Brett Halliday - Blood on Biscayne Bay

“The hell you don’t,” Shayne snapped. “If you don’t know your brother has been making life miserable for your wife it’s time you were told.” Shayne turned quickly to Mrs. Hudson. “You did go upstairs to get away from him, didn’t you Christine?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cheeks flushing.

“Why?” Shayne swung on Floyd again. “Was it because you expected Angus Browne and didn’t want any witnesses to the meeting? Had you already planned to kill him and throw his body in the bay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t know Browne,” he said sullenly.

“But you were here. Downstairs by yourself between four and four-thirty.”

“Mrs. Morgan was around,” he said uncertainly.

Shayne asked Leslie Hudson, “Where were you during that half hour?”

“Driving home from the office. I was pretty much upset and left for home early.”

“When did you arrive?”

“About a quarter of five,” he answered, glancing at his wife for confirmation.

Christine nodded and said, “He came upstairs about ten minutes of five.”

“What difference do a few minutes make?” Leslie asked impatiently.

“A few minutes is all it takes to commit murder,” Shayne told him, and turned his attention to Victor Morrison.

“Have you an alibi for that period?”

“This is preposterous,” protested the financier. He looked angrily at Painter. “Are you going to let this fellow keep on with this all night?”

Chief Painter said incisively, “I agree with Mr. Morrison. You’re making a grandstand play without getting anywhere at all.”

“I’ll get somewhere,” said Shayne grimly, “if I can find a single positive alibi in this entire bunch. You went for another ride in your boat this afternoon,” he reminded Morrison. “It seems to be a habit of yours to be out alone in your boat while murders are being committed across the bay.”

“I did go out for a spin about four o’clock,” he conceded. “Do you think I met this private detective in the middle of the bay and killed him?”

“You could have come over here and met him on shore, then carried him out a ways and dumped him.”

“In half an hour?” asked Morrison contemptuously. “My son can testify I wasn’t out more than that. He was waiting for me when I returned, and had timed me. It would require at least an hour to reach this side and return. You can take the boat and check it if you wish.”

Shayne said quietly, “That’s what I was doing this afternoon when I discovered Browne’s body. At that time I thought you might have slipped over here to kill the maid last night.”

Shayne was turning to question Hampstead again when the telephone rang. He whirled about and stalked toward the library to answer it

He met Mrs. Morgan in the doorway. Her eyes were wide and frightened and she twisted her hands as though panic-stricken.

Shayne pushed past her and grabbed up the receiver. Painter hurried after him, warning loudly, “No you don’t Shayne. I’ll take that call.”

Shayne was saying, “Browne speaking.”

The operator said, “We have a call for you from New York, Mr. Browne. Go ahead, please.”

A gruff voice said, “Browne? Turnbull speaking.”

“I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“Yes. My girl told me you haven’t received my report on the Morrison affair. I don’t understand-”

“Skip it,” said Shayne impatiently. “I need the salient points fast. Can you give them to me?”

“I haven’t the newspaper clippings, of course. They were mailed to you. However, I have my notations here. Uh-Mrs. Morrison died in a hit-run accident on January 20, 1943. She was forty-two, mother of a twelve-year-old son and wife of Victor Morrison who was a wealthy broker. The accident occurred at night with only one witness and the driver was never apprehended.

“There were a couple of curious angles. At eight o’clock her maid said she received a call from some woman. She heard Mrs. Morrison agree to meet her at nine o’clock sharp, and when she hung up she appeared nervous and worried. She left the house at eight-forty without telling the maid where she was going, and she was struck at an intersection about fifteen blocks away at exactly nine o’clock-having walked there to keep her appointment, apparently.

“The hit-run car was a big black limousine, and according to the testimony of the witness was parked less than a block away just prior to the accident and was traveling at high speed when it struck Mrs. Morrison.”

“Intentional?” Shayne asked.

“I said there were some curious angles. Mr. Morrison owned such a limousine and had driven it to his club earlier that evening. The inquiry was naturally discreet, but there was no one to swear he was at the club at nine o’clock. However, he was there when the police called a little later, and no proof he had been away.”

“Did the police suspect him?”

“I talked to the officer who had charge of the investigation and he recalled it vividly. This is strictly off the record, but he assured me that if they could have turned up a shred of a motive he would have arrested Morrison on a charge of murder. But there was no motive. No money involved, and all the evidence pointed to a happy marriage.

“About nine months after his wife’s death, Morrison quietly married Estelle Davoe in Connecticut. She had once been his private secretary but had resigned in December. A thorough investigation at the time of the marriage failed to turn up the slightest indication that they had had an affair before his wife’s death.

“That’s the complete sketch, Browne. I’m sure you’ll receive-”

“Thanks,” Shayne said. “That’s all I need right now. Add this call to your bill.”

He hung up and said to Painter, “Come on. You’re about to solve a couple of murders in spite of yourself.”

Victor Morrison and Chief Gentry were seated side by side. Shayne moved in and stood between the two chairs, slightly in front of the two men.

He said, “This is in your back yard, after all, Will. If Morrison was out in his boat only half an hour this afternoon, Browne must have been killed on your side of the bay. You can hold him on that, though I’ve a hunch New York will put in a prior claim once those letters to his ex-secretary are made public.”

“What sort of damnable trick is this?” demanded Morrison.

Shayne ignored him. He went on to Gentry, “In fact I’m pretty sure Browne was killed on the mainland before he was dumped into the boat. He wasn’t dumb enough to go calmly for a boat ride with the man he planned to blackmail.”

“But Browne’s body was found on this side of the bay,” Painter objected. “If Mr. Morrison can prove he was out only half an hour he couldn’t possibly have brought the body over here and dumped it.”

“I recovered the body about five-thirty,” Shayne reminded him. “There was a strong easterly wind blowing. Strong enough to float a body from the middle of the bay to the place where it was found.”

He turned to Estelle Morrison and said, “Your big mistake was turning those letters of yours over to Browne to plant on Mrs. Hudson as divorce evidence. You should have known Browne would figure they’d actually been written to you and would look for more blackmail evidence.”

Estelle Morrison was slumped in her chair. Sheer fright contorted her face into ugliness. “I told him they had been written to Christine. I told him she’d returned them to Victor when she married Hudson. I intercepted them-”

“Estelle!” Morrison’s voice rang out harshly. He stood up and glared across the room at her, then sank wearily back into his chair. “I admit I wrote those notes to Christine. I was frantic at the thought of losing her when she told me she was going to marry Hudson. I knew Estelle was cheating on me, but she was too infernally clever in New York to be caught. By establishing residence here and taking advantage of Florida’s divorce laws I felt sure I could divorce her, and that’s why I begged Christine to wait.