“You refuse to name your client?” asked Shayne, his ragged red brows raised.
“Certainly.”
Shayne knew defeat when he met it. He said, “All right. I’ll toss a question you can answer ethically. Are those letters in your possession now?”
“They are in a safe place,” the lawyer answered stoically.
“I understand that you three men left the Hudson house together-in possession of the letters. Were they out of your sight after that?”
“They were not. That is,” he amended, “except for the short period while the photostats were being made for Mr. Rourke’s use.”
“And another set for Angus Browne?”
“Only one set of copies was made,” the lawyer stated flatly.
Shayne said, “Wasn’t that an unethical thing for a reputable attorney to do? Give copies of important evidence to a newspaper man before they were admitted as evidence in a divorce court?”
Hampstead didn’t answer immediately. Presently he said, “As I recall it, Mr. Rourke was of material assistance in the discovery of the evidence required by my client, and that was the price he insisted upon to insure he would have a scoop in the publicity when the case broke.”
Shayne stood up suddenly. He said, “You’re in this up to your neck, Hampstead, whether you realize it or not. The blackmail attempt is going to fall right in your lap. The demand for money was based solely on a promise that the original letters would be returned to Mrs. Hudson. You’re the only person who could fulfill that promise.”
Hampstead pulled back his chair and stood up. His benign expression melted and his small eyes were cold. He said, “I’ve heard quite enough, Mr. Shayne. If you have nothing more to say-”
“I’ll have plenty more to say,” Shayne called over his shoulder as he went to the door. “You’ll be hearing from me.” He hadn’t acquired much information but he did feel he had lighted a time fuse.
He stalked out without a glance at the young information clerk and went down in the elevator.
On Flagler Street he hailed another taxi and went directly to the Hudson parts factory. Here, he had to state his name and business to the guard at the gate and wait while his name was telephoned to Leslie Hudson. Then he was given a badge and directed down a corridor to the office of the president’s secretary.
She was an elderly, smiling woman. She took him at once to Hudson’s office where he found the executive busy over a desk littered with blueprints. Leslie Hudson stood up, smiled wearily, but his handshake was hearty. He said, “I’m glad you dropped in. Things have been hectic this morning, and you don’t realize how glad I am to have you investigating the murder of the maid. Christine trusts you thoroughly, and so do I. Your customary fee will be quite all right.”
“I’m not on this case for a fee, Mr. Hudson. Your wife is a friend of mine-rather a close friend to Phyllis-”
“I understand,” Hudson said with a nod.
“Christine was so upset-and I’m glad to help her-if I can.”
“That’s kind of you, Shayne,” Hudson said cordially. “The maid’s death-murder-put Christine in a bad way. Of course in her condition I suppose it’s quite natural.”
Shayne nodded and cleared his throat. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Hudson. I know you’re a very busy man, but the police probably won’t take that into consideration.”
“What do you mean?” Hudson said, a worried frown coming between his hazel eyes.
“Natalie was murdered in your back yard,” Shayne said bluntly. “The police have figured out that she was struck down at your back door and dragged to the wharf where her throat was slit. Painter is not smart, but he is tenacious. He’ll hang on like a bulldog to any evidence he gets.”
“Are you trying to tell me that they suspect any of-us?” Hudson’s face went pale and his eyes showed grave concern.
“There are things that might come out,” Shayne told him seriously. “For instance, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was asleep and that she was a sound sleeper. But I happen to know she was not asleep when Natalie was murdered.”
Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered. “If you’re going to suspect Christine or me-”
Shayne said harshly, “Don’t be a fool, Hudson. I’m trying to help you. You didn’t tell Painter where you were last night. It’s important that I know where you and Christine were. You need an alibi. You don’t know Painter like I do. If you’ve nothing to hide tell me what you did.”
“Of course we have nothing to hide. I came back to the office after dinner. Christine had some sort of musicale to attend. I worked here in my office until about eleven. I stopped for a glass of beer and a sandwich on my way home, and my wife had been in about fifteen minutes when I got there. Is that satisfactory?”
“Were you alone here?”
“A watchman was on the gate, of course. He checked me in and out-which you can verify if you wish.”
Shayne said, “I will. Does your brother work here with you?”
Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered.
“Where could I find him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You might try some of the bars.”
“Like that, eh?”
“My brother,” said Hudson frankly, “is no good, Mr. Shayne. We inherited equally under my father’s will and in six years he has succeeded in squandering his portion of the inheritance. I’ve tried to interest him in the factory and this new production, but it has been wasted effort.”
“But you continue to support him?”
“He has a moderate allowance,” said Hudson in a pinched tone. “Enough to stay drunk most of the time, I’m sorry to say.”
“What about his gambling debts?”
“I clamped down on his gambling months ago.” Hudson’s mouth was a grim, tight line. “If he’s been gambling since, then he must have been winning.”
Shayne nodded casually and got up. He started out, but hesitated at the door, turned and said, “I notice that one of your neighbors just across the Bay is your wife’s former employer,” as though it was an afterthought.
Hudson was already busy with his blueprints. He looked up and nodded. “Mr. Morrison? Yes. They’ve reopened their place this season.”
“It’s only a short run across by boat,” Shayne fished.
“Yes. I suppose it would be.” Hudson looked politely impatient to get back to his work.
Shayne nodded and went out. When he surrendered his badge to the guard at the gate, he said, “Mr. Hudson asked me to check last night’s gate sheet before I go. Do you have it here?”
“Right here.” The guard turned back the pages of a ledger in which he had entered Shayne’s name and pointed out the entries for the preceding night. There were only three. Two of them had checked out at ten o’clock. The notation beside Hudson’s name showed he had entered the plant at 7:40 and left at 10:42.
When Shayne went back to town he took the precaution of stopping a couple of blocks from his hotel. It was four o’clock in the afternoon-plenty of time for the taxi driver to have told his story of Shayne’s ride home with Natalie Briggs from the Play-Mor to Painter.
He went into a drugstore and called his hotel. The desk clerk answered. Shayne said, “This is Mike Shayne. Anyone asked for me? Anybody hanging around that looks like a cop?”
“No cops, Mr. Shayne. But there’s a lady waiting to see you.”
“What does she look like?”
“Plenty of class.” The clerk’s tone was enthusiastic.
“Not the same one who spoke to me at the desk yesterday?”
“No. This one is-something else.”
Shayne thanked him and hung up. He went out and down the street to a liquor store that specialized in imported stuff. He selected a bottle of Martell cognac and was lucky enough to find a bottle of real Cointreau. Another stop at a small fruit stand along the way added a dozen lemons to his purchases. He was carrying the packages in his arms when he entered the lobby.
Estelle Morrison was waiting for him. She wore a dark brown clinging dress that did things to her lithe body, a blue turban wrapped around her head, and a pair of long dangling earrings.
