Free Blood on Biscayne Bay by Brett Halliday Page A

could.”
    “But murder—” Her eyes were filled with horror.
    “I have a couple of leads,” he told her. “You’ll have to trust me, and try not to worry. If I’ve guessed this setup correctly you have no need to fear that the original letters will be shown to your husband. You’ll probably receive another call from the blackmailer. Stall him if you do. Tell him you’re trying to raise the money and try to arrange a rendezvous with him. In the meantime, I’ll be working on every angle.”
    “But—Maria,” she wailed “You can’t think Mrs. Morgan had anything to do with Natalie’s—death.”
    Shayne whirled toward her on his way to the door. He said, “Here, take these and keep them for the time being. If we have to raise money on them—then we’ll have to.” He caught one of her hands and poured the string of pearls into her palm, squeezed her fingers over it, and hurried from the room.

 
Chapter Seven: COMPLICATED COINCIDENCES
     
    SHAYNE SUDDENLY REALIZED that he didn’t have much time in which to cancel his reservation on the noon plane. He found the faithful taxi driver asleep in the cab when he reached it. There was a chance he might have his old apartment for the night, and he shook the driver awake, gave him the address and got in.
    The driver yawned, sat erect and looked at his clock. “Golly, Mister—”
    “I’ll make it worth your while. Step on it.”
    “You bet,” the driver said, and shot forward.
    The clerk, the same anemic young man who had been at the desk when Shayne had checked out said, “Oh, Mr. Shayne, you’re back.”
    “How about my apartment for tonight?” Shayne asked.
    “But we’ve already sent your suitcase to the airport,” he said. “I thought—”
    “The apartment,” Shayne said, “can I have it?”
    “Oh, yes. We haven’t had a call for it—yet. Have you got a case in Miami?” The clerk leaned his elbows on the counter and his pale blue eyes were alight.
    “Sort of.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a half dollar, tossed it to the young man and said, “Thanks. I want to send a telegram.”
    “Sure, Mr. Shayne.” The youth shoved a pad of yellow sheets across the counter.
    Shayne used the counter’s scratchy pen in an ink bottle to write a telegram to Lucy Hamilton. It read: Missed noon plane but hope to make it this midnight. Keep on stalling Belton.
    He called the airport and cancelled his reservation on the noon plane and asked for space on the night flight. The airline was distinctly cool and refused a definite commitment, suggesting instead that he call a couple of hours before he was ready to leave, or be at the port when the plane was scheduled to go. There were often last minute cancellations.
    Shayne hung up, went to the kitchen and was putting ice cubes in a tall glass before he remembered there wasn’t a drink in the apartment. His last bottle of cognac was packed in the suitcase which was at the airport.
    He dumped the ice cubes into the sink and went back to the living-room, pulling the photostats from his pocket as he went. Settling himself in a chair, he began reading them. It was impossible to tell in what order they had been written. After shuffling through them, he read the one on top.
     
    Wednesday night
    My very own sweet,
    I simply have to talk to you tonight, darling. The office was a hell of loneliness today. It seems months instead of days since you left.
    The new girl is competent, but I miss you so terribly. Today I was dictating and she sat across from me in your chair, and I must have been dreaming, for in the middle of a letter I said, “You have the most beautiful eyes in the world, Love,” and she looked up and snickered and said, “Does that go in the letter?” I laughed it off, but—you know you have, dearest.
    I must see you!!! I will call you from the office tomorrow. You know I dare not call from here with the extension upstairs.
    Something will work out. There must be some way to get rid of