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.”
