Brett Halliday - Blood on Biscayne Bay

Painter again cleared his throat delicately. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but it’s just as well to establish an alibi if you can.”

Hudson tightened his arm on his wife and said, “We will see to that when the necessity arises,” stiffly.

Painter said angrily, “If you’re not going to co-operate, that’s the way I’ll play it. Now, who else is in the house?”

“Mrs. Morgan,” said Leslie Hudson, “and my brother, Floyd.”

“Where are they? I want statements from them, and-”

The telephone rang in an adjoining room. Shayne saw Christine stiffen. Her dark, terrified eyes met his for an instant. It was as though she expected the ring and appealed to him for help.

“I want to inspect the girl’s room and her possessions,” Painter was saying, as Christine sat on the edge of the love seat, and they could all hear Mrs. Morgan answering the telephone.

A moment later Mrs. Morgan entered the spacious living-room and said, “It’s for you, Mrs. Hudson.”

As Christine dragged herself from the love seat and went slowly through the open doorway to the telephone, Peter Painter turned on one heel to face the middle-aged woman. “Are you Mrs. Morgan?”

“I am,” said the woman, her hands folded across her ample diaphragm. Her calm blue eyes ran the length of the chief’s short stature.

“You can come in right now,” Painter said. “I want you to give me everything you can about Natalie Briggs. Try to remember everything-”

All of them heard a stifled gasp from the adjoining room, and the faint sound of a body crumpling to the floor. Shayne and Hudson rushed into the room together.

Christine lay outstretched on the floor beside the telephone stand in a dead faint.

Mrs. Morgan followed Shayne and Hudson at once, took in the situation at a glance and went directly to a lavatory opening off the library for a wet cloth and smelling salts.

Mr. Hudson lifted his wife in his arms and carried her to a couch. Kneeling beside her, he stroked her hair and called to Mrs. Morgan to hurry. She was back in a few seconds and they administered cold cloths to the unconscious girl’s face and held the salts to her nostrils.

Shayne picked up the receiver dangling from the cord. He called, “Hello-hello,” into the mouthpiece, but the connection had been broken from the other end. He swore softly, and was replacing the receiver as Painter came in.

“See here now-” Painter began, but no one paid any attention to him.

Shayne grinned and said, “I bet the whole bunch are guilty as hell. You can see this is just a dodge to avoid answering your questions.”

“I’ll ask for your advice when I want it,” Painter snapped. He strutted over to the trio and said, “What does she mean by a stunt like that?”

Hudson turned a strained and anxious face up to him as Christine stirred and moaned faintly. “I don’t understand this any more than you do. It isn’t like Christine at all. As soon as she comes around I’m sure she’ll explain. There, there, dear,” he went on to his wife. “Are you all right now?”

Christine opened her eyes and looked around wonderingly, her stark gaze going slowly from one face to the other. Color came slowly into her cheeks and she said, “Oh! I-don’t know what happened. Everything went black and I-” She caught her husband’s hand and held it tightly.

“Who was on the telephone?” Painter demanded. “What was said that caused you to faint?”

“Nothing.” She drew herself up to a sitting position, still clinging to Hudson’s hand. “I did come in to answer the phone, didn’t I? I remember now. I’d just picked up the receiver when a wave of sickness struck me.” She managed a wan smile and turned her face toward Mrs. Morgan. “Silly, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” the older woman told her. “You’ll come up to your room now and rest.” She gave Hudson a significant look and said, “We’d best have the doctor in to see her right away.”

“I’ll carry you up,” her husband said, and gathered her in his arms. Mrs. Morgan followed them from the room.

Painter called out, “I want all of you back here. And Mr. Hudson’s brother. Send him down at once.”

Leslie Hudson returned to the library in a very few minutes. There was a puzzled look in his eyes. He muttered, “I don’t understand. Do you suppose-can Mrs. Morgan be right?” He cut himself off abruptly, as though he suddenly realized he was speaking aloud thoughts that were not for strangers.

Shayne laughed and slapped him lightly on the back. “It does happen on the best of honeymoons,” he assured the worried man. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But she hadn’t told me. I didn’t know-”

“You’ve been married only a month,” Shayne reminded him. He turned on Painter and said harshly, “You’ve got to be careful what you say to a woman in her condition.”

Tiny beads of sweat were standing on Painter’s face. He mopped it away with a handkerchief and mumbled, “How was I to know? I’m through with her anyhow for the time being. What about this brother of yours, Hudson?”

“I doubt whether Floyd’s up yet. I imagine Mrs. Morgan will send him down. Here he is now,” Hudson added quickly. “Suppose we go back to the living-room.”

The four men moved into the larger room. Floyd Hudson stopped in the center of the room and waited.

Floyd Hudson was the man Shayne had seen at the Play-Mor Club with Natalie Briggs the preceding night.

He blinked owlishly at the little group and demanded, “What in hell’s the excitement, Les? Mrs. Morgan said I was wanted down here.”

“Just a formality, Floyd,” his brother assured him in a gentle voice. “This is Chief Painter of the Beach police force. They found Natalie’s body in the bay this morning, and there are some routine questions he has to ask.”

“Natalie? In the bay,” Floyd Hudson looked shocked. “Are you serious? Did she commit suicide?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Painter stiffly. “How well did you know the maid, Mr. Hudson?”

Floyd shrugged and muttered, “What do you mean by a question like that? Are you insinuating-?”

“I’m asking,” Painter said.

“How well would I know a maid?” the younger brother demanded truculently. He pressed stubby fingers against his forehead. “Natalie wasn’t any prize, you know.”

“When did you see her last?”

Floyd turned his head slightly and looked at Shayne for the first time since he entered the room. He narrowed his bloodshot eyes and appeared to be concentrating on something. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Let me get this straight. When did she do it?”

“Natalie Briggs was murdered some time last night,” Painter told him. “Right here in your back yard if I’m not mistaken. Pending an autopsy, the doctor’s first guess is around midnight.”

Floyd looked at Shayne again and asked, “Is this another cop?”

“I’m sorry,” the elder brother said. “Mr. Shayne, my brother. Mr. Shayne is an old friend of Christine’s,” he went on, “a private detective who is helping the police clear up Natalie’s death.”

Shayne stepped forward and took Floyd’s extended and unresponsive hand. “I believe we ran into each other last night at the Play-Mor Club.”

“Did we? Maybe so.” Floyd wet his lips and groaned. “My head. God, but it’s splitting. I suppose I might as well give it to you straight,” he said to Painter. “I took Natalie to the Play-Mor last night.” He saw his brother give a start of surprise and added defensively, “She’d been after me to take her some place like that ever since she’d been here. I didn’t see any harm in it.”