Brett Halliday - Blood on Biscayne Bay

Christine Hudson stood up, slim and straight and angry. “I think you’d better go now,” she said. “I’m beginning to realize I made a mistake in ever going to you.”

“You did if you’ve got something to hide,” he grated.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any inconvenience. I’ll have Leslie mail a check to pay for your time.”

“You can’t turn a murder investigation on and off like that,” he warned her. “I’m on this case whether you like it or not.”

She said, icily, “You’d better go now.”

Shayne got up and went past her into the hallway and to the front door. She stood stiff and unmoving, and watched him go.

Outside, the shadows across the lawn were long and the first faint coolness of evening was in the air. As Shayne approached the front gate a taxi stopped behind the one he had parked there, and Floyd Hudson got out. He reeled slightly as he approached.

“What’re you hanging around here for?” he demanded drunkenly.

Shayne stopped and surveyed him coolly. “I might ask you the same question.”

“I live here,” Floyd snarled. “I know what your game is. Hanging around Christine, eh? I understand you’re an old friend of hers.” His tone twisted the word “friend” into an entirely different meaning.

Shayne said, “You’re drunk. You’d better go in and sleep it off.”

“Sure I’m drunk. Who cares? I’m telling you to stay away from Christine.”

“You might try having the decency to stay away from her yourself.”

Floyd Hudson stood swaying back and forth, his feet spread apart “I’m telling you,” he said thickly. “I know what your game is. Maybe you can fool Leslie, but not me. Another damned private dick causing trouble.”

“What other private dick?”

“I’m telling you,” Floyd blustered. “Stay away from here if you don’t want to get hurt.” He turned and made his unsteady way up the path of the house.

Shayne shrugged, went on through the gate and got in Ira Wilson’s taxi. He drove away with his face set in harsh, stubborn lines, and his eyes were hot with anger. This case was fast approaching a point where he was going to have to take certain people by the throat and choke the truth out of them. The first candidate for this treatment, he decided, should be Angus Browne.

The outer door of Browne’s office was locked when he tried the knob. He recalled distinctly having left it unlocked earlier in the afternoon. He got out the key he had used before, unlocked the door and went in. The anteroom looked exactly as it had before.

Stepping into the inner office he snapped a switch and flooded the room with light. He stood in the doorway for a moment looking around, then went over to the dusty desk and picked up an empty air mail special delivery envelope that had been mailed in New York the previous day.

The envelope was a long one, addressed to Mr. Angus Browne, and judging from its condition the contents had been bulky. Three air mail stamps were affixed to it. The return address was printed in the upper left-hand corner: The Turnbull Detective Agency, with a Madison Avenue address.

Shayne turned the envelope over and over in his hands, studying it intently, as though he hoped it could give him some hint of what it had contained. He dropped it back on the desk finally, and looked around the office.

Two fairly fresh cigarette butts had been toed out on the floor just in front of the desk chair. The film of dust on the desk’s surface appeared to have been further disturbed since he had sat there examining the Morrison folder.

Shayne went over to the filing cabinet and pulled the second drawer out. The folder was still there in its place, just as he had put it back, but nothing had been added to its contents.

He turned from the filing cabinet, his forehead furrowed in thought, stopped by the desk and looked speculatively at the empty envelope again. A telephone stood a few inches away from the envelope.

Without hesitation he lifted the receiver and dialed Operator. When she answered he said, “I want to make a station-to-station call to New York. I don’t know the number, but it’s the Turnbull Detective Agency at 260 Madison Avenue.”

She said, “Your number, please?”

A grin quirked the corners of his mouth as he gave her the number on the instrument before him.

After some time the operator said, “Here’s your party. Go ahead, please.”

Shayne said, “Hello.”

A feminine voice answered, “Turnbull Detective Agency.”

“This is Angus Browne in Miami, Florida. You’re supposed to be doing some work for me and I’d like an immediate report.”

The voice said, “One moment, Mr. Browne.”

Shayne waited, then he was told, “I’ve checked Mr. Turnbull’s file on your case and I find that he wrote you yesterday enclosing a full report on the matter.”

Shayne growled, “I haven’t received it yet. Did he send it by Pony Express?”

“No, sir. I recall it distinctly. It went to you by air and special delivery. You should have received it today.”

“I didn’t and it’s damned important. Can you put Turnbull on?”

“Mr. Turnbull isn’t in just now.”

“Can you get the report and read it to me?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that without consulting Mr. Turnbull.”

Shayne swore a little and pleaded a lot, but the voice at the other end of the wire was adamant. She refused to take the responsibility.

“Okay,” Shayne growled finally. “How soon can you get in touch with Turnbull?”

“He’ll probably call or come in within the hour.”

“Have him call me the minute you get hold of him. Not my office phone. I won’t be here. Have him call this number.” Shayne gave her the number of his hotel and asked her to repeat it. “If I’m not in when he calls, ask him to leave a number where I can reach him immediately. It’s extremely important.”

She promised she would do as he requested and Shayne hung up. He then dialed his hotel and instructed the switchboard operator that he was expecting an important call to come through in the name of Angus Browne-that such a call would actually be for him and she was to accept it. The operator had been on the switchboard during the years when Shayne conducted his business from the hotel, and she accepted his instructions without surprise.

Shayne looked in the directory after hanging up, but could find no home address listed for Angus Browne.

He took the empty envelope with him when he went out, perversely left the door unlocked again, and went down to the taxicab parked outside the office building.

It was almost sundown now and noticeably cooler as he drove out to Victor Morrison’s residence.

The same pretty little maid opened the door for him. She said sullenly, “Mrs. Morrison isn’t in.”

Shayne grinned. “It’s Mr. Morrison I want.”

“He’s not in either.” She started to close the door.

Shayne put his foot in the crack. “Are you sure? He promised to take me out in his boat this afternoon.”

“He’s already been out. Now he’s taking Howard horseback riding.”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Then I guess it’ll be all right if I take the boat out myself. He asked me to use it any time I wished.”

She said, “I guess it’s all right.”

He turned and went down the steps and across the sloping lawn to the dock. There was no one around, and Shayne stepped into the boat tied alongside. He untied the painter and pushed off, then gave the outboard motor a spin. It was still warm and kicked off immediately.

Shayne settled himself with his hand on the tiller and looked at his watch. It was 5:03. He headed the prow of the small boat directly across the bay, opening the motor wide.