Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

The group was silent, each looking around furtively and with an air of strained expectancy.

Chief Gentry broke the silence. He rumbled, “I have no official status here, since both murder investigations appear to be on the Beach and out of my jurisdiction. I believe Mr. Shayne has some knowledge of the murderer-or murderers-since there have been two deaths within a few hours, and he has some questions for some of you. I’ve known Shayne for a great many years, and I urge you to co-operate.” He folded his hands across his stomach and glanced at Shayne.

Shayne lounged to his feet and stalked over to stand before the wide fireplace, resting one elbow on the mantel. His gray eyes were bleak as they roved over the faces before him, but he expressed none of the futility he felt. Everything depended upon the telephone call from New York.

“I know this seems excessively melodramatic,” he began, “but I’ll start out according to the approved fashion by saying that one of you in this room is a murderer. If all of you who are innocent will tell the absolute truth, we’ll wind this up in a hurry. I admit that I don’t know who the murderer is, but I am sure we can find out, once we know exactly what is at the bottom of these two crimes.”

A deep sigh escaped Mrs. Morgan’s lips, but when Shayne shot a quick glance in her direction she was sitting stiffly upright, her hands folded in her lap, and her face was placid.

“Natalie Briggs was murdered by a blackmailer, because she knew too much and had decided to take a hand in the game herself.” He looked at Timothy Rourke briefly, and went on, “A blackmailer who had photostatic copies of a series of letters purportedly written to Mrs. Hudson by her ex-employer, Victor Morrison.”

A gasp of horror escaped Christine’s lips. He looked into her stricken eyes, tried to reassure her with the expression in his own, then went on, “It can’t stay hidden any longer. We’ve got to drag things out in the open and take a good look at them.”

“This brings us to you, Mr. Hampstead,” Shayne said easily. “When did you first hear about the letters?”

Mr. Hampstead’s benign expression did not change. He answered at once. “They were brought to my attention about two weeks ago when I was retained by Mrs. Morrison to institute divorce proceedings against her husband as soon as her legal residence in Florida was established. A private detective named Angus Browne came to my office and explained that he had been employed by Mrs. Morrison to secure evidence against her husband.”

“Browne?” said Morrison angrily. “But he was in my employ.”

“A slight case of double cross,” Shayne told him. “After earning a fat fee for framing evidence against your wife for you, he realized she was a prospective client and he went to her with a story of your plans to divorce her. He didn’t, of course, tell her he was also employed by her husband, and when she realized the tight spot she was in she decided to fight back by laying a basis for a countersuit.” He paused, then said, “Go ahead, Mr. Hampstead.”

“I knew nothing of Browne’s employment by Mr. Morrison,” the lawyer said stiffly. “He told me that with the assistance of a local newspaper reporter he had discovered the existence of certain letters written by Mr. Morrison to Mrs. Leslie Hudson before her marriage. He suggested that the three of us endeavor to obtain the letters for use as evidence, and explained that for the reporter’s help he had promised him a set of photostats which were not to be used under any circumstances until after the letters were offered as evidence in court.”

Shayne said, “How about it, Rourke? Is that the way it was?”

“I’ve told you,” said Rourke, “I knew nothing about the matter until Browne asked me to come along as a disinterested witness and promised me an exclusive story.”

Shayne nodded. “So Angus Browne lied about that,” he pointed out “Why? Would you have agreed to having photostats made if you’d known it wasn’t absolutely necessary, Hampstead?”

Mrs. Morgan was on her feet, crying, “I knew he was the one blackmailing Christine,” wringing her hands and tears flowing from her eyes. “And I knew Natalie Briggs planted the letters on Christine. I knew it-I knew it.” She began to sob hysterically and Leslie Hudson sprang up and rushed to her. She put her face against his shoulder and sobbed, “Oh my poor baby.”

Shayne looked at Christine. She had slumped sideways when her husband suddenly removed his shoulder which supported her head. She slowly raised her body, got up and went over to him, putting one arm around Mrs. Morgan and the other around her husband’s neck. She whispered something in his ear, and they took the weeping and hysterical housekeeper into the library.

Peter Painter strutted to his feet and demanded, “They can’t do that. That woman is a murderer. I see it all now.”

Shayne said quietly, “They’re not going anywhere. The housekeeper can’t escape. There’s no door from the library except the one there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the door through which the three had gone.

Turning again to Hampstead, Shayne said, “Well, Hampstead, would you have agreed to having the photostats made?”

“I would not,” said the lawyer calmly. “I hesitated for some time, but Browne assured me we’d never be able to get hold of the letters without Rourke’s help.”

“So the three of you came to the Hudson’s home one afternoon when only the servants were at home, bluffed your way in and found the incriminating letters hidden in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity.”

Hampstead gave Rourke a sharp look and said, “Mr. Rourke put his hands on the letters without difficulty.”

Shayne said, “And all of you initialed them and forced Mrs. Morgan to initial them also.”

“As a precautionary measure to insure definite identification when they were offered as evidence,” said Hampstead.

“And then-” probed Shayne.

“We drove together to a photostat company in Miami and had copies made for Mr. Rourke.”

“How many sets of copies?”

“Only one.”

Shayne said, “One set of negatives and one set of positives.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Hampstead. “I handed Mr. Rourke his photostats myself and took the original letters with me. I’m positive there was only the one set.”

Shayne waved that aside for the moment. He glanced around the room to see Floyd Hudson’s head lolling against the back of his chair, his protruding eyes alert. Estelle Morrison was sitting on the edge of her chair, her yellow eyes inscrutable between half-closed black lashes. Victor Morrison sat stiffly erect, his hands gripping the arms of the chair in which he sat. Painter appeared to strut, sitting down, his torso bent forward as though he expected to hear something which would require him to be on his feet at any moment. Gentry had his hands folded placidly across his stomach, his eyes partly closed, and a hint of a smile on his full lips. Rourke was slumped comfortably in his deep chair, his head lolling, but his dark eyes were wide open and held something of the bloodhound expression Shayne had seen so often.

Leslie and Christine Hudson came in from the library and resumed their scats on the love seat. Shayne quirked a bushy red brow at Christine, and she said, “Mrs. Morgan is resting. We persuaded her to take a sedative.”

“She’s terribly upset,” Leslie said. “I didn’t realize the strain-”

“I understand,” said Shayne. He addressed Hampstead, asking, “Did you do anything to establish the authenticity of the letters?”

“I did,” said the lawyer. “Mrs. Morrison furnished me with samples of her husband’s handwriting and I had them compared by two experts. There is no doubt that Mr. Morrison wrote the letters.”