Gentry folded his hands across his stomach and was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said, “All right. But if you don’t get the hell out of town in a hurry you’ll make an old man out of me.”
“I’m getting out on the midnight plane,” Shayne told him. “There are a couple of other things-”
Ira Wilson stirred on the floor and sat up, holding his jaw in both hands and waggling it from side to side.
Gentry looked at him and called, “Porter!”
The patrolman came in and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Help this man out” Gentry pointed a fresh stogie at Wilson. “He stumbled and hurt himself. I believe he’s withdrawing his car theft complaint, but have him sign an affidavit about last night before you let him go.”
Porter said, “Yes, sir.” He stooped and helped Wilson to his feet and led him out.
“What are the other things?” Gentry asked Shayne.
“They’re easy. Call Victor Morrison and tell him you’re cleaning up a murder case and want him to bring his wife over to the Hudsons’. I’ve got the telephone number right here.” He fished a slip of paper out of his pocket and laid it before the chief.
“Who’s Morrison?”
“A New York millionaire with a yen for private secretaries. His wife is a platinum blonde with a yen for taxi drivers.”
Gentry grunted and picked up the slip of paper.
“And to make a quorum, we’ll need a local lawyer by the name of B. J. Hampstead. His name must be in the book.”
Gentry frowned and said, “Hampstead is one of the most important attorneys in the city. How does he come into the picture?”
“He’s representing Mrs. Morrison in a divorce action. When you get him on the phone tell him it has to do with that-and with the murder of Angus Browne.”
Gentry asked, “Is that all you want? No governors? Not even the mayor?”
Shayne grinned and lifted the telephone receiver. He said, “Just a minute, Will, before you start issuing invitations,” and got his hotel on the wire.
Again the switchboard operator told him no call had come through for Angus Browne.
He said, “I’ll be on the move for the next half hour. After that I can be reached at this number.” He consulted a notebook in his pocket and gave her the Hudsons’ telephone number. “Switch the call to me there, and for God’s sake don’t slip up on it.”
He cradled the receiver and said, “It’s up to you now, Will.”
Chapter Twenty: GAMBLING AGAINST TIME
Peter Painter and Leslie Hudson were seated in the spacious living-room of the Hudson residence when Shayne and Gentry and Rourke arrived from Miami.
Painter jumped up to confront Gentry and demanded, “Where’s that taxi driver? I want a statement from him.”
“We have his affidavit,” rumbled Gentry.
“Which clears me completely,” Shayne lied smoothly and swiftly. “Where are the rest of the folks?” He looked at Hudson who had gotten up and stood staring at Shayne’s bruised and cut face with disapproval.
“My wife is upstairs,” he said stiffly. “She and Floyd will be down in a few minutes.”
Shayne said, “I don’t believe you’ve met Chief Gentry of the Miami police force-or Mr. Rourke.” While he was making the introduction, the doorbell rang.
Mrs. Morgan went to the door. She showed Victor Morrison and his wife into the room.
The millionaire wore a light sport coat and a pair of dark trousers. Estelle had changed to a youthful gown of yellow that matched her eyes, and her hair fell in curls around her neck and shoulders. Her lips were heavily rouged, but her cheeks were pale, and she looked almost girlish. She had quite evidently slept off her drunken stupor.
Shayne grinned at her and received an angry glare in return. He drew Will Gentry toward them, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, Chief Gentry.”
When the introductions were over Shayne made a point of escorting Estelle to a chair. She caught his arm and her fingers dug in hard. She said, low and angrily, “You heel! You ran out on me. What was the idea of leaving that goddamned punk-”
Shayne said, “Sh-h. They’ll hear you,” and seated her with a flourish and a broad grin.
Christine Hudson was descending the stairs walking slowly like a somnambulist, one hand sliding along the banister. She wore a simple white gown that trailed on the steps behind her. Her dark hair was severely upswept, her lips delicately rouged.
Leslie Hudson arose and took her hand when she reached the bottom step. He introduced her to Gentry and Rourke, and said, “I believe you know the others, dear.”
“Yes.” She looked around and bowed graciously, saying, “We have quite a gathering,” and her husband led her to a seat beside him on a love seat. Floyd Hudson weaved down the stairs as the doorbell rang again and Mrs. Morgan, who sat quietly in a corner on a straight chair got up and answered the ring.
Mr. Hampstead was at the door. He said, “I’m Hampstead. I understand that I-”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I think-”
Shayne was on his feet. He introduced Hampstead and Floyd to Gentry and Rourke, looked around and said, “Now, I believe everybody knows everybody else.” He caught Christine’s eye and she shook her head slightly. He then introduced Hampstead to the Hudsons, pulled a chair more intimately into the circle and said, “Have a seat, Hampstead.”
The group was silent, each looking around furtively and with an air of strained expectancy.
Chief Gentry broke the silence. He rumbled, “I have no official status here, since both murder investigations appear to be on the Beach and out of my jurisdiction. I believe Mr. Shayne has some knowledge of the murderer-or murderers-since there have been two deaths within a few hours, and he has some questions for some of you. I’ve known Shayne for a great many years, and I urge you to co-operate.” He folded his hands across his stomach and glanced at Shayne.
Shayne lounged to his feet and stalked over to stand before the wide fireplace, resting one elbow on the mantel. His gray eyes were bleak as they roved over the faces before him, but he expressed none of the futility he felt. Everything depended upon the telephone call from New York.
“I know this seems excessively melodramatic,” he began, “but I’ll start out according to the approved fashion by saying that one of you in this room is a murderer. If all of you who are innocent will tell the absolute truth, we’ll wind this up in a hurry. I admit that I don’t know who the murderer is, but I am sure we can find out, once we know exactly what is at the bottom of these two crimes.”
A deep sigh escaped Mrs. Morgan’s lips, but when Shayne shot a quick glance in her direction she was sitting stiffly upright, her hands folded in her lap, and her face was placid.
“Natalie Briggs was murdered by a blackmailer, because she knew too much and had decided to take a hand in the game herself.” He looked at Timothy Rourke briefly, and went on, “A blackmailer who had photostatic copies of a series of letters purportedly written to Mrs. Hudson by her ex-employer, Victor Morrison.”
A gasp of horror escaped Christine’s lips. He looked into her stricken eyes, tried to reassure her with the expression in his own, then went on, “It can’t stay hidden any longer. We’ve got to drag things out in the open and take a good look at them.”
“This brings us to you, Mr. Hampstead,” Shayne said easily. “When did you first hear about the letters?”
Mr. Hampstead’s benign expression did not change. He answered at once. “They were brought to my attention about two weeks ago when I was retained by Mrs. Morrison to institute divorce proceedings against her husband as soon as her legal residence in Florida was established. A private detective named Angus Browne came to my office and explained that he had been employed by Mrs. Morrison to secure evidence against her husband.”
“Browne?” said Morrison angrily. “But he was in my employ.”
