Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

“So, you’re throwing me to Painter?”

Gentry spread out his pudgy hands and said nothing.

Shayne got up slowly. He turned on Wilson and said, “I’ll take that dough.”

Wilson took a backward step. “You been usin’ my hack all this time. I’ll drop the complaint and we’ll call it square, huh?”

“We’ll square it this way,” Shayne said softly. He moved in on the driver and drove a short jolting uppercut to the point of his jaw before Wilson got his hands up to defend himself.

Shayne turned about and resumed his position on the corner of Gentry’s desk. “Give me a little more time, Will. I don’t need much. Just long enough to get a call through from New York. Then I’ll have a bill of goods to sell Painter.”

Gentry said, “You’ve had almost twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah. I’ve been fooling around all day,” Shayne conceded. “But I’m still waiting for that phone call.”

Gentry shook his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t do it, Mike. Your pickup is already on the record. You’ll have to do your talking to Painter.” He reached for the telephone.

“Don’t do it.” Shayne’s face was deeply trenched and sweat dripped from his chin. “There have been two murders already. Painter doesn’t know a single damned thing about either one of them. If I’m locked up now they’ll never be solved.”

“He’ll figure they’re solved when you are locked up.”

“And he’ll come pretty close to making it stick. You’ve known me a long time, Will. I’ve never given you a bum steer.”

Gentry took the soggy cigar butt from his mouth and looked at it angrily. He threw it in the wastebasket and said, “I’ve got to turn you over to Painter.”

“All right. But do it this way. Give me half a chance.”

“What way?”

“Call him and tell him you’ll deliver me in person-to the residence of Leslie Hudson on the Beach.” Shayne’s eyes gleamed and his voice was hoarse with sincerity. “Have him round up Mr. and Mrs. Hudson and the brother, Floyd, and have them there.”

“Painter will never agree to that.”

“He’ll do it if you tell him you’ve got information that will solve both murders.”

“If you’ve got the information, give it to me.”

“I haven’t. I’m stalling,” Shayne admitted. “I won’t have it until I get that call from New York. It’s got to come through shortly.”

Gentry folded his hands across his stomach and was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, “All right. But if you don’t get the hell out of town in a hurry you’ll make an old man out of me.”

“I’m getting out on the midnight plane,” Shayne told him. “There are a couple of other things-”

Ira Wilson stirred on the floor and sat up, holding his jaw in both hands and waggling it from side to side.

Gentry looked at him and called, “Porter!”

The patrolman came in and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Help this man out” Gentry pointed a fresh stogie at Wilson. “He stumbled and hurt himself. I believe he’s withdrawing his car theft complaint, but have him sign an affidavit about last night before you let him go.”

Porter said, “Yes, sir.” He stooped and helped Wilson to his feet and led him out.

“What are the other things?” Gentry asked Shayne.

“They’re easy. Call Victor Morrison and tell him you’re cleaning up a murder case and want him to bring his wife over to the Hudsons’. I’ve got the telephone number right here.” He fished a slip of paper out of his pocket and laid it before the chief.

“Who’s Morrison?”

“A New York millionaire with a yen for private secretaries. His wife is a platinum blonde with a yen for taxi drivers.”

Gentry grunted and picked up the slip of paper.

“And to make a quorum, we’ll need a local lawyer by the name of B. J. Hampstead. His name must be in the book.”

Gentry frowned and said, “Hampstead is one of the most important attorneys in the city. How does he come into the picture?”

“He’s representing Mrs. Morrison in a divorce action. When you get him on the phone tell him it has to do with that-and with the murder of Angus Browne.”

Gentry asked, “Is that all you want? No governors? Not even the mayor?”

Shayne grinned and lifted the telephone receiver. He said, “Just a minute, Will, before you start issuing invitations,” and got his hotel on the wire.

Again the switchboard operator told him no call had come through for Angus Browne.

He said, “I’ll be on the move for the next half hour. After that I can be reached at this number.” He consulted a notebook in his pocket and gave her the Hudsons’ telephone number. “Switch the call to me there, and for God’s sake don’t slip up on it.”

He cradled the receiver and said, “It’s up to you now, Will.”

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.”