Blood on Biscayne Bay

by Brett Halliday

  “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 a
dded 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 husb
and?”

  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.