“A slight case of double cross,” Shayne told him. “After earning a fat fee for framing evidence against your wife for you, he realized she was a prospective client and he went to her with a story of your plans to divorce her. He didn’t, of course, tell her he was also employed by her husband, and when she realized the tight spot she was in she decided to fight back by laying a basis for a countersuit.” He paused, then said, “Go ahead, Mr. Hampstead.”
“I knew nothing of Browne’s employment by Mr. Morrison,” the lawyer said stiffly. “He told me that with the assistance of a local newspaper reporter he had discovered the existence of certain letters written by Mr. Morrison to Mrs. Leslie Hudson before her marriage. He suggested that the three of us endeavor to obtain the letters for use as evidence, and explained that for the reporter’s help he had promised him a set of photostats which were not to be used under any circumstances until after the letters were offered as evidence in court.”
Shayne said, “How about it, Rourke? Is that the way it was?”
“I’ve told you,” said Rourke, “I knew nothing about the matter until Browne asked me to come along as a disinterested witness and promised me an exclusive story.”
Shayne nodded. “So Angus Browne lied about that,” he pointed out “Why? Would you have agreed to having photostats made if you’d known it wasn’t absolutely necessary, Hampstead?”
Mrs. Morgan was on her feet, crying, “I knew he was the one blackmailing Christine,” wringing her hands and tears flowing from her eyes. “And I knew Natalie Briggs planted the letters on Christine. I knew it-I knew it.” She began to sob hysterically and Leslie Hudson sprang up and rushed to her. She put her face against his shoulder and sobbed, “Oh my poor baby.”
Shayne looked at Christine. She had slumped sideways when her husband suddenly removed his shoulder which supported her head. She slowly raised her body, got up and went over to him, putting one arm around Mrs. Morgan and the other around her husband’s neck. She whispered something in his ear, and they took the weeping and hysterical housekeeper into the library.
Peter Painter strutted to his feet and demanded, “They can’t do that. That woman is a murderer. I see it all now.”
Shayne said quietly, “They’re not going anywhere. The housekeeper can’t escape. There’s no door from the library except the one there.” He pointed a bony finger toward the door through which the three had gone.
Turning again to Hampstead, Shayne said, “Well, Hampstead, would you have agreed to having the photostats made?”
“I would not,” said the lawyer calmly. “I hesitated for some time, but Browne assured me we’d never be able to get hold of the letters without Rourke’s help.”
“So the three of you came to the Hudson’s home one afternoon when only the servants were at home, bluffed your way in and found the incriminating letters hidden in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity.”
Hampstead gave Rourke a sharp look and said, “Mr. Rourke put his hands on the letters without difficulty.”
Shayne said, “And all of you initialed them and forced Mrs. Morgan to initial them also.”
“As a precautionary measure to insure definite identification when they were offered as evidence,” said Hampstead.
“And then-” probed Shayne.
“We drove together to a photostat company in Miami and had copies made for Mr. Rourke.”
“How many sets of copies?”
“Only one.”
Shayne said, “One set of negatives and one set of positives.”
“There must be some mistake,” said Hampstead. “I handed Mr. Rourke his photostats myself and took the original letters with me. I’m positive there was only the one set.”
Shayne waved that aside for the moment. He glanced around the room to see Floyd Hudson’s head lolling against the back of his chair, his protruding eyes alert. Estelle Morrison was sitting on the edge of her chair, her yellow eyes inscrutable between half-closed black lashes. Victor Morrison sat stiffly erect, his hands gripping the arms of the chair in which he sat. Painter appeared to strut, sitting down, his torso bent forward as though he expected to hear something which would require him to be on his feet at any moment. Gentry had his hands folded placidly across his stomach, his eyes partly closed, and a hint of a smile on his full lips. Rourke was slumped comfortably in his deep chair, his head lolling, but his dark eyes were wide open and held something of the bloodhound expression Shayne had seen so often.
Leslie and Christine Hudson came in from the library and resumed their scats on the love seat. Shayne quirked a bushy red brow at Christine, and she said, “Mrs. Morgan is resting. We persuaded her to take a sedative.”
“She’s terribly upset,” Leslie said. “I didn’t realize the strain-”
“I understand,” said Shayne. He addressed Hampstead, asking, “Did you do anything to establish the authenticity of the letters?”
“I did,” said the lawyer. “Mrs. Morrison furnished me with samples of her husband’s handwriting and I had them compared by two experts. There is no doubt that Mr. Morrison wrote the letters.”
Shayne turned to Morrison. “Do you admit writing them?” he demanded.
“I do not,” the financier stated firmly.
He asked Christine, “Did you receive such letters from Mr. Morrison and hide them in your bedroom?”
She said, “I did not,” her hand again clasped tightly in her husband’s, her dark eyes shining.
Peter Painter sprang from his chair and barked irritably, “Where is all this getting us. What have the marital affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Morrison to do with a murder investigation?”
“They provide a motive for murder,” Shayne said grimly. “Two murders. Someone was trying to blackmail Mrs. Hudson with an extra set of photostats of the letters. Mrs. Morgan had told Mrs. Hudson about the letters and about the three men finding them.
“Mrs. Hudson has been terrified for two weeks. They sounded as though they had been written by her former employer, Victor Morrison. They apparently revealed a secret love affair before she married Leslie Hudson, and she was afraid he wouldn’t believe the truth. Rather than risk it, she prepared herself to pay blackmail.”
Leslie Hudson’s voice was loud in the silence following Shayne’s statement. He asked hoarsely, “Is that true, Christine?”
She nodded.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “why didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me, darling.” His arm sought her slim waistline and he hugged her to him.
Shayne said hastily, “It was a hard decision for her to make, Mr. Hudson. When you see the letters you’ll understand why. They are undated and are not addressed to her by name, but it’s almost impossible to believe they weren’t written to her.”
“Of course they were written to her.” All eyes were turned on Estelle Morrison. She had risen to her feet and stood bent slightly forward, her tawny eyes glittering, and again looking like a panther ready to spring. “Who else? She was my husband’s secretary. I knew what was going on all the time and I knew we’d find evidence if we looked hard enough. I think it was very clever of Mr. Browne to find it.”
Shayne asked, “Did you tell him to look for letters?”
“Yes. Knowing Victor as I do, I had an idea he’d do something foolish like that.” She smiled coldly and resumed her seat.
Shayne said, “Let’s get on with it. The blackmail pay-off was set for last night at the Play-Mor Club. The blackmailer was waiting there for Christine Hudson to appear with ten thousand dollars. Angus Browne was there, and so was Timothy Rourke. And you were there, Hudson, with Natalie Briggs.” He turned on Floyd Hudson.
“Sure, I took her there. But I didn’t stay very long.”
“Have you checked his story of what he did after leaving the club?” Shayne asked Painter.
“I’ve had a man working on it but we haven’t anything definite yet.”
“The blackmailer left after I horned in and spoiled the pay-off,” Shayne went on. “I brought Natalie home in a taxi and she went to the rear of the house while I came to the front door and asked for Mrs. Hudson. I understand you’ve pretty well established that she was met by her murderer at the back door before she had a chance to enter,” he added to Painter.
“We’ve checked all that,” Painter said, then added irritably, “I thought you were coming here to tell who the
