Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

“I was a fool,” he added with ponderous dignity, “but I am not a murderer.”

“It won’t work, Morrison,” said Shayne, turning cold gray eyes back to the financier. “There are scientific tests that will prove conclusively that those letters were written three years ago instead of two months. I’m surprised you didn’t get some such report from your handwriting experts,” he went on, addressing Hampstead. “Though such tests aren’t necessarily part of their job, most of the good ones are thoroughly familiar with the tests for determining the approximate age of writing.”

Hampstead’s lips were clamped in a straight line. He hesitated a moment before admitting, “One of them did suggest the possibility that the letters hadn’t been written recently. But I had no reason, otherwise, to suspect I was present when they were discovered here and had no intimation they were a plant.”

Shayne turned again, anxiously, to Leslie and Christine. Leslie had relaxed from his rigid position and held one of her hands in his. He said, “If you had had the originals instead of photostats, Christine, Bernard Holloway would have put his finger on the truth at once. But with only a photostat he had no way of determining how old they were.”

Christine turned her head, lifting her face from her husband’s arm, and nodded wearily.

“I know,” said Shayne with a wry smile, “that some of you haven’t seen the letters in question and don’t know what is in them. They were written to Morrison’s ex-secretary, declaring his love for her and discussing plans for getting rid of his wife so they could marry. But that was three years ago. Right after you went to work for Morrison,” he went on, nodding to Christine. “If you had bothered to mention to me that the present Mrs. Morrison was formerly his private secretary, I might have guessed the truth at once.”

Christine sat up straight on the love seat. “I do remember the peculiar circumstances under which his former wife was killed, but I never heard a hint around the office about his being in love with Estelle when his wife died.”

As Shayne looked on, Leslie wriggled an arm around his wife and drew her close, and her head dropped against his shoulder. He said grimly, “That was their one protection against having a murder charge laid against them both. The New York police may not be able to prove it was you, Estelle, who made the telephone call that summoned the former Mrs. Morrison to her death, but those letters you saved for three years are going to be damned good evidence that you helped plan the job.”

“She did,” Morrison declared gruffly. He had risen from his chair and stood pointing an accusing finger at her. “She was responsible for the whole thing. She drove me to it. Before I met her I was content with my life-my wife and my son. She taunted me about living a drab life and worked me up to a state of-” He stopped and backed away, his hands covering his face, and again dropped into his chair.

Shayne said to Morrison, “About those letters, now-”

Morrison mopped sweat from his forehead and said, “She kept them and held them over me. She should have known she couldn’t use them without implicating herself, but she made my life miserable by reminding me of their existence.”

Shayne said, “And when she found out you were going to divorce her she saw a way to use them and planted them on Mrs. Hudson, not knowing that both you and she had employed the same scoundrel to get evidence on both sides. And you, Morrison, would have sacrificed an innocent girl to save your own hide.”

Estelle Morrison suddenly sat erect and said, “It looked like a cinch,” in a husky voice, her eyes yellow and venomous. “How the hell did I know Browne wouldn’t be satisfied with what I paid him? I thought he believed me when I told him the letters were written to Christine and I wanted to turn the tables on her and put them back in her possession.”

“He probably did until both of you retained him. It was too great a strain on Browne’s ethics. Business had been bad for him lately,” Shayne told her.

“Damn Browne,” Estelle said, and closed her long lashes over her eyes.

Shayne looked at her for a moment, then turned to Hampstead and said, “That’s when Browne pulled the wool over your eyes-with his story about promising Rourke a set of photostats in exchange for a scoop. That was just a dodge to get your permission to have them made and give him a chance to get hold of a second set. Then he began to smell a rat and checked with the New York police on Morrison.”

“Looks like you’re right,” he admitted.

Shayne then asked Morrison, “Did he have the contents of the envelope from the Turnbull Agency in New York with him when you killed him this afternoon?”

Morrison nodded. His face was gray and withered. “A complete report from the police files.” The vigor and strength Shayne had seen in him earlier in the day was gone. He bent his chin on his chest bone and continued in a weak voice, “I always had a feeling they suspected me and needed only some such evidence as my letters to her to make a case against us both.

“When Browne came to me this afternoon with his proof I knew I had to kill him. I couldn’t forget what you had told me earlier-about the utter impossibility of hushing up a thing by paying blackmail. I kept hearing your words while Browne was talking: ‘Even your millions won’t be enough. In the end you’ll be ruined, and the threat of exposure will still hang over your head.’ I kept thinking about my boy, and I knew you were right. I knew there was only one way to deal with a man like Browne.”

Shayne stood staring at Morrison’s bowed head and wished to God he had taken the plane when he was supposed to, but when he glanced at Christine and Leslie Hudson, clasped in each other’s arms, he sighed deeply.

He said gently, “Browne deserved to be killed. It’s a cinch he murdered Natalie Briggs because she wanted money to keep her quiet about planting the letters for him.”

“Yes. He confessed killing her after I struck him once and demanded to know. He had a gun in his pocket. He threatened me with the same he’d given the Briggs girl, and tried to use it. It was self-defense,” he ended hopelessly.

“But your first wife’s murder wasn’t-your son’s mother,” Shayne said grimly.

Shayne said to Gentry, “Have you heard enough?”

“I don’t get all the background,” Gentry rumbled, “but we have a number of witnesses to an oral confession by Morrison. That should be sufficient to hold both of them for a while.”

Peter Painter got up and strutted forward. “Right,” he snapped. “They’re your babies now.” He glanced at Timothy Rourke who had a notebook in his lap with a pencil poised above it. He paused at the back of the reporter’s chair and asked, “Got it all down?”

Rourke said, “You bet,” as Painter went to the door and waited.

Estelle Morrison got up and walked over to Shayne. She said, “If I hadn’t passed out this afternoon-”

“I would have made a fee on this damned case,” Shayne interrupted her harshly.

Gentry arose ponderously from his chair, said, “Come with me,” to Victor and Estelle Morrison.

“Crissakes!” Rourke exclaimed. “I’m sitting on top of the biggest story of the year. I’ve got to get a line through to New York.” He jumped up and hurried after the others.

Floyd had unobtrusively disappeared from the room when Shayne looked around. Mrs. Morgan, too, was gone, but Leslie Hudson and his wife were clutched in a close embrace and Christine was whispering in his ear.

Hudson released his wife and said with boyish embarrassment, “I’ll be glad to write you a check for any amount you name. You’ve earned anything we can afford to pay you.”