Blood on Biscayne Bay (17 page)

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.”

Shayne shook his red head and said seriously, “For once in my life let me do something for nothing. Let’s say—Phyllis would want it that way—for Christine’s sake.” He looked at his watch and added, “I’d like to use your telephone, and if there’s a seat on the midnight plane I’d appreciate a drive to the airport.”

“Anything at all,” Hudson said heartily, “that we can do for you will be a pleasure.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and hurried into the library and called the airport. He was told that there was a vacancy on the plane to New Orleans.

When he returned to the living-room Christine was waiting with a light coat over her arm. In her hands she held a square jewel box and she went to him, pressed a little gold button which snapped the box open. Inside, coiled on a velvet cushion lay a string of pearls. She said, “Leslie and I want you to have these.”

Shayne protested, “I can’t take
these.
They’re worth a fortune.”

Christine laughed and linked her arm in his. “I told you they’d fool even an expert,” she said. “I’ve told Leslie everything,” she went on breathlessly, “and he agrees that we have no further use for
this
string now. Aren’t they lovely?” She raised her dark eyes to his and added softly, “Michael?”

Shayne thought of Lucy Hamilton. Maybe a gift like this would persuade her to forgive him for all the trouble and anxiety he had caused her. He said, “Thanks, Christine. I know a girl—but we’ve got to get going if I am to catch that plane.”