“They were in her possession, as I told you. The four witnesses can swear to that. If Christine isn’t lying, then they were planted there. By whom?”
Morrison shook his head slowly. “I’m sure I don’t know who would do a thing like that, Mr. Shayne. But I swear I had no part in it. I would be a fool to-”
“You’re the only one with a possible motive,” Shayne interrupted. “If you used the maid who was murdered over there last night, I think I know why she was murdered. And I’ll soon know by whom. All I need is a few truthful answers from you. I’ll do my best to keep it private,” he urged. “Better tell me now than the police later. They’re still poking around in the dark, but it won’t be long before they hit on the right trail. Then all your money won’t keep the story out of the newspapers.”
Morrison continued to shake his bald head stubbornly. “I’ll have to discuss this with my attorney, Mr. Shayne. You understand, I’m admitting nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll have to have legal advice. I’ll be glad to contact you later, but I have nothing to say at the moment.”
“Better make it within the next couple of hours,” said Shayne disgustedly. He gave Morrison his address and stood up.
Mr. Morrison arose. He said, “I’ll get in touch with you at the earliest possible moment.”
Shayne said, “All right, but I can’t sit on this lid very long without getting scalded,” and stalked away to his car.
Chapter Ten: SHAYNE UNCOVERS A PLOT
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 amp; 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 amp; 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
