“There are no other heirs,” said Mr. Montrose primly.
“No brothers or sisters?” Shayne persisted.
“As to that,” Mr. Montrose admitted, “Mr. Brighton has two sisters and a brother living. I helped draw up his will, however, and there is no provision for any of them.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard of the sisters,” Shayne muttered. “They’re both married and pretty high society, aren’t they?”
“Both of Mr. Brighton’s sisters married extremely well,” Mr. Montrose agreed with pursed lips.
“How about the brother?” Shayne frowned at his cigarette. “Wasn’t he mixed up in some scandal a few years ago?”
Mr. Montrose drummed on the desk with his finger tips. There was a look of distress on his face. “I do trust, Mr. Shayne, it will not be necessary to drag that story through the newspapers again.”
Shayne said shortly, “I don’t talk for publication. I simply want all the facts before me. I have a hunch this was murder for profit. Thus far I find only two persons who would profit by the death of Mr. or Mrs. Brighton. I understand that Brighton is just clinging to life and may let go at any time.”
“I begin to see the theory you’re working on.” Mr. Montrose nodded and ceased drumming on the desk.
“Theories are all right,” said Shayne. “But I need all the pieces. How about this brother? Weren’t they in business together or something? And didn’t the brother embezzle a wad of money and get put away for it?”
Mr. Montrose sucked in his breath cautiously. “So it was reported. Though I don’t mind saying, Mr. Shayne, that I have always felt a great injustice was committed. I was intimately associated with Mr. Julius Brighton for many years before the affair and I cannot believe he committed any dishonest act.”
“Julius Brighton?” Shayne nodded, crushing out his cigarette. “That’s the brother. I’m beginning to recall it. That was about seven years ago.”
“They were partners in a brokerage business which failed.”
“And you knew Julius pretty well?”
“I was his confidential secretary for ten years. I knew him altogether too well to give the slightest credence to the charges made against him.”
“The jury evidently believed them,” Shayne grunted. “They convicted him, didn’t they?”
Mr. Montrose pointed out sharply, “The jury was in a mood to convict.”
Shayne nodded absently. “What did they give him?”
“Literally a death sentence.” Mr. Montrose spoke with high indignation. “Julius Brighton was broken in spirit as well as body when they dragged him away to serve a ten-year sentence.”
Shayne nodded and lit another cigarette. “Was that when you went to work for Rufus Brighton?”
“Soon afterward. My modest savings also went in the crash. I have always felt,” Mr. Montrose continued in an aggrieved tone, “that the entire truth was not brought out at the trial.”
Shayne got up, saying, “At least that seems to let Julius out as an heir. They quarreled, I take it.”
“Oh, yes.” Mr. Montrose smiled thinly. “I think you can rest assured that Julius will never be mentioned in any will made by Rufus Brighton.”
“All right.” Shayne dismissed the matter. “About the servants. What is the staff?”
“There’s only the one maid who let you in, the housekeeper, cook, and chauffeur. And Miss Hunt, of course, the nurse who accompanied Mr. Brighton from New York.”
“By all means,” murmured Shayne, “let us not forget Miss Hunt.”
“Eh?”
“Skip it,” said Shayne airily. “The others, do they all live here? And have they been employed long?”
“Yes. Except the chauffeur. He is quartered over the garage and was employed just before we left New York, to drive the limousine down. The others are the regular staff maintained here the year around.”
Shayne said, “Thanks. I’ll wander around a bit.” He went out, leaving Mr. Montrose sitting at his desk.
The ubiquitous maid flitted past him in the corridor. Shayne stopped and asked if there was a rear entrance leading from the garage. She led him down another hall to an unlocked rear door.
Shayne went out and found a concrete walk leading to the garage. A low hedge separated it from the driveway south of the house. As he went along the path he noticed that a curving drive led directly from the four-car garage into the alley. That, he decided, was how Phyllis had given the police the slip last night.
One of the garage doors was open. An outside stairway led upward at the end of the building to a narrow porch opening into the living-quarters above. Shayne walked directly to the stairway and started to climb it. He was halfway up when a hoarse shout stopped him. He looked down and saw a burly figure emerge from the open garage door. A heavy low-browed face peered up at him. The man wore dirty coveralls over a chauffeur’s uniform and was wiping his hands on a piece of oily waste.
“Where d’yuh think you’re going?” he bellowed.
Shayne leaned on the railing and grinned down at him. “I’m on my way to pay the chauffeur a social call. Are you it?”
The man threw down the waste and moved to the bottom step, turning his face up and staring with close-set eyes, growling through thick lips, “You ain’t got any business up there.”
Shayne said reprovingly, “That’s not a nice way to greet a visitor.”
“I ain’t expecting no visitors.” The chauffeur mounted the steps slowly, blinking upward at the detective. He had no eyelashes at all, and the lack gave his face a curiously naked appearance.
“You’ve got one now,” Shayne told him.
“Have I?” It was a surly growl. The chauffeur pushed past Shayne to a couple of steps above him.
“You’ve got one now whether you like it or not,” Shayne insisted pleasantly. He started up another step.
“Not so fast, buddy.” The chauffeur put a grimy hand on his shoulder.
Shayne said evenly, “Take your hand off me.”
The man glared at him, then moved up three steps where he blocked the stairway. “Spill your piece,” he growled.
“We’ll go on up.”
“No, we won’t. You can do your talking right here.”
Shayne’s eyes blazed. The blaze died away to a hard glitter. “Such inexplicable bellicosity must be based on more than personal animosity,” he mused.
“Don’t be cussing me,” the man blustered.
Shayne smiled up at him. A terrifying sort of smile. His lips drew back from his teeth.
“What’s upstairs that you’re afraid I’ll see?”
The chauffeur blinked uncertainly. “You must be the redheaded detective they were talking about last night.”
“I’ll be presenting my credentials in a minute,” Shayne promised him.
“Aw, say.” The chauffeur became conciliatory. “I’m willing to talk, see? But sometimes a guy don’t want his private room busted into. Get what I mean? A guy might have a dame on the sly. Go on down, and we’ll chew the fat.”
“That,” said Shayne with quiet viciousness, “is exactly why I’m going to look in your rooms.”
Fear washed over the chauffeur’s face like a shadow. His greasy fist came up from nowhere and smashed against the side of Shayne’s jaw. The detective lurched back, grabbing wildly at the railing. Grunting curses, the chauffeur swung a heavy foot and planted it in the face below him.
The railing collapsed, and Shayne’s body slithered limply to the ground.
He came back to consciousness just before sundown. He was sprawled drunkenly in his car parked on a side street near the east end of the causeway. He sat up and shook his head, gingerly feeling his face. The rearview mirror showed a livid bruise on his forehead and clotted blood on his cheeks.
He leaned over the wheel and held his bursting head in both hands. Curses came from his lips in a whispered stream.
After a time he sat up, muttering, “If this isn’t a hell of a note. And me with a date with a hot-mouthed blonde for tonight.”
He looked at himself in the mirror again, shook his head dismally, then started the motor and drove across the causeway to Miami.