Free Blood on Biscayne Bay by Brett Halliday Page B

her so we can be together—forever.
    All my love, Vicky
     
    Shayne sighed and laid the note aside, sat for a moment with a deep frown between his eyes, then read the next one.
     
    Monday morning, 4 a.m.
    My sweetest love,
    I cannot sleep. I cannot think. I am sitting here alone in my room with the connecting door locked so my wife can’t disturb me. She was asleep when I came in half an hour ago. I’m sure she doesn’t suspect I was with you.
    I cannot give you up. You must know that. Not after tonight. I keep thinking of the plan you suggested. I see no other way. But we must be very careful. For your dear sake, there must be no breath of scandal.
    It can’t be wrong to love as we love one another. It can’t be wrong to take whatever steps are necessary to fulfill our love.
    I won’t write any more tonight—though I won’t sleep. I shall go to bed and in the darkness you will come to me. Your soft white body—
    I love you with all my heart,
    Vicky
     
    Shayne wriggled in his chair, cleared his throat, and sat up straight. The damned letters made his throat dry, and he wished to God he had a drink.
    No wonder Christine was prepared to go to any lengths to keep the letters from her husband. No man in his right mind could laugh off this sort of evidence. What sort of man was Victor Morrison that he could write a series of notes like this and plant them on a girl who had not been his sweetheart? If Christine was telling the truth, it was the most fantastic plot he had ever bumped into.
    Right now, he wasn’t at all sure Christine was telling the truth. He had been lied to by other women in other cases, but never before had he listened to and read evidence so extraordinary as this.
    He unfolded the third photostat with a distinct feeling of nausea.
     
    Thursday evening
    Dear heart,
    It was beautiful to hear your sweet voice over the telephone today but I didn’t dare speak what was in my heart.
    You mustn’t go on with it, darling. I implore you to be patient a little longer. Just a little longer. I promise you I will go through with the plan we discussed. I am already arranging the details. If you do anything hasty now it will be the end of everything for us.
    I beg you to trust me. I live only until I can be with you again—and soon nothing will keep us apart.
    Your own Vicky
     
    The fourth and last letter appeared to have been written previous to any of the three Shayne had read.
     
    Friday afternoon
    My dearest love,
    I am sitting here in my office and sunlight is slanting through the Venetian blinds across the empty chair at the corner of my desk.
    I feel desolated and utterly lonely. I suppose you were right when you made the decision to go. Things could not possibly continue as they were any longer, and you were right, as you will always be. My wife was becoming suspicious, and now that you are gone she will stop nagging me about my secretary.
    But oh, my dear, there is a terrible emptiness in my heart. This cannot be the end. I must see you soon. I realize you cannot go on being satisfied with the crumbs of my love, and I swear I will somehow arrange to make it possible for you to have all of me.
    I will call you tomorrow from my club.
    Your desperate and adoring
    Vicky
     
    Shayne laid the last photostat atop the other three and sat for a moment brooding into space. He slouched deep into the chair and gently massaged his left ear lobe between his right thumb and forefinger. Then he began running his fingers through his red and unruly hair, got up and paced back and forth across the room.
    For once he was completely baffled. He wanted to believe Christine. But how could he? The evidence in the letters was damnably clear. Bernard Holloway said they had been written by Victor Morrison, and there were four witnesses to testify they had been found hidden away in Christine’s room.
    But, how did the maid enter into the picture if Christine was lying about the letters? Why had she been murdered unless she had