Shayne nodded casually, but a smoldering fire ate at his tight belly muscles. As soon as he saw those initials he recognized them as Timothy Rourke’s, and Mrs. Morgan’s description confirmed the knowledge he had tried desperately to put away from him. He had known for many weeks that Tim was still very ill from the wounds he had received, but he could not believe Tim was mixed up in a blackmailing scheme. His gaunt face hardened. Tim had been one of the best friends Shayne had ever had in Miami. But there was no shadow of a doubt that Natalie Briggs had held an earnest, almost frantic conversation with Rourke at the Play-Mor Club last night.
“And the third man?” Shayne asked Mrs. Morgan flatly.
“He was the policeman-the one who showed me his badge and pushed in when I didn’t want them to come in the door. He was dressed very shabbily in a gray suit and a hat not fit for a fishing trip.”
Shayne glanced at all four of the photostats to check the same sets of initials on the margins of each. He didn’t read them carefully, but a cursory glance assured him they were all written in the mushy style Christine had described. Replacing them in the envelope, he said, “Mrs. Morgan, you were not asleep last night when Natalie came in. I’m afraid your alibi of sound sleeping won’t work if the autopsy proves she was killed near the time I rang the doorbell and you answered.”
Mrs. Morgan retained her calm, impassive manner. She said, “I heard nothing, Mr. Shayne, except the ringing of the doorbell. Natalie must have been murdered after I retired, or the commotion, if any, was far enough away so that I wouldn’t hear it.”
The woman turned away and left the room.
Christine gasped. “Surely you don’t think Mrs. Morgan-”
Shayne said harshly, “I think Mrs. Morgan would protect you against anything and everything if she could.”
“But murder-” Her eyes were filled with horror.
“I have a couple of leads,” he told her. “You’ll have to trust me, and try not to worry. If I’ve guessed this setup correctly you have no need to fear that the original letters will be shown to your husband. You’ll probably receive another call from the blackmailer. Stall him if you do. Tell him you’re trying to raise the money and try to arrange a rendezvous with him. In the meantime, I’ll be working on every angle.”
“But-Maria,” she wailed “You can’t think Mrs. Morgan had anything to do with Natalie’s-death.”
Shayne whirled toward her on his way to the door. He said, “Here, take these and keep them for the time being. If we have to raise money on them-then we’ll have to.” He caught one of her hands and poured the string of pearls into her palm, squeezed her fingers over it, and hurried from the room.
Chapter Seven: COMPLICATED COINCIDENCES
Shayne suddenly realized that he didn’t have much time in which to cancel his reservation on the noon plane. He found the faithful taxi driver asleep in the cab when he reached it. There was a chance he might have his old apartment for the night, and he shook the driver awake, gave him the address and got in.
The driver yawned, sat erect and looked at his clock. “Golly, Mister-”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Step on it.”
“You bet,” the driver said, and shot forward.
The clerk, the same anemic young man who had been at the desk when Shayne had checked out said, “Oh, Mr. Shayne, you’re back.”
“How about my apartment for tonight?” Shayne asked.
“But we’ve already sent your suitcase to the airport,” he said. “I thought-”
“The apartment,” Shayne said, “can I have it?”
“Oh, yes. We haven’t had a call for it-yet. Have you got a case in Miami?” The clerk leaned his elbows on the counter and his pale blue eyes were alight.
“Sort of.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a half dollar, tossed it to the young man and said, “Thanks. I want to send a telegram.”
“Sure, Mr. Shayne.” The youth shoved a pad of yellow sheets across the counter.
Shayne used the counter’s scratchy pen in an ink bottle to write a telegram to Lucy Hamilton. It read: Missed noon plane but hope to make it this midnight. Keep on stalling Belton.
He called the airport and cancelled his reservation on the noon plane and asked for space on the night flight. The airline was distinctly cool and refused a definite commitment, suggesting instead that he call a couple of hours before he was ready to leave, or be at the port when the plane was scheduled to go. There were often last minute cancellations.
Shayne hung up, went to the kitchen and was putting ice cubes in a tall glass before he remembered there wasn’t a drink in the apartment. His last bottle of cognac was packed in the suitcase which was at the airport.
He dumped the ice cubes into the sink and went back to the living-room, pulling the photostats from his pocket as he went. Settling himself in a chair, he began reading them. It was impossible to tell in what order they had been written. After shuffling through them, he read the one on top.
Wednesday night
My very own sweet,
I simply have to talk to you tonight, darling. The office was a hell of loneliness today. It seems months instead of days since you left.
The new girl is competent, but I miss you so terribly. Today I was dictating and she sat across from me in your chair, and I must have been dreaming, for in the middle of a letter I said, “You have the most beautiful eyes in the world, Love,” and she looked up and snickered and said, “Does that go in the letter?” I laughed it off, but-you know you have, dearest.
I must see you!!! I will call you from the office tomorrow. You know I dare not call from here with the extension upstairs.
Something will work out. There must be some way to get rid of her so we can be together-forever.
All my love, Vicky
Shayne sighed and laid the note aside, sat for a moment with a deep frown between his eyes, then read the next one.
Monday morning, 4 a.m.
My sweetest love,
I cannot sleep. I cannot think. I am sitting here alone in my room with the connecting door locked so my wife can’t disturb me. She was asleep when I came in half an hour ago. I’m sure she doesn’t suspect I was with you.
I cannot give you up. You must know that. Not after tonight. I keep thinking of the plan you suggested. I see no other way. But we must be very careful. For your dear sake, there must be no breath of scandal.
It can’t be wrong to love as we love one another. It can’t be wrong to take whatever steps are necessary to fulfill our love.
I won’t write any more tonight-though I won’t sleep. I shall go to bed and in the darkness you will come to me. Your soft white body-
I love you with all my heart,
Vicky
Shayne wriggled in his chair, cleared his throat, and sat up straight. The damned letters made his throat dry, and he wished to God he had a drink.
No wonder Christine was prepared to go to any lengths to keep the letters from her husband. No man in his right mind could laugh off this sort of evidence. What sort of man was Victor Morrison that he could write a series of notes like this and plant them on a girl who had not been his sweetheart? If Christine was telling the truth, it was the most fantastic plot he had ever bumped into.
