Blood on Biscayne Bay (6 page)

THE MORRISON HOUSE was on the west shore of Biscayne Bay between the County and Venetian causeways. The house faced south, and as Shayne went up the walk toward the wide wooden veranda he saw that the expanse of lawn leading to the bay shore was dotted with deck chairs beneath gaily striped beach umbrellas.

One of the chairs was occupied. An inclined umbrella hid everything but a pair of bare legs stretched out in the sunlight and a bare arm reaching out for a glass on the table beside the chair.

A maid in a starched white uniform came to the door. She was little and pretty, with inquisitive blue eyes and pouting lips. She looked up at the rangy redhead with approval, and quirked her lips slightly when she said, “Mr. Morrison hasn’t returned yet. Perhaps you’d like to wait,” in answer to Shayne’s query.

Shayne said, “How about Mrs. Morrison?”

A change came over the girl’s face. “Oh,
she’s
out there on the lawn,” she answered in a sulky voice. “I’m
sure
that she’d be very glad to see you.”

“What makes you so sure?” Shayne grinned down at her.

She flirted herself around and was closing the door when Shayne turned and went down the steps. He swung around to the right and went across the close-cropped lawn toward the pair of long and well-shaped legs extending beneath the umbrella.

The thick grass deadened his footsteps, and he walked around the tilted umbrella without disturbing the occupant of the chair.

The woman wore a wisp of flowered cloth over her pointed breasts, and a triangular piece of the same material for a loincloth. Her body was supple and smoothly rounded and had the beginning of a very nice sun tan. Her platinum hair was long and flowed around her shoulders, her lips were heavily rouged, and she lounged in the chair with a pair of binoculars held to her eyes.

She lowered the glasses after a time, and saw him standing there. She gave a little start of surprise and glanced quickly at her body as though to reassure herself that the bits of cloth were in their proper positions. She lifted her gaze slowly and said in a husky voice, “Do you approve of what you see?”

“Thoroughly,” said Shayne, his wide mouth twisted in a crooked grin. He took off his hat. “I didn’t mean to play peeping Tom. Your maid said I might wait here for Mr. Morrison.”

“I’m Estelle Morrison,” she told him. Yellow lights flickered in her eyes. “I’ll be delighted to have you wait here for Victor.” Her husky voice was indolently and intentionally sensuous; the sort of voice that put
double-entendres
into the most innocent phrases.

Shayne said, “Thanks. I understand he’s fishing.” He sat down cross-legged in the hot sun at her feet.

“Yes. He went out very early this morning. I was trying to see if I could find him coming in.” She lifted the binoculars. “Sometimes one sees the most amazing things on the bay with a pair of strong glasses. In broad daylight, too.”

Shayne said dryly, “I imagine. Poor devils who think they’re all alone and safe from prying eyes.”

She turned faintly amused eyes upon him. “Are you shocked?”

“Not at all.” Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “One can’t accuse you of hiding much of yourself from public view.”

She laughed softly. “This isn’t a public beach. If strangers insist on walking up unannounced, I’m not responsible for what they see.” She picked up her drink and ice tinkled as she lifted it to her lips. “You are a stranger—to me.”

“My name is Shayne. I have some business with—your husband?” He put a questioning inflection on the last two words.

“I thought Victor left all his business behind him in New York. Perhaps he hasn’t told me everything.”

“Perhaps not.” He turned to look across the bay and muttered, “With a pair of glasses like yours one should be able to bring the other shore into focus.”

“One can,” she assured him with a trace of mockery.

“I have friends who must live just opposite here. I wonder if I could identify their house.”

She held the binoculars out to him. “After you get through pretending to look for your friend’s house, try the view on that little sailboat just off the Venetian Causeway and sigh for your lost youth.”

He moved the glasses slowly around, seeking to pick out the rear of the Hudson house with its stone breakwater and the boathouse protruding into the bay, but he could not be certain which of the houses lining the shore was the Hudsons’.

He deliberately swung the glasses on in a northward arc, picking up the far end of the Venetian Causeway and the small sailboat Estelle Morrison had mentioned. A young girl lay outstretched on some cushions in the bottom of the boat. She appeared to be nude. A boy was propped on one elbow beside her, and he was kissing her. The fingers of her right hand were tangled in his hair.

Handing the binoculars back to her, he said, “Kids grow up in a hurry nowadays.”

“Don’t they? Did you find your friend’s house?”

“I’m not sure.” Shayne took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and frowned. “The Leslie Hudsons’ house,” he told her. “Perhaps you know them.”

A slight tremor rippled the length of her body. She was like a panther flexing its muscles to spring. She said, “We know so few people here. You didn’t mention what your business is, Mr. Shayne.”

“I’m a detective.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were veiled now and when she said, “Perhaps you’d like a drink,” her voice was not so warmly provocative. She reached toward a silver bell on the table.

“A drink would be welcome.”

She struck the bell sharply, then put the binoculars to her eyes to sweep the surface of the bay again. “My husband is coming in now. That outboard near the northward shore.”

The maid came out from a side door and approached them, carrying her slim body haughtily. She did not speak when she reached the table beside her mistress’s chair, but picked up the empty glass and waited with a look of disdain in her blue eyes.

Mrs. Morrison said, “Two Scotch and sodas, June,” glancing at Shayne for confirmation.

He said, “Plenty of ice and not too much soda, please,” and the maid went back to the house.

“So you’re a detective?” Estelle said. “It must be frightfully interesting work.”

Shayne let his gaze move over her partly naked form. “I meet interesting people.”

“Are you one of those detectives who make love to unwanted wives and get them in compromising situations for divorce evidence?”

“I’ve avoided that sort of work,” he told her lightly. “When I get into a compromising situation I like to do it on my own time.” He grinned up at her from his cross-legged position on the grass. “Circumstances alter cases,” he added. “Now if the Victor Morrisons were having marital troubles, it would be a pleasure to help him get evidence.”

She did not smile, but stared at him stonily, the green flecks in her eyes seeming to actually melt away, leaving them wholly yellow. “You are not amusing,” she said coldly. “What is your business with my husband?”

“That,” said Shayne, “is between Mr. Morrison and myself.”

She started to say something else, but the maid was approaching with the drinks on a tray. Estelle stood up and lifted the binoculars again, focusing them on the little sailboat occupied by the young boy and girl. She held them steadily while the maid set the tray on the table and went away.

Then she said, “My God, those two kids—”

Shayne grinned and picked up his glass. He asked, “Is that your husband’s boat docking down there?”

She turned quickly, gave him a withering look, picked up her glass and said, “I’ll leave you to discuss your mysterious business with him, Mr. Detective Shayne.”

She was as tall as most men, and she walked barefooted across the grass with sinuous grace, swaying slightly above the hips. Shayne sipped his drink and watched her until she went into the house, then got up and strolled down to the private dock.

A lad of about fourteen, towheaded and bronzed, wearing only a pair of bathing trunks, was in the stern expertly handling the tiller and swinging the boat in a wide arc alongside the dock. In the bow was a man wearing a floppy straw hat, an old sweater and a pair of disreputable khaki pants. He had a square face and a smartly trimmed gray mustache. When he arose with the painter in hand, leaning over to grasp a stanchion as the boy cut the motor and the boat drifted in, Shayne saw that he had a strong, muscular body for his 50-odd years. His eyes were blue with a network of tiny wrinkles spreading out from the corners.

When the man stepped out on the wharf, Shayne said, “Mr. Morrison?” and offered his hand.

The millionaire took Shayne’s hand in a hearty grip and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.

“My name is Shayne. I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”

“No intrusion at all,” Victor Morrison assured him. He turned to the lad who was clambering out, a broad grin on his young face and a string of perch in his hand. “Better hurry those in to the cook, Howard. They should be put on ice right away.”

“Gee, Dad, I know that much, all right. It was swell, wasn’t it?” The lad started to scamper across the wharf, but turned to remind his father anxiously, “An’ you promised you’d take me along next time you go out at night. I betcha if I’d been along last night we’d of caught something.”

Morrison chuckled and agreed, “I bet we would, son. We’ll try it together next time.” He took off his straw hat and mopped a shining bald dome with a limp handkerchief. “Now, sir—you say you have some urgent business with me?”

Shayne was watching the boy run up the lawn. He asked, “Your son?”

“Why, yes. Taller than I am—at fifteen.” He chuckled with fatherly pride.

“It’s hard for me to realize you have a son that old. You see, I met Mrs. Morrison a few minutes ago.” He glanced down at the glass in his hand. “She was kind enough to give me a drink while I waited. She seemed so young—”

“I can understand your bewilderment,” said Morrison. “Estelle is my second wife, Mr. Shayne. We’ve been married only two years—since my first wife died.”

“That explains it.” They started to walk up the gentle slope of the lawn together. “Do you enjoy night fishing?” Shayne asked. “I heard your boy mention it.”

Morrison chuckled again. “I’ve tried it a couple of times,” he said. “Howard found out about it and was heartbroken that I didn’t take him along.”

“You probably went out too early,” Shayne suggested. “I understand that after midnight is the best time.”

“Perhaps that explains my poor luck,” the New York broker agreed. They had reached two chairs drawn close together, under two umbrellas. Morrison paused and asked, “Will your business take long?”

“I think not. If you have a few minutes we might talk right here.”

“Very well. Have a seat.” Mr. Morrison seated himself and took a broken cigar from a pocket of his sweater. He carefully licked the outer wrapper to seal it, and got a match. “What is the nature of your business?”

Shayne took the envelope containing the four photostats from his pocket. Picking one at random, he passed it across to the financier. “I’d like to know just when and under what circumstances you wrote this letter.” Morrison had struck the match on the side of the chair and was holding it to the end of his cigar. He accepted the photostat with his other hand and glanced at it while he puffed on his cigar.

He stopped puffing and his face became a mottled red. The match burned down to his fingers. He dropped it and asked thickly, “May I ask where you got hold of this?”

SHAYNE WAGGLED HIS HEAD and reminded him, “I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”

The financier had strong hands with short blunt fingers. They tightened on the photostat for an instant, crumpling the lower portion of it. Then he dropped it in his lap and took an experimental puff on his cigar. It hadn’t caught fire from the first match.

He got out another match and struck it, held it steadily and carefully to the end of his cigar. His broad, ruddy face looked thoughtful and his eyes no longer twinkled. He blew out the match, expelled a cloud of smoke and leaned back in the reclining chair. “I don’t believe you mentioned your business, Mr. Shayne.”

“I didn’t.”

“Will you do so now?”

“I’m a detective.”

Morrison lowered wrinkled eyelids for a moment. He picked up the crumpled photostat and studied it with care. “Why do you think this concerns me?”

“It’s in your handwriting. It’s signed ‘Vicky.’”

“The similarity to my writing startled me at first,” he admitted. “I assure you, however, I never wrote anything like this, and I certainly never signed myself ‘Vicky.’”

“I have photostatic copies of other somewhat similar notes written by you.” Shayne didn’t offer to show them.

Morrison cleared his throat “I should like to see the originals.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Shayne told him blandly.

Mr. Morrison sat erect in his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re after, Shayne. You have some clever forgeries of notes purportedly written by me at some unknown date to some unknown person. What point is there in it? What do you expect to gain by bringing them here?”

“I want to know when and to whom they were written.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Morrison loudly. “I deny any knowledge of them whatsoever.”

Shayne sighed and leaned back, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Circumstances are against you, Morrison. Let’s see, which one of the notes did I show you?” He reached out a long arm and took the note from Morrison’s lap. It was the one dated
Friday afternoon
and the salutation read,
My dearest love.
He glanced through it to refresh his memory as to the context, then flipped it back to Morrison.

“Unfortunately for your denial, you had a good-looking young secretary with whom your wife suspected you were in love. To stop her nagging, the young lady resigned her position. But you didn’t stop seeing her. These notes prove you were desperately seeking a way to get rid of your wife so you could marry the girl.” He tapped the envelope on his knee. “Do you want me to read these others to remind you of exactly what you said?”

“No,” he said hastily. “I don’t care to listen to any more of this nonsense.” He paused, chewing savagely on his cigar and staring across the bay. He looked older now, and tired.

“I think I see your game now,” Morrison resumed. “It’s very clever. You’ve dug up a certain set of facts and tailored your forgeries to fit those facts and given them an evil meaning. But I think you’ve forgotten one important link in your so-called chain of evidence. Those notes are utterly worthless unless you can prove they were written to and received by a certain party. And I assure you that the party in question will never lend herself to such a deception.”

“You sound very sure of that,” Shayne murmured.

“I am.”

“Suppose it could be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the notes were discovered by reputable witnesses in the possession of that certain party?”

Mr. Morrison removed the chewed cigar from his mouth and regarded it distastefully for a long moment. He finally said, “That would have been infernally clever, Shayne, if you could have managed it.”

Shayne said, “If you’ll look closely at the photostat on your lap you’ll see four sets of initials in the margin. Four different people were present when the notes were found and each of them initialed them in the presence of each other, and are prepared to swear to the circumstances.”

Morrison stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up the note, scrutinized it closely, and said, “You seem to have thought of everything.”

“It’s going to be difficult for you to deny authorship,” Shayne told him.

“How much?”

Shayne shook his head. “I’m investigating a homicide that won’t be solved until I know the truth about these notes. I want the whole story from you.”

“A—homicide?” Morrison echoed weakly.

“That’s right. A woman has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” Morrison’s jaw went slack and the cigar dropped from his mouth, spilling ashes down the front of his sweater.

“And these notes are a vital clue,” Shayne said somberly.

“You can’t prove it.” Morrison reached for his cigar with shaking fingers. “You can’t possibly prove it.”

“I think I can.”

Morrison was sitting erect, gripping the arms of his chair. “I’m a wealthy man, Mr. Shayne. I admit nothing, you understand, but it seems fairly obvious that you’re determined to drag my name into a nasty scandal. Name your price.”

“I’m not even in a position to return the originals,” Shayne said bluntly. “I want the truth.”

“Nonsense. Every man has his price. Take time to think it over carefully.”

“There are four other people involved,” Shayne pointed out. “The four who initialed the letters. Let me give you a bit of advice, Morrison. Once you start paying out money to hush up a thing like this you’ll never be done. 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. Let me have the whole story now. If your hands are clean you have nothing to fear.”

“But I insist there is no story,” said the financier stubbornly. “What more can I say or do? It’s a devilishly contrived frame-up and I realize how it can be made to look. Though I find a hundred experts to swear the letters are forgeries, you can counter with another hundred who will testify the opposite. I fully understand the position I’m in. You have nothing whatever to gain by forcing me out in the open. If you and your confederates will agree on any sort of reasonable terms I assure you I won’t be niggardly.”

“I have no confederates,” Shayne said angrily. “My only interest is clearing up a murder and preventing a girl’s marriage from being wrecked. I have to know how those notes came into Christine Hudson’s possession. The whole case hinges on that. I’m convinced you wrote them to her. Who else knew you had written them to her? Was she actually your sweetheart in New York, and is she lying when she denies receiving the notes from you? Or is she telling the truth and are these part of a deliberate plot to wreck her marriage and force her to accept you?” Shayne tapped the envelope containing the letters.

Morrison was chewing steadily on his cigar while Shayne spoke. “Are you telling me that Christine Hudson gave you those notes?”

“They were in her possession, as I told you. The four witnesses can swear to that. If Christine isn’t lying, then they were planted there. By whom?”

Morrison shook his head slowly. “I’m sure I don’t know who would do a thing like that, Mr. Shayne. But I swear I had no part in it. I would be a fool to—”

“You’re the only one with a possible motive,” Shayne interrupted. “If you used the maid who was murdered over there last night, I think I know
why
she was murdered. And I’ll soon know by whom. All I need is a few truthful answers from you. I’ll do my best to keep it private,” he urged. “Better tell me now than the police later. They’re still poking around in the dark, but it won’t be long before they hit on the right trail. Then all your money won’t keep the story out of the newspapers.”

Morrison continued to shake his bald head stubbornly. “I’ll have to discuss this with my attorney, Mr. Shayne. You understand, I’m admitting nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll have to have legal advice. I’ll be glad to contact you later, but I have nothing to say at the moment.”

“Better make it within the next couple of hours,” said Shayne disgustedly. He gave Morrison his address and stood up.

Mr. Morrison arose. He said, “I’ll get in touch with you at the earliest possible moment.”

Shayne said, “All right, but I can’t sit on this lid very long without getting scalded,” and stalked away to his car.