Blood on Biscayne Bay Page 5

  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.”