Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

“Only two… and those two I will swear by. They helped with my references, as I told you. I trust them both as I would my own mother.”

Shayne said harshly, “That’s not good enough.” He tapped the letter again. “This wasn’t written by your mother.”

“No.” Color suffused her cheeks. “That much I do admit.”

“By whom?” urged Shayne. “You must have some idea. Some man who’s tried to make love to you and whom you’ve repulsed? Some man who knew you in the North and followed you down here? You must have some inkling to his identity.”

“There has been no man in Miami, Mr. Shayne. I swear it. Except Mr. Freed.” Her lips curved in a faint gamine smile and merriment danced in her eyes.

“Freed?” Shayne did a fast double-take, and shook his head flatly. “Even the twins have him tagged for a fairy. You’ll have to give me someone better than that.”

She shook her head and pursed her lips in a small moue. “It is simple for a man like yourself to have a positive opinion about one with Nat’s physical appearance. But I am not so sure.”

“You mean,” asked Shayne bluntly, “that he isn’t a homo?”

“He may have such tendencies, but I can assure you he is at the very least, ambivalent. No, that is not the word I mean,” Marsha hurried on in embarrassment. “Ambidextrous, perhaps? I know that he and Felice were… intimate. And he has said things to me… small innuendos, with a sly suggestiveness in his voice, which I have pretended not to understand.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think Nathaniel Freed may have written this note?”

“I am telling you he is the only man I have met in Miami who could have written it,” she responded with spirit.

“How about some man you knew in the North who has recognized you here?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” she cried, despairingly. “None who might write a letter like that. There have been men who made love to me in the past,” she went on reflectively, “but I can’t think of any who might know I’m working for the Peraltas and using the name of Marsha Briggs.”

“What do you intend to do about this telephone call at midnight?”

Marsha looked down at the change the waiter had left beside her, and pushed it away. “I am your client now,” she told him composedly.

“Make the phone call,” Shayne told her. “Say exactly what he says to say, and then hang up.” He made a mental note of the telephone number and shoved the letter back to her.

“And… the assignation?”

Shayne said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, tell me where the twins got hold of the cyanide they fed the Boxers?”

The question took Marsha completely off base. She looked at him with round frightened eyes. “How do you know about the dogs?”

Shayne said, “I’m a detective. One who detects. What about the poison?”

“I don’t think the children did it, Mr. Shayne. Whoever told you they did, is…” She paused, searching for a word.

Shayne asked, gently, “Didn’t they admit it?”

“They boasted of it.” Her nice lips curved in a curious, contemplative smile. “They are queer ones, those twins. So old in some ways, and yet…” She paused, shaking her head earnestly. “Sometimes I think I will never understand them. Their rearing in a foreign country with no mother. Only nurses and native maids for companionship. And a father who is…” She paused again, compressing her lips.

“What sort of man is Julio Peralta?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. A curious mixture of soft idealism and harsh parental authority. It is all mixed up somehow with the political situation in Cuba. I don’t understand that. People coming and going at night, and secret conferences.”

“What’s that got to do with the poisoning of two dogs?”

“Nothing, probably. Yet, perhaps everything. They were Laura’s dogs,” she explained. “He hated them. I think she insisted on keeping them because he did hate them. I think the twins made up their story of poisoning them just to infuriate her more… and perhaps to please their father.”

“What sort of story did they tell?”

“That they got the cyanide from the house next door… where they are forbidden to go. It is closed for the season with only a caretaker. And yet I see lights sometimes late at night, and boats docking there from the Inland Waterway. This is a forbidden subject at the Peralta house. I think it has some connection with his political activities. He was furiously angry once when he learned that Felice had been seeing the caretaker at night. He would have discharged her, but Laura would not allow it.”

“Felice is the maid who was fired after the bracelet was stolen? I want her address from you, by the way. Mr. Peralta said you would have it.”

“Yes. It is here in my bag.” She started to open her handbag, but Shayne intervened. “What sort of investigation was made into the poisoning of the dogs?”

“None. Laura was furious and wanted to call the police, but Mr. Peralta refused. Perhaps he believed the twins did do it, and kept it quiet on that account.”

“But you don’t?” persisted Shayne.

Marsha sighed wearily and twisted her hands together on the table in front of her. “I told you I think I will never understand what goes on in those young minds. When it happened, I had the impression that their father encouraged them, at least, to make up their story of poisoning the dogs.”

“At least?” Shayne asked alertly.

She gave him a tired smile. “I know it’s all mixed up and confused. If Mr. Peralta learns I’ve discussed it with you, I’m sure he’ll fire me at once.” She looked at her watch. “I must be getting back to them.”

“One thing before you go.” Shayne put his hand on her arm. “This caretaker next door whom Felice used to see? You think he poisoned the dogs, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. I think he may have even given the poison to the twins and told them how to do it. He is an evil man.”

Shayne settled back and got out a notebook. “Let’s not forget Felice’s address.”

“No.” She opened her bag. “It is in Miami.” She found a small address book and thumbed through it, and read out a street address in the Northeast section. “Felice Perrin,” she told him.

She hesitated while he wrote it down, then said impulsively, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but… I don’t think you’ll find her at home until much later tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I told you how she was friendly with the caretaker of the empty house next door. Brad his first name is. I don’t know the other.”

Shayne nodded. “And that Peralta disapproved strenuously of her seeing him.”

“He was terribly angry and forbade her ever to see the man again. My room is on the top floor, Mr. Shayne, overlooking the house next door. That is why I have noticed lights late at night and boats coming up to the dock. There is a high, stone wall around the entire estate, with iron gates in front that are kept padlocked. On the other side of the grounds is a smaller side entrance that is also kept locked, but is used by Brad when he goes in or out. Felice had a key to that entrance. She showed it to me one night.”

Marsha paused, dropping her eyes demurely from Shayne’s intent gaze. “Felice is not bad,” she said, as though trying to convince herself of the fact. “She is young and light-hearted, and sex to her is a natural instinct or function.”

Shayne nodded. “You mentioned that Freed had been her lover.”

“Hardly her lover, Mr. Shayne. That was before she met Brad. He was no more than a… convenience, I would say.”

Shayne brought her back to the immediate subject. “You say Felice had a key to the side entrance.”