When the man stepped out on the wharf, Shayne said, “Mr. Morrison?” and offered his hand.
The millionaire took Shayne’s hand in a hearty grip and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.
“My name is Shayne. I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”
“No intrusion at all,” Victor Morrison assured him. He turned to the lad who was clambering out, a broad grin on his young face and a string of perch in his hand. “Better hurry those in to the cook, Howard. They should be put on ice right away.”
“Gee, Dad, I know that much, all right. It was swell, wasn’t it?” The lad started to scamper across the wharf, but turned to remind his father anxiously, “An’ you promised you’d take me along next time you go out at night. I betcha if I’d been along last night we’d of caught something.”
Morrison chuckled and agreed, “I bet we would, son. We’ll try it together next time.” He took off his straw hat and mopped a shining bald dome with a limp handkerchief. “Now, sir-you say you have some urgent business with me?”
Shayne was watching the boy run up the lawn. He asked, “Your son?”
“Why, yes. Taller than I am-at fifteen.” He chuckled with fatherly pride.
“It’s hard for me to realize you have a son that old. You see, I met Mrs. Morrison a few minutes ago.” He glanced down at the glass in his hand. “She was kind enough to give me a drink while I waited. She seemed so young-”
“I can understand your bewilderment,” said Morrison. “Estelle is my second wife, Mr. Shayne. We’ve been married only two years-since my first wife died.”
“That explains it.” They started to walk up the gentle slope of the lawn together. “Do you enjoy night fishing?” Shayne asked. “I heard your boy mention it.”
Morrison chuckled again. “I’ve tried it a couple of times,” he said. “Howard found out about it and was heartbroken that I didn’t take him along.”
“You probably went out too early,” Shayne suggested. “I understand that after midnight is the best time.”
“Perhaps that explains my poor luck,” the New York broker agreed. They had reached two chairs drawn close together, under two umbrellas. Morrison paused and asked, “Will your business take long?”
“I think not. If you have a few minutes we might talk right here.”
“Very well. Have a seat.” Mr. Morrison seated himself and took a broken cigar from a pocket of his sweater. He carefully licked the outer wrapper to seal it, and got a match. “What is the nature of your business?”
Shayne took the envelope containing the four photostats from his pocket. Picking one at random, he passed it across to the financier. “I’d like to know just when and under what circumstances you wrote this letter.” Morrison had struck the match on the side of the chair and was holding it to the end of his cigar. He accepted the photostat with his other hand and glanced at it while he puffed on his cigar.
He stopped puffing and his face became a mottled red. The match burned down to his fingers. He dropped it and asked thickly, “May I ask where you got hold of this?”
Chapter Nine: ANGLING FOR THE BIG ONE
Shayne waggled his head and reminded him, “I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”
The financier had strong hands with short blunt fingers. They tightened on the photostat for an instant, crumpling the lower portion of it. Then he dropped it in his lap and took an experimental puff on his cigar. It hadn’t caught fire from the first match.
He got out another match and struck it, held it steadily and carefully to the end of his cigar. His broad, ruddy face looked thoughtful and his eyes no longer twinkled. He blew out the match, expelled a cloud of smoke and leaned back in the reclining chair. “I don’t believe you mentioned your business, Mr. Shayne.”
“I didn’t.”
“Will you do so now?”
“I’m a detective.”
Morrison lowered wrinkled eyelids for a moment. He picked up the crumpled photostat and studied it with care. “Why do you think this concerns me?”
“It’s in your handwriting. It’s signed ‘Vicky.’”
“The similarity to my writing startled me at first,” he admitted. “I assure you, however, I never wrote anything like this, and I certainly never signed myself ‘Vicky.’”
“I have photostatic copies of other somewhat similar notes written by you.” Shayne didn’t offer to show them.
Morrison cleared his throat “I should like to see the originals.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Shayne told him blandly.
Mr. Morrison sat erect in his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re after, Shayne. You have some clever forgeries of notes purportedly written by me at some unknown date to some unknown person. What point is there in it? What do you expect to gain by bringing them here?”
“I want to know when and to whom they were written.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Morrison loudly. “I deny any knowledge of them whatsoever.”
Shayne sighed and leaned back, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Circumstances are against you, Morrison. Let’s see, which one of the notes did I show you?” He reached out a long arm and took the note from Morrison’s lap. It was the one dated Friday afternoon and the salutation read, My dearest love. He glanced through it to refresh his memory as to the context, then flipped it back to Morrison.
“Unfortunately for your denial, you had a good-looking young secretary with whom your wife suspected you were in love. To stop her nagging, the young lady resigned her position. But you didn’t stop seeing her. These notes prove you were desperately seeking a way to get rid of your wife so you could marry the girl.” He tapped the envelope on his knee. “Do you want me to read these others to remind you of exactly what you said?”
“No,” he said hastily. “I don’t care to listen to any more of this nonsense.” He paused, chewing savagely on his cigar and staring across the bay. He looked older now, and tired.
“I think I see your game now,” Morrison resumed. “It’s very clever. You’ve dug up a certain set of facts and tailored your forgeries to fit those facts and given them an evil meaning. But I think you’ve forgotten one important link in your so-called chain of evidence. Those notes are utterly worthless unless you can prove they were written to and received by a certain party. And I assure you that the party in question will never lend herself to such a deception.”
“You sound very sure of that,” Shayne murmured.
“I am.”
“Suppose it could be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the notes were discovered by reputable witnesses in the possession of that certain party?”
Mr. Morrison removed the chewed cigar from his mouth and regarded it distastefully for a long moment. He finally said, “That would have been infernally clever, Shayne, if you could have managed it.”
Shayne said, “If you’ll look closely at the photostat on your lap you’ll see four sets of initials in the margin. Four different people were present when the notes were found and each of them initialed them in the presence of each other, and are prepared to swear to the circumstances.”
Morrison stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up the note, scrutinized it closely, and said, “You seem to have thought of everything.”
“It’s going to be difficult for you to deny authorship,” Shayne told him.
“How much?”
Shayne shook his head. “I’m investigating a homicide that won’t be solved until I know the truth about these notes. I want the whole story from you.”
“A-homicide?” Morrison echoed weakly.
“That’s right. A woman has been murdered.”