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, Hampste
ad, 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 cigarett
e. 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.”
Blood on Biscayne Bay Page 15
