“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 o
n 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.”
“T
hat’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.
Blood on Biscayne Bay Page 8
