“I’m exceedingly busy,” Hampstead said in a clipped voice.
“So am I. Trying to catch a murderer.” Shayne stopped beside the big desk, his gray eyes cold and steady on Hampstead’s face.
The lawyer said to the man who had been reading, “Come back in five minutes,” and dismissed both men with a wave of his hand.
Shayne waited until they disappeared through a side door and closed it. He remained standing, and said flatly, “It’s the Natalie Briggs case. The Hudsons’ maid.”
Hampstead folded his pudgy hands across his stomach, leaned back and said, “Yes?”
“I want to know whom you represented when you went to the Hudson house and entered illegally a couple of weeks ago-with a private detective named Angus Browne and a reporter.”
“Are you with the Miami Police Department?”
“I’m private,” said Shayne. “Michael Shayne.”
The lawyer smiled frostily. “What is your interest in the case?”
“I’ve been retained by Mrs. Hudson.”
“Indeed,” said Hampstead, with a trace of sarcasm. “What has my visit to the Hudson house to do with the death of their maid?”
“That,” said Shayne harshly, “is what I intend to find out.”
Hampstead raised his thin gray brows. “I’d be glad to aid in a murder investigation, of course, but I fail to see the connection.”
“You entered the house illegally and purportedly found some private letters belonging to Mrs. Hudson. You and your accomplices stole them. Stealing private property is illegal.”
Hampstead said, “I’m fully aware of the legal aspects of my conduct, Mr. Shayne.”
“Were you acting for Mrs. Morrison?”
Hampstead smiled slyly, but made no reply. He gave no indication that he intended to answer.
Shayne sat down in the chair vacated by the man who had been reading the document to Hampstead. He said, “You can talk to the police if you’d rather.”
“I’d much rather,” the lawyer assured him.
Shayne said, “All right, I won’t try to bluff you. If I can prove a plausible connection between the letters and the maid’s death, will you talk to me?”
“I prefer to listen first and then make my decision.”
“I think those letters were planted in Mrs. Hudson’s vanity drawer where Timothy Rourke found them. I think it was arranged through Browne and the Hudsons’ maid, Natalie Briggs, with you and Timothy Rourke acting as uninformed spectators. An attempt has been made to blackmail Mrs. Hudson by threatening to send the originals to her husband, and I believe the blackmailer killed Natalie Briggs last night to prevent her from talking.”
Hampstead’s expression remained benign and inscrutable and somewhat insolent. “Those are a lot of assumptions,” he said.
“You refuse to name your client?” asked Shayne, his ragged red brows raised.
“Certainly.”
Shayne knew defeat when he met it. He said, “All right. I’ll toss a question you can answer ethically. Are those letters in your possession now?”
“They are in a safe place,” the lawyer answered stoically.
“I understand that you three men left the Hudson house together-in possession of the letters. Were they out of your sight after that?”
“They were not. That is,” he amended, “except for the short period while the photostats were being made for Mr. Rourke’s use.”
“And another set for Angus Browne?”
“Only one set of copies was made,” the lawyer stated flatly.
Shayne said, “Wasn’t that an unethical thing for a reputable attorney to do? Give copies of important evidence to a newspaper man before they were admitted as evidence in a divorce court?”
Hampstead didn’t answer immediately. Presently he said, “As I recall it, Mr. Rourke was of material assistance in the discovery of the evidence required by my client, and that was the price he insisted upon to insure he would have a scoop in the publicity when the case broke.”
Shayne stood up suddenly. He said, “You’re in this up to your neck, Hampstead, whether you realize it or not. The blackmail attempt is going to fall right in your lap. The demand for money was based solely on a promise that the original letters would be returned to Mrs. Hudson. You’re the only person who could fulfill that promise.”
Hampstead pulled back his chair and stood up. His benign expression melted and his small eyes were cold. He said, “I’ve heard quite enough, Mr. Shayne. If you have nothing more to say-”
“I’ll have plenty more to say,” Shayne called over his shoulder as he went to the door. “You’ll be hearing from me.” He hadn’t acquired much information but he did feel he had lighted a time fuse.
He stalked out without a glance at the young information clerk and went down in the elevator.
On Flagler Street he hailed another taxi and went directly to the Hudson parts factory. Here, he had to state his name and business to the guard at the gate and wait while his name was telephoned to Leslie Hudson. Then he was given a badge and directed down a corridor to the office of the president’s secretary.
She was an elderly, smiling woman. She took him at once to Hudson’s office where he found the executive busy over a desk littered with blueprints. Leslie Hudson stood up, smiled wearily, but his handshake was hearty. He said, “I’m glad you dropped in. Things have been hectic this morning, and you don’t realize how glad I am to have you investigating the murder of the maid. Christine trusts you thoroughly, and so do I. Your customary fee will be quite all right.”
“I’m not on this case for a fee, Mr. Hudson. Your wife is a friend of mine-rather a close friend to Phyllis-”
“I understand,” Hudson said with a nod.
“Christine was so upset-and I’m glad to help her-if I can.”
“That’s kind of you, Shayne,” Hudson said cordially. “The maid’s death-murder-put Christine in a bad way. Of course in her condition I suppose it’s quite natural.”
Shayne nodded and cleared his throat. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Hudson. I know you’re a very busy man, but the police probably won’t take that into consideration.”
“What do you mean?” Hudson said, a worried frown coming between his hazel eyes.
“Natalie was murdered in your back yard,” Shayne said bluntly. “The police have figured out that she was struck down at your back door and dragged to the wharf where her throat was slit. Painter is not smart, but he is tenacious. He’ll hang on like a bulldog to any evidence he gets.”
“Are you trying to tell me that they suspect any of-us?” Hudson’s face went pale and his eyes showed grave concern.
“There are things that might come out,” Shayne told him seriously. “For instance, Mrs. Morgan told Painter she was asleep and that she was a sound sleeper. But I happen to know she was not asleep when Natalie was murdered.”
Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered. “If you’re going to suspect Christine or me-”
Shayne said harshly, “Don’t be a fool, Hudson. I’m trying to help you. You didn’t tell Painter where you were last night. It’s important that I know where you and Christine were. You need an alibi. You don’t know Painter like I do. If you’ve nothing to hide tell me what you did.”
“Of course we have nothing to hide. I came back to the office after dinner. Christine had some sort of musicale to attend. I worked here in my office until about eleven. I stopped for a glass of beer and a sandwich on my way home, and my wife had been in about fifteen minutes when I got there. Is that satisfactory?”
“Were you alone here?”
“A watchman was on the gate, of course. He checked me in and out-which you can verify if you wish.”
Shayne said, “I will. Does your brother work here with you?”
Leslie Hudson’s face tightened a trifle. “No,” he answered.
“Where could I find him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You might try some of the bars.”
“Like that, eh?”
“My brother,” said Hudson frankly, “is no good, Mr. Shayne. We inherited equally under my father’s will and in six years he has succeeded in squandering his portion of the inheritance. I’ve tried to interest him in the factory and this new production, but it has been wasted effort.”