Brett Halliday - Blood on Biscayne Bay

Handing the binoculars back to her, he said, “Kids grow up in a hurry nowadays.”

“Don’t they? Did you find your friend’s house?”

“I’m not sure.” Shayne took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and frowned. “The Leslie Hudsons’ house,” he told her. “Perhaps you know them.”

A slight tremor rippled the length of her body. She was like a panther flexing its muscles to spring. She said, “We know so few people here. You didn’t mention what your business is, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m a detective.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were veiled now and when she said, “Perhaps you’d like a drink,” her voice was not so warmly provocative. She reached toward a silver bell on the table.

“A drink would be welcome.”

She struck the bell sharply, then put the binoculars to her eyes to sweep the surface of the bay again. “My husband is coming in now. That outboard near the northward shore.”

The maid came out from a side door and approached them, carrying her slim body haughtily. She did not speak when she reached the table beside her mistress’s chair, but picked up the empty glass and waited with a look of disdain in her blue eyes.

Mrs. Morrison said, “Two Scotch and sodas, June,” glancing at Shayne for confirmation.

He said, “Plenty of ice and not too much soda, please,” and the maid went back to the house.

“So you’re a detective?” Estelle said. “It must be frightfully interesting work.”

Shayne let his gaze move over her partly naked form. “I meet interesting people.”

“Are you one of those detectives who make love to unwanted wives and get them in compromising situations for divorce evidence?”

“I’ve avoided that sort of work,” he told her lightly. “When I get into a compromising situation I like to do it on my own time.” He grinned up at her from his cross-legged position on the grass. “Circumstances alter cases,” he added. “Now if the Victor Morrisons were having marital troubles, it would be a pleasure to help him get evidence.”

She did not smile, but stared at him stonily, the green flecks in her eyes seeming to actually melt away, leaving them wholly yellow. “You are not amusing,” she said coldly. “What is your business with my husband?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is between Mr. Morrison and myself.”

She started to say something else, but the maid was approaching with the drinks on a tray. Estelle stood up and lifted the binoculars again, focusing them on the little sailboat occupied by the young boy and girl. She held them steadily while the maid set the tray on the table and went away.

Then she said, “My God, those two kids-”

Shayne grinned and picked up his glass. He asked, “Is that your husband’s boat docking down there?”

She turned quickly, gave him a withering look, picked up her glass and said, “I’ll leave you to discuss your mysterious business with him, Mr. Detective Shayne.”

She was as tall as most men, and she walked barefooted across the grass with sinuous grace, swaying slightly above the hips. Shayne sipped his drink and watched her until she went into the house, then got up and strolled down to the private dock.

A lad of about fourteen, towheaded and bronzed, wearing only a pair of bathing trunks, was in the stern expertly handling the tiller and swinging the boat in a wide arc alongside the dock. In the bow was a man wearing a floppy straw hat, an old sweater and a pair of disreputable khaki pants. He had a square face and a smartly trimmed gray mustache. When he arose with the painter in hand, leaning over to grasp a stanchion as the boy cut the motor and the boat drifted in, Shayne saw that he had a strong, muscular body for his 50-odd years. His eyes were blue with a network of tiny wrinkles spreading out from the corners.

When the man stepped out on the wharf, Shayne said, “Mr. Morrison?” and offered his hand.

The millionaire took Shayne’s hand in a hearty grip and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.

“My name is Shayne. I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”

“No intrusion at all,” Victor Morrison assured him. He turned to the lad who was clambering out, a broad grin on his young face and a string of perch in his hand. “Better hurry those in to the cook, Howard. They should be put on ice right away.”

“Gee, Dad, I know that much, all right. It was swell, wasn’t it?” The lad started to scamper across the wharf, but turned to remind his father anxiously, “An’ you promised you’d take me along next time you go out at night. I betcha if I’d been along last night we’d of caught something.”

Morrison chuckled and agreed, “I bet we would, son. We’ll try it together next time.” He took off his straw hat and mopped a shining bald dome with a limp handkerchief. “Now, sir-you say you have some urgent business with me?”

Shayne was watching the boy run up the lawn. He asked, “Your son?”

“Why, yes. Taller than I am-at fifteen.” He chuckled with fatherly pride.

“It’s hard for me to realize you have a son that old. You see, I met Mrs. Morrison a few minutes ago.” He glanced down at the glass in his hand. “She was kind enough to give me a drink while I waited. She seemed so young-”

“I can understand your bewilderment,” said Morrison. “Estelle is my second wife, Mr. Shayne. We’ve been married only two years-since my first wife died.”

“That explains it.” They started to walk up the gentle slope of the lawn together. “Do you enjoy night fishing?” Shayne asked. “I heard your boy mention it.”

Morrison chuckled again. “I’ve tried it a couple of times,” he said. “Howard found out about it and was heartbroken that I didn’t take him along.”

“You probably went out too early,” Shayne suggested. “I understand that after midnight is the best time.”

“Perhaps that explains my poor luck,” the New York broker agreed. They had reached two chairs drawn close together, under two umbrellas. Morrison paused and asked, “Will your business take long?”

“I think not. If you have a few minutes we might talk right here.”

“Very well. Have a seat.” Mr. Morrison seated himself and took a broken cigar from a pocket of his sweater. He carefully licked the outer wrapper to seal it, and got a match. “What is the nature of your business?”

Shayne took the envelope containing the four photostats from his pocket. Picking one at random, he passed it across to the financier. “I’d like to know just when and under what circumstances you wrote this letter.” Morrison had struck the match on the side of the chair and was holding it to the end of his cigar. He accepted the photostat with his other hand and glanced at it while he puffed on his cigar.

He stopped puffing and his face became a mottled red. The match burned down to his fingers. He dropped it and asked thickly, “May I ask where you got hold of this?”

Shayne waggled his head and reminded him, “I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”

The financier had strong hands with short blunt fingers. They tightened on the photostat for an instant, crumpling the lower portion of it. Then he dropped it in his lap and took an experimental puff on his cigar. It hadn’t caught fire from the first match.

He got out another match and struck it, held it steadily and carefully to the end of his cigar. His broad, ruddy face looked thoughtful and his eyes no longer twinkled. He blew out the match, expelled a cloud of smoke and leaned back in the reclining chair. “I don’t believe you mentioned your business, Mr. Shayne.”

“I didn’t.”

“Will you do so now?”