yesterday in Miami. Only it’s not a Raphael-as Henderson will tell you now. Henderson is the bird who scuttled out on his hands and knees as you came in.”
“But what’s it all about?”
“That picture, mostly,” Shayne told him. He went on in a changed tone. “But I promised you information worth half a grand. Here it is.
“Montrose killed Mrs. Brighton. Or maybe it was Oscar who did the actual slitting of her throat. It doesn’t matter. Oscar did what Montrose told him to. And Montrose was hep to the fact that Doctor Pedique had Phyllis Brighton worked up to the point where she forgot things, and he knew I’d been called in to keep her from killing her mother. That made a perfect setup. After murdering Mrs. Brighton, Montrose slipped the murder knife in Phyllis’s room and spattered blood on her nightie.”
Painter made a sudden exclamation, and Shayne grinned at him. “I was one up on you there. I got hold of the knife and locked her door on the outside before anyone else got to her. That was the knife I sliced bread with in my kitchen while you watched me. A damned good knife, too.”
“But why,” Painter demanded witheringly, “did Montrose kill Mrs. Brighton-or have her killed?”
“To keep her from recognizing the sick man as Julius Brighton-and thus learning that her husband was already dead.”
Painter swallowed hard and complained, “You’re away ahead of me.”
“Julius Brighton,” Shayne patiently explained, “is Rufus Brighton’s brother. Rufus helped frame him on an embezzlement charge years ago which ended in his being sent to the pen. He was paroled a couple of months ago on account of ill health. He hated Rufus and saw a chance to switch identities when he got paroled.
“Here’s the way I figure it out,” Shayne went on while Painter made noises in his throat. “When Julius returned on parole he found his brother Rufus a very sick man. Well, Julius was sick, too. Montrose is in charge of things, and Montrose hates Rufus as much as Julius does. Together, they manage to get rid of Rufus. Either he actually dies or they kill him and slip Julius into his sickbed. They change doctors when they switch patients, hiring Pedique and Charlotte Hunt and hurrying to Miami, away from people who might discover the impersonation. Julius is a mighty sick man, and all sick men look alike to a certain extent. The girl hardly knows Rufus, and the boy doesn’t count. He’s half batty and doesn’t go near the patient. Do you get the picture?”
“Hell, no. What happened to Rufus Brighton’s body? How could they cover up a death and substitute another patient?”
“Easy. By changing doctors and nurses just before they start south. And by getting a doctor who was more interested in his private experiments of inducing insanity in normal persons than he was in treating a sick patient.”
“What about Rufus Brighton? You say-”
“Rufus Brighton’s body is buried in a trunk out on the beach. I dug it up last night and had a look. They were playing a waiting game and even had their getaway figured. After they had cleaned up, Julius Brighton would have pretended to die, and they had Rufus Brighton’s body ready to be substituted so they’d have all been in the clear no matter what sort of future investigation there was. Oscar dragged the trunk out of his room and buried it after I started snooping around.”
Painter slid limply into a chair. “How’d you get onto the switch?”
“I didn’t-at first.” Shayne put out his cigarette. “It had me plenty stumped. But there had to be some motive back of Mrs. Brighton’s murder. It began to make sense when Charlotte told me that Mrs. Brighton hadn’t been to her husband’s room before she was killed but had insisted that she see him a little later. I wondered why someone wanted her kept out of the sickroom.”
“But why the elaborate hoax?” Painter demanded.
“It gave them control of Brighton’s estate which they were converting into cash. But his estate has shrunk to a fraction of its value, and they knew about the painting Henderson was bringing across the border, and it was worth waiting for-or so they thought.”
“How about Hilliard? Was he in on it, too?”
“Hell, no. Doctor Hilliard stands so straight he leans backward. And he was in a tough spot. No wonder he couldn’t diagnose his patient’s illness. The old devil Julius has been deliberately starving himself to stay emaciated and so weak that he can’t have visitors who might recognize him. He pretends to eat, but throws his food out the window to the squirrels. I got that information from Charlotte, too. But she didn’t realize the significance of it.”
“What about Charlotte’s murder? What was the reason?”
“Gordon-that’s Gordon.” Shayne pointed to the slain man. “He engineered that killing. He was determined to get one of his gang in here to keep a finger on things just in case I slipped up and let Henderson deliver the painting to Montrose. I was retained by Gordon to keep the masterpiece from reaching its destination,” he went on in response to Painter’s questioning look.
“But Gordon didn’t trust me, so they must have called the Nursing Registry and gotten the name of the nurse next on the list to be called.” Shayne paused thoughtfully, then exclaimed, “By God, I’m glad that other nurse-the one who was on with Charlotte when I first came-had sense enough to get away without being murdered.”
“Well?” Painter was getting jittery. “Go on-go on.”
“The next nurse for call was Myrtle Godspeed. Gordon and his moll located her in a hurry and made her a proposition. They shipped her off to Cuba, and Gordon’s moll shot Charlotte, then hurried out to Myrtle Godspeed’s house and answered the call when it came for a substitute nurse.”
Painter was holding his head in his hands. “Who,” he sighed, “was Gordon? And that guy who wasn’t quite dead?”
“Gordon’s a New York racketeer who learned about the painting somehow, and came down here to snatch it. The not-quite-dead guy was his torpedo. They weren’t hooked up with Montrose and Julius at all-didn’t know anything about the hoax-nor care. They just wanted the painting.”
“I’m getting things straight,” Painter muttered. “Who blasted you on the sidewalk that night? And why?”
“That was Montrose and his little playmate, Oscar. I don’t know whether they tracked Charlotte to my apartment, or whether she put the finger on me for them. I suppose I’ll never know.”
Shayne paused reflectively and lit a cigarette, then went on. “It was Montrose and Oscar that jimmied my door that morning and found Phyllis in my bed. You’ll find a jimmy out in Oscar’s tool box in his bedroom that’ll fit the marks on my door.
“Montrose was worried as hell about that first murder and wanted to hang it on Phyllis-wanted to get her out of the way, anyhow, I suppose, to save trouble beating her out of her share of the estate. So when they found her asleep they slipped out without waking her-or so they thought-and phoned you while one of them watched the outside door. But she must have wakened when they were there and played possum, then slipped out the back way and down the fire escape before you got there.”
“What about the girl now?” Painter demanded. “Where is she?”
“I wish to God I knew. I expect she’s hiding out around town. She’s hiding from you. You were so hell-bent on tying her mother’s murder on her. She’ll pop up when the papers announce the case is broken wide open.”
Shayne got up stiffly. “Is that all you want to know? You got it straight to hand to the reporters?”
“‘I’ll do some checking first.” Painter’s eyes glittered with excitement. “There’s that phony nurse upstairs. And the body in the trunk. Man!” He smote Shayne’s shoulder in his excitement. “If it ties together like you’ve given it to me, it’ll be the biggest story of the year.”
Shayne winced with pain and backed away from Painter’s enthusiastic hand. “Worth five hundred berries?”
“I’ll say,” Painter exulted. He started out the door and met Pelham Joyce coming in. He turned back with a frown and muttered, “About that picture-I’d like to get that straight.”
Shayne grinned at Joyce as he replied. “Better get Henderson’s statement on the painting. But here’s what happened. He picked it up in Europe for a genuine Raphael while he was on the Brighton payroll. In order to get it out of Europe and into this country, he disguised it as an imitation by painting over Raphael’s signature and putting ‘R M Robertson’ on top.
“It was stolen from Henderson on his arrival here, and by a peculiar quirk came into my possession. I jockeyed with Gordon and Montrose, who were both after it, and got them together, each thinking they were going to buy it from the other. Montrose had Henderson here to identify it as genuine, and Gordon brought Mr. Joyce along as his expert.
