Blood on Biscayne Bay (7 page)

FROM THE MORRISON RESIDENCE Shayne went directly to Angus Browne’s office. He rode up in the elevator with two chattering girls to the fourth floor of the Metropolitan Building on Flagler Street and went down an unlighted corridor to Number 416.
Angus Browne: Investigating
was printed on the frosted glass. He knocked, and when there was no answer or sound of movement inside, he turned the knob. The door was locked.

The corridor was deserted and the doors of all nearby offices were closed. He got out his key ring and went to work on the lock. It yielded after several tries, and he walked into a dark and musty anteroom. There were half a dozen chairs lined up against the wall, and nothing else. A door marked
Private
led off the small room.

The door was unlocked and Shayne entered. Here, also, the room was dusty and musty from disuse. The shades were drawn. He ran two of them up, and looked around at a bare desk and a swivel chair in the center of the room. Two cane-bottomed chairs were in front of the desk. Cigarette butts littered the floor around a wire trash basket, and an empty pint whisky bottle lay in one corner where it had apparently been carelessly tossed. A steel filing cabinet stood in another corner near one of the windows.

The drawers of the upright cabinet had cardboard tabs marked alphabetically. Shayne pulled out the second drawer, marked H—M. His eyes glinted when he found a thin folder marked Morrison.

He took the folder out and carried it over to the dusty desk, seated himself and opened it. The first entry was a brief note dated October 2, 1945, on the letterhead of Pursley, Adams & Peck, Attorneys-at-law, Miami, Florida. It was addressed to Angus Browne, and read:

We have a client desirous of arranging an investigation of an exceedingly confidential nature and you have been recommended to us as a discreet and efficient private investigator.

If you are in a position to undertake such an assignment at this time, please call for an appointment at your earliest convenience.

A penciled notation on the bottom of the letter read:
10/3, 2:00 p.m.

The next exhibit was a one-page typewritten memorandum with a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo which set forth that one Angus Browne was hereby and hereinafter retained by Victor Morrison for the purpose of obtaining satisfactory legal evidence against Mrs. Estelle Morrison to permit her husband to obtain an uncontested divorce from her. For his services Browne was to be paid a flat rate of $50 per day, with a bonus of $500, contingent upon a satisfactory conclusion of the case. This document was dated October 3.

There followed a thin sheaf of carbon copies of daily reports filed by Browne with the attorneys, setting forth in detail Mrs. Morrison’s movements during each 24-hour period.

The first two reports were innocuous enough, but on October 6, Mr. Morrison’s suspicions appeared to be justified. On that day, Estelle Morrison had left home at 2:00 p.m. alone in her coupe and driven directly to the Flamingo Inn on West 79th Street. Here she had been observed by Browne having several drinks at the bar before retiring to a dimly lit booth in the company of a young man with whom she had struck up an acquaintanceship in the course of a few rounds of drinks.

They had remained together in the booth until slightly after four o’clock. Then they left the Flamingo in her coupe and drove to a spot on Miami Beach for more drinks, and then had dinner.

At seven o’clock Browne followed them in his car to a cheap hotel on the Beach, watched them embrace fervidly in the car before the young man got out and went inside. Discreet inquiries revealed the man to be Lance Hastings. He was about 28 years old, with no known means of support.

The couple had met the two following days for further drinks and more embraces, culminating on the evening of the third day by a visit made by Estelle Morrison to Hastings’s room at eight o’clock in the evening, where she remained until almost midnight. Attached to this report was a photostatic copy of an affidavit by a bellboy in the hotel who had seen her enter Hastings’s room, and who had later delivered cracked ice and seen both parties in a state of intimate undress. He had witnessed her departure just before twelve o’clock.

The reports for the next two days contained no significant incidents, but on Friday, October 12, Mrs. Estelle Morrison threw caution to the winds and left home early in the afternoon in her coupe and with a small overnight bag. Trailed to the Beach hotel by Browne, he had seen Lance Hastings greet her affectionately and enter the coupe, whereupon the couple had driven northward to Fort Lauderdale and registered at a hotel there as Mr. and Mrs. D. G. Hays, where they had spent the night.

Attached to this final report were photostats of the signature of the hotel register, and affidavits by three employees of the hotel They had been shown a photograph of Mrs. Morrison and were prepared to swear she had registered as Mrs. D. G. Hays.

Since this was the final report in the folder, Pursley, Adams & Peck were apparently satisfied that they had an airtight case against Mrs. Morrison to present to a divorce court. It was safe to assume that Angus Browne had collected his bonus for a nasty job well done.

There was nothing in the reports to indicate that Lance Hastings had been employed to do a job on Mrs. Morrison. He had probably played into Morrison’s hands by being an easy pickup for his wife.

Shayne closed the folder with an expression of disgust on his gaunt face. He thought of Estelle Morrison lying outstretched on her deck chair, avidly spying on the unsuspecting young couple in the sailboat, and he felt no pity for her. He only wondered why Victor Morrison had remained married to her for two years before bothering to get the low-down.

Another thought struck him with stunning force as he got up to return the folder to the file. It answered a lot of questions in a way Shayne didn’t want them answered. This proved that Morrison had made careful plans to get rid of his wife—as intimated in his notes to Christine Hudson. He had, quite evidently, come to Florida to establish legal residence where the divorce laws were much less strict than in New York, and had gone to work immediately compiling evidence to obtain an uncontested verdict. It tied in perfectly with the notes and was damning evidence that they were exactly what they appeared to be.

His gray eyes flared with an angry light as he faced the fact that Christine had probably been lying to him all the time. Certainly, if the notes were a plant by Morrison, no man in his right mind would have included those allusions to his plan for getting rid of his wife.

But no man in his right mind would have planned such a fantastic scheme in the beginning. No rules of logic could possibly be applied to the situation.

Shayne slammed the file shut and went out, pulling the outer door shut but not bothering to lock it. In a telephone booth downstairs he rang Rourke’s number again. When there was still no reply, he called the office of the apartment house and asked the manager whether he knew when Rourke would return.

The manager said, “Mr. Rourke? I’m quite certain he’s in.”

Shayne said irritably, “He doesn’t answer his phone.” The manager chuckled and said, “I’m not surprised. He sent out for another quart of whisky at ten o’clock this morning and I know he hasn’t gone out since.” Shayne thanked him and went out. He found a taxi loitering along Flagler Street and hailed the driver who stopped a stream of traffic while Shayne got in.

Shayne said, “The Blackstone Apartments on the Beach.” He lit a cigarette and refused to let his thoughts drift into the depths of black conjecture indicated by the facts he had unearthed.

The manager of the Blackstone Apartment Hotel was a slim young man named Mr. Henty. He had met Shayne previously, and when the detective entered, Henty leaned over the counter to explain, “I was pretty sure that was you on the phone, Mr. Shayne. After you called I went up and tried Mr. Rourke’s door. It’s locked and I couldn’t rouse him by knocking. So I unlocked it with my passkey. He’s—quite all right.”

“Drunk?” Shayne asked, frowning.

“Well—yes.”

“What time did he get in last night?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one on duty after midnight.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got to sober him up.”

Mr. Henty looked doubtful, but got his passkey and led Shayne upstairs. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back for Shayne to enter.

“Thanks,” Shayne said, and went in, closing the door behind him.

Timothy Rourke lay on his back on the living-room couch. His mouth was open and he was snoring softly.

Shayne opened all the windows in the apartment, then went over to the couch and got a firm grip on the reporter’s pitifully thin and bony shoulders. He dragged him from the couch to an upright position and shook him

Rourke’s head wobbled back and forth limply. He mumbled something but didn’t open his eyes. Shayne half dragged him into the bathroom, put him in the bathtub and turned on the cold shower.

Rourke twisted his head and gasped as the needle-spray struck him in the face. He put his hands over his face, turned on his side, and doubled his long body up in the tub. He lay supine for a full minute with the water beating down upon him, then wearily dragged himself to a sitting position, blinking at Shayne through bleared eyes.

Shayne turned off the water and said, “Strip off your clothes, Tim. I’ve got to talk to you. Get on some dry clothes while I make some coffee.”

In the kitchen Shayne turned the electric stove on to high and put hot water in the percolator and set it on the fire. He found coffee in the cupboard and dumped enough in the top to fill it.

Returning to the bathroom he found Rourke sitting up and weakly attempting to strip his wet undershirt off. Shayne caught the hem and yanked it up, then went to work on Rourke’s trousers. He put the plug in the tub and ran cold water in. He said, “Stay there and soak awhile. I’ll have some coffee in a few minutes.” Rourke sank back in the tub and closed his eyes. Shayne left him with the water running and returned to the kitchen. The coffee was percolating. He then rummaged in a bureau drawer and found dry underclothes. He got a pair of pants from the closet, then went back to the bathroom, dragged Rourke out, helped him to rub himself dry, and supported him to the bedroom. The reporter sank down on the bed, managed to get into a pair of shorts and trousers and an undershirt Shayne went into the kitchen, turned the fire to low, and poured a mug of coffee. He left the percolator on the fire to bring the coffee to a stronger consistency and carried the mugful in to Rourke.

After his third mug, Rourke showed signs of sobering, and Shayne began questioning him.

He asked, “Who was the third man with you and Angus Browne when you found those letters at the Hudson house a couple of weeks ago?”

Rourke shook his head and blinked dazedly. “Letters?” he muttered. “Hudson house?” He put a hand to his head, thought for a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. Sure. Angus and that lawyer. Hampstead, I think.”

“I understand you found the letters.”

“That’s right. I did. What the hell—”

“Who told you where you’d find them?”

“Nobody.” Rourke staggered to his feet and started into the living-room. “C’mon. Let’s go get a drink.”

Shayne followed him saying, “You don’t get a drink until you’ve answered my questions—”

“The hell I don’t,” Rourke scoffed. He slumped down on the couch, his hand moving toward the liquor bottle.

Shayne picked it up and sat down with it in his lap. He asked, “How did you know there were any letters?”

“Angus told me. He said they’d be hidden some place, so we all looked. I happened to find them first. What of it? For crissake, gimme a drink, Mike.” Shayne shook his head stubbornly.

“Where are the letters now? The originals?”

“They’ve got ’em. The lawyer, I guess. We all went down to a place together where I got my set of photostats made. That’s all I wanted.”

“You
got the photostats? Where are they now?”

“In there.” Rourke gestured limply toward the bedroom. “Bureau drawer. Put ’em there when I came in.”

Shayne got up. He said, “I want to see them.”

The reporter stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a moment, then shrugged and got up. He staggered into the bedroom, went to the bureau and pulled open the second drawer. He reached in, and then began rummaging under a pile of shirts while Shayne waited.

Rourke turned with a look of slack surprise on his face and said, “They’re not here, Mike. The damned things are gone.”

“TRY THE OTHER DRAWERS,” Shayne suggested.

The missing letters appeared to sober Rourke completely. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “They’re gone,” he said again. “I remember sticking them under those shirts. What in hell is this all about?” he added irritably. “What do you know about those photostats? Why do you want them? Can’t you see I’m in no shape for guessing games?”

Shayne said soberly, “This isn’t a game, Tim. A girl has been murdered. What did you do last night?”

Rourke took a few steps backward and sat down on the bed. “I got drunk, for crissake,” he muttered.

“Where?”

“I was at the Play-Mor. Didn’t I see you there? It’s sort of dim but I think you were there, too.”

Shayne nodded. “About ten o’clock. How long did you stay?”

Rourke shuddered and said, “I don’t know exactly. I won a little money and went to the bar. Somewhere along the line I pulled a black-out.”

Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. “Do you remember a tall blonde at the roulette table? Not too good-looking. Her hair was sort of frizzled.”

Rourke closed his eyes for a moment, then said despairingly, “There may’ve been a dozen blondes at the table. I wasn’t noticing.”

“She was across the table from us when I talked with you,” Shayne reminded him. “Later on I saw you talking with her. She had too much perfume on.”

Rourke complained, “I can’t think. Maybe if I had a drink—” His eyes looked greedily at the bottle which Shayne still held in his hand.

Shayne hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and went to the kitchen. He poured a portion of whisky in the coffee mug and filled it with hot coffee and took it in to Rourke. He said, “Drink this down as hot as you can take it. You’ve
got
to start thinking.”

Rourke looked up, amazed by the urgency in his old friend’s voice. He took the mug and drank the coffee royal without removing it from his lips.

Shayne took the mug, set it down, lit a cigarette and stuck it in Rourke’s hand. He pulled the bedroom chair closer to the bed, sat down and said, “Now then—about last night. The blonde who talked to you for awhile and then beat it in a hell of a hurry—what do you know about her?”

The reporter nodded slowly. “I’m beginning to get it. Sure. It was that maid from the Hudsons’ house. I didn’t recognize her until she told me who she was.”

“Was she at the Hudsons’ the day you found the letters?”

“I guess so. Yeah. I noticed her downstairs when we first went in. But she didn’t go upstairs with us.”

“But last night she reminded you of seeing her there?”

“That’s right.” Rourke pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. “She moved in on me while I was winning. I remember her perfume now. She was broke and her guy had run out on her and she wanted me to stake her.”

“Did you?”

“Hell, no. I told her to run along and peddle her stuff some place else.”

“And?”

“That’s when she reminded me who she was. As if it made some difference—as if it was important.” He frowned uneasily. “I didn’t get it. I don’t know just what she said, but it was something like I’d better play ball and slip her a stake—or else.”

“Or else what?”

Rourke spread out his thin-fingered hands defensively. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. I told her to get the hell out before I called the bouncer. So she got.”

Shayne considered this for a moment. “Did you get tough enough to scare her half out of her senses?”

Rourke grinned. “I don’t know just what I said. It probably wasn’t a very gentle admonition.”

“And you stayed on at the table?”

“That’s right. That is, I don’t remember much about it, Mike. Things’re mixed up. What’s this all about?”

“The girl was murdered last night after she left the Play-Mor.”

“The blonde—the Hudsons’ maid?” gasped Rourke.

Shayne nodded gravely. “Within half an hour after you were talking with her. Did anyone overhear your conversation with her?”

“How the hell do I know? There were a lot of people around. Look here, Mike, you act as though you think I bumped her off.”

“Somebody did. And if Painter gets wind of your hookup with her he might think you did. Now—let’s get back to those letters you found. Give me the whole picture—from the beginning.”

“Nothing much to it,” he said. “I ran into Angus Browne one day in a bar a couple of weeks ago. You know Angus?”

Shayne nodded.

“We had a couple of drinks and Angus asked me what I was doing and I told him nothing much. He asked me if I’d like to get hold of a juicy story. I told him sure. If it was something I could sell. You know I’ve been free-lancing on feature stuff for the local papers since I left the hospital. Well, he said it was plenty hot and I could have an exclusive on it when it broke.

“Browne didn’t tell me exactly what the deal was. A divorce—involving a couple of prominent families. He needed a witness to tie it up for good. All he wanted was my promise not to break it until he gave the word. It sounded good enough to me so I said okay and we got in his car and picked up another guy named Hampstead. He’s a lawyer, I think.

“We drove over to the Beach to a big house on the Bay-front. Browne flashed his tin on an old lady who must be the housekeeper, and bluffed his way in. On the way over he’d told us we were looking for a small packet of letters that would be hidden somewhere in the house. He said they’d been written to Mrs. Hudson by a millionaire named Victor Morrison from New York, and Morrison’s wife was after them for evidence in a divorce suit against her husband.”

Shayne was staring at Rourke, the disgust he felt showing in his eyes.

Rourke shrugged and grinned wryly. “Hell, I admit it was nasty business, but I figured I might as well have the story and make a few bucks on an exclusive as someone else. So we poked around down in the library and then went upstairs to the lady’s bedroom and went to work on it. I took the vanity, and just happened to find the letters. Four of ’em tied up in a pink ribbon.”

Shayne held up a wide palm, “Wait a minute. Think back. Are you sure they were there in the house all the time—not planted in that drawer by Browne or Hampstead when you weren’t looking?”

“For crissake, no. I was the only one who went near the vanity. They were there, all right. The old lady saw me find ’em.”

Shayne said, “Go on.”

“We looked at them and saw they were signed ‘Vicky,’ and Angus said they were the ones he was looking for. He had all of us initial each letter right there for identification in court later. We took them to the Magic City Photostat Company and had a set of copies made for me. I swore I’d keep the whole thing quiet until they were ready to break the story in court.”

“Who else got a set of photostats?” Shayne demanded.

“No one. They had the originals. We had only one set made and I took those. Damned if I can understand them not being in that drawer where I put them.” He paused to frown deeply, and again pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I dropped in at a bar,” he resumed, “for a couple of drinks, and read them through. They were juicy, all right. More than Angus promised. Then Ted Smith came in and we had a couple more drinks, and I came back here and ditched the photostats. Right under that pile of shirts.” He waggled an emaciated finger at the drawer.

“When did you see them last?”