Brett Halliday - Blood on Biscayne Bay

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.”