Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

Shayne turned to Morrison. “Do you admit writing them?” he demanded.

“I do not,” the financier stated firmly.

He asked Christine, “Did you receive such letters from Mr. Morrison and hide them in your bedroom?”

She said, “I did not,” her hand again clasped tightly in her husband’s, her dark eyes shining.

Peter Painter sprang from his chair and barked irritably, “Where is all this getting us. What have the marital affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Morrison to do with a murder investigation?”

“They provide a motive for murder,” Shayne said grimly. “Two murders. Someone was trying to blackmail Mrs. Hudson with an extra set of photostats of the letters. Mrs. Morgan had told Mrs. Hudson about the letters and about the three men finding them.

“Mrs. Hudson has been terrified for two weeks. They sounded as though they had been written by her former employer, Victor Morrison. They apparently revealed a secret love affair before she married Leslie Hudson, and she was afraid he wouldn’t believe the truth. Rather than risk it, she prepared herself to pay blackmail.”

Leslie Hudson’s voice was loud in the silence following Shayne’s statement. He asked hoarsely, “Is that true, Christine?”

She nodded.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “why didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me, darling.” His arm sought her slim waistline and he hugged her to him.

Shayne said hastily, “It was a hard decision for her to make, Mr. Hudson. When you see the letters you’ll understand why. They are undated and are not addressed to her by name, but it’s almost impossible to believe they weren’t written to her.”

“Of course they were written to her.” All eyes were turned on Estelle Morrison. She had risen to her feet and stood bent slightly forward, her tawny eyes glittering, and again looking like a panther ready to spring. “Who else? She was my husband’s secretary. I knew what was going on all the time and I knew we’d find evidence if we looked hard enough. I think it was very clever of Mr. Browne to find it.”

Shayne asked, “Did you tell him to look for letters?”

“Yes. Knowing Victor as I do, I had an idea he’d do something foolish like that.” She smiled coldly and resumed her seat.

Shayne said, “Let’s get on with it. The blackmail pay-off was set for last night at the Play-Mor Club. The blackmailer was waiting there for Christine Hudson to appear with ten thousand dollars. Angus Browne was there, and so was Timothy Rourke. And you were there, Hudson, with Natalie Briggs.” He turned on Floyd Hudson.

“Sure, I took her there. But I didn’t stay very long.”

“Have you checked his story of what he did after leaving the club?” Shayne asked Painter.

“I’ve had a man working on it but we haven’t anything definite yet.”

“The blackmailer left after I horned in and spoiled the pay-off,” Shayne went on. “I brought Natalie home in a taxi and she went to the rear of the house while I came to the front door and asked for Mrs. Hudson. I understand you’ve pretty well established that she was met by her murderer at the back door before she had a chance to enter,” he added to Painter.

“We’ve checked all that,” Painter said, then added irritably, “I thought you were coming here to tell who the murderer is. I can’t see that you’re doing anything but stalling.”

“I told you I had to have some truthful answers to some questions,” Shayne said with an impatient wave of his hand. He turned to Victor Morrison and said, “You chose last night for a private fishing expedition. You’d been across the bay in your boat previously, and you knew the way to the Hudson house. Did you meet Natalie Briggs at the back door and kill her?”

“What utter nonsense!” snorted Morrison. “Why would I kill a servant girl whom I’d never seen?”

“She wasn’t killed by someone she’d never seen,” Shayne agreed. “I think she was killed because she knew too much and was threatening to cash in on what she knew. Specifically, she’s the one who must have planted those letters on Mrs. Hudson. Did you arrange with her to plant them here, Morrison?”

“I know nothing whatever about those letters.”

“Three handwriting experts agree they were written by you. Any court will uphold their testimony. Who else could have planted the letters here through Natalie Briggs?”

“But that’s absurd,” Estelle Morrison spoke up. “What makes you think the letters were planted?”

“I’m trying to find a motive for the maid’s death.”

“That shouldn’t be so difficult,” she stated calmly. “She was here when the letters were found, wasn’t she? Perhaps she was blackmailing my husband’s former secretary. Isn’t murder the accepted method of dealing with blackmailers?”

Shayne turned again to Victor Morrison and said grimly, “I still want to know what time you were on the bay in your motorboat last night.”

“I have nothing to conceal,” Morrison told him angrily. “It was slightly after eleven o’clock when I left the house.”

“You can prove that?”

“Of course I can. Harry and Sylvia Bannerman were in for bridge. We finished a rubber slightly before eleven o’clock, and after they left I went out in the boat.”

“Can you verify that, Mrs. Morrison?”

“I can. And the Bannermans will, also.”

Shayne sighed and lit a cigarette. His mouth was dry and there was a hard knot in his belly. The telephone hadn’t rung yet and he had stalled about as long as he could.

He turned to Painter and said, “I think the whole thing hinges on the second set of photostats that were used to blackmail Mrs. Hudson. We can prove that Browne had two sets made.”

He said to Hampstead, “Think back to that afternoon when the photostats were made. Remember that Browne was an old customer and probably ran a monthly account with the company. Didn’t he order the photostats?”

“Of course. In fact, he went into the rear of the shop to explain how he wanted the work done and to have it rushed.”

Shayne drew in a long breath. “Then it’s plain enough how Browne got the positives without your knowledge-or Rourke’s.”

“Then Browne was the blackmailer,” Painter said importantly.

“And Natalie Briggs knew it,” Shayne agreed. “So he had to kill Natalie to avoid splitting with her.”

Leslie Hudson spoke up, “Then Browne must have committed suicide this afternoon in remorse.”

Shayne shook his head. “I said there was a murderer in the room. Browne was killed because he’d just received further blackmail material from New York and was putting the pressure on someone who fought back.”

“Who?” demanded Painter furiously. “I can lock you up for withholding information in a murder case.”

Shayne shrugged. “We’ll come to that presently.” He asked Painter, “What time was Angus Browne killed?”

“Around four o’clock. Half an hour leeway in either direction.”

Shayne turned to Christine. “What did you do after I left the house this afternoon?”

She looked startled. “I went upstairs and stayed in my room until Leslie came home. Floyd can tell you. I locked my door on the inside.”

“And you didn’t hear anyone here while you were locked in your room?”

“No,” Christine shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“How about you?” Shayne swung on Floyd Hudson. “You reached home just as I was leaving at four.”

“I poured myself a few drinks,” Floyd told him

“After making yourself so objectionable your sister-in-law locked herself up?”

“See here, Shayne,” said Leslie Hudson angrily. “I don’t like your tone or your insinuations.”