Blood on Biscayne Bay (8 page)

“That evening. I didn’t bother to look at them again. Angus said it’d be a few more weeks before Mrs. Morrison would have her Florida residence established so she could file suit.”

Scowling deeply, Shayne got up and stalked into the living-room and over to a littered typewriter desk in the corner. He sat down and rolled a sheet of paper in the machine, got the envelope containing the three remaining photostats from his pocket and copied exactly the typewritten address that was on the envelope.

Rourke staggered after him and peered over his shoulder as Shayne tapped out the words. When Shayne pulled the sheet out and began carefully comparing the two typed addresses, the reporter growled, “What’s this hocus-pocus,” steadying himself with his hands on the desk chair.

“This,” said Shayne, showing him the envelope, “was sent to Mrs. Hudson the next day after you found the letters. The photostats were in it. It was followed by a blackmail demand for ten grand.”

Rourke let out a loud whistle. “The photostats were mailed to her?
My
photostats?”

“Evidently. You claim you had the only set,” Shayne reminded him.

Rourke stumbled over to the couch and sat down hard. He glared angrily at Shayne and demanded, “Do you think I sent them? Is that why you’re checking my machine?”

“If you did, you were smart enough not to use your own typewriter,” Shayne told him “Did you?”

“Do you think I’m a blackmailer? Goddamn you, Mike, I’ll knock your block off—” He tried to get up, but sank dizzily back on the couch.

“How do you know whether you are or not? You’ve been drunk ever since you got out of the hospital and by your admission you don’t remember much. Living like a damned pig. How do I know what you might do? Maybe you were drunk enough that it looked like a good way to pick up some spare cash.”

Rourke’s pinched face became livid, his fists doubled involuntarily. “Damn you,” he snarled, “we’ve been friends for a long time but I won’t take that from anybody.”

Shayne grunted disgustedly, got up and strode across the living-room. At the door he reminded the reporter savagely, “You can’t produce the set of photostats you admit having made—the
only
set.”

“Wait a minute, Mike,” Rourke implored. “Maybe I forgot where I put ’em. They could have been stolen.”

Shayne said, “There’s a murder mixed up in this thing, Tim. For God’s sake tell me the truth.” Sweat stood on his face. “We’ve been friends long enough for that.”

“Friends?” Rourke spat the word out contemptuously. “Get out if that’s what you think of me.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Tim.” Shayne kept his voice steady.

“Murder,” muttered Rourke angrily. “What good is the word of a goddamned pig and drunkard? Go ahead and run to Petey with your story. Maybe you can pin the murder on me, too. Sure. It all ties up. Somebody prob’ly heard her trying to put the bite on me last night. There’s your motive. She was threatening to turn me up as a blackmailer, so I let her have it.” He swayed to his feet and laughed hysterically, his thin lips drawn back from his teeth. “Big shot Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Cut it out, Tim.”

“Like hell I’ll cut it out. Why don’t you jump me right now?” He fell back on the couch and lay limp.

Shayne said again, “If you’ll give me your word—” Timothy Rourke didn’t say anything. He didn’t open his eyes. Shayne stood looking down at him for a moment, his gaunt face set, then went out and closed the door.

DOWNSTAIRS, SHAYNE FOUND B. J. Hampstead’s address in the classified section of the directory. He was the only Hampstead listed under
Lawyers.
He made a note of it and hurried out to his waiting cab. He directed the driver to take him back to Miami.

All the information he had thus far turned up on the case only muddled the waters a little more. Angus Browne, it appeared, had told Rourke he was working for Estelle Morrison; helping
her
secure divorce evidence against her husband. He knew that Browne was working for Victor Morrison, and that he had received a fat fee for collecting evidence against his wife.

The fact that Angus Browne had known about the letters and approximately where to look for them certainly argued that he had been ordered to turn them up, in the presence of sufficient witnesses, by Mr. Morrison. No one else could possibly have known about them. Whether they were legitimate and had actually been received by Christine Hudson was still a deep puzzle.

If they had been secretly prepared by Morrison and planted by the murdered maid in Christine’s vanity drawer, why? Why would he pay money to have them discovered by four reputable witnesses when they would become evidence against himself instead of his wife? Was Browne doing a double cross and working for both of them? And, added to this, blackmailing Christine? Shayne had no doubt that Browne was unscrupulous enough to do a thing like that, but Browne was not dumb. He had sense enough to know his actions would be revealed in the end.

Shayne tried to break the puzzle down both ways. If genuine, there was the possibility that Morrison was so deeply hurt and angered by Christine’s throwing him over and marrying a younger man, he might have written the letters to hurt her in retaliation. Putting the incriminating notes in his wile’s possession would be one way of accomplishing that purpose, but it was an expensive way of getting revenge.

With the evidence Morrison had acquired against his wife it would be impossible for her to obtain alimony or even a cash settlement from him when he divorced her. But with the letters as evidence in a countersuit, Mrs. Morrison would take him for plenty. Only a completely deranged man would put such a weapon in the hands of a woman whom he intended to divorce.

If the letters were a plant, the same conjecture held good. With one possible exception. If Morrison wanted a job like that done it was reasonable to presume he would arrange with Browne to attend to it. There was a possibility that he had no intention of allowing them to reach his wife—that he was merely laying the groundwork to bring pressure on Christine to leave her husband later, after his divorce had been granted. Browne might well have been lying to Rourke about representing Estelle Morrison just to get him to play along and be a witness to finding the letters. That, too, would explain why Morrison had not let his own firm of lawyers in on the frame-up. He knew that the majority of lawyers had ethics about such things.

He said to the taxi driver, “Let me off here,” just before they reached Miami Avenue where it crossed Flagler Street. He paid the fare and a generous tip and dismissed him. The young and attractive girl at the information desk was horrified that anyone expected to see Mr. Hampstead without an appointment. She asked Shayne to leave his name and telephone number and said she would call him after she had arranged a time suitable to her employer.

“I’m leaving town on the midnight plane, sister,” Shayne told her gruffly. “I’m seeing B. J. Hampstead now. Which is his office?”

She glanced fearfully at the end door of a row of four opening off the anteroom “But it’s impossible,” she exclaimed. “He’s in conference now, and—”

Shayne was already moving away from her toward the door she had looked at. He reached it and turned the knob and walked in. The light gray carpeting was thick, and soft light entered the windows which were wide and hung with oyster-white curtains.

A gray-haired man with a benign face sat at a big flat desk across from two young men. He had a ruddy complexion and the “bit of a stomach” which Mrs. Morgan had described. He looked up, frowning, as Shayne walked in unannounced.

One of the young men had several typed sheets in his hand and was reading aloud from them. He stopped reading when he saw Mr. Hampstead’s frown of displeasure.

Shayne said, “I’m here on police business, Hampstead. A homicide investigation. I think it had better be private.”

“I’m exceedingly busy,” Hampstead said in a clipped voice.

“So am I. Trying to catch a murderer.” Shayne stopped beside the big desk, his gray eyes cold and steady on Hampstead’s face.

The lawyer said to the man who had been reading, “Come back in five minutes,” and dismissed both men with a wave of his hand.

Shayne waited until they disappeared through a side door and closed it. He remained standing, and said flatly, “It’s the Natalie Briggs case. The Hudsons’ maid.”

Hampstead folded his pudgy hands across his stomach, leaned back and said, “Yes?”

“I want to know whom you represented when you went to the Hudson house and entered illegally a couple of weeks ago—with a private detective named Angus Browne and a reporter.”

“Are you with the Miami Police Department?”

“I’m private,” said Shayne. “Michael Shayne.”

The lawyer smiled frostily. “What is your interest in the case?”

“I’ve been retained by Mrs. Hudson.”

“Indeed,” said Hampstead, with a trace of sarcasm. “What has my visit to the Hudson house to do with the death of their maid?”

“That,” said Shayne harshly, “is what I intend to find out.”

Hampstead raised his thin gray brows. “I’d be glad to aid in a murder investigation, of course, but I fail to see the connection.”

“You entered the house illegally and purportedly found some private letters belonging to Mrs. Hudson. You and your accomplices stole them. Stealing private property is illegal.”

Hampstead said, “I’m fully aware of the legal aspects of my conduct, Mr. Shayne.”

“Were you acting for Mrs. Morrison?”

Hampstead smiled slyly, but made no reply. He gave no indication that he intended to answer.

Shayne sat down in the chair vacated by the man who had been reading the document to Hampstead. He said, “You can talk to the police if you’d rather.”

“I’d much rather,” the lawyer assured him.

 Shayne said, “All right, I won’t try to bluff you. If I can prove a plausible connection between the letters and the maid’s death, will you talk to me?”

“I prefer to listen first and then make my decision.”

“I think those letters were planted in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity drawer where Timothy Rourke found them. I think it was arranged through Browne and the Hudsons’ maid, Natalie Briggs, with you and Timothy Rourke acting as uninformed spectators. An attempt has been made to blackmail Mrs. Hudson by threatening to send the originals to her husband, and I believe the blackmailer killed Natalie Briggs last night to prevent her from talking.”

Hampstead’s expression remained benign and inscrutable and somewhat insolent. “Those are a lot of assumptions,” he said.

“You refuse to name your client?” asked Shayne, his ragged red brows raised.

“Certainly.”

Shayne knew defeat when he met it. He said, “All right. I’ll toss a question you can answer ethically. Are those letters in your possession now?”

“They are in a safe place,” the lawyer answered stoically.

“I understand that you three men left the Hudson house together—in possession of the letters. Were they out of your sight after that?”

“They were not. That is,” he amended, “except for the short period while the photostats were being made for Mr. Rourke’s use.”

“And another set for Angus Browne?”

“Only one set of copies was made,” the lawyer stated flatly.

Shayne said, “Wasn’t that an unethical thing for a reputable attorney to do? Give copies of important evidence to a newspaper man before they were admitted as evidence in a divorce court?”

Hampstead didn’t answer immediately. Presently he said, “As I recall it, Mr. Rourke was of material assistance in the discovery of the evidence required by my client, and that was the price he insisted upon to insure he would have a scoop in the publicity when the case broke.”

Shayne stood up suddenly. He said, “You’re in this up to your neck, Hampstead, whether you realize it or not. The blackmail attempt is going to fall right in your lap. The demand for money was based solely on a promise that the original letters would be returned to Mrs. Hudson. You’re the only person who could fulfill that promise.”

Hampstead pulled back his chair and stood up. His benign expression melted and his small eyes were cold. He said, “I’ve heard quite enough, Mr. Shayne. If you have nothing more to say—”

“I’ll have plenty more to say,” Shayne called over his shoulder as he went to the door. “You’ll be hearing from me.” He hadn’t acquired much information but he did feel he had lighted a time fuse.

He stalked out without a glance at the young information clerk and went down in the elevator.

On Flagler Street he hailed another taxi and went directly to the Hudson parts factory. Here, he had to state his name and business to the guard at the gate and wait while his name was telephoned to Leslie Hudson. Then he was given a badge and directed down a corridor to the office of the president’s secretary.

She was an elderly, smiling woman. She took him at once to Hudson’s office where he found the executive busy over a desk littered with blueprints. Leslie Hudson stood up, smiled wearily, but his handshake was hearty. He said, “I’m glad you dropped in. Things have been hectic this morning, and you don’t realize how glad I am to have you investigating the murder of the maid. Christine trusts you thoroughly, and so do I. Your customary fee will be quite all right.”

“I’m not on this case for a fee, Mr. Hudson. Your wife is a friend of mine—rather a close friend to Phyllis—”

“I understand,” Hudson said with a nod.

“Christine was so upset—and I’m glad to help her—if I can.”

“That’s kind of you, Shayne,” Hudson said cordially. “The maid’s death—murder—put Christine in a bad way. Of course in her condition I suppose it’s quite natural.”

Shayne nodded and cleared his throat. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Hudson. I know you’re a very busy man, but the police probably won’t take that into consideration.”

“What do you mean?” Hudson said, a worried frown coming between his hazel eyes.

“Natalie was murdered in your back yard,” Shayne said bluntly. “The police have figured out that she was struck down at your back door and dragged to the wharf where her throat was slit. Painter is not smart, but he is tenacious. He’ll hang on like a bulldog to any evidence he gets.”