, Mr. Shayne, you’re back.”

“How about my apartment for tonight?” Shayne asked.

“But we’ve already sent your suitcase to the airport,” he said. “I thought—”

“The apartment,” Shayne said, “can I have it?”

“Oh, yes. We haven’t had a call for it—yet. Have you got a case in Miami?” The clerk leaned his elbows on the counter and his pale blue eyes were alight.

“Sort of.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a half dollar, tossed it to the young man and said, “Thanks. I want to send a telegram.”

“Sure, Mr. Shayne.” The youth shoved a pad of yellow sheets across the counter.

Shayne used the counter’s scratchy pen in an ink bottle to write a telegram to Lucy Hamilton. It read: Missed noon plane but hope to make it this midnight. Keep on stalling Belton.

He called the airport and cancelled his reservation on the noon plane and asked for space on the night flight. The airline was distinctly cool and refused a definite commitment, suggesting instead that he call a couple of hours before he was ready to leave, or be at the port when the plane was scheduled to go. There were often last minute cancellations.

Shayne hung up, went to the kitchen and was putting ice cubes in a tall glass before he remembered there wasn’t a drink in the apartment. His last bottle of cognac was packed in the suitcase which was at the airport.

He dumped the ice cubes into the sink and went back to the living-room, pulling the photostats from his pocket as he went. Settling himself in a chair, he began reading them. It was impossible to tell in what order they had been written. After shuffling through them, he read the one on top.

Wednesday night

My very own sweet,

I simply have to talk to you tonight, darling. The office was a hell of loneliness today. It seems months instead of days since you left.

The new girl is competent, but I miss you so terribly. Today I was dictating and she sat across from me in your chair, and I must have been dreaming, for in the middle of a letter I said, “You have the most beautiful eyes in the world, Love,” and she looked up and snickered and said, “Does that go in the letter?” I laughed it off, but—you know you have, dearest.

I must see you!!! I will call you from the office tomorrow. You know I dare not call from here with the extension upstairs.

Something will work out. There must be some way to get rid of her so we can be together—forever.

All my love, Vicky

Shayne sighed and laid the note aside, sat for a moment with a deep frown between his eyes, then read the next one.

Monday morning, 4 a.m.

My sweetest love,

I cannot sleep. I cannot think. I am sitting here alone in my room with the connecting door locked so my wife can’t disturb me. She was asleep when I came in half an hour ago. I’m sure she doesn’t suspect I was with you.

I cannot give you up. You must know that. Not after tonight. I keep thinking of the plan you suggested. I see no other way. But we must be very careful. For your dear sake, there must be no breath of scandal.

It can’t be wrong to love as we love one another. It can’t be wrong to take whatever steps are necessary to fulfill our love.

I won’t write any more tonight—though I won’t sleep. I shall go to bed and in the darkness you will come to me. Your soft white body—

I love you with all my heart,

Vicky

Shayne wriggled in his chair, cleared his throat, and sat up straight. The damned letters made his throat dry, and he wished to God he had a drink.

No wonder Christine was prepared to go to any lengths to keep the letters from her husband. No man in his right mind could laugh off this sort of evidence. What sort of man was Victor Morrison that he could write a series of notes like this and plant them on a girl who had not been his sweetheart? If Christine was telling the truth, it was the most fantastic plot he had ever bumped into.

Right now, he wasn’t at all sure Christine was telling the truth. He had been lied to by other women in other cases, but never before had he listened to and read evidence so extraordinary as this.

He unfolded the third photostat with a distinct feeling of nausea.

Thursday evening

Dear heart,

It was beautiful to hear your sweet voice over the telephone today but I didn’t dare speak what was in my heart.

You mustn’t go on with it, darling. I implore you to be patient a little longer. Just a little longer. I promise you I will go through with the plan we discussed. I am already arranging the details. If you do anything hasty now it will be the end of everything for us.

I beg you to trust me. I live only until I can be with you again—and soon nothing will keep us apart.

Your own Vicky

The fourth and last letter appeared to have been written previous to any of the three Shayne had read.

Friday afternoon

My dearest love,

I am sitting here in my office and sunlight is slanting through the Venetian blinds across the empty chair at the corner of my desk.

I feel desolated and utterly lonely. I suppose you were right when you made the decision to go. Things could not possibly continue as they were any longer, and you were right, as you will always be. My wife was becoming suspicious, and now that you are gone she will stop nagging me about my secretary.

But oh, my dear, there is a terrible emptiness in my heart. This cannot be the end. I must see you soon. I realize you cannot go on being satisfied with the crumbs of my love, and I swear I will somehow arrange to make it possible for you to have all of me.

I will call you tomorrow from my club.

Your desperate and adoring

Vicky

Shayne laid the last photostat atop the other three and sat for a moment brooding into space. He slouched deep into the chair and gently massaged his left ear lobe between his right thumb and forefinger. Then he began running his fingers through his red and unruly hair, got up and paced back and forth across the room.

For once he was completely baffled. He wanted to believe Christine. But how could he? The evidence in the letters was damnably clear. Bernard Holloway said they had been written by Victor Morrison, and there were four witnesses to testify they had been found hidden away in Christine’s room.

But, how did the maid enter into the picture if Christine was lying about the letters? Why had she been murdered unless she had planted them in the vanity drawer?

Of course, he realized it was possible that there was no connection whatever between Natalie Briggs’s murder and the letters. It could be a coincidence. There were too many coincidences piled on top of each other.

First, there was Angus Browne, private detective who specialized in marital cases. He was undoubtedly spying on Floyd Hudson and Natalie at the Play-Mor Club. He knew from Mrs. Morgan’s description of the shabby little man who claimed to be an officer that it was Browne who initialed A. B. on the letters. Another of the trio was Timothy Rourke.

Rourke had undoubtedly said something to Natalie in the game room that frightened her and sent her running away in panic. There was certainly a tie-up between the maid and two of the men who had discovered the letters.

Shayne sat down and clasped his hands behind his head and gave his thoughts over to pure speculation. Assuming for the moment that Christine was telling the truth, who had planted the letters and for what purpose? Blackmail? Or had Morrison engineered the plot because he was madly in love with Christine and determined to wreck her marriage?

Again he went over every detail of the case thus far, but none of it made sense. He ground his teeth together angrily, got up and went to the phone and asked the clerk to send up the early edition of the Miami News.

When a boy brought the paper he skimmed over the front page story of Natalie Briggs’s death. There was a photograph of her body being pulled out of the Bay, and another full-face shot of the girl. Neither the Floyd Hudson nor the Play-Mor angle was mentioned. Painter hadn’t given the paper much of a story, though he had allowed them to mention the probability that she had been killed at the back door of the Hudson home and her body consigned to the Bay at that point.

He dropped the paper and called Timothy Rourke’s apartment on the Beach. Since recovering from his bullet wounds, Rourke hadn’t returned to his job on the paper, but was doing a few free-lance things at space rates for the local papers while he worked on his novel.

When Rourke didn’t answer his phone, Shayne looked up the Angus Browne detective agency and called the number. Again, there was no answer. He then called Information and asked if Victor Morrison had a telephone.

He was given a number and he called it. A maid answered and told him that Mr. Morrison had gone fishing that morning and wasn’t expected back until about 1:30. Shayne asked for the Morrisons’ address, and the girl gave it to him. He thanked her, hung up, and went out to lunch before calling on Victor Morrison.

Chapter Eight: A DISTURBING VISITOR

THE MORRISON HOUSE was on the west shore of Biscayne Bay between the County and Venetian causeways. The house faced south, and as Shayne went up the walk toward the wide wooden veranda he saw that the expanse of lawn leading to the bay shore was dotted with deck chairs beneath gaily striped beach umbrellas.

One of the chairs was occupied. An inclined umbrella hid everything but a pair of bare legs stretched out in the sunlight and a bare arm reaching out for a glass on the table beside the chair.

A maid in a starched white uniform came to the door. She was little and pretty, with inquisitive blue eyes and pouting lips. She looked up at the rangy redhead with approval, and quirked her lips slightly when she said, “Mr. Morrison hasn’t returned yet. Perhaps you’d like to wait,” in answer to Shayne’s query.

Shayne said, “How about Mrs. Morrison?”

A change came over the girl’s face. “Oh, she’s out there on the lawn,” she answered in a sulky voice. “I’m sure that she’d be very glad to see you.”

“What makes you so sure?” Shayne grinned down at her.

She flirted herself around and was closing the door when Shayne turned and went down the steps. He swung around to the right and went across the close-cropped lawn toward the pair of long and well-shaped legs extending beneath the umbrella.

The thick grass deadened his footsteps, and he walked around the tilted umbrella without disturbing the occupant of the chair.

The woman wore a wisp of flowered cloth over her pointed breasts, and a triangular piece of the same material for a loincloth. Her body was supple and smoothly rounded and had the beginning of a very nice sun tan. Her platinum hair was long and flowed around her shoulders, her lips were heavily rouged, and she lounged in the chair with a pair of binoculars held to her eyes.

She lowered the glasses after a time, and saw him standing there. She gave a little start of surprise and glanced quickly at her body as though to reassure herself that the bits of cloth were in their proper positions. She lifted her gaze slowly and said in a husky voice, “Do you approve of what you see?”

“Thoroughly,” said Shayne, his wide mouth twisted in a crooked grin. He took off his hat. “I didn’t mean to play peeping Tom. Your maid said I might wait here for Mr. Morrison.”

“I’m Estelle Morrison,” she told him. Yellow lights flickered in her eyes. “I’ll be delighted to have you wait here for Victor.” Her husky voice was indolently and intentionally sensuous; the sort of voice that put double-entendres into the most innocent phrases.

Shayne said, “Thanks. I understand he’s fishing.” He sat down cross-legged in the hot sun at her feet.

“Yes. He went out very early this morning. I was trying to see if I could find him coming in.” She lifted the binoculars. “Sometimes one sees the most amazing things on the bay with a pair of strong glasses. In broad daylight, too.”

Shayne said dryly, “I imagine. Poor devils who think they’re all alone and safe from prying eyes.”

She turned faintly amused eyes upon him. “Are you shocked?”

“Not at all.” Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “One can’t accuse you of hiding much of yourself from public view.”

She laughed softly. “This isn’t a public beach. If strangers insist on walking up unannounced, I’m not responsible for what they see.” She picked up her drink and ice tinkled as she lifted it to her lips. “You are a stranger—to me.”

“My name is Shayne. I have some business with—your husband?” He put a questioning inflection on the last two words.

“I thought Victor left all his business behind him in New York. Perhaps he hasn’t told me everything.”

“Perhaps not.” He turned to look across the bay and muttered, “With a pair of glasses like yours one should be able to bring the other shore into focus.”

“One can,” she assured him with a trace of mockery.

“I have friends who must live just opposite here. I wonder if I could identify their house.”

She held the binoculars out to him. “After you get through pretending to look for your friend’s house, try the view on that little sailboat just off the Venetian Causeway and sigh for your lost youth.”

He moved the glasses slowly around, seeking to pick out the rear of the Hudson house with its stone breakwater and the boathouse protruding into the bay, but he could not be certain which of the houses lining the shore was the Hudsons’.

He deliberately swung the glasses on in a northward arc, picking up the far end of the Venetian Causeway and the small sailboat Estelle Morrison had mentioned. A young girl lay outstretched on some cushions in the bottom of the boat. She appeared to be nude. A boy was propped on one elbow beside her, and he was kissing her. The fingers of her right hand were tangled in his hair.

Handing the binoculars back to her, he said, “Kids grow up in a hurry nowadays.”

“Don’t they? Did you find your friend’s house?”

“I’m not sure.” Shayne took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and frowned. “The Leslie Hudsons’ house,” he told her. “Perhaps you know them.”

A slight tremor rippled the length of her body. She was like a panther flexing its muscles to spring. She said, “We know so few people here. You didn’t mention what your business is, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m a detective.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were veiled now and when she said, “Perhaps you’d like a drink,” her voice was not so warmly provocative. She reached toward a silver bell on the table.

“A drink would be welcome.”

She struck the bell sharply, then put the binoculars to her eyes to sweep the surface of the bay again. “My husband is coming in now. That outboard near the northward shore.”

The maid came out from a side door and approached them, carrying her slim body haughtily. She did not speak when she reached the table beside her mistress’s chair, but picked up the empty glass and waited with a look of disdain in her blue eyes.

Mrs. Morrison said, “Two Scotch and sodas, June,” glancing at Shayne for confirmation.

He said, “Plenty of ice and not too much soda, please,” and the maid went back to the house.

“So you’re a detective?” Estelle said. “It must be frightfully interesting work.”

Shayne let his gaze move over her partly naked form. “I meet interesting people.”

“Are you one of those detectives who make love to unwanted wives and get them in compromising situations for divorce evidence?”

“I’ve avoided that sort of work,” he told her lightly. “When I get into a compromising situation I like to do it on my own time.” He grinned up at her from his cross-legged position on the grass. “Circumstances alter cases,” he added. “Now if the Victor Morrisons were having marital troubles, it would be a pleasure to help him get evidence.”

She did not smile, but stared at him stonily, the green flecks in her eyes seeming to actually melt away, leaving them wholly yellow. “You are not amusing,” she said coldly. “What is your business with my husband?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is between Mr. Morrison and myself.”

She started to say something else, but the maid was approaching with the drinks on a tray. Estelle stood up and lifted the binoculars again, focusing them on the little sailboat occupied by the young boy and girl. She held them steadily while the maid set the tray on the table and went away.

Then she said, “My God, those two kids—”

Shayne grinned and picked up his glass. He asked, “Is that your husband’s boat docking down there?”

She turned quickly, gave him a withering look, picked up her glass and said, “I’ll leave you to discuss your mysterious business with him, Mr. Detective Shayne.”

She was as tall as most men, and she walked barefooted across the grass with sinuous grace, swaying slightly above the hips. Shayne sipped his drink and watched her until she went into the house, then got up and strolled down to the private dock.

A lad of about fourteen, towheaded and bronzed, wearing only a pair of bathing trunks, was in the stern expertly handling the tiller and swinging the boat in a wide arc alongside the dock. In the bow was a man wearing a floppy straw hat, an old sweater and a pair of disreputable khaki pants. He had a square face and a smartly trimmed gray mustache. When he arose with the painter in hand, leaning over to grasp a stanchion as the boy cut the motor and the boat drifted in, Shayne saw that he had a strong, muscular body for his 50-odd years. His eyes were blue with a network of tiny wrinkles spreading out from the corners.

When the man stepped out on the wharf, Shayne said, “Mr. Morrison?” and offered his hand.

The millionaire took Shayne’s hand in a hearty grip and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.

“My name is Shayne. I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”

“No intrusion at all,” Victor Morrison assured him. He turned to the lad who was clambering out, a broad grin on his young face and a string of perch in his hand. “Better hurry those in to the cook, Howard. They should be put on ice right away.”

“Gee, Dad, I know that much, all right. It was swell, wasn’t it?” The lad started to scamper across the wharf, but turned to remind his father anxiously, “An’ you promised you’d take me along next time you go out at night. I betcha if I’d been along last night we’d of caught something.”

Morrison chuckled and agreed, “I bet we would, son. We’ll try it together next time.” He took off his straw hat and mopped a shining bald dome with a limp handkerchief. “Now, sir—you say you have some urgent business with me?”

Shayne was watching the boy run up the lawn. He asked, “Your son?”

“Why, yes. Taller than I am—at fifteen.” He chuckled with fatherly pride.

“It’s hard for me to realize you have a son that old. You see, I met Mrs. Morrison a few minutes ago.” He glanced down at the glass in his hand. “She was kind enough to give me a drink while I waited. She seemed so young—”

“I can understand your bewilderment,” said Morrison. “Estelle is my second wife, Mr. Shayne. We’ve been married only two years—since my first wife died.”

“That explains it.” They started to walk up the gentle slope of the lawn together. “Do you enjoy night fishing?” Shayne asked. “I heard your boy mention it.”

Morrison chuckled again. “I’ve tried it a couple of times,” he said. “Howard found out about it and was heartbroken that I didn’t take him along.”

“You probably went out too early,” Shayne suggested. “I understand that after midnight is the best time.”

“Perhaps that explains my poor luck,” the New York broker agreed. They had reached two chairs drawn close together, under two umbrellas. Morrison paused and asked, “Will your business take long?”

“I think not. If you have a few minutes we might talk right here.”

“Very well. Have a seat.” Mr. Morrison seated himself and took a broken cigar from a pocket of his sweater. He carefully licked the outer wrapper to seal it, and got a match. “What is the nature of your business?”

Shayne took the envelope containing the four photostats from his pocket. Picking one at random, he passed it across to the financier. “I’d like to know just when and under what circumstances you wrote this letter.” Morrison had struck the match on the side of the chair and was holding it to the end of his cigar. He accepted the photostat with his other hand and glanced at it while he puffed on his cigar.

He stopped puffing and his face became a mottled red. The match burned down to his fingers. He dropped it and asked thickly, “May I ask where you got hold of this?”

Chapter Nine: ANGLING FOR THE BIG ONE

SHAYNE WAGGLED HIS HEAD and reminded him, “I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”

The financier had strong hands with short blunt fingers. They tightened on the photostat for an instant, crumpling the lower portion of it. Then he dropped it in his lap and took an experimental puff on his cigar. It hadn’t caught fire from the first match.

He got out another match and struck it, held it steadily and carefully to the end of his cigar. His broad, ruddy face looked thoughtful and his eyes no longer twinkled. He blew out the match, expelled a cloud of smoke and leaned back in the reclining chair. “I don’t believe you mentioned your business, Mr. Shayne.”

“I didn’t.”

“Will you do so now?”

“I’m a detective.”

Morrison lowered wrinkled eyelids for a moment. He picked up the crumpled photostat and studied it with care. “Why do you think this concerns me?”

“It’s in your handwriting. It’s signed ‘Vicky.’”

“The similarity to my writing startled me at first,” he admitted. “I assure you, however, I never wrote anything like this, and I certainly never signed myself ‘Vicky.’”

“I have photostatic copies of other somewhat similar notes written by you.” Shayne didn’t offer to show them.

Morrison cleared his throat “I should like to see the originals.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Shayne told him blandly.

Mr. Morrison sat erect in his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re after, Shayne. You have some clever forgeries of notes purportedly written by me at some unknown date to some unknown person. What point is there in it? What do you expect to gain by bringing them here?”

“I want to know when and to whom they were written.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Morrison loudly. “I deny any knowledge of them whatsoever.”

Shayne sighed and leaned back, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Circumstances are against you, Morrison. Let’s see, which one of the notes did I show you?” He reached out a long arm and took the note from Morrison’s lap. It was the one dated Friday afternoon and the salutation read, My dearest love. He glanced through it to refresh his memory as to the context, then flipped it back to Morrison.

“Unfortunately for your denial, you had a good-looking young secretary with whom your wife suspected you were in love. To stop her nagging, the young lady resigned her position. But you didn’t stop seeing her. These notes prove you were desperately seeking a way to get rid of your wife so you could marry the girl.” He tapped the envelope on his knee. “Do you want me to read these others to remind you of exactly what you said?”

“No,” he said hastily. “I don’t care to listen to any more of this nonsense.” He paused, chewing savagely on his cigar and staring across the bay. He looked older now, and tired.

“I think I see your game now,” Morrison resumed. “It’s very clever. You’ve dug up a certain set of facts and tailored your forgeries to fit those facts and given them an evil meaning. But I think you’ve forgotten one important link in your so-called chain of evidence. Those notes are utterly worthless unless you can prove they were written to and received by a certain party. And I assure you that the party in question will never lend herself to such a deception.”

“You sound very sure of that,” Shayne murmured.

“I am.”

“Suppose it could be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the notes were discovered by reputable witnesses in the possession of that certain party?”

Mr. Morrison removed the chewed cigar from his mouth and regarded it distastefully for a long moment. He finally said, “That would have been infernally clever, Shayne, if you could have managed it.”

Shayne said, “If you’ll look closely at the photostat on your lap you’ll see four sets of initials in the margin. Four different people were present when the notes were found and each of them initialed them in the presence of each other, and are prepared to swear to the circumstances.”

Morrison stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up the note, scrutinized it closely, and said, “You seem to have thought of everything.”

“It’s going to be difficult for you to deny authorship,” Shayne told him.

“How much?”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m investigating a homicide that won’t be solved until I know the truth about these notes. I want the whole story from you.”

“A—homicide?” Morrison echoed weakly.

“That’s right. A woman has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” Morrison’s jaw went slack and the cigar dropped from his mouth, spilling ashes down the front of his sweater.

“And these notes are a vital clue,” Shayne said somberly.

“You can’t prove it.” Morrison reached for his cigar with shaking fingers. “You can’t possibly prove it.”

“I think I can.”

Morrison was sitting erect, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’m a wealthy man, Mr. Shayne. I admit nothing, you understand, but it seems fairly obvious that you’re determined to drag my name into a nasty scandal. Name your price.”

“I’m not even in a position to return the originals,” Shayne said bluntly. “I want the truth.”

“Nonsense. Every man has his price. Take time to think it over carefully.”

“There are four other people involved,” Shayne pointed out. “The four who initialed the letters. Let me give you a bit of advice, Morrison. Once you start paying out money to hush up a thing like this you’ll never be done. Even your millions won’t be enough. In the end you’ll be ruined, and the threat of exposure will still hang over your head. Let me have the whole story now. If your hands are clean you have nothing to fear.”

“But I insist there is no story,” said the financier stubbornly. “What more can I say or do? It’s a devilishly contrived frame-up and I realize how it can be made to look. Though I find a hundred experts to swear the letters are forgeries, you can counter with another hundred who will testify the opposite. I fully understand the position I’m in. You have nothing whatever to gain by forcing me out in the open. If you and your confederates will agree on any sort of reasonable terms I assure you I won’t be niggardly.”

“I have no confederates,” Shayne said angrily. “My only interest is clearing up a murder and preventing a girl’s marriage from being wrecked. I have to know how those notes came into Christine Hudson’s possession. The whole case hinges on that. I’m convinced you wrote them to her. Who else knew you had written them to her? Was she actually your sweetheart in New York, and is she lying when she denies receiving the notes from you? Or is she telling the truth and are these part of a deliberate plot to wreck her marriage and force her to accept you?” Shayne tapped the envelope containing the letters.

Morrison was chewing steadily on his cigar while Shayne spoke. “Are you telling me that Christine Hudson gave you those notes?”

“They were in her possession, as I told you. The four witnesses can swear to that. If Christine isn’t lying, then they were planted there. By whom?”

Morrison shook his head slowly. “I’m sure I don’t know who would do a thing like that, Mr. Shayne. But I swear I had no part in it. I would be a fool to—”

“You’re the only one with a possible motive,” Shayne interrupted. “If you used the maid who was murdered over there last night, I think I know why she was murdered. And I’ll soon know by whom. All I need is a few truthful answers from you. I’ll do my best to keep it private,” he urged. “Better tell me now than the police later. They’re still poking around in the dark, but it won’t be long before they hit on the right trail. Then all your money won’t keep the story out of the newspapers.”

Morrison continued to shake his bald head stubbornly. “I’ll have to discuss this with my attorney, Mr. Shayne. You understand, I’m admitting nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll have to have legal advice. I’ll be glad to contact you later, but I have nothing to say at the moment.”

“Better make it within the next couple of hours,” said Shayne disgustedly. He gave Morrison his address and stood up.

Mr. Morrison arose. He said, “I’ll get in touch with you at the earliest possible moment.”

Shayne said, “All right, but I can’t sit on this lid very long without getting scalded,” and stalked away to his car.

Chapter Ten: SHAYNE UNCOVERS A PLOT

FROM THE MORRISON RESIDENCE Shayne went directly to Angus Browne’s office. He rode up in the elevator with two chattering girls to the fourth floor of the Metropolitan Building on Flagler Street and went down an unlighted corridor to Number 416. Angus Browne: Investigating was printed on the frosted glass. He knocked, and when there was no answer or sound of movement inside, he turned the knob. The door was locked.

The corridor was deserted and the doors of all nearby offices were closed. He got out his key ring and went to work on the lock. It yielded after several tries, and he walked into a dark and musty anteroom. There were half a dozen chairs lined up against the wall, and nothing else. A door marked Private led off the small room.

The door was unlocked and Shayne entered. Here, also, the room was dusty and musty from disuse. The shades were drawn. He ran two of them up, and looked around at a bare desk and a swivel chair in the center of the room. Two cane-bottomed chairs were in front of the desk. Cigarette butts littered the floor around a wire trash basket, and an empty pint whisky bottle lay in one corner where it had apparently been carelessly tossed. A steel filing cabinet stood in another corner near one of the windows.

The drawers of the upright cabinet had cardboard tabs marked alphabetically. Shayne pulled out the second drawer, marked H—M. His eyes glinted when he found a thin folder marked Morrison.

He took the folder out and carried it over to the dusty desk, seated himself and opened it. The first entry was a brief note dated October 2, 1945, on the letterhead of Pursley, Adams & Peck, Attorneys-at-law, Miami, Florida. It was addressed to Angus Browne, and read:

We have a client desirous of arranging an investigation of an exceedingly confidential nature and you have been recommended to us as a discreet and efficient private investigator.

If you are in a position to undertake such an assignment at this time, please call for an appointment at your earliest convenience.

A penciled notation on the bottom of the letter read: 10/3, 2:00 p.m.

The next exhibit was a one-page typewritten memorandum with a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo which set forth that one Angus Browne was hereby and hereinafter retained by Victor Morrison for the purpose of obtaining satisfactory legal evidence against Mrs. Estelle Morrison to permit her husband to obtain an uncontested divorce from her. For his services Browne was to be paid a flat rate of $50 per day, with a bonus of $500, contingent upon a satisfactory conclusion of the case. This document was dated October 3.

There followed a thin sheaf of carbon copies of daily reports filed by Browne with the attorneys, setting forth in detail Mrs. Morrison’s movements during each 24-hour period.

The first two reports were innocuous enough, but on October 6, Mr. Morrison’s suspicions appeared to be justified. On that day, Estelle Morrison had left home at 2:00 p.m. alone in her coupe and driven directly to the Flamingo Inn on West 79th Street. Here she had been observed by Browne having several drinks at the bar before retiring to a dimly lit booth in the company of a young man with whom she had struck up an acquaintanceship in the course of a few rounds of drinks.

They had remained together in the booth until slightly after four o’clock. Then they left the Flamingo in her coupe and drove to a spot on Miami Beach for more drinks, and then had dinner.

At seven o’clock Browne followed them in his car to a cheap hotel on the Beach, watched them embrace fervidly in the car before the young man got out and went inside. Discreet inquiries revealed the man to be Lance Hastings. He was about 28 years old, with no known means of support.

The couple had met the two following days for further drinks and more embraces, culminating on the evening of the third day by a visit made by Estelle Morrison to Hastings’s room at eight o’clock in the evening, where she remained until almost midnight. Attached to this report was a photostatic copy of an affidavit by a bellboy in the hotel who had seen her enter Hastings’s room, and who had later delivered cracked ice and seen both parties in a state of intimate undress. He had witnessed her departure just before twelve o’clock.

The reports for the next two days contained no significant incidents, but on Friday, October 12, Mrs. Estelle Morrison threw caution to the winds and left home early in the afternoon in her coupe and with a small overnight bag. Trailed to the Beach hotel by Browne, he had seen Lance Hastings greet her affectionately and enter the coupe, whereupon the couple had driven northward to Fort Lauderdale and registered at a hotel there as Mr. and Mrs. D. G. Hays, where they had spent the night.

Attached to this final report were photostats of the signature of the hotel register, and affidavits by three employees of the hotel They had been shown a photograph of Mrs. Morrison and were prepared to swear she had registered as Mrs. D. G. Hays.

Since this was the final report in the folder, Pursley, Adams & Peck were apparently satisfied that they had an airtight case against Mrs. Morrison to present to a divorce court. It was safe to assume that Angus Browne had collected his bonus for a nasty job well done.

There was nothing in the reports to indicate that Lance Hastings had been employed to do a job on Mrs. Morrison. He had probably played into Morrison’s hands by being an easy pickup for his wife.

Shayne closed the folder with an expression of disgust on his gaunt face. He thought of Estelle Morrison lying outstretched on her deck chair, avidly spying on the unsuspecting young couple in the sailboat, and he felt no pity for her. He only wondered why Victor Morrison had remained married to her for two years before bothering to get the low-down.

Another thought struck him with stunning force as he got up to return the folder to the file. It answered a lot of questions in a way Shayne didn’t want them answered. This proved that Morrison had made careful plans to get rid of his wife—as intimated in his notes to Christine Hudson. He had, quite evidently, come to Florida to establish legal residence where the divorce laws were much less strict than in New York, and had gone to work immediately compiling evidence to obtain an uncontested verdict. It tied in perfectly with the notes and was damning evidence that they were exactly what they appeared to be.

His gray eyes flared with an angry light as he faced the fact that Christine had probably been lying to him all the time. Certainly, if the notes were a plant by Morrison, no man in his right mind would have included those allusions to his plan for getting rid of his wife.

But no man in his right mind would have planned such a fantastic scheme in the beginning. No rules of logic could possibly be applied to the situation.

Shayne slammed the file shut and went out, pulling the outer door shut but not bothering to lock it. In a telephone booth downstairs he rang Rourke’s number again. When there was still no reply, he called the office of the apartment house and asked the manager whether he knew when Rourke would return.

The manager said, “Mr. Rourke? I’m quite certain he’s in.”

Shayne said irritably, “He doesn’t answer his phone.” The manager chuckled and said, “I’m not surprised. He sent out for another quart of whisky at ten o’clock this morning and I know he hasn’t gone out since.” Shayne thanked him and went out. He found a taxi loitering along Flagler Street and hailed the driver who stopped a stream of traffic while Shayne got in.

Shayne said, “The Blackstone Apartments on the Beach.” He lit a cigarette and refused to let his thoughts drift into the depths of black conjecture indicated by the facts he had unearthed.

The manager of the Blackstone Apartment Hotel was a slim young man named Mr. Henty. He had met Shayne previously, and when the detective entered, Henty leaned over the counter to explain, “I was pretty sure that was you on the phone, Mr. Shayne. After you called I went up and tried Mr. Rourke’s door. It’s locked and I couldn’t rouse him by knocking. So I unlocked it with my passkey. He’s—quite all right.”

“Drunk?” Shayne asked, frowning.

“Well—yes.”

“What time did he get in last night?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one on duty after midnight.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got to sober him up.”

Mr. Henty looked doubtful, but got his passkey and led Shayne upstairs. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back for Shayne to enter.

“Thanks,” Shayne said, and went in, closing the door behind him.

Timothy Rourke lay on his back on the living-room couch. His mouth was open and he was snoring softly.

Shayne opened all the windows in the apartment, then went over to the couch and got a firm grip on the reporter’s pitifully thin and bony shoulders. He dragged him from the couch to an upright position and shook him

Rourke’s head wobbled back and forth limply. He mumbled something but didn’t open his eyes. Shayne half dragged him into the bathroom, put him in the bathtub and turned on the cold shower.

Rourke twisted his head and gasped as the needle-spray struck him in the face. He put his hands over his face, turned on his side, and doubled his long body up in the tub. He lay supine for a full minute with the water beating down upon him, then wearily dragged himself to a sitting position, blinking at Shayne through bleared eyes.

Shayne turned off the water and said, “Strip off your clothes, Tim. I’ve got to talk to you. Get on some dry clothes while I make some coffee.”

In the kitchen Shayne turned the electric stove on to high and put hot water in the percolator and set it on the fire. He found coffee in the cupboard and dumped enough in the top to fill it.

Returning to the bathroom he found Rourke sitting up and weakly attempting to strip his wet undershirt off. Shayne caught the hem and yanked it up, then went to work on Rourke’s trousers. He put the plug in the tub and ran cold water in. He said, “Stay there and soak awhile. I’ll have some coffee in a few minutes.” Rourke sank back in the tub and closed his eyes. Shayne left him with the water running and returned to the kitchen. The coffee was percolating. He then rummaged in a bureau drawer and found dry underclothes. He got a pair of pants from the closet, then went back to the bathroom, dragged Rourke out, helped him to rub himself dry, and supported him to the bedroom. The reporter sank down on the bed, managed to get into a pair of shorts and trousers and an undershirt Shayne went into the kitchen, turned the fire to low, and poured a mug of coffee. He left the percolator on the fire to bring the coffee to a stronger consistency and carried the mugful in to Rourke.

After his third mug, Rourke showed signs of sobering, and Shayne began questioning him.

He asked, “Who was the third man with you and Angus Browne when you found those letters at the Hudson house a couple of weeks ago?”

Rourke shook his head and blinked dazedly. “Letters?” he muttered. “Hudson house?” He put a hand to his head, thought for a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. Sure. Angus and that lawyer. Hampstead, I think.”

“I understand you found the letters.”

“That’s right. I did. What the hell—”

“Who told you where you’d find them?”

“Nobody.” Rourke staggered to his feet and started into the living-room. “C’mon. Let’s go get a drink.”

Shayne followed him saying, “You don’t get a drink until you’ve answered my questions—”

“The hell I don’t,” Rourke scoffed. He slumped down on the couch, his hand moving toward the liquor bottle.

Shayne picked it up and sat down with it in his lap. He asked, “How did you know there were any letters?”

“Angus told me. He said they’d be hidden some place, so we all looked. I happened to find them first. What of it? For crissake, gimme a drink, Mike.” Shayne shook his head stubbornly.

“Where are the letters now? The originals?”

“They’ve got ’em. The lawyer, I guess. We all went down to a place together where I got my set of photostats made. That’s all I wanted.”

“You got the photostats? Where are they now?”

“In there.” Rourke gestured limply toward the bedroom. “Bureau drawer. Put ’em there when I came in.”

Shayne got up. He said, “I want to see them.”

The reporter stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a moment, then shrugged and got up. He staggered into the bedroom, went to the bureau and pulled open the second drawer. He reached in, and then began rummaging under a pile of shirts while Shayne waited.

Rourke turned with a look of slack surprise on his face and said, “They’re not here, Mike. The damned things are gone.”

Chapter Eleven: A COUNTERPLOT ADDED

“TRY THE OTHER DRAWERS,” Shayne suggested.

The missing letters appeared to sober Rourke completely. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “They’re gone,” he said again. “I remember sticking them under those shirts. What in hell is this all about?” he added irritably. “What do you know about those photostats? Why do you want them? Can’t you see I’m in no shape for guessing games?”

Shayne said soberly, “This isn’t a game, Tim. A girl has been murdered. What did you do last night?”

Rourke took a few steps backward and sat down on the bed. “I got drunk, for crissake,” he muttered.

“Where?”

“I was at the Play-Mor. Didn’t I see you there? It’s sort of dim but I think you were there, too.”

Shayne nodded. “About ten o’clock. How long did you stay?”

Rourke shuddered and said, “I don’t know exactly. I won a little money and went to the bar. Somewhere along the line I pulled a black-out.”

Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Do you remember a tall blonde at the roulette table? Not too good-looking. Her hair was sort of frizzled.”

Rourke closed his eyes for a moment, then said despairingly, “There may’ve been a dozen blondes at the table. I wasn’t noticing.”

“She was across the table from us when I talked with you,” Shayne reminded him. “Later on I saw you talking with her. She had too much perfume on.”

Rourke complained, “I can’t think. Maybe if I had a drink—” His eyes looked greedily at the bottle which Shayne still held in his hand.

Shayne hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and went to the kitchen. He poured a portion of whisky in the coffee mug and filled it with hot coffee and took it in to Rourke. He said, “Drink this down as hot as you can take it. You’ve got to start thinking.”

Rourke looked up, amazed by the urgency in his old friend’s voice. He took the mug and drank the coffee royal without removing it from his lips.

Shayne took the mug, set it down, lit a cigarette and stuck it in Rourke’s hand. He pulled the bedroom chair closer to the bed, sat down and said, “Now then—about last night. The blonde who talked to you for awhile and then beat it in a hell of a hurry—what do you know about her?”

The reporter nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to get it. Sure. It was that maid from the Hudsons’ house. I didn’t recognize her until she told me who she was.”

“Was she at the Hudsons’ the day you found the letters?”

“I guess so. Yeah. I noticed her downstairs when we first went in. But she didn’t go upstairs with us.”

“But last night she reminded you of seeing her there?”

“That’s right.” Rourke pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. “She moved in on me while I was winning. I remember her perfume now. She was broke and her guy had run out on her and she wanted me to stake her.”

“Did you?”

“Hell, no. I told her to run along and peddle her stuff some place else.”

“And?”

“That’s when she reminded me who she was. As if it made some difference—as if it was important.” He frowned uneasily. “I didn’t get it. I don’t know just what she said, but it was something like I’d better play ball and slip her a stake—or else.”

“Or else what?”

Rourke spread out his thin-fingered hands defensively. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I told her to get the hell out before I called the bouncer. So she got.”

Shayne considered this for a moment. “Did you get tough enough to scare her half out of her senses?”

Rourke grinned. “I don’t know just what I said. It probably wasn’t a very gentle admonition.”

“And you stayed on at the table?”

“That’s right. That is, I don’t remember much about it, Mike. Things’re mixed up. What’s this all about?”

“The girl was murdered last night after she left the Play-Mor.”

“The blonde—the Hudsons’ maid?” gasped Rourke.

Shayne nodded gravely. “Within half an hour after you were talking with her. Did anyone overhear your conversation with her?”

“How the hell do I know? There were a lot of people around. Look here, Mike, you act as though you think I bumped her off.”

“Somebody did. And if Painter gets wind of your hookup with her he might think you did. Now—let’s get back to those letters you found. Give me the whole picture—from the beginning.”

“Nothing much to it,” he said. “I ran into Angus Browne one day in a bar a couple of weeks ago. You know Angus?”

Shayne nodded.

“We had a couple of drinks and Angus asked me what I was doing and I told him nothing much. He asked me if I’d like to get hold of a juicy story. I told him sure. If it was something I could sell. You know I’ve been free-lancing on feature stuff for the local papers since I left the hospital. Well, he said it was plenty hot and I could have an exclusive on it when it broke.

“Browne didn’t tell me exactly what the deal was. A divorce—involving a couple of prominent families. He needed a witness to tie it up for good. All he wanted was my promise not to break it until he gave the word. It sounded good enough to me so I said okay and we got in his car and picked up another guy named Hampstead. He’s a lawyer, I think.

“We drove over to the Beach to a big house on the Bay-front. Browne flashed his tin on an old lady who must be the housekeeper, and bluffed his way in. On the way over he’d told us we were looking for a small packet of letters that would be hidden somewhere in the house. He said they’d been written to Mrs. Hudson by a millionaire named Victor Morrison from New York, and Morrison’s wife was after them for evidence in a divorce suit against her husband.”

Shayne was staring at Rourke, the disgust he felt showing in his eyes.

Rourke shrugged and grinned wryly. “Hell, I admit it was nasty business, but I figured I might as well have the story and make a few bucks on an exclusive as someone else. So we poked around down in the library and then went upstairs to the lady’s bedroom and went to work on it. I took the vanity, and just happened to find the letters. Four of ’em tied up in a pink ribbon.”

Shayne held up a wide palm, “Wait a minute. Think back. Are you sure they were there in the house all the time—not planted in that drawer by Browne or Hampstead when you weren’t looking?”

“For crissake, no. I was the only one who went near the vanity. They were there, all right. The old lady saw me find ’em.”

Shayne said, “Go on.”

“We looked at them and saw they were signed ‘Vicky,’ and Angus said they were the ones he was looking for. He had all of us initial each letter right there for identification in court later. We took them to the Magic City Photostat Company and had a set of copies made for me. I swore I’d keep the whole thing quiet until they were ready to break the story in court.”

“Who else got a set of photostats?” Shayne demanded.

“No one. They had the originals. We had only one set made and I took those. Damned if I can understand them not being in that drawer where I put them.” He paused to frown deeply, and again pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I dropped in at a bar,” he resumed, “for a couple of drinks, and read them through. They were juicy, all right. More than Angus promised. Then Ted Smith came in and we had a couple more drinks, and I came back here and ditched the photostats. Right under that pile of shirts.” He waggled an emaciated finger at the drawer.

“When did you see them last?”

“That evening. I didn’t bother to look at them again. Angus said it’d be a few more weeks before Mrs. Morrison would have her Florida residence established so she could file suit.”

Scowling deeply, Shayne got up and stalked into the living-room and over to a littered typewriter desk in the corner. He sat down and rolled a sheet of paper in the machine, got the envelope containing the three remaining photostats from his pocket and copied exactly the typewritten address that was on the envelope.

Rourke staggered after him and peered over his shoulder as Shayne tapped out the words. When Shayne pulled the sheet out and began carefully comparing the two typed addresses, the reporter growled, “What’s this hocus-pocus,” steadying himself with his hands on the desk chair.

“This,” said Shayne, showing him the envelope, “was sent to Mrs. Hudson the next day after you found the letters. The photostats were in it. It was followed by a blackmail demand for ten grand.”

Rourke let out a loud whistle. “The photostats were mailed to her? My photostats?”

“Evidently. You claim you had the only set,” Shayne reminded him.

Rourke stumbled over to the couch and sat down hard. He glared angrily at Shayne and demanded, “Do you think I sent them? Is that why you’re checking my machine?”

“If you did, you were smart enough not to use your own typewriter,” Shayne told him “Did you?”

“Do you think I’m a blackmailer? Goddamn you, Mike, I’ll knock your block off—” He tried to get up, but sank dizzily back on the couch.

“How do you know whether you are or not? You’ve been drunk ever since you got out of the hospital and by your admission you don’t remember much. Living like a damned pig. How do I know what you might do? Maybe you were drunk enough that it looked like a good way to pick up some spare cash.”

Rourke’s pinched face became livid, his fists doubled involuntarily. “Damn you,” he snarled, “we’ve been friends for a long time but I won’t take that from anybody.”

Shayne grunted disgustedly, got up and strode across the living-room. At the door he reminded the reporter savagely, “You can’t produce the set of photostats you admit having made—the only set.”

“Wait a minute, Mike,” Rourke implored. “Maybe I forgot where I put ’em. They could have been stolen.”

Shayne said, “There’s a murder mixed up in this thing, Tim. For God’s sake tell me the truth.” Sweat stood on his face. “We’ve been friends long enough for that.”

“Friends?” Rourke spat the word out contemptuously. “Get out if that’s what you think of me.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Tim.” Shayne kept his voice steady.

“Murder,” muttered Rourke angrily. “What good is the word of a goddamned pig and drunkard? Go ahead and run to Petey with your story. Maybe you can pin the murder on me, too. Sure. It all ties up. Somebody prob’ly heard her trying to put the bite on me last night. There’s your motive. She was threatening to turn me up as a blackmailer, so I let her have it.” He swayed to his feet and laughed hysterically, his thin lips drawn back from his teeth. “Big shot Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Cut it out, Tim.”

“Like hell I’ll cut it out. Why don’t you jump me right now?” He fell back on the couch and lay limp.

Shayne said again, “If you’ll give me your word—” Timothy Rourke didn’t say anything. He didn’t open his eyes. Shayne stood looking down at him for a moment, his gaunt face set, then went out and closed the door.

Chapter Twelve: PROBING FOR EVIDENCE

DOWNSTAIRS, SHAYNE FOUND B. J. Hampstead’s address in the classified section of the directory. He was the only Hampstead listed under Lawyers. He made a note of it and hurried out to his waiting cab. He directed the driver to take him back to Miami.

All the information he had thus far turned up on the case only muddled the waters a little more. Angus Browne, it appeared, had told Rourke he was working for Estelle Morrison; helping her secure divorce evidence against her husband. He knew that Browne was working for Victor Morrison, and that he had received a fat fee for collecting evidence against his wife.

The fact that Angus Browne had known about the letters and approximately where to look for them certainly argued that he had been ordered to turn them up, in the presence of sufficient witnesses, by Mr. Morrison. No one else could possibly have known about them. Whether they were legitimate and had actually been received by Christine Hudson was still a deep puzzle.

If they had been secretly prepared by Morrison and planted by the murdered maid in Christine’s vanity drawer, why? Why would he pay money to have them discovered by four reputable witnesses when they would become evidence against himself instead of his wife? Was Browne doing a double cross and working for both of them? And, added to this, blackmailing Christine? Shayne had no doubt that Browne was unscrupulous enough to do a thing like that, but Browne was not dumb. He had sense enough to know his actions would be revealed in the end.

Shayne tried to break the puzzle down both ways. If genuine, there was the possibility that Morrison was so deeply hurt and angered by Christine’s throwing him over and marrying a younger man, he might have written the letters to hurt her in retaliation. Putting the incriminating notes in his wile’s possession would be one way of accomplishing that purpose, but it was an expensive way of getting revenge.

With the evidence Morrison had acquired against his wife it would be impossible for her to obtain alimony or even a cash settlement from him when he divorced her. But with the letters as evidence in a countersuit, Mrs. Morrison would take him for plenty. Only a completely deranged man would put such a weapon in the hands of a woman whom he intended to divorce.

If the letters were a plant, the same conjecture held good. With one possible exception. If Morrison wanted a job like that done it was reasonable to presume he would arrange with Browne to attend to it. There was a possibility that he had no intention of allowing them to reach his wife—that he was merely laying the groundwork to bring pressure on Christine to leave her husband later, after his divorce had been granted. Browne might well have been lying to Rourke about representing Estelle Morrison just to get him to play along and be a witness to finding the letters. That, too, would explain why Morrison had not let his own firm of lawyers in on the frame-up. He knew that the majority of lawyers had ethics about such things.

He said to the taxi driver, “Let me off here,” just before they reached Miami Avenue where it crossed Flagler Street. He paid the fare and a generous tip and dismissed him. The young and attractive girl at the information desk was horrified that anyone expected to see Mr. Hampstead without an appointment. She asked Shayne to leave his name and telephone number and said she would call him after she had arranged a time suitable to her employer.

“I’m leaving town on the midnight plane, sister,” Shayne told her gruffly. “I’m seeing B. J. Hampstead now. Which is his office?”

She glanced fearfully at the end door of a row of four opening off the anteroom “But it’s impossible,” she exclaimed. “He’s in conference now, and—”

Shayne was already moving away from her toward the door she had looked at. He reached it and turned the knob and walked in. The light gray carpeting was thick, and soft light entered the windows which were wide and hung with oyster-white curtains.

A gray-haired man with a benign face sat at a big flat desk across from two young men. He had a ruddy complexion and the “bit of a stomach” which Mrs. Morgan had described. He looked up, frowning, as Shayne walked in unannounced.

One of the young men had several typed sheets in his hand and was reading aloud from them. He stopped reading when he saw Mr. Hampstead’s frown of displeasure.

Shayne said, “I’m here on police business, Hampstead. A homicide investigation. I think it had better be private.”

“I’m exceedingly busy,” Hampstead said in a clipped voice.

“So am I. Trying to catch a murderer.” Shayne stopped beside the big desk, his gray eyes cold and steady on Hampstead’s face.

The lawyer said to the man who had been reading, “Come back in five minutes,” and dismissed both men with a wave of his hand.

Shayne waited until they disappeared through a side door and closed it. He remained standing, and said flatly, “It’s the Natalie Briggs case. The Hudsons’ maid.”

Hampstead folded his pudgy hands across his stomach, leaned back and said, “Yes?”

“I want to know whom you represented when you went to the Hudson house and entered illegally a couple of weeks ago—with a private detective named Angus Browne and a reporter.”

“Are you with the Miami Police Department?”

“I’m private,” said Shayne. “Michael Shayne.”

The lawyer smiled frostily. “What is your interest in the case?”

“I’ve been retained by Mrs. Hudson.”

“Indeed,” said Hampstead, with a trace of sarcasm. “What has my visit to the Hudson house to do with the death of their maid?”

“That,” said Shayne harshly, “is what I intend to find out.”

Hampstead raised his thin gray brows. “I’d be glad to aid in a murder investigation, of course, but I fail to see the connection.”

“You entered the house illegally and purportedly found some private letters belonging to Mrs. Hudson. You and your accomplices stole them. Stealing private property is illegal.”

Hampstead said, “I’m fully aware of the legal aspects of my conduct, Mr. Shayne.”

“Were you acting for Mrs. Morrison?”

Hampstead smiled slyly, but made no reply. He gave no indication that he intended to answer.

Shayne sat down in the chair vacated by the man who had been reading the document to Hampstead. He said, “You can talk to the police if you’d rather.”

“I’d much rather,” the lawyer assured him.

Shayne said, “All right, I won’t try to bluff you. If I can prove a plausible connection between the letters and the maid’s death, will you talk to me?”

“I prefer to listen first and then make my decision.”

“I think those letters were planted in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity drawer where Timothy Rourke found them. I think it was arranged through Browne and the Hudsons’ maid, Natalie Briggs, with you and Timothy Rourke acting as uninformed spectators. An attempt has been made to blackmail Mrs. Hudson by threatening to send the originals to her husband, and I believe the blackmailer killed Natalie Briggs last night to prevent her from talking.”

Hampstead’s expression remained benign and inscrutable and somewhat insolent. “Those are a lot of assumptions,” he said.

“You refuse to name your client?” asked Shayne, his ragged red brows raised.

“Certainly.”

Shayne knew defeat when he met it. He said, “All right. I’ll toss a question you can answer ethically. Are those letters in your possession now?”

“They are in a safe place,” the lawyer answered stoically.

“I understand that you three men left the Hudson house together—in possession of the letters. Were they out of your sight after that?”

“They were not. That is,” he amended, “except for the short period while the photostats were being made for Mr. Rourke’s use.”

“And another set for Angus Browne?”

“Only one set of copies was made,” the lawyer stated flatly.

Shayne said, “Wasn’t that an unethical thing for a reputable attorney to do? Give copies of important evidence to a newspaper man before they were admitted as evidence in a divorce court?”

Hampstead didn’t answer immediately. Presently he said, “As I recall it, Mr. Rourke was of material assistance in the discovery of the evidence required by my client, and that was the price he insisted upon to insure he would have a scoop in the publicity when the case broke.”

Shayne stood up suddenly. He said, “You’re in this up to your neck, Hampstead, whether you realize it or not. The blackmail attempt is going to fall right in your lap. The demand for money was based solely on a promise that the original letters would be returned to Mrs. Hudson. You’re the only person who could fulfill that promise.”

Hampstead pulled back his chair and stood up. His benign expression melted and his small eyes were cold. He said, “I’ve heard quite enough, Mr. Shayne. If you have nothing more to say—”

“I’ll have plenty more to say,” Shayne called over his shoulder as he went to the door. “You’ll be hearing from me.” He hadn’t acquired much information but he did feel he had lighted a time fuse.

He stalked out without a glance at the young information clerk and went down in the elevator.

On Flagler Street he hailed another taxi and went directly to the Hudson parts factory. Here, he had to state his name and business to the guard at the gate and wait while his name was telephoned to Leslie Hudson. Then he was given a badge and directed down a corridor to the office of the president’s secretary.

She was an elderly, smiling woman. She took him at once to Hudson’s office where he found the executive busy over a desk littered with blueprints. Leslie Hudson stood up, smiled wearily, but his handshake was hearty. He said, “I’m glad you dropped in. Things have been hectic this morning, and you don’t realize how glad I am to have you investigating the murder of the maid. Christine trusts you thoroughly, and so do I. Your customary fee will be quite all right.”

“I’m not on this case for a fee, Mr. Hudson. Your wife is a friend of mine—rather a close friend to Phyllis—”

“I understand,” Hudson said with a nod.

“Christine was so upset—and I’m glad to help her—if I can.”

“That’s kind of you, Shayne,” Hudson said cordially. “The maid’s death—murder—put Christine in a bad way. Of course in her condition I suppose it’s quite natural.”

Shayne nodded and cleared his throat. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Hudson. I know you’re a very busy man, but the police probably won’t take that into consideration.”

“What do you mean?” Hudson said, a worried frown coming between his hazel eyes.

“Natalie was murdered in your back yard,” Shayne said bluntly. “The police have figured out that she was struck down at your back door and dragged to the wharf where her throat was slit. Painter is not smart, but he is tenacious. He’ll hang on like a bulldog to any evidence he gets.”

“Are you trying to tell me that they suspect any of—us?” Hudson’s face went pale and his eyes showed grave concern.

“There are things that might come out,” Shayne told him seriously. “For instance, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was asleep and that she was a sound sleeper. But I happen to know she was not asleep when Natalie was murdered.”

Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered. “If you’re going to suspect Christine or me—”

Shayne said harshly, “Don’t be a fool, Hudson. I’m trying to help you. You didn’t tell Painter where you were last night. It’s important that I know where you and Christine were. You need an alibi. You don’t know Painter like I do. If you’ve nothing to hide tell me what you did.”

“Of course we have nothing to hide. I came back to the office after dinner. Christine had some sort of musicale to attend. I worked here in my office until about eleven. I stopped for a glass of beer and a sandwich on my way home, and my wife had been in about fifteen minutes when I got there. Is that satisfactory?”

“Were you alone here?”

“A watchman was on the gate, of course. He checked me in and out—which you can verify if you wish.”

Shayne said, “I will. Does your brother work here with you?”

Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered.

“Where could I find him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. You might try some of the bars.”

“Like that, eh?”

“My brother,” said Hudson frankly, “is no good, Mr. Shayne. We inherited equally under my father’s will and in six years he has succeeded in squandering his portion of the inheritance. I’ve tried to interest him in the factory and this new production, but it has been wasted effort.”

“But you continue to support him?”

“He has a moderate allowance,” said Hudson in a pinched tone. “Enough to stay drunk most of the time, I’m sorry to say.”

“What about his gambling debts?”

“I clamped down on his gambling months ago.” Hudson’s mouth was a grim, tight line. “If he’s been gambling since, then he must have been winning.”

Shayne nodded casually and got up. He started out, but hesitated at the door, turned and said, “I notice that one of your neighbors just across the Bay is your wife’s former employer,” as though it was an afterthought.

Hudson was already busy with his blueprints. He looked up and nodded. “Mr. Morrison? Yes. They’ve reopened their place this season.”

“It’s only a short run across by boat,” Shayne fished.

“Yes. I suppose it would be.” Hudson looked politely impatient to get back to his work.

Shayne nodded and went out. When he surrendered his badge to the guard at the gate, he said, “Mr. Hudson asked me to check last night’s gate sheet before I go. Do you have it here?”

“Right here.” The guard turned back the pages of a ledger in which he had entered Shayne’s name and pointed out the entries for the preceding night. There were only three. Two of them had checked out at ten o’clock. The notation beside Hudson’s name showed he had entered the plant at 7:40 and left at 10:42.

When Shayne went back to town he took the precaution of stopping a couple of blocks from his hotel. It was four o’clock in the afternoon—plenty of time for the taxi driver to have told his story of Shayne’s ride home with Natalie Briggs from the Play-Mor to Painter.

He went into a drugstore and called his hotel. The desk clerk answered. Shayne said, “This is Mike Shayne. Anyone asked for me? Anybody hanging around that looks like a cop?”

“No cops, Mr. Shayne. But there’s a lady waiting to see you.”

“What does she look like?”

“Plenty of class.” The clerk’s tone was enthusiastic.

“Not the same one who spoke to me at the desk yesterday?”

“No. This one is—something else.”

Shayne thanked him and hung up. He went out and down the street to a liquor store that specialized in imported stuff. He selected a bottle of Martell cognac and was lucky enough to find a bottle of real Cointreau. Another stop at a small fruit stand along the way added a dozen lemons to his purchases. He was carrying the packages in his arms when he entered the lobby.

Estelle Morrison was waiting for him. She wore a dark brown clinging dress that did things to her lithe body, a blue turban wrapped around her head, and a pair of long dangling earrings.

She arose and moved toward him.

Shayne stopped beside her and said, “If you’ll come up with me I’ll be glad to repay that drink you gave me this afternoon.”

She said, “That’s nice of you,” glancing at the desk clerk as they went toward the elevator. “I imagine you’d have no trouble at all getting affidavits from these people here.”

They were getting in the elevator, and Shayne didn’t answer. She stood very close to him as they went up. When they reached the door of his apartment and opened it, he said harshly, “We can leave the door open if you prefer. And I can call the elevator boy to be a witness.”

She said, “It’s rather late for that now, don’t you think?” and pushed the door shut.

Chapter Thirteen: SPINNING THE WEB

SHAYNE SHRUGGED and went on to the kitchen with his purchases, set them on the table and said over his shoulder, “I’ll mix a drink.” Estelle Morrison made no reply.

She accepted the glass, sipped from it and nodded approvingly. “I could drink these out of a tin cup.”

Shayne pulled a chair around to face her, moved an end table between them, and sat down. “I always ply my female guests with liquor.”

“It’s a very pleasant custom,” she said. She crossed her long legs. “There’s only one thing I’m really sore about,” she told him equably. “Why did you sic that punk Lance Hastings on me to get your evidence? Couldn’t you have had a lot more fun and accomplished the same result by making the play yourself?” Her voice was husky and betrayed no irritation. She looked levelly into his eyes, lifted her glass and drank half the contents.

“And just what makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“I know all about it,” she told him languidly. “I admit I was sore as hell as first, but it doesn’t really matter now.”

“Why not?”

“You know the answer to that, too. I don’t know how you got in on the letter deal, but Victor tells me you’ve got photostats of his cute little communications to his ex-secretary. We’ll get a divorce all right, but it is going to be on my terms.”

“Did he send you here to talk about it?”

“I told him I was coming. He wanted to send his lawyer, but I thought I might be able to do better.”

“Do what better?”

“Find out what you’re after.” She emptied her glass and set it on the table, drew in a deep breath and said, “It’s funny how anything as cold as that drink can warm you up so inside.” She wriggled her shoulders down a little lower in her chair, uncrossed her legs, and stretched them out before her.

“Sidecars have a way of warming you up,” he told her. He wondered whether she realized that a sidecar was one of the most potent of cocktails. Four ounces of it was a big slug to pour down in a hurry.

“I told your husband very plainly what I was after,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson swears the notes weren’t written to her or received by her. She declares there wasn’t anything at all between her and Mr. Morrison.”

“He’ll deny it, too,” said Estelle indifferently. “But that won’t cut much ice in court. I can prove he was running around with her in New York at the time the letters were written. And the job you did for him proves he was planning to divorce me so he could have her.”

“What makes you so sure I did the job on you?”

“I know it was a local private dick. Victor won’t admit it was you, but how else did you get mixed up in the deal?”

Shayne waved the question aside as unimportant. He returned to the first part of her previous statement. “Mrs. Hudson contends that Morrison only took her to dinner twice during the month after she resigned. And your husband assured her that you knew all about it.”

Estelle’s full red lips parted in a mocking smile. “Sure, I urged him to be nice to her. I knew what was going on and I thought I might have some use for evidence like that later on. Frame me, huh? Kick me out without a dime of his damned millions? He knows better now.” She reached for her empty glass.

Shayne said, “Just a minute.” He emptied his glass, took hers and went to the kitchen. The ice cubes had melted somewhat, slightly diluting the mixture. He poured an ounce of straight cognac in her glass, filled them both from the bottle and carried them back.

She took hers avidly and drank half of it, smacked her lips and said, “These get better with age.” Her tawny eyes glowed. “I still wonder what you figure to make on the deal.”

Shayne remained standing by her chair looking down at her. He grinned and said, “Right now it’s not what I’ll make—but who.”

She smiled lazily and reached out her free hand to trail her fingertips across the back of his hand. “Do you think you could?”

Shayne nodded slowly. “You’re giving me ideas in that direction.” He hesitated momentarily, then returned to his chair.

She said angrily, “You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk to me like that after trailing me around and peeking through keyholes while I was with another guy. It could have been you all the time.”

“I told you this afternoon that when I get into a compromising situation I like to do it on my own time.”

“This is your own time, isn’t it?” she countered, and emptied her glass a second time.

Shayne said, “Except for the fact that some cops may bust in here any minute to arrest me on suspicion of murder.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t get the murder angle,” she protested. “Vicky said you yammered about that to him. How were you tangled up with the Hudson maid?”

“It’s a long story. I am tangled up in it and if I don’t hang the rap on someone quick, I’ll have it hung on me.”

“So? That would be too damned bad—just when we’re getting acquainted,” she drawled.

Shayne leaned toward her and said earnestly, “You can help me.”

“How?”

“In the first place, tell me how you found out the Lance Hastings deal was a frame-up to get divorce evidence against you?”

“One of your buddies told me about it. A little shrimp named Angus Browne.”

“Browne told you I handled it for your husband?” Shayne kept his voice casual.

“He didn’t tell me who. Just that a private dick employed by Vicky had been trailing me and getting evidence. I didn’t know who you were until you popped up today.”

“Did Browne suggest planting the letters on Mrs. Hudson as a retaliatory measure?”

“How would he know about the letters? I was the only one who knew what had been going on between them. And they weren’t planted. I figured she was the sort of dumbbell who would keep a batch of letters like that. So I fixed it with Browne to try and find them. He did. That’s all.” She wet her lips, looked at her empty glass and murmured, “Those drinks make me thirsty.”

Shayne’s glass was still half full. He concealed its condition by holding his hand clamped around the bottom, got up and took hers back for a refill. This time he put more than an ounce of straight cognac in it before filling it to the brim from the milk bottle. He also filled his own and carried them in.

Shayne set his glass down and leaned over her. She closed her eyes and made a little whimpering sound as her teeth closed strongly upon the fleshy part of his thumb.

He kissed her lightly and she returned his kiss fiercely. Shayne pulled away from her after a moment and said harshly, “I’ve still got a goddamned murder rap to beat.”

She slumped back in her chair, one hand groping for her glass. “I dunno what you put in these drinks,” she said thickly. “They make me feel all loose inside. You know what I mean.”

Shayne said, “I get the general idea. Is Hampstead handling the divorce suit against your husband?”

She waggled her head affirmatively. “Soon’s I’ve established residence so I can bring suit.”

“Whose bright idea was it to blackmail Mrs. Hudson with photostats of your husband’s letters?”

“I dunno anything about that. Didn’t know anything ’bout it ’til Victor told me today. Sounds like something Browne might think up—or that brother-in-law of hers if he’d got onto it.” She tilted her head and downed her third sidecar, then let her hand fall supinely in her lap.

Shayne took the empty glass from her. His gray eyes were very bright. “Whose brother-in-law?”

“Chrishtine Hudson’s—Floyd. Wouldn’t put anything pasht him ’cludin’ making passes at his brother’s wife. He’s stric’ly no good.”

“What do you know about Floyd Hudson?”

Estelle’s head lolled to one side. She opened her left eye and squinted at him, keeping the right one tightly closed. “Wouldn’ you like to know? I saw’m that night we were there. You betcha I saw ’em.”

“The night you were where?”

“Their housh.” She grew weary of keeping her left eye open and closed it. “Millionaire condeshends to visit ex-secretary. Takes unsushpectin’ wife ’long. Zif I didn’ know. Nice boat ride. Howsh ’bout nozzer li’l drink?”

“In just a minute,” he said gently. “Tell me about Floyd. I’ll bet he thinks he’s hell-on-wheels with the ladies.” He got up and went back to her chair and put his big palms against her cheeks.

Her body slumped to one side when he took his hands from her face. Shayne hurried into the bathroom and soaked a towel in cold water, brought it back and began slapping her face and neck with it. She opened her eyes and swayed to her feet, a vacuous smile on her red mouth.

Shayne put an arm around her to support her. She twisted against him and locked both arms around his neck. Her knees buckled and she was a dead weight against him

Cursing himself for overestimating her capacity, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom and dumped her on the bed and pried her arms from his neck.

His telephone began to ring. He stalked into the living-room and answered it.

The desk clerk said cautiously, “Mr. Shayne? I thought I’d better tell you. There’s a man here—a taxi driver. He doesn’t know your name but he gave a perfect description of you and says he drove you home last night. I told him I wasn’t certain there was anyone here answering his description. Then he said there’d better be because if he didn’t see you right away he was going to the police. I told him I’d see if I could locate anyone and he’s waiting here in the lobby. If you don’t want to see him I’ll—”

Shayne interrupted him sharply. “No. Send him up here. Give him my room number but don’t mention my name.”

He hung up, trotted across the room and shut the door against Estelle’s irregular breathing. He then went to the front door, opened it slightly, picked up the two glasses, and carried them to the kitchen. He measured more Cointreau, cognac and lemon juice into the milk bottle and was adding ice cubes when a knock sounded on the outer door.

He called out, “Come in,” and went on mixing another batch of sidecars.

Chapter Fourteen: SILENCE AT A PRICE

THE DOOR WAS PUSHED OPEN and Shayne said, “Come on in the kitchen.”

Shayne looked up and saw a squatty man with a square freckled face and loose lips. He stood in the doorway twisting a visored cap in his dirty hands. He said, “That clerk downstairs gimme the right steer all right. You’re the guy I drove home from the Play-Mor last night.”

“That’s right,” said Shayne. “I was just fixing myself a drink.” He was shaking the bottle again, vigorously. “Want one?” He moved into the living-room with the driver beside him.

“Sure,” the man said, looking around the room. He selected the chair Estelle had been sitting in. He sat down and took a newspaper from his pocket, smoothed it out on his knee while Shayne poured his drink.

“Hope you’ll like my concoction,” said Shayne.

“Sure will,” he said. “My name’s Ira Wilson. I just saw the picture in the paper of this dame that got bumped off on the Beach last night.”

Shayne sat down opposite him and said, “That’s interesting,” and lit a cigarette.

“Ain’t it?” The taxi driver chuckled and picked up his glass, tasted it and smacked his lips, then drank the entire contents. “Smooth,” he said approvingly as he set the glass down. “I never held much with these mixed-up drinks. A man never knows whether he’s gettin’ any liquor or not. Taste good, but they ain’t got much wallop. Gimme a boilermaker any time.”

Shayne said, “Sorry. I just mixed up the last of my liquor. The clerk downstairs said you wanted to see me about something?”

“Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I ain’t the kind to cause anybody trouble. See what I mean? I always say live and let live, see? That’s why I come here ’stead of running to the cops and blowin’ my mouth off.”

“About what?”

“Now look, Mister.” Ira Wilson leaned forward and tapped Shayne on the knee. “You and me both know what I’m talking about. You take it now, this dame that’s got her pitcher in the paper. She’s the one you give a lift from the club last night.”

“So?” Shayne’s face and voice were without expression. He took a sip from his glass.

“Well, I got a hunch the cops might like to know about that,” the driver went on, his small black eyes sly, and his voice insinuating. “About you pretendin’ you didn’t know her when she hopped in my cab an’ you two not speakin’ a word an’ then you goin’ in with her when she got out.”

Shayne lifted his broad shoulders slightly. “Why should the police be interested in that? I’d never seen the girl before. I merely offered to share the cab with her. I didn’t kill her.”

“Maybe not. But nobody wants to get mixed up in a murder case. You mark my word, Mister, them cops turn a man inside out once they get him up to headquarters. I know what I’m talking about. Maybe you didn’t kill the dame, but the cops’re sure gonna want to know what you was doin’ in there with her them ten minutes while I waited.”

“It was closer to two minutes,” Shayne said.

“See? That’s what you’ll tell ’em,” said Wilson triumphantly. “Me? I’ll say no sir I didn’t hold no stop watch on ’em but it seemed like a good ten minutes to me. And if I tell ’em the way you two acted mad at each other an’ how it seemed like she was scared when she got out and you followed her in—” He spread out his dirty hands. “Believe me they can make a hell of a lot out of somethin’ like that. They don’t give a damn if a guy’s innocent or not just so they hang the rap on somebody an’ save their own jobs. You take it now, I know how they work it.”

“Yeh,” said Shayne. “I’ve heard about how they work it.” He drained his glass and got up. “I think we could use another drink.”

“Another one of them wouldn’t go so bad,” Wilson agreed with a sly smile. “I can see you’re a right guy an’ we’re gonna get along.”

In the kitchen Shayne wasted another ounce of cognac in the bottom of the driver’s glass. He had seen sidecars work on straight whisky drinkers before and he had hopes that Wilson wouldn’t be any more immune than Estelle Morrison had been.

When he brought the drinks back and was seated again, Shayne held out his glass and said companionably, “Here’s to our continued understanding.”

Wilson touched his glass to Shayne’s. “Oh you an’ me’ll get along, Mister. I can see that all right.” He closed one eye in a slow wink and tipped his glass up. It was empty when he set it down. “Mighty smooth drink,” he approved again. “What they got in ’em?”

“Lemon juice and a little Cointreau and cognac,” said Shayne.

“No real liquor, huh? I can taste liquor no matter how anybody tries to fix it up,” he bragged. “Just what’ll it be worth to you if I sorta forget about las’ night?”

Shayne twirled his glass slowly in his hand. He said, “I don’t like blackmail, Wilson.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about no blackmail. You take it now, I do you a good turn, see? That’s all right, huh? Nice an’ friendly. So you do me one right back.”

Shayne said casually, “I haven’t anything to hide from the police.”

Wilson licked his thick lips, then twisted them into a sly smile. “Maybe not, but you ain’t told the police about you givin’ that dame a taxi ride las’ night. Am I right?”

Shayne said, “I can’t see that has anything to do with her being murdered.”

“Don’t you now? It’s because you got better sense than to get mixed up in it. That’s what. An’ you’re plenty smart to not say anything. They’d ask you plenty questions if they got started. You take it now, I know how the cops work. They pull a man in on a little bit of somethin’ like that they end up, by God, findin’ out ever’thing he ever done in his whole life. Get your pitcher in the paper handcuffed, like as not, an’ if they do turn you loose folks’ll allus remember you was mixed up in a murder case.”

Shayne said, “All right. How much will your loss of memory cost me?”

“Well, now, I don’t reckon it’s me that ought to set a price.” Wilson looked around the apartment. “It’s a right nice place you got here in this swanky apartment hotel. Must cost you plenty.”

“How much?”

Wilson looked into Shayne’s cold gray eyes for a long moment. “A man don’t make much in the taxi business these days,” he whined. “I got my old lady an’ a couple of kids to think about. Do you reckon it’d be worth five hunnerd to stay in the clear?”

Shayne said gravely, “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“It sure is a heap,” Wilson agreed. “But there’s a heap of trouble waitin’ for you if the cops get on your trail.”

Shayne said, “I’ve heard about such things. But you and I are going to work this out. There’s another drink left in the kitchen. We’ll split it and talk things over.” Wilson stood up, swaying slightly and asked, “You got a can in here ain’t you?” He grinned foolishly.

“Sure,” said Shayne. “Right through that door.” He pointed a knobby finger toward the bathroom door.

With the glasses in his hand Shayne trotted over and cracked the bedroom door open after Wilson disappeared. Estelle was sleeping soundly and quietly. He hurried to the kitchen, found a larger glass in the cupboard, filled it with cognac to within two inches of the top, and poured in enough of the mixture in the milk bottle to fill it to the brim.

He then took another glass of the same size and filled it with the diluted mixture in the bottle. Wilson was returning from the bathroom when he came in with the drinks, wavering as he walked, his black eyes slightly crossed.

Shayne pressed the water glass in his hands and asked, “Is your taxi parked around here anywhere?”

Wilson took a long gulp from his drink and said, “Sure. Right out in front. Watcha say this is got in it?”

“Same thing. Lots of lemon juice and a little cognac and Cointreau,” Shayne assured him.

Wilson hiccoughed and said, “How about the cash, Mister?” and took another drink.

Shayne sat down. “It looks as though you’ve got me over a barrelhead, Wilson. The banks are closed for the day and I haven’t got five hundred on me right now.”

“How much you got?” he demanded greedily.

Shayne took his wallet out, leaving the zippered side closed. He withdrew some bills from the open side and held them out, counting them carefully. “There’s a hundred and twenty-five here. I can get the balance in the morning,” he said.

Wilson reached for the money. “I reckon you won’t run out on me. I’ll see you tomorrow for the rest.” He took the bills, thrust them in his pocket, then drained his glass.

The telephone rang. Shayne went swiftly to answer it and said, “Yes?”

The desk clerk said excitedly, but in an almost inaudible whisper, “Couple of cops going to the elevator on their way to your room. I thought I’d better—”

“Thanks,” he said and hung up. He had heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw Ira Wilson stretched out flat on the floor. He ran to the entrance door of the apartment, shut it and latched it from the inside, then picked up the unconscious taxi driver and dragged him into the bedroom.

A loud knock sounded on his door. He pulled back the sheet and shoved Ira Wilson on the bed beside Estelle Morrison, and hurried out, closing the door quietly and firmly behind him.

He paused to scoop up the empty water glasses and carried them to the kitchen. From the kitchen he walked with a firm and heavy tread to the door, unlatched it, and jerked it open.

Chief of Police Will Gentry and a sergeant of the Miami police force stood in the doorway. Gentry was a big man with a placid, ruddy face and intelligent eyes. He and Shayne had been friends for a long time, but Chief Gentry had never let their friendship interfere with his sense of duty. He walked in and said:

“Hello, Mike. You know Sergeant Benham.”

Shayne said, “Sure. How are you, Sergeant,” and invited them to sit down. “I was just polishing off some sidecars. I can shake up some more in a hurry.”

“Don’t bother.” Gentry sank into a chair and sat solidly erect with a worried frown on his face. “I thought you were leaving town by plane last night,” he complained to Shayne.

The sergeant moved over to the couch and sat down. Shayne took the chair opposite Gentry, and said, “I put it off twenty-four hours.”

“Just for the fun of getting in Painter’s hair again?” Gentry rumbled.

“What’s Painter’s gripe this time?” Shayne asked.

“He called me from the Beach a little while ago. Wants me to locate a taxi driver who picked you up at the Play-Mor last night. You and the girl that got murdered right after she got in the taxi with you.”

“Have you located the driver?” Shayne asked.

“Not yet. But we’ve got a pickup out on him. How do you do it, Mike? Painter was frothing over the phone. Claimed you were sitting on top of the case like a damned ghoul when he got in on it this morning. He thinks you bumped the girl last night just to work up some business, and then hurried around to get yourself retained to solve it.”

Shayne grinned. “Business has been bad lately, Will. Does he figure I’ll put a noose around my neck to earn a fee?”

“Painter says you’ve got some sort of slick frame planned,” said Gentry, ignoring Shayne’s attempt to be funny. He sighed and folded his hands over his belly. “It’s just a matter of time before we locate the driver, Mike,” he went on seriously. “I don’t know what his story will be, but you do. If it puts you within a mile of the girl at the time she was killed Painter’s going to force me to pull you in.”

“What time was she killed?”

“They make it before eleven o’clock. The doorman at the Play-Mor says you and she rode off in a taxi together about ten-thirty. We’ve got a good description of the driver,” he ended.

Shayne was tugging at his left ear lobe. He asked, “Do they know where she was bumped?”

“They’ve pretty well fixed it right at the rear of the Hudson house where she worked. If you took her there from the club, Mike, it puts you on the spot at exactly the right time.”

“Not,” said Shayne, “if the driver testifies that I merely let her out of the cab at the front gate and had him drive me straight home.”

“No,” Gentry agreed. He had the cigar in his mouth but made no attempt to light it “Not if that’s what happened. But there’s a catch in that Painter claims he can place you at the front door of the house about fifteen or twenty minutes before eleven.”

“At the front door,” Shayne said. “Not the back door. Mrs. Morgan answered when I rang. And by the way, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was a very sound sleeper, that she was asleep when Natalie Briggs was murdered and that she didn’t hear a sound. Tie that in,” he ended with a broad grin.

Gentry rumbled, “It’s not anything to kid about, Mike.”

“You’ve got to admit that Painter always picks on me,” said Shayne, “when he has a dozen other suspects to go after. But thanks for tipping me off, Will,” he added gravely.

“I just wanted you to know what you were up against.”

He pushed himself up from the chair with both hands on the arms.

The young sergeant arose from the couch and Shayne walked to the door with them.

He said, “Good luck on picking up that taxi driver, Will,” and stood in the doorway watching them until they stepped into the elevator.

Closing the door, he went leisurely to the bedroom door, opened it, and was thankful that neither of his captives snored. They lay side by side, sleeping off their overdose of sidecars.

Shayne went carefully through Ira Wilson’s pockets until he found the keys to the taxi. Wilson was as limp and unconscious as a rag doll. Shayne went out and closed the door.

He found the visored cap tucked in the chair seat where Will Gentry had been sitting. He pulled it out, muttering an oath as he did so, tried it on for size and found it a half-size too small.

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.

Chapter Fifteen: A TIMELY LETTER

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.

Chapter Sixteen: A STARTLING DISCOVERY

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.

It was only about 200 yards north of the point toward which he was headed. However, it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference in his calculations so he kept on as he was, directly toward land.

He cut the motor as he approached, turned the rudder to make a wide circle that would start him back in the other direction. He checked his watch and found to his surprise that he had been on the water almost half an hour. It had seemed much less than that, but his watch said 5:29.

It was heavier going on the return trip, bucking the stiff breeze and the swells. He squinted his eyes and fought to keep the little boat on her course.

He caught a glimpse of a floating object a hundred feet to his left and studied it curiously for a moment, then twisted the rudder to carry him closer to it

Two bronzed and trunk-clad lads were tacking a sailboat from the eastern shore on a course which was bringing them directly toward Shayne, but he held on toward the floating object as his first uneasy conviction grew stronger.

It looked like a floating bather riding lazily and easily on the swell, but it wasn’t wearing a bathing suit and it was floating face downward.

When he was within 20 feet of the object, Shayne knew it was the body of a man, fully dressed and with outspread arms and legs that moved sluggishly in the water as though he propelled himself forward.

Shayne hesitated briefly, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching sailboat. It was close now, and one of the boys was standing in the bow pointing ahead and shouting excitedly. Shayne knew that they too, had seen the floating body. He couldn’t turn away now and pretend he hadn’t seen it.

He cut his outboard motor and let the little boat drift on, dropping to his knees and leaning overboard to grab the body and pull it aboard.

The lads nosed their sailboat in against him gently as he turned the man over on his back and looked into the leathery face of Angus Browne.

One of the boys leaped aboard, exclaiming, “Gee, Mister, is he dead?”

“He’s dead, all right,” said Shayne grimly. The top of Browne’s head was smashed like an eggshell and the water lapping against the side of the boat bore a faint reddish tint which faded and disappeared into the blue waters of the bay, even as he looked down at it in the gathering dusk.

“Killed, by gosh!” the boy said in an awed voice. He yelled at his companion in the sailboat. “You oughta see it, Tom. It’s a dead man.”

Shayne sank back on his haunches, his mouth tight. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the eastern shore of the bay, not more than a mile north of the County Causeway.

“Better get back in your own boat,” Shayne told the boy. “Sail back to shore and call the police. Tell them to bring an ambulance to the foot of the Causeway. I’ll take the body in there.”

“Gee! You bet. Right away, Mister.” The boy leaped back into his sailboat and Shayne shoved his small boat away, starting the motor again. He waited until a fair distance separated the two boats before cutting his motor down and lashing the tiller to hold it on course. He then went through Browne’s pockets carefully.

He found a water-soaked wallet in his breast pocket, some keys, change, and a handkerchief in his pants pockets. Nothing else. Nothing to indicate what he had taken from the special delivery envelope only a few hours ago.

Shayne put the things back and headed the catboat in toward the foot of the Causeway. The boys had already reached shore and there was no doubt they had called the police at the earliest moment they could.

He heard the scream of police car and ambulance as he nosed the prow into the soft mud alongside the Causeway. A couple of ambulance attendants and some police officers were waiting for him. He tossed the painter ashore to one of them, stood up in the bow and leaped ashore.

Chief Painter came striding down behind the others, stopped short with a malignant eye on Shayne. “I might’ve guessed it. As soon as I heard there was a body, I might’ve known it’d be you again.”

Shayne grinned and agreed, “On-the-spot Shayne. Always doing your dirty work for you.”

“You’re on the spot, all right,” Painter snapped. “Why the devil did you bring him all the way in here? The boys who telephoned said he was floating away up the bay. Just about opposite the Hudson house, I take it.”

“It wasn’t anywhere near the Hudson place,” Shayne said calmly. “I thought I’d save time by bringing him in here while the boys were phoning.”

Painter brushed past him to join the group of men lifting the body from the boat. He took one look at the dead man and grunted angrily, “Answers the description of the taxi driver we haven’t been able to locate. Okay, Shayne.” He whirled on the detective, thumbnailing his mustache. “What have you to say for yourself this time?”

“I found him floating in the water like that. The two boys in the sailboat saw him about the same time, and they arrived at the spot at the same time I did.”

“You just happened to, I suppose. Like that?” Painter snapped his fingers with a sharp plop. “What were you doing out on the bay in a boat?”

“Taking a ride.”

“You weren’t looking for a body, I suppose? Or getting rid of one.”

“I didn’t get rid of this one,” Shayne said calmly. “I found him for you.”

“After making sure there were witnesses to see you find it,” said Painter with heavy sarcasm. “How did you know where to look?”

“I smelled him,” Shayne said disgustedly. “Didn’t I ever tell you my mother was frightened by a bloodhound before I was born?”

One of the policemen standing by chuckled. Painter snorted and glared at him with his sharp black eyes. He turned back to Shayne and snapped, “The way we got it over the phone the boys say you headed right toward the body as though you knew exactly where it’d be. After coming across the bay fast to that very spot a few minutes before where you probably tossed him out.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Nuts.”

“If it’s that taxi driver, I’ll sure as hell—”

The officer who had chuckled redeemed himself by stepping forward and saying, “The stiff is Angus Browne, Chief. There’s a lot of stuff to identify him, and one of the boys knows him.”

“Browne?” Painter turned on them. “The private eye from Miami? Then why the devil didn’t you say before—”

“Browne was a sort of punk. Divorce stuff mostly,” the man who knew Browne said.

Painter turned back to Shayne and asked sharply, “What do you know about that?”

“I’d say he’s had it coming to him a long time. I’ll be going along now.” He started toward the beached catboat.

“Not so fast,” Painter snarled. “I’ve got a few questions first. How does Browne figure in this?”

Shayne said, “I don’t know—yet. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll find out for you?”

“Where were you between ten-thirty and eleven last night?”

“Riding home from the Play-Mor Club,” Shayne told him wearily.

“We’ve got a taxi driver who swears you took the dead girl with you in your cab—”

“I never take dead girls out in taxis,” Shayne interrupted solemnly.

Painter’s face grew livid with rage. “By God, Shayne, I’ll slam you behind bars if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“All right,” Shayne said easily. “But if you want this case solved—”

“What about you taking Natalie Briggs home last night and going in after her? The taxi driver said—”

“The same driver you just said you haven’t been able to locate?” Shayne interrupted him again.

Painter brushed his mustache gently, his black eyes glittering up at Shayne. “The driver’s testimony will cinch what we already know,” he asserted.

“Maybe. If he doesn’t tell you we put the girl out of the cab after we’d gone two blocks from the Play-Mor,” said Shayne.

“Is that what you’re going to claim?” snapped Painter.

“Ask the taxi driver,” Shayne told him and waved a big hand negligently.

“I intend to as soon as we pick him up. In the meantime I want to know more about your innocent little joy ride on the bay. If you weren’t looking for Browne’s body, what was your purpose?”

“It’s just a new hobby I’ve taken up,” said Shayne. “It’s relaxing and restful. Try it some time. Good for the nerves.”

“You weren’t wasting time just going for a boat ride when you knew I was getting ready to hang a murder rap on you.”

Shayne said, “That’s my story.” He again started to the boat.

“Wait a minute,” Painter called sharply. “Where’d you get that boat?”

“They have them for rent in Miami,” Shayne reminded him.

“Who did you rent it from? When?”

Shayne shook his head. “That’s in the nature of a leading question and shouldn’t be put except in the presence of counsel. If I had counsel, I’d be advised not to answer.”

“I can get the dope, all right,” Painter barked. “Every boat on this bay is registered.” He peered at the name painted on the catboat. “The Tarzan, eh? All I need is proof that you started out on your joy ride with Angus Browne aboard.”

“When you get that,” Shayne agreed, “you’ll have something. In the meantime I’ve got a couple of murders to solve.” He strode past the canvas on which Browne’s body lay. The attendants were waiting for Painter’s order to take the body in. Shayne glanced at the two men and saw an expression of faint amusement on their faces which quickly changed to solemnity.

Shayne lifted his hand slightly in farewell, got in the boat and shoved off. He started the motor and cut directly across the bay toward the Morrison dock.

Chapter Seventeen: S O S FOR BARBIZON

THERE WAS NO ONE in sight when he docked the boat. He tied it up and went across the lawn and onto the street. He slid under the steering wheel of Ira Wilson’s taxi and drove to Biscayne Boulevard, turning north to 79th Street and crossed the Causeway there, striking Ocean Drive not far south of the Play-Mor Club.

Shayne’s eyes were bleak when he got out of the cab and walked the short distance to the club.

The uniformed doorman at the top of the stairway was the same one who had been on duty the preceding night. He turned and pressed a signal button in the door jamb—two shorts and then a very long one. The button presently lighted with a signal glow, and the doorman, his back turned to Shayne, said, “I’m sorry, sir,” coldly, “but I have orders not to admit you.”

He was an exceedingly tall man of about 60. He turned slowly to the redheaded detective and folded his long arms beneath his chest with an air of quiet finality.

Shayne grinned and said, “Are you going to keep me out, dad?”

“I have to obey orders, sir,” he answered, apologetically.

“I’ve got business with your boss,” Shayne said. He turned slightly and hunched his left shoulder against the elderly doorman, shoving him aside.

A gruff voice spoke from behind the doorman in a tone of pleased surprise. “Damned if it ain’t the redhead again. He givin’ you trouble. Pop?”

A taxi was stopping in front of the canopied entrance. The doorman sidled away from Shayne and said softly, “Handle him quiet, Smith,” and went down the steps to greet the passengers getting out of the taxi.

Two men moved through the doorway toward Shayne. One of them was the bulky man who had escorted him to Barbizon’s office from the roulette table. His companion weighed a hundred pounds less than the man the doorman had called Smith, but his eyes glittered in a hawklike face and he moved easily on the balls of his feet. His right hand was bunched in the side pocket of his coat.

Shayne said, “Take it easy, boys. All I want is a word with Barbizon.”

“Sure, we’ll take it easy,” Smith assured him. “Just step out of the way of these folks comin’ up and we’ll talk it over.”

Shayne stepped aside and let the couple pass through the door. He said, “Call Barbizon out here. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I thought you liked trouble.” Smith rubbed his big hands together happily. He stood one step above Shayne. His companion moved down to Shayne’s left and level with him.

Shayne said, “I made a mistake last night. Tell Barbizon that, and—”

“You bet you made a mistake.” Smith stepped forward and down without warning. His bulk pressed Shayne backward and off balance. As he fell, the thin man with the glittering eyes pulled a blackjack from his pocket and sapped him neatly on the side of his head.

Shayne fell to the bottom of the short flight of stairs and lay very still. Anyone witnessing the incident from more than 20 feet away would have sworn a drunk had lost his balance, for the light was dimly red above the entrance door.

The elderly doorman had been watching from the driveway, keeping an eye out for customers who might arrive. He said, “Get him out of here. There’s a car coming.”

Smith and Dick got hold of Shayne’s long body. They carried him half a block away and dumped him into a narrow pit at the foot of the stone wall.

“D’yuh think I conked him too hard?” Dick asked uneasily as they stepped back to look at Shayne’s crumpled form.

“Naw—he got what was comin’ to him,” Smith said. “Slammin’ a steel door in my face when we went in to see the boss. Leave him lay right there.”

“It might make a lot of trouble,” Dick said nervously.

“Forget it,” growled Smith. “C’mon. Le’s get back.” They turned and trudged back to the club entrance.

Shayne lay with his head against the wall for a long time. When he regained consciousness he stirred dazedly and realized he was lying face down in a pool of sticky blood. Strangely, the wound on his cheek didn’t hurt. That side of his face was numb.

He vaguely remembered the beginning of the fight with the two men, but nothing was clear after that except the names of the men. Smith—and the man Smith called Dick.

Leaning his head against the stone wall, Shayne sat for several minutes fighting off the pain and trying to clarify every incident which had occurred before he was blacked out. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his cheek. By the light of an approaching car he held it out and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

He dragged himself up from the wall and went to Wilson’s taxi, swaying unsteadily. His mind cleared after he had sat under the steering wheel for a while.

The ache in his head was more than he could endure, but he knew he had to see Barbizon—tonight. Barbizon knew the answer to a question, and he had to have that answer.

He drove slowly, realizing that he had to make himself more presentable before he talked to Barbizon.

There was a public bathing beach at 79th Street and he forced himself to remember that there was also a cluster of small business places there; a filling station and a roadside cafe.

He turned into the filling station and got out, managing a tight-lipped grin for the attendant who hurried out and stopped with a shrill whistle when he saw the redhead’s blood-smeared face.

“Had a little accident,” Shayne said vaguely. “I’d like to wash up and borrow some adhesive tape if you’ve got any.”

“You bet. Washroom’s right inside. And I’ve got a first-aid kit here.”

“That’ll be fine,” Shayne said on his way to the washroom. Inside he ran cold water in the basin and splashed it over his face and head to soften the crusted blood.

The boy carefully covered the gash with a Band-Aid containing a sulfa drug, leaving it loose for air to filter through.

Shayne asked, “Do they have bathing suits at the casino near here?”

“Sure. They’ll rent you a bathing suit, but you aren’t going swimming now, are you?”

“Nothing like a good swim to calm the nerves,” Shayne told him. He pressed a dollar bill into the attendant’s hand and went out to his car. He drove half a block from the filling station and parked the taxi in front of the casino.

In the bathhouse he persuaded the owner to allow him to strip in a cubicle and put on a pair of bathing trunks under his clothes and wear them away, in exchange for a five dollar bill.

Shayne went back to his cab and drove slowly northward until he reached the corner of the stone wall guarding the Play-Mor Club. Turning off the pavement he plowed through the sand parallel to the south wall leading to the shore and parked at the edge of a low cliff overhanging the ocean.

He found a flashlight in the glove compartment of the cab, got out and went around to the rear of the car and opened the luggage space. He discovered a steel spring that was evidently used for a tire tool, stripped down to his bathing trunks and stuck the tool under his belt.

A footpath angled down the cliff to the sandy shore below. Shayne followed the high stone wall to a point where it turned northward for a couple of hundred feet until he reached the club’s private bathing beach.

He waded out until he was waist deep, then began swimming. The cool salt water refreshed him and the waves slapping in his face sent the hot blood coursing through him. He swam strongly in a wide arc that carried him a quarter mile out to sea directly opposite the floodlighted strip of the club’s beach.

He turned then and swam shoreward. Silhouetted against the bright lights he could see the bobbing heads of swimmers who had not ventured so far out.

Shayne avoided the larger groups as he neared the beach, selecting a comparatively vacant space to land and go striding up toward the cabanas.

Some of them were lighted, and in front of some, family groups were enjoying picnic suppers. He picked out a row of half a dozen together that were unlighted and unhesitatingly went toward the center of the group.

He stopped in front of the door as though fumbling for a key, glanced right and left to be sure he was unobserved, then pulled the piece of steel spring from under his belt, rammed the narrow blade of it between the door and the facing, and put pressure on it until the flimsy lock yielded.

Inside, he closed the door and turned on a light to disclose a neat little room about twelve by fourteen feet in size, furnished with a couch and a couple of comfortable chairs. He opened a door across the room, disclosing a shower and toilet; an open archway led into a tiny kitchenette complete with gas plate and cooking utensils.

Shayne surveyed the brightly lighted interior of the one large room. An electric button on the inside door jamb caught his eye. The brass plate said Porter. He pressed the button and opened the jimmied door to let light shine through.

A few minutes later a hunched figure hurried down the boardwalk in front of the cabanas. He was an old man with a thatch of gray hair and a slight bump on his back. He wheezed gently as he stopped in front of Shayne.

Shayne blocked the doorway, the bandaged side of his face turned away from the man. “This is a hell of a note,” he began angrily. “Someone has broken the lock on this door while I was swimming, and stolen my clothes. Get Barbizon down here at once.” He pointed to the mark his steel spring had made on the door facing.

“Look here,” grunted the old man, “this here is Mr. Jamieson’s cabin and—”

“Of course it is,” said Shayne impatiently. “I’m Jamieson’s cousin and he loaned it to me. Get the manager down here in a hurry. And I want Arnold Barbizon in person,” he added harshly. “None of his hired help.”

The old man said, “Yessir. I’ll tell Mr. Barbizon right away. He’ll fix it right with you.” He turned and went away.

Shayne found a small paring knife and quickly unscrewed the brass Porter plate from the wall. The electric wires were exposed when he pulled it away. He cut one of them with the knife. He replaced the plate, then strolled over to a wall cabinet and investigated its contents. His face still hurt like hell, but the ache in his head had stopped though the lump on it was tender to the touch.

There was a bottle of Irish whisky, some gin and rye in the cabinet. Shayne had the cork out of the whisky bottle and was trickling some of it down his parched throat when footsteps sounded on the boardwalk and there was a sharp knock on the door.

It was jerked open instantly and Barbizon stepped inside, demanding impatiently, “What’s this I hear about—?”

Taking the bottle from his lips, Shayne asked, “What is it you’ve been hearing?”

“So it’s you,” Barbizon said curtly after his amazement vanished. “Smithy said—”

“Smithy didn’t lie to you,” said Shayne coldly. “He did a job on me but it wasn’t quite good enough. And I’ll crown you,” he warned swiftly, “with this bottle if you try to duck out that door or call anyone.”

The club manager moved aside and leaned his shoulder blades against the door jamb and asked, “What do you want?” He wriggled against the brass plate.

“I want to know who you were holding Mrs. Hudson’s IOU for.”

“Why does that matter now?” Barbizon hedged. “You’ve got it.”

“I want to know who was going to get the pay-off.”

Barbizon moved his shoulders back and forth as though he itched. “What do you mean by that? When someone loses money at my tables I generally do the collecting.”

Shayne walked over to him, the whisky bottle dangling from his left hand, and slapped Barbizon’s swarthy face. He kept his palm open but the force of his blow slammed the manager half off balance and made an angry red mark on his olive cheek. As he staggered erect, showing sharp white teeth in a snarl, Shayne told him flatly, “You’re going to talk. The longer it takes to get the truth out of you the better I’m going to like it.” He tilted the bottle and took another drink.

Barbizon’s eyes were blazing but he kept his voice steady. “You’ll pay for that. Nobody hits me—”

Shayne laughed and drove his right fist into Barbizon’s mouth. It smashed his full lips, which had the appearance of being rouged, back against his teeth, and blood trickled down his chin.

Barbizon staggered back, reached for a handkerchief, and held it against his mouth.

Shayne tilted the bottle again. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and happy. His gashed cheek didn’t hurt so much any more and he enjoyed the sight of blood seeping through Barbizon’s handkerchief.

The manager was crowded back in a corner and his eyes were like those of a crazed animal. He crouched suddenly and dropped his right hand into his coat pocket. It flashed out with a clasp knife, the long blade leaped open from the pressure of a spring, and he twisted sideways to drive the blade at Shayne’s belly.

Shayne twisted at the same instant and smashed the whisky bottle down on Barbizon’s forearm. The knife clattered to the floor and a shrill scream of pain was partially smothered by the handkerchief pressed against his mouth. His right hand dangled limply from a broken wrist.

“That’s just the beginning,” Shayne told him in the same flat, impersonal tone he’d used before.

“I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. God help me, Shayne, don’t you see I’d tell you?”

Shayne took a step forward, swinging the bottle.

“I tell you I don’t know,” he moaned. “I get a phone call. I don’t know who from. It says I’ll get a ten grand marker from this dame and to hang onto it for a twenty-eighty split when she buys it back. I don’t see why not. So I hang onto it. Till last night. That’s all I know. I swear it is. God in heaven, I got to have a doctor for this wrist.”

“You didn’t bother to get a doctor for me when your men dumped me a while ago,” snarled Shayne. He stood over the cowering man for a moment, considering his reply. It could be, he reluctantly conceded. Whoever was blackmailing Christine wouldn’t necessarily tip his hand to a go-between. It had to be someone who knew Barbizon. Someone who trusted him to make the twenty-eighty split when she paid off. But until the pay-off, it wouldn’t do him any good to come out in the open.

Shayne said, “I ought to kick your teeth in. Tell Smithy I’ll save that for him next time we meet.” He took another drink of whisky, put the bottle back in the cabinet and strode to the door and out onto the beach.

Shayne trotted down the beach and into the water. He swam easily and strongly toward the corner of the club grounds where Ira Wilson’s taxi awaited him.

Chapter Eighteen: BLACKMAIL CLUE

SHAYNE DIDN’T WASTE TIME putting his clothes on. He was dripping wet and he didn’t know how long it would be before Barbizon could get his men out to look for him. He backed around and headed out to the pavement, drove back toward the business section of Miami Beach as fast as he dared.

He was pretty well dried out by the time he parked in front of the side entrance to the Blackstone.

He gathered up his clothing and got out, crossed the sidewalk and went in the side entrance and climbed the rear stairs to the floor above. He padded down the hall to the door of Timothy Rourke’s apartment and knocked.

Rourke opened the door and looked at him with twitching lips. He was stooped and pitiably thin, and his face was that of a sick man. His eyes looked dead and his voice sounded dead. “Oh. It’s you?”

Shayne asked, “Can I come in, Tim?”

“I suppose so. Been swimming?”

“Yeh.”

Rourke closed the door and asked politely but without any real interest or concern, “How’d you hurt your face?”

“I cut myself shaving.” He turned slowly and looked evenly into Rourke’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Tim.”

“It’s done now.”

“No it isn’t. We’ve been friends for ten years.”

“That’s why it’s over now,” said Timothy Rourke remotely.

Shayne said, “A man says things sometimes—when he knows he shouldn’t.”

“To hell with it.”

Shayne moved closer to him. “Things were the other way around once,” he reminded the reporter. “About four years ago. A girl got herself strangled in my bedroom.”

Rourke was silent. He didn’t look up.

“You and Gentry walked in on me,” Shayne went on. “Two of the best friends I ever had. Gentry walked out after telling me to get down on my belly and shake hands with the next skunk I met. You read me a sermon and started to walk out on me.”

Rourke looked up at him. “What the hell was I supposed to believe? You put yourself on the spot that time—pretending you were drunk with a girl in your bed the minute Phyllis turned her back.”

“You hated me for it because we were friends. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given a damn.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” said Shayne wearily. “That’s why I jumped you about those photostats today. That other time, I didn’t let you walk out when a word was all that was needed to clear it up.”

“So?” Rourke’s dark eyes no longer looked as though they belonged to a dead man.

“I know you’re not a blackmailer, Tim. I knew it all along.”

Rourke stood up and thrust out a bony hand and admitted, “I tried to call you about an hour ago.”

Shayne took his hand. “It’d help a lot if I knew who stole your photostats.”

“They weren’t stolen. After you left I went through every drawer in the damned place. They were in the linen closet under some towels.”

“Then how in hell—” He paused, clawing at his damp hair. “I’m sticky with salt water. Mind if I use your shower?”

“Go ahead.” Rourke grinned sheepishly. “I’ll go out and get us a bottle. I’ve been on the wagon ever since you left here a few hours ago.”

Shayne started to say something, hesitated, his eyes going over Timothy Rourke’s body, then said, “Better go easy for a while, Tim. You need to get some meat on your bones. You can’t do it drinking your meals.” He grinned and turned toward the bathroom.

Inspecting himself in the mirror, he decided there had been times when he looked worse, but he couldn’t remember when. He loosened the ends of the adhesive tape, jerked off the bandage with one swift movement.

He grimaced at his reflection, stripped off the bathing trunks and stepped under the shower.

Rourke reclined on the couch when Shayne came from the bathroom fully dressed. He sat down beside the reporter and said, “Now we know there were two sets of photostats. But Hampstead swears only one set was made—for you. How about that?” he went on sharply. “Hampstead also says you got a set as payment for your help in locating the letters—that you demanded them from Browne as your price for putting him wise.”

“Hampstead lies,” Rourke told him calmly. “I didn’t put Browne wise. I’d never heard of the deal until he invited me to go along. Of course I wanted copies if I could get them.”

Shayne tugged thoughtfully at his ear lobe. “There’s something screwy about this. Hampstead isn’t the sort of guy to abet blackmail. Yet he swears they made only one set of stats. Let’s see the ones you’ve got,” he added sharply.

Rourke got up and went into the bedroom. He returned in a moment with four photostatic sheets and handed them to Shayne.

The detective glanced at them and stiffened. “These are negatives,” he pointed out. “White on black.”

“That’s right,” Rourke said easily. “I remember now. Browne asked me if I minded having negatives rather than positives and I told him it didn’t matter to me either way.”

“The photostats used by the blackmailer were positive prints,” Shayne explained. “I should have thought about that as soon as I saw them. There had to be a set of negatives before the positives could be made. Some shops keep the negatives in their possession when you order a set of positives, and others give both sets to the customer.”

“Do you think Browne got the other set? That he’s the blackmailer, Mike?”

“Could be. He probably does a lot of business with the photostat firm and could have gone back later for the second set without Hampstead’s knowledge.”

“Or someone in the shop could have got hep and knocked out another set for his own use,” Rourke pointed out.

Shayne drummed blunt fingertips on the table, then lifted the receiver and called his hotel. The operator told him she had not yet received the long distance call for Angus Browne. Shayne had her connect him with the clerk.

“Mike Shayne,” he said to the clerk. “Do you remember the woman who was waiting for me when I came in this afternoon?”

“I’ll say I do. She sailed out through the lobby half an hour ago looking mad enough to bust a gut.”

“What about the taxi driver you sent up? Have you seen him?”

“He followed her out five minutes later. Acted drunk and he was all scratched up. He claims somebody stole his cab that was parked outside.”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the room, telling Rourke, “Things are beginning to shape up. Keep a tight hold on your set of photostats. I think they’ll be the basis of a hotter story than you think before many more hours.”

“What’s it all about, Mike?”

Shayne shook his red head indecisively, still striding up and down. “I won’t know all the answers until I get a call from New York.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I haven’t got too much time. I’ve got to catch that midnight plane for New Orleans or I won’t have any secretary.” He dropped into a chair and rubbed his chin. “Do you remember the man who was with Natalie Briggs at the roulette table last night before she made up to you?”

Rourke frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t pay much attention. Short and dark and ugly, wasn’t he? Seems to me I picked him for one I wouldn’t want my kid sister to run around with—if I had a kid sister.”

“He’s the one. Did you notice him around after she left?”

“I don’t think so. Seems to me I saw him whispering with that big bouncer—the one you went out with after you made your beef—and then I didn’t notice him any more.”

“He and Browne both seem to have disappeared about the same time. Someone was at the Play-Mor last night waiting for Christine Hudson to show up with ten thousand dollars. After my interview with Barbizon it wasn’t necessary for that person to wait any longer.”

Shayne was frowning and tugging at his ear lobe again. “Let’s take a ride over to Miami. I’m damned interested in what time Victor Morrison went out fishing last night.”

Rourke said, “Okay, I’ll get my crate.”

“No need for that. I’ve got a cab waiting by the side entrance.”

“You’ll go broke paying taxi fares,” Rourke protested as they went outside and down the back stairway.

“I came to that conclusion this afternoon, so I made other arrangements.” He waved toward the parked cab as they emerged through the doorway. “I’m driving my own now, so you’ll get cheap rates.”

Rourke said, “I’ll be damned. How’d you make the raise?”

“I paid a good price for the use of it,” Shayne assured him.

They reached the mainland and Shayne was turning north on Biscayne Boulevard when a police siren sighed softly behind them and a prowl car nosed up and edged them over to the curb.

A policeman jumped out and said harshly, “Okay, boys. This is the end of the buggy ride.” He opened the back door and jumped in, directing Shayne to follow the prowl car. “We’re going to Headquarters.”

Chapter Nineteen: SHAYNE BARGAINS

TIMOTHY ROURKE GRINNED and settled back as Shayne wheeled the taxi to follow the police car back down the boulevard. “Just like old times. Have you got a couple of bodies concealed in the trunk of this thing?”

“Could be,” said Shayne. “Though I’m inclined to think it’s nothing more serious than a stolen car charge.”

“Just that?” Rourke snapped his fingers airily and turned to the officer in the back seat. “Is that what all this fuss is about? Just because my friend stole a hack?”

“Just keep on driving,” grunted the officer. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

They passed Flagler Street and turned on S. E. 1st, heading westward. Rourke straightened back in his seat and sighed. “Only thing I wish is that this had happened on the Beach where Peter Painter could get his claws on you. I haven’t seen you tangle with him for years.”

“You’re likely to see it tonight,” Shayne said sourly. He and Rourke got out and the officer joined them, saying briskly, “Right inside to the chief’s office.”

They went down a long corridor to Chief Will Gentry’s private office. Shayne pushed the door open and walked in without knocking. The cop pressed in behind him to report, “I picked these two up on the boulevard driving that stolen cab, Chief. The redhead was behind the wheel and this other one—”

“All right,” Gentry interrupted him. “Wait outside.”

“You could have borrowed a car from the Department,” Gentry told Shayne, “if you couldn’t afford taxi fares.”

Shayne grinned and eased one hip down on a corner of Gentry’s desk. “Did Wilson put up a squawk?”

“He’s been yelling his head off. Claims you fed him a mickey and stole his cab.”

Shayne’s grin widened. “Is he around?”

Gentry nodded He took the cigar from his mouth and rumbled, “You! Porter,” at the partially closed door.

It opened wider and the arresting officer stuck his head in.

“Bring in that cab driver. He’s waiting in front.” When the officer withdrew, Gentry asked Shayne fretfully, “Why didn’t you use your head when Wilson came to see you? I’ll have to give you to Painter now.”

Shayne nodded to Rourke. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it?” Turning back to Gentry, he said, “I gave Wilson my best liquor and tucked him in bed with a platinum blonde when I went out. What the hell else could I do to make him feel at home?”

The door opened and Ira Wilson came in. He was bareheaded and his clothing was badly rumpled. There were two long streaks of dried blood down his right cheek and his left eye was beginning to turn a liverish yellow. He stopped and glared at Shayne and said, “That’s him. He fed me knockout drops and stole my keys and my hack and cap.”

“Just a mild mixture of Cointreau and cognac,” Shayne assured him easily. “How’d you and the dame get along?”

“That hellcat!” raged Wilson. “I didn’t make no passes at her. Gawd! She acted like I was to blame for it all when I didn’t even know she was there till I woke up. Did she get at you, too?” he ended, staring at Shayne’s swollen and cut face.

“What’s this about a woman?” asked Gentry wearily. “Am I going to have to charge you with procuring, too?”

Shayne said, “You’d have as much chance of making it stick as car theft. I paid you plenty for the use of your cab,” he reminded Wilson sharply. “Were you too drunk to remember our agreement? I slipped you a hundred and twenty-five before you passed out. You didn’t raise any howl then about my using your cab.”

“You didn’t either,” blustered Wilson. “You gimme that money to—” He paused and glanced at Gentry, wetting his thick lips.

“He’s already spilled the whole story to us, Mike. He claims you tried to bribe him to keep quiet about last night. And after he passed out you slid the money in his pocket to incriminate him.”

Shayne said bleakly, “So that puts me on the spot.”

“Plenty,” Gentry agreed with a sigh. “He saw you go around the back of the Hudson house with the girl, and gives you ten minutes back there with her just about the time she was getting herself killed. Then you came running out looking scared and told him to drive like hell to Miami.”

Shayne looked at Wilson with deep disgust. “You really fixed things up.”

“Did you expect me to cover for you after puttin’ me in bed with that crazy dame and stealin’ my cab? What in hell’ll I tell my wife about these here scratches she gimme?”

“I’ll be worrying about you and your wife,” Shayne told him sardonically, “while I’m rotting in jail on a murder charge.” He turned back to Gentry. “Do you want my side of it?”

“What’s the use? It isn’t my case, Mike.”

“So, you’re throwing me to Painter?”

Gentry spread out his pudgy hands and said nothing.

Shayne got up slowly. He turned on Wilson and said, “I’ll take that dough.”

Wilson took a backward step. “You been usin’ my hack all this time. I’ll drop the complaint and we’ll call it square, huh?”

“We’ll square it this way,” Shayne said softly. He moved in on the driver and drove a short jolting uppercut to the point of his jaw before Wilson got his hands up to defend himself.

Shayne turned about and resumed his position on the corner of Gentry’s desk. “Give me a little more time, Will. I don’t need much. Just long enough to get a call through from New York. Then I’ll have a bill of goods to sell Painter.”

Gentry said, “You’ve had almost twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah. I’ve been fooling around all day,” Shayne conceded. “But I’m still waiting for that phone call.”

Gentry shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t do it, Mike. Your pickup is already on the record. You’ll have to do your talking to Painter.” He reached for the telephone.

“Don’t do it.” Shayne’s face was deeply trenched and sweat dripped from his chin. “There have been two murders already. Painter doesn’t know a single damned thing about either one of them. If I’m locked up now they’ll never be solved.”

“He’ll figure they’re solved when you are locked up.”

“And he’ll come pretty close to making it stick. You’ve known me a long time, Will. I’ve never given you a bum steer.”

Gentry took the soggy cigar butt from his mouth and looked at it angrily. He threw it in the wastebasket and said, “I’ve got to turn you over to Painter.”

“All right. But do it this way. Give me half a chance.”

“What way?”

“Call him and tell him you’ll deliver me in person—to the residence of Leslie Hudson on the Beach.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed and his voice was hoarse with sincerity. “Have him round up Mr. and Mrs. Hudson and the brother, Floyd, and have them there.”

“Painter will never agree to that.”

“He’ll do it if you tell him you’ve got information that will solve both murders.”

“If you’ve got the information, give it to me.”

“I haven’t. I’m stalling,” Shayne admitted. “I won’t have it until I get that call from New York. It’s got to come through shortly.”

Gentry folded his hands across his stomach and was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, “All right. But if you don’t get the hell out of town in a hurry you’ll make an old man out of me.”

“I’m getting out on the midnight plane,” Shayne told him. “There are a couple of other things—”

Ira Wilson stirred on the floor and sat up, holding his jaw in both hands and waggling it from side to side.

Gentry looked at him and called, “Porter!”

The patrolman came in and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Help this man out” Gentry pointed a fresh stogie at Wilson. “He stumbled and hurt himself. I believe he’s withdrawing his car theft complaint, but have him sign an affidavit about last night before you let him go.”

Porter said, “Yes, sir.” He stooped and helped Wilson to his feet and led him out.

“What are the other things?” Gentry asked Shayne.

“They’re easy. Call Victor Morrison and tell him you’re cleaning up a murder case and want him to bring his wife over to the Hudsons’. I’ve got the telephone number right here.” He fished a slip of paper out of his pocket and laid it before the chief.

“Who’s Morrison?”

“A New York millionaire with a yen for private secretaries. His wife is a platinum blonde with a yen for taxi drivers.”

Gentry grunted and picked up the slip of paper.

“And to make a quorum, we’ll need a local lawyer by the name of B. J. Hampstead. His name must be in the book.”

Gentry frowned and said, “Hampstead is one of the most important attorneys in the city. How does he come into the picture?”

“He’s representing Mrs. Morrison in a divorce action. When you get him on the phone tell him it has to do with that—and with the murder of Angus Browne.”

Gentry asked, “Is that all you want? No governors? Not even the mayor?”

Shayne grinned and lifted the telephone receiver. He said, “Just a minute, Will, before you start issuing invitations,” and got his hotel on the wire.

Again the switchboard operator told him no call had come through for Angus Browne.

He said, “I’ll be on the move for the next half hour. After that I can be reached at this number.” He consulted a notebook in his pocket and gave her the Hudsons’ telephone number. “Switch the call to me there, and for God’s sake don’t slip up on it.”

He cradled the receiver and said, “It’s up to you now, Will.”

Chapter Twenty: GAMBLING AGAINST TIME

PETER PAINTER and Leslie Hudson were seated in the spacious living-room of the Hudson residence when Shayne and Gentry and Rourke arrived from Miami.

Painter jumped up to confront Gentry and demanded, “Where’s that taxi driver? I want a statement from him.”

“We have his affidavit,” rumbled Gentry.

“Which clears me completely,” Shayne lied smoothly and swiftly. “Where are the rest of the folks?” He looked at Hudson who had gotten up and stood staring at Shayne’s bruised and cut face with disapproval.

“My wife is upstairs,” he said stiffly. “She and Floyd will be down in a few minutes.”

Shayne said, “I don’t believe you’ve met Chief Gentry of the Miami police force—or Mr. Rourke.” While he was making the introduction, the doorbell rang.

Mrs. Morgan went to the door. She showed Victor Morrison and his wife into the room.

The millionaire wore a light sport coat and a pair of dark trousers. Estelle had changed to a youthful gown of yellow that matched her eyes, and her hair fell in curls around her neck and shoulders. Her lips were heavily rouged, but her cheeks were pale, and she looked almost girlish. She had quite evidently slept off her drunken stupor.

Shayne grinned at her and received an angry glare in return. He drew Will Gentry toward them, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, Chief Gentry.”

When the introductions were over Shayne made a point of escorting Estelle to a chair. She caught his arm and her fingers dug in hard. She said, low and angrily, “You heel! You ran out on me. What was the idea of leaving that goddamned punk—”

Shayne said, “Sh-h. They’ll hear you,” and seated her with a flourish and a broad grin.

Christine Hudson was descending the stairs walking slowly like a somnambulist, one hand sliding along the banister. She wore a simple white gown that trailed on the steps behind her. Her dark hair was severely upswept, her lips delicately rouged.

Leslie Hudson arose and took her hand when she reached the bottom step. He introduced her to Gentry and Rourke, and said, “I believe you know the others, dear.”

“Yes.” She looked around and bowed graciously, saying, “We have quite a gathering,” and her husband led her to a seat beside him on a love seat. Floyd Hudson weaved down the stairs as the doorbell rang again and Mrs. Morgan, who sat quietly in a corner on a straight chair got up and answered the ring.

Mr. Hampstead was at the door. He said, “I’m Hampstead. I understand that I—”

“Come in,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I think—”

Shayne was on his feet. He introduced Hampstead and Floyd to Gentry and Rourke, looked around and said, “Now, I believe everybody knows everybody else.” He caught Christine’s eye and she shook her head slightly. He then introduced Hampstead to the Hudsons, pulled a chair more intimately into the circle and said, “Have a seat, Hampstead.”

The group was silent, each looking around furtively and with an air of strained expectancy.

Chief Gentry broke the silence. He rumbled, “I have no official status here, since both murder investigations appear to be on the Beach and out of my jurisdiction. I believe Mr. Shayne has some knowledge of the murderer—or murderers—since there have been two deaths within a few hours, and he has some questions for some of you. I’ve known Shayne for a great many years, and I urge you to co-operate.” He folded his hands across his stomach and glanced at Shayne.

Shayne lounged to his feet and stalked over to stand before the wide fireplace, resting one elbow on the mantel. His gray eyes were bleak as they roved over the faces before him, but he expressed none of the futility he felt. Everything depended upon the telephone call from New York.

“I know this seems excessively melodramatic,” he began, “but I’ll start out according to the approved fashion by saying that one of you in this room is a murderer. If all of you who are innocent will tell the absolute truth, we’ll wind this up in a hurry. I admit that I don’t know who the murderer is, but I am sure we can find out, once we know exactly what is at the bottom of these two crimes.”

A deep sigh escaped Mrs. Morgan’s lips, but when Shayne shot a quick glance in her direction she was sitting stiffly upright, her hands folded in her lap, and her face was placid.

“Natalie Briggs was murdered by a blackmailer, because she knew too much and had decided to take a hand in the game herself.” He looked at Timothy Rourke briefly, and went on, “A blackmailer who had photostatic copies of a series of letters purportedly written to Mrs. Hudson by her ex-employer, Victor Morrison.”

A gasp of horror escaped Christine’s lips. He looked into her stricken eyes, tried to reassure her with the expression in his own, then went on, “It can’t stay hidden any longer. We’ve got to drag things out in the open and take a good look at them.”

“This brings us to you, Mr. Hampstead,” Shayne said easily. “When did you first hear about the letters?”

Mr. Hampstead’s benign expression did not change. He answered at once. “They were brought to my attention about two weeks ago when I was retained by Mrs. Morrison to institute divorce proceedings against her husband as soon as her legal residence in Florida was established. A private detective named Angus Browne came to my office and explained that he had been employed by Mrs. Morrison to secure evidence against her husband.”

“Browne?” said Morrison angrily. “But he was in my employ.”

“A slight case of double cross,” Shayne told him. “After earning a fat fee for framing evidence against your wife for you, he realized she was a prospective client and he went to her with a story of your plans to divorce her. He didn’t, of course, tell her he was also employed by her husband, and when she realized the tight spot she was in she decided to fight back by laying a basis for a countersuit.” He paused, then said, “Go ahead, Mr. Hampstead.”

“I knew nothing of Browne’s employment by Mr. Morrison,” the lawyer said stiffly. “He told me that with the assistance of a local newspaper reporter he had discovered the existence of certain letters written by Mr. Morrison to Mrs. Leslie Hudson before her marriage. He suggested that the three of us endeavor to obtain the letters for use as evidence, and explained that for the reporter’s help he had promised him a set of photostats which were not to be used under any circumstances until after the letters were offered as evidence in court.”

Shayne said, “How about it, Rourke? Is that the way it was?”

“I’ve told you,” said Rourke, “I knew nothing about the matter until Browne asked me to come along as a disinterested witness and promised me an exclusive story.”

Shayne nodded. “So Angus Browne lied about that,” he pointed out “Why? Would you have agreed to having photostats made if you’d known it wasn’t absolutely necessary, Hampstead?”

Mrs. Morgan was on her feet, crying, “I knew he was the one blackmailing Christine,” wringing her hands and tears flowing from her eyes. “And I knew Natalie Briggs planted the letters on Christine. I knew it—I knew it.” She began to sob hysterically and Leslie Hudson sprang up and rushed to her. She put her face against his shoulder and sobbed, “Oh my poor baby.”

Shayne looked at Christine. She had slumped sideways when her husband suddenly removed his shoulder which supported her head. She slowly raised her body, got up and went over to him, putting one arm around Mrs. Morgan and the other around her husband’s neck. She whispered something in his ear, and they took the weeping and hysterical housekeeper into the library.

Peter Painter strutted to his feet and demanded, “They can’t do that. That woman is a murderer. I see it all now.”

Shayne said quietly, “They’re not going anywhere. The housekeeper can’t escape. There’s no door from the library except the one there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the door through which the three had gone.

Turning again to Hampstead, Shayne said, “Well, Hampstead, would you have agreed to having the photostats made?”

“I would not,” said the lawyer calmly. “I hesitated for some time, but Browne assured me we’d never be able to get hold of the letters without Rourke’s help.”

“So the three of you came to the Hudson’s home one afternoon when only the servants were at home, bluffed your way in and found the incriminating letters hidden in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity.”

Hampstead gave Rourke a sharp look and said, “Mr. Rourke put his hands on the letters without difficulty.”

Shayne said, “And all of you initialed them and forced Mrs. Morgan to initial them also.”

“As a precautionary measure to insure definite identification when they were offered as evidence,” said Hampstead.

“And then—” probed Shayne.

“We drove together to a photostat company in Miami and had copies made for Mr. Rourke.”

“How many sets of copies?”

“Only one.”

Shayne said, “One set of negatives and one set of positives.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Hampstead. “I handed Mr. Rourke his photostats myself and took the original letters with me. I’m positive there was only the one set.”

Shayne waved that aside for the moment. He glanced around the room to see Floyd Hudson’s head lolling against the back of his chair, his protruding eyes alert. Estelle Morrison was sitting on the edge of her chair, her yellow eyes inscrutable between half-closed black lashes. Victor Morrison sat stiffly erect, his hands gripping the arms of the chair in which he sat. Painter appeared to strut, sitting down, his torso bent forward as though he expected to hear something which would require him to be on his feet at any moment. Gentry had his hands folded placidly across his stomach, his eyes partly closed, and a hint of a smile on his full lips. Rourke was slumped comfortably in his deep chair, his head lolling, but his dark eyes were wide open and held something of the bloodhound expression Shayne had seen so often.

Leslie and Christine Hudson came in from the library and resumed their scats on the love seat. Shayne quirked a bushy red brow at Christine, and she said, “Mrs. Morgan is resting. We persuaded her to take a sedative.”

“She’s terribly upset,” Leslie said. “I didn’t realize the strain—”

“I understand,” said Shayne. He addressed Hampstead, asking, “Did you do anything to establish the authenticity of the letters?”

“I did,” said the lawyer. “Mrs. Morrison furnished me with samples of her husband’s handwriting and I had them compared by two experts. There is no doubt that Mr. Morrison wrote the letters.”

Shayne turned to Morrison. “Do you admit writing them?” he demanded.

“I do not,” the financier stated firmly.

He asked Christine, “Did you receive such letters from Mr. Morrison and hide them in your bedroom?”

She said, “I did not,” her hand again clasped tightly in her husband’s, her dark eyes shining.

Peter Painter sprang from his chair and barked irritably, “Where is all this getting us. What have the marital affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Morrison to do with a murder investigation?”

“They provide a motive for murder,” Shayne said grimly. “Two murders. Someone was trying to blackmail Mrs. Hudson with an extra set of photostats of the letters. Mrs. Morgan had told Mrs. Hudson about the letters and about the three men finding them.

“Mrs. Hudson has been terrified for two weeks. They sounded as though they had been written by her former employer, Victor Morrison. They apparently revealed a secret love affair before she married Leslie Hudson, and she was afraid he wouldn’t believe the truth. Rather than risk it, she prepared herself to pay blackmail.”

Leslie Hudson’s voice was loud in the silence following Shayne’s statement. He asked hoarsely, “Is that true, Christine?”

She nodded.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “why didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me, darling.” His arm sought her slim waistline and he hugged her to him.

Shayne said hastily, “It was a hard decision for her to make, Mr. Hudson. When you see the letters you’ll understand why. They are undated and are not addressed to her by name, but it’s almost impossible to believe they weren’t written to her.”

“Of course they were written to her.” All eyes were turned on Estelle Morrison. She had risen to her feet and stood bent slightly forward, her tawny eyes glittering, and again looking like a panther ready to spring. “Who else? She was my husband’s secretary. I knew what was going on all the time and I knew we’d find evidence if we looked hard enough. I think it was very clever of Mr. Browne to find it.”

Shayne asked, “Did you tell him to look for letters?”

“Yes. Knowing Victor as I do, I had an idea he’d do something foolish like that.” She smiled coldly and resumed her seat.

Shayne said, “Let’s get on with it. The blackmail pay-off was set for last night at the Play-Mor Club. The blackmailer was waiting there for Christine Hudson to appear with ten thousand dollars. Angus Browne was there, and so was Timothy Rourke. And you were there, Hudson, with Natalie Briggs.” He turned on Floyd Hudson.

“Sure, I took her there. But I didn’t stay very long.”

“Have you checked his story of what he did after leaving the club?” Shayne asked Painter.

“I’ve had a man working on it but we haven’t anything definite yet.”

“The blackmailer left after I horned in and spoiled the pay-off,” Shayne went on. “I brought Natalie home in a taxi and she went to the rear of the house while I came to the front door and asked for Mrs. Hudson. I understand you’ve pretty well established that she was met by her murderer at the back door before she had a chance to enter,” he added to Painter.

“We’ve checked all that,” Painter said, then added irritably, “I thought you were coming here to tell who the murderer is. I can’t see that you’re doing anything but stalling.”

“I told you I had to have some truthful answers to some questions,” Shayne said with an impatient wave of his hand. He turned to Victor Morrison and said, “You chose last night for a private fishing expedition. You’d been across the bay in your boat previously, and you knew the way to the Hudson house. Did you meet Natalie Briggs at the back door and kill her?”

“What utter nonsense!” snorted Morrison. “Why would I kill a servant girl whom I’d never seen?”

“She wasn’t killed by someone she’d never seen,” Shayne agreed. “I think she was killed because she knew too much and was threatening to cash in on what she knew. Specifically, she’s the one who must have planted those letters on Mrs. Hudson. Did you arrange with her to plant them here, Morrison?”

“I know nothing whatever about those letters.”

“Three handwriting experts agree they were written by you. Any court will uphold their testimony. Who else could have planted the letters here through Natalie Briggs?”

“But that’s absurd,” Estelle Morrison spoke up. “What makes you think the letters were planted?”

“I’m trying to find a motive for the maid’s death.”

“That shouldn’t be so difficult,” she stated calmly. “She was here when the letters were found, wasn’t she? Perhaps she was blackmailing my husband’s former secretary. Isn’t murder the accepted method of dealing with blackmailers?”

Shayne turned again to Victor Morrison and said grimly, “I still want to know what time you were on the bay in your motorboat last night.”

“I have nothing to conceal,” Morrison told him angrily. “It was slightly after eleven o’clock when I left the house.”

“You can prove that?”

“Of course I can. Harry and Sylvia Bannerman were in for bridge. We finished a rubber slightly before eleven o’clock, and after they left I went out in the boat.”

“Can you verify that, Mrs. Morrison?”

“I can. And the Bannermans will, also.”

Shayne sighed and lit a cigarette. His mouth was dry and there was a hard knot in his belly. The telephone hadn’t rung yet and he had stalled about as long as he could.

He turned to Painter and said, “I think the whole thing hinges on the second set of photostats that were used to blackmail Mrs. Hudson. We can prove that Browne had two sets made.”

He said to Hampstead, “Think back to that afternoon when the photostats were made. Remember that Browne was an old customer and probably ran a monthly account with the company. Didn’t he order the photostats?”

“Of course. In fact, he went into the rear of the shop to explain how he wanted the work done and to have it rushed.”

Shayne drew in a long breath. “Then it’s plain enough how Browne got the positives without your knowledge—or Rourke’s.”

“Then Browne was the blackmailer,” Painter said importantly.

“And Natalie Briggs knew it,” Shayne agreed. “So he had to kill Natalie to avoid splitting with her.”

Leslie Hudson spoke up, “Then Browne must have committed suicide this afternoon in remorse.”

Shayne shook his head. “I said there was a murderer in the room. Browne was killed because he’d just received further blackmail material from New York and was putting the pressure on someone who fought back.”

Chapter Twenty-One: FATEFUL TELEPHONE CALL

“WHO?” DEMANDED PAINTER furiously. “I can lock you up for withholding information in a murder case.”

Shayne shrugged. “We’ll come to that presently.” He asked Painter, “What time was Angus Browne killed?”

“Around four o’clock. Half an hour leeway in either direction.”

Shayne turned to Christine. “What did you do after I left the house this afternoon?”

She looked startled. “I went upstairs and stayed in my room until Leslie came home. Floyd can tell you. I locked my door on the inside.”

“And you didn’t hear anyone here while you were locked in your room?”

“No,” Christine shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“How about you?” Shayne swung on Floyd Hudson. “You reached home just as I was leaving at four.”

“I poured myself a few drinks,” Floyd told him

“After making yourself so objectionable your sister-in-law locked herself up?”

“See here, Shayne,” said Leslie Hudson angrily. “I don’t like your tone or your insinuations.”

“The hell you don’t,” Shayne snapped. “If you don’t know your brother has been making life miserable for your wife it’s time you were told.” Shayne turned quickly to Mrs. Hudson. “You did go upstairs to get away from him, didn’t you Christine?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cheeks flushing.

“Why?” Shayne swung on Floyd again. “Was it because you expected Angus Browne and didn’t want any witnesses to the meeting? Had you already planned to kill him and throw his body in the bay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t know Browne,” he said sullenly.

“But you were here. Downstairs by yourself between four and four-thirty.”

“Mrs. Morgan was around,” he said uncertainly.

Shayne asked Leslie Hudson, “Where were you during that half hour?”

“Driving home from the office. I was pretty much upset and left for home early.”

“When did you arrive?”

“About a quarter of five,” he answered, glancing at his wife for confirmation.

Christine nodded and said, “He came upstairs about ten minutes of five.”

“What difference do a few minutes make?” Leslie asked impatiently.

“A few minutes is all it takes to commit murder,” Shayne told him, and turned his attention to Victor Morrison.

“Have you an alibi for that period?”

“This is preposterous,” protested the financier. He looked angrily at Painter. “Are you going to let this fellow keep on with this all night?”

Chief Painter said incisively, “I agree with Mr. Morrison. You’re making a grandstand play without getting anywhere at all.”

“I’ll get somewhere,” said Shayne grimly, “if I can find a single positive alibi in this entire bunch. You went for another ride in your boat this afternoon,” he reminded Morrison. “It seems to be a habit of yours to be out alone in your boat while murders are being committed across the bay.”

“I did go out for a spin about four o’clock,” he conceded. “Do you think I met this private detective in the middle of the bay and killed him?”

“You could have come over here and met him on shore, then carried him out a ways and dumped him.”

“In half an hour?” asked Morrison contemptuously. “My son can testify I wasn’t out more than that. He was waiting for me when I returned, and had timed me. It would require at least an hour to reach this side and return. You can take the boat and check it if you wish.”

Shayne said quietly, “That’s what I was doing this afternoon when I discovered Browne’s body. At that time I thought you might have slipped over here to kill the maid last night.”

Shayne was turning to question Hampstead again when the telephone rang. He whirled about and stalked toward the library to answer it

He met Mrs. Morgan in the doorway. Her eyes were wide and frightened and she twisted her hands as though panic-stricken.

Shayne pushed past her and grabbed up the receiver. Painter hurried after him, warning loudly, “No you don’t Shayne. I’ll take that call.”

Shayne was saying, “Browne speaking.”

The operator said, “We have a call for you from New York, Mr. Browne. Go ahead, please.”

A gruff voice said, “Browne? Turnbull speaking.”

“I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“Yes. My girl told me you haven’t received my report on the Morrison affair. I don’t understand—”

“Skip it,” said Shayne impatiently. “I need the salient points fast. Can you give them to me?”

“I haven’t the newspaper clippings, of course. They were mailed to you. However, I have my notations here. Uh—Mrs. Morrison died in a hit-run accident on January 20, 1943. She was forty-two, mother of a twelve-year-old son and wife of Victor Morrison who was a wealthy broker. The accident occurred at night with only one witness and the driver was never apprehended.

“There were a couple of curious angles. At eight o’clock her maid said she received a call from some woman. She heard Mrs. Morrison agree to meet her at nine o’clock sharp, and when she hung up she appeared nervous and worried. She left the house at eight-forty without telling the maid where she was going, and she was struck at an intersection about fifteen blocks away at exactly nine o’clock—having walked there to keep her appointment, apparently.

“The hit-run car was a big black limousine, and according to the testimony of the witness was parked less than a block away just prior to the accident and was traveling at high speed when it struck Mrs. Morrison.”

“Intentional?” Shayne asked.

“I said there were some curious angles. Mr. Morrison owned such a limousine and had driven it to his club earlier that evening. The inquiry was naturally discreet, but there was no one to swear he was at the club at nine o’clock. However, he was there when the police called a little later, and no proof he had been away.”

“Did the police suspect him?”

“I talked to the officer who had charge of the investigation and he recalled it vividly. This is strictly off the record, but he assured me that if they could have turned up a shred of a motive he would have arrested Morrison on a charge of murder. But there was no motive. No money involved, and all the evidence pointed to a happy marriage.

“About nine months after his wife’s death, Morrison quietly married Estelle Davoe in Connecticut. She had once been his private secretary but had resigned in December. A thorough investigation at the time of the marriage failed to turn up the slightest indication that they had had an affair before his wife’s death.

“That’s the complete sketch, Browne. I’m sure you’ll receive—”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “That’s all I need right now. Add this call to your bill.”

He hung up and said to Painter, “Come on. You’re about to solve a couple of murders in spite of yourself.”

Victor Morrison and Chief Gentry were seated side by side. Shayne moved in and stood between the two chairs, slightly in front of the two men.

He said, “This is in your back yard, after all, Will. If Morrison was out in his boat only half an hour this afternoon, Browne must have been killed on your side of the bay. You can hold him on that, though I’ve a hunch New York will put in a prior claim once those letters to his ex-secretary are made public.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: MURDER WILL OUT

“WHAT SORT OF DAMNABLE TRICK is this?” demanded Morrison.

Shayne ignored him. He went on to Gentry, “In fact I’m pretty sure Browne was killed on the mainland before he was dumped into the boat. He wasn’t dumb enough to go calmly for a boat ride with the man he planned to blackmail.”

“But Browne’s body was found on this side of the bay,” Painter objected. “If Mr. Morrison can prove he was out only half an hour he couldn’t possibly have brought the body over here and dumped it.”

“I recovered the body about five-thirty,” Shayne reminded him. “There was a strong easterly wind blowing. Strong enough to float a body from the middle of the bay to the place where it was found.”

He turned to Estelle Morrison and said, “Your big mistake was turning those letters of yours over to Browne to plant on Mrs. Hudson as divorce evidence. You should have known Browne would figure they’d actually been written to you and would look for more blackmail evidence.”

Estelle Morrison was slumped in her chair. Sheer fright contorted her face into ugliness. “I told him they had been written to Christine. I told him she’d returned them to Victor when she married Hudson. I intercepted them—”

“Estelle!” Morrison’s voice rang out harshly. He stood up and glared across the room at her, then sank wearily back into his chair. “I admit I wrote those notes to Christine. I was frantic at the thought of losing her when she told me she was going to marry Hudson. I knew Estelle was cheating on me, but she was too infernally clever in New York to be caught. By establishing residence here and taking advantage of Florida’s divorce laws I felt sure I could divorce her, and that’s why I begged Christine to wait.

“I was a fool,” he added with ponderous dignity, “but I am not a murderer.”

“It won’t work, Morrison,” said Shayne, turning cold gray eyes back to the financier. “There are scientific tests that will prove conclusively that those letters were written three years ago instead of two months. I’m surprised you didn’t get some such report from your handwriting experts,” he went on, addressing Hampstead. “Though such tests aren’t necessarily part of their job, most of the good ones are thoroughly familiar with the tests for determining the approximate age of writing.”

Hampstead’s lips were clamped in a straight line. He hesitated a moment before admitting, “One of them did suggest the possibility that the letters hadn’t been written recently. But I had no reason, otherwise, to suspect I was present when they were discovered here and had no intimation they were a plant.”

Shayne turned again, anxiously, to Leslie and Christine. Leslie had relaxed from his rigid position and held one of her hands in his. He said, “If you had had the originals instead of photostats, Christine, Bernard Holloway would have put his finger on the truth at once. But with only a photostat he had no way of determining how old they were.”

Christine turned her head, lifting her face from her husband’s arm, and nodded wearily.

“I know,” said Shayne with a wry smile, “that some of you haven’t seen the letters in question and don’t know what is in them. They were written to Morrison’s ex-secretary, declaring his love for her and discussing plans for getting rid of his wife so they could marry. But that was three years ago. Right after you went to work for Morrison,” he went on, nodding to Christine. “If you had bothered to mention to me that the present Mrs. Morrison was formerly his private secretary, I might have guessed the truth at once.”

Christine sat up straight on the love seat. “I do remember the peculiar circumstances under which his former wife was killed, but I never heard a hint around the office about his being in love with Estelle when his wife died.”

As Shayne looked on, Leslie wriggled an arm around his wife and drew her close, and her head dropped against his shoulder. He said grimly, “That was their one protection against having a murder charge laid against them both. The New York police may not be able to prove it was you, Estelle, who made the telephone call that summoned the former Mrs. Morrison to her death, but those letters you saved for three years are going to be damned good evidence that you helped plan the job.”

“She did,” Morrison declared gruffly. He had risen from his chair and stood pointing an accusing finger at her. “She was responsible for the whole thing. She drove me to it. Before I met her I was content with my life—my wife and my son. She taunted me about living a drab life and worked me up to a state of—” He stopped and backed away, his hands covering his face, and again dropped into his chair.

Shayne said to Morrison, “About those letters, now—”

Morrison mopped sweat from his forehead and said, “She kept them and held them over me. She should have known she couldn’t use them without implicating herself, but she made my life miserable by reminding me of their existence.”

Shayne said, “And when she found out you were going to divorce her she saw a way to use them and planted them on Mrs. Hudson, not knowing that both you and she had employed the same scoundrel to get evidence on both sides. And you, Morrison, would have sacrificed an innocent girl to save your own hide.”

Estelle Morrison suddenly sat erect and said, “It looked like a cinch,” in a husky voice, her eyes yellow and venomous. “How the hell did I know Browne wouldn’t be satisfied with what I paid him? I thought he believed me when I told him the letters were written to Christine and I wanted to turn the tables on her and put them back in her possession.”

“He probably did until both of you retained him. It was too great a strain on Browne’s ethics. Business had been bad for him lately,” Shayne told her.

“Damn Browne,” Estelle said, and closed her long lashes over her eyes.

Shayne looked at her for a moment, then turned to Hampstead and said, “That’s when Browne pulled the wool over your eyes—with his story about promising Rourke a set of photostats in exchange for a scoop. That was just a dodge to get your permission to have them made and give him a chance to get hold of a second set. Then he began to smell a rat and checked with the New York police on Morrison.”

“Looks like you’re right,” he admitted.

Shayne then asked Morrison, “Did he have the contents of the envelope from the Turnbull Agency in New York with him when you killed him this afternoon?”

Morrison nodded. His face was gray and withered. “A complete report from the police files.” The vigor and strength Shayne had seen in him earlier in the day was gone. He bent his chin on his chest bone and continued in a weak voice, “I always had a feeling they suspected me and needed only some such evidence as my letters to her to make a case against us both.

“When Browne came to me this afternoon with his proof I knew I had to kill him. I couldn’t forget what you had told me earlier—about the utter impossibility of hushing up a thing by paying blackmail. I kept hearing your words while Browne was talking: ‘Even your millions won’t be enough. In the end you’ll be ruined, and the threat of exposure will still hang over your head.’ I kept thinking about my boy, and I knew you were right. I knew there was only one way to deal with a man like Browne.”

Shayne stood staring at Morrison’s bowed head and wished to God he had taken the plane when he was supposed to, but when he glanced at Christine and Leslie Hudson, clasped in each other’s arms, he sighed deeply.

He said gently, “Browne deserved to be killed. It’s a cinch he murdered Natalie Briggs because she wanted money to keep her quiet about planting the letters for him.”

“Yes. He confessed killing her after I struck him once and demanded to know. He had a gun in his pocket. He threatened me with the same he’d given the Briggs girl, and tried to use it. It was self-defense,” he ended hopelessly.

“But your first wife’s murder wasn’t—your son’s mother,” Shayne said grimly.

Shayne said to Gentry, “Have you heard enough?”

“I don’t get all the background,” Gentry rumbled, “but we have a number of witnesses to an oral confession by Morrison. That should be sufficient to hold both of them for a while.”

Peter Painter got up and strutted forward. “Right,” he snapped. “They’re your babies now.” He glanced at Timothy Rourke who had a notebook in his lap with a pencil poised above it. He paused at the back of the reporter’s chair and asked, “Got it all down?”

Rourke said, “You bet,” as Painter went to the door and waited.

Estelle Morrison got up and walked over to Shayne. She said, “If I hadn’t passed out this afternoon—”

“I would have made a fee on this damned case,” Shayne interrupted her harshly.

Gentry arose ponderously from his chair, said, “Come with me,” to Victor and Estelle Morrison.

“Crissakes!” Rourke exclaimed. “I’m sitting on top of the biggest story of the year. I’ve got to get a line through to New York.” He jumped up and hurried after the others.

Floyd had unobtrusively disappeared from the room when Shayne looked around. Mrs. Morgan, too, was gone, but Leslie Hudson and his wife were clutched in a close embrace and Christine was whispering in his ear.

Hudson released his wife and said with boyish embarrassment, “I’ll be glad to write you a check for any amount you name. You’ve earned anything we can afford to pay you.”

Shayne shook his red head and said seriously, “For once in my life let me do something for nothing. Let’s say—Phyllis would want it that way—for Christine’s sake.” He looked at his watch and added, “I’d like to use your telephone, and if there’s a seat on the midnight plane I’d appreciate a drive to the airport.”

“Anything at all,” Hudson said heartily, “that we can do for you will be a pleasure.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and hurried into the library and called the airport. He was told that there was a vacancy on the plane to New Orleans.

When he returned to the living-room Christine was waiting with a light coat over her arm. In her hands she held a square jewel box and she went to him, pressed a little gold button which snapped the box open. Inside, coiled on a velvet cushion lay a string of pearls. She said, “Leslie and I want you to have these.”

Shayne protested, “I can’t take these. They’re worth a fortune.”

Christine laughed and linked her arm in his. “I told you they’d fool even an expert,” she said. “I’ve told Leslie everything,” she went on breathlessly, “and he agrees that we have no further use for this string now. Aren’t they lovely?” She raised her dark eyes to his and added softly, “Michael?”

Shayne thought of Lucy Hamilton. Maybe a gift like this would persuade her to forgive him for all the trouble and anxiety he had caused her. He said, “Thanks, Christine. I know a girl—but we’ve got to get going if I am to catch that plane.”

Table of Contents

Chapter One: $10,000 BY MIDNIGHT

Chapter Two: OLD FACES—NEW ANGLES

Chapter Three: THE STAGE IS SET

Chapter Four: MURDER ON THE BAY

Chapter Five: ALIBI OR RUSE

Chapter Six: COMPROMISING LETTERS

Chapter Seven: COMPLICATED COINCIDENCES

Chapter Eight: A DISTURBING VISITOR

Chapter Nine: ANGLING FOR THE BIG ONE

Chapter Ten: SHAYNE UNCOVERS A PLOT

Chapter Eleven: A COUNTERPLOT ADDED

Chapter Twelve: PROBING FOR EVIDENCE

Chapter Thirteen: SPINNING THE WEB

Chapter Fourteen: SILENCE AT A PRICE

Chapter Fifteen: A TIMELY LETTER

Chapter Sixteen: A STARTLING DISCOVERY

Chapter Seventeen: S O S FOR BARBIZON

Chapter Eighteen: BLACKMAIL CLUE

Chapter Nineteen: SHAYNE BARGAINS

Chapter Twenty: GAMBLING AGAINST TIME

Chapter Twenty-One: FATEFUL TELEPHONE CALL

Chapter Twenty-Two: MURDER WILL OUT