Shayne started his motor and backed a little so he could circle around the limousine and out the drive. The voice sounded young and cultured and calm. Looking straight ahead as he turned onto Alton Road, Shayne asked, “Why are you afraid someone will see you?”
“I prefer they don’t know I’m having this private talk with you, Mr. Shayne. You are Mr. Shayne, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And you’re Miss Briggs?”
“Marsha Briggs.” The governess sitting on the far side of the seat rolled down the window and spun her cigarette out. “Tell me one thing honestly.” There was a faint tremor in her nice voice. “Has Mr. Peralta retained you to recover the bracelet?”
“More or less. I’m looking into it before I decide to take the case or not.”
“Could we stop for a drink? I won’t detain you long, and will take a taxi back to the house.”
Shayne said, “Of course. A drink is exactly what I need.”
He slowed Timothy Rourke’s coupe as they approached the neon lights of a cocktail lounge, pulled into a parking spot and turned off the motor and lights. Only then did he turn to look at his passenger.
Marsha Briggs looked back at him searchingly. She wore a blue silk scarf over her head, tied tightly with a bow-knot beneath her firm chin. It framed a piquant, heart-shaped face with nice coloring and delicate bone structure. Her eyes were blue and probing. Her lips were lightly touched with red and slightly parted. She looked about twenty-five, and Shayne surmised she might be in her mid-thirties. His first impression was of a strong and self-reliant young woman who had been carefully reared but had learned to cope with life on its own terms.
She said, “I know. I don’t look like a governess. I’m much too pretty and too young and too sexy to spend the rest of my life cooped up in the Peralta house with a couple of brats. I should be eagerly grasping at life and love with both hands while there is yet time.”
Shayne chuckled happily and opened his car door. “You’ve been talking to a newspaper reporter named Timothy Rourke.”
“Do you know Mr. Rourke?”
“Very well.” Shayne went around to open her door. “This is his car I’m driving. Would you be interested to know how he described you to me this afternoon?”
“I don’t… think so.” She stepped out and stood close beside him and he saw she was wearing a severely tailored suit of raw white silk which was molded to her slenderly lithe body in a way that vividly brought back Rourke’s parting words in the City Room that afternoon. The top of her blue-scarfed head came just above his left shoulder, and the scent of her perfume was heady in the warm stillness of the tropical air.
Shayne put his hand lightly under her elbow and they went into the dimly lighted lounge and found a vacant booth near the door. She settled herself across from him and he lifted his ragged, red brows inquiringly when a white-jacketed waiter soft-footed up to the booth.
She said, “A daiquiri please. A little on the dry side.”
And Shayne said, “And a sidecar, also light on the cointreau.”
Marsha opened a soft, white leather handbag and got out a pack of flip-top cigarettes. Shayne put one of his own in his mouth, struck a match and held it to hers and then to his. She inhaled deeply and let thin smoke trail from her nostrils and asked quietly, “Does Mr. Peralta want you to find the bracelet… or is he hiring you to get in the way of the police to prevent them from recovering it?” She put a very slight emphasis on the word “find,” and Shayne wrinkled his brow thoughtfully at the question.
“Why do you ask a thing like that?”
“A conversation I overheard between Julio and Nat this afternoon. Nathaniel Freed,” she added with a faint lift of her upper lip.
“And it gave you the impression that Peralta isn’t anxious to have the bracelet found?”
“That seemed to be Nat’s impression. I can’t imagine why. But it appears that Chief Painter is positive he’ll crack the case in a day or so and looks on you as a hindrance rather than a help.”
The waiter brought their cocktails. Shayne sipped his thoughtfully and found it good. He said, “Painter is always overly optimistic about his own ability, and resents a private detective being called in. Can you or Freed think of any reason in the world why Peralta wouldn’t want the bracelet back?”
“I don’t know what Nat Freed thinks, and certainly haven’t discussed it with him,” she replied somewhat acidly. “The only reason I can think of is that he wants to teach Laura a lesson. Punish her for her negligence by having the bracelet stay lost.”
“A rather expensive lesson,” suggested Shayne.
Marsha Briggs shrugged. “It was insured. And you have no idea how her carelessness with money and jewelry irks him.”
“Does she complain about not having enough actual cash to spend?”
“Not specifically. Just in a general way.”
“Has there been any occasion during the past few years when she might have needed a large sum in cash? Some crisis that she didn’t want to go to her husband about?”
“I’ve been with them only two months.” Marsha finished her cocktail and set the empty glass down decisively. “Aren’t you interested to know why I slipped out of the house and waylaid you tonight?”
Shayne grinned cheerfully and said, “I hoped it was on account of my sex appeal.”
She looked at him with candid, appraising eyes and said, “There is that… after being cooped up in the same house with Nat Freed for a couple of months. But I didn’t know it at the time. I just caught the merest glimpse of you as you passed the dining room.”
Shayne sighed and finished his drink. He glanced at her empty glass and raised his eyebrows. She said, “One more, thanks. Then I must get back to the twins.”
Shayne signaled the waiter with two fingers, then asked, “So, why did you waylay me?”
“Because I’m frightened, Mr. Shayne. Terribly frightened.” Her voice was pinched and thin, and she vainly tried to repress a shudder.
“Something to do with the theft?”
“It has everything to do with it. I received a threatening letter in the mail this morning.”
“From James Morgan?”
Her blue eyes widened and her lashes fluttered. “I don’t know any James Morgan. It was unsigned.”
She kept her wide eyes steadily on his face while she groped inside her handbag. “Perhaps I’m a fool to show this to anyone. But… private detectives are like lawyers, aren’t they? About respecting the privacy of a client? So if I could be your client…?” Her voice shook with entreaty as she withdrew a cheap white envelope from her bag-the sort that can be bought in any drugstore in packs of half a dozen. She held it in her hand indecisively and went on: “Should I pay you a retainer first… to make it official that I am your client?”
The waiter brought their second round of drinks, and Shayne gestured toward the check on a silver plate. “You pay the bar-bill as a retainer. That will make it official.”
She nodded and smiled wanly, extending the letter to him. “I just have to talk to someone. I’ve read about you in the papers, and it seemed like an Act of God when you came to the house tonight.”
Shayne took the envelope and looked at it. There was a typewritten address: “Miss Marsha Briggs” at the Peralta street address, with an underlined “Personal” beside it. It was postmarked in Miami the previous day. There was no return address.
Shayne took out a single sheet of plain typewriter paper. It was undated. The letter was neatly typed, without a single erasure or error:
“Dear Marsha Elitzen:
“It is unfortunate, is it not, that another similar jewel theft should occur in the Peralta household on the heels of that most unfortunate affair on Long Island last year?
“If you are very lucky and the local police are as stupid as I believe them to be, the case will be solved before they get around to checking the fingerprints and records of the members of the household.
“However, I think they would be most interested in a clipping I have in my possession from the New York Mirror of last August
“I do not want money from you, dear Marsha Elitzen. I desire only your fair, white, young body to hold warmly in my arms for one night.
“This, I think you will agree, is a small price to pay for my silence.
“If you do agree, whole-heartedly and without reservations, call this telephone number at exactly midnight, Wednesday the 13th. (A Miami Beach telephone number followed.)
“Say to whomever answers the telephone: ‘This is Marsha Elitzen. Yes.’ Then hang up. I will contact you later giving the time and place for our one-night assignation.
“Believe me, dear Marsha, you will not regret acceding to this simple request… and if you are foolish enough to refuse I sincerely fear you will exceedingly regret that decision.
“An ardent admirer.”
Michael Shayne read the entire letter without raising his gaze from the typewritten page. Then he slowly shifted his eyes upward to the salutation, and read it aloud in a questioning tone: “Marsha Elitzen?”
He looked up from the sheet of paper in his hands and across the table to the Peralta governess who was leaning forward, fiercely gripping the slender stem of her cocktail glass with both hands.
She nodded slowly, holding his eyes with hers. “That is truly my name.”
Shayne said, “Do you want to tell me what this means?”
“Yes. I want very much to tell you.” She lowered the lids over her round blue eyes and made an obvious effort to relax, unclenching her tense fingers from about the stem of her glass, and slumping her shoulders a little.
She lifted her lids again, and the blue of her eyes was startlingly clear and deep.
“I had a position as a child’s nurse with a wealthy family in East Hampton. I fell foolishly in love like a young girl with a man who swept me off my feet. For the first time in my life, Mr. Shayne, I loved and believed I was loved. I met him frequently at night, and for week-ends, when I was free. I gave myself to this man, and I trusted him the way a woman in love does trust a man, and I talked freely of my position and my employer and the household… and one night it happened.
“There was a jewel robbery at the house. It was the man I thought I loved,” she went on listlessly. “It became obvious that he had carefully planned it that way. He had selected me as a source of information, and made love to me only to accomplish the theft. The police soon discovered our intimacy and traced him to Chicago where he was arrested with the jewels in his possession.
“They believed and tried to prove that I was his willing accomplice,” she continued in the same dead tone. “But there was no proof. Legally, I was guilty of no more than a foolish indiscretion, though both my employer and the police persisted in believing I was as guilty as he. He was sentenced to twenty years in jail, and I was discharged under a cloud of suspicion.” She paused and viciously stabbed out her cigarette in an ashtray between them. Her blue eyes, still holding his steadily, had become pools of agony. Shayne asked gently, “Do the Peraltas know about this affair on Long Island?”
“Of course not. Who would employ Marsha Elitzen if they knew? Who would trust that woman in their home… to care for their child? I came to Miami and I chose the name of Briggs. It seemed to me solid and substantial… and far removed from Elitzen. I faked some references with two friends who knew the truth and felt sorry for me. It wasn’t difficult. Few people today check a servant’s references carefully. Particularly people like the Peraltas with two children like the twins to be looked after. They were happy to employ me… after a succession of four other governesses in less than a year. So I have been happy and thinking I could make a new life under a new name… until this. Until the bracelet was stolen. And then I saw it as a recurrence… as a judgment on me. I have been waiting for the police to check more carefully into my background… to learn the truth about me.”
Shayne thoughtfully pulled at his left earlobe between thumb and forefinger, and then finished his drink. He asked abruptly, “Is the situation today the same as it was on Long Island?”
The question appeared to take her completely by surprise. She put both hands up to her cheeks and opened her mouth into an O and inhaled deeply.
“You mean,” she faltered, “do I have another lover who may have betrayed me by stealing the bracelet? No! There is no one. I swear it. I have learned my lesson. I hate and despise all men.”
Her heaving bosom and flashing eyes attested this. “There has been no man in Miami,” she declared vehemently. “But would that matter to the police if they knew? You know I would be judged guilty without a trial. I would be arrested and tried in the newspapers. They would say it cannot be coincidence.”
Shayne looked down at the typewritten anonymous letter and tapped it with a blunt forefinger. “All right. I’ll take your word for that, Miss… Marsha. Now! Who wrote this letter to you?”
For answer, she silently lifted the bar-bill and looked at the total, then took a bill from her purse and laid it atop the check. “I have paid your retainer,” she said composedly. “You will find out for me?”
Shayne grinned at her spunk in so replying. He said, “With a little help from you, I’ll try. To begin with, how many people know who you are and that you have taken the name of Briggs?”
“Only two… and those two I will swear by. They helped with my references, as I told you. I trust them both as I would my own mother.”
Shayne said harshly, “That’s not good enough.” He tapped the letter again. “This wasn’t written by your mother.”
“No.” Color suffused her cheeks. “That much I do admit.”
“By whom?” urged Shayne. “You must have some idea. Some man who’s tried to make love to you and whom you’ve repulsed? Some man who knew you in the North and followed you down here? You must have some inkling to his identity.”
“There has been no man in Miami, Mr. Shayne. I swear it. Except Mr. Freed.” Her lips curved in a faint gamine smile and merriment danced in her eyes.
“Freed?” Shayne did a fast double-take, and shook his head flatly. “Even the twins have him tagged for a fairy. You’ll have to give me someone better than that.”
She shook her head and pursed her lips in a small moue. “It is simple for a man like yourself to have a positive opinion about one with Nat’s physical appearance. But I am not so sure.”
“You mean,” asked Shayne bluntly, “that he isn’t a homo?”
“He may have such tendencies, but I can assure you he is at the very least, ambivalent. No, that is not the word I mean,” Marsha hurried on in embarrassment. “Ambidextrous, perhaps? I know that he and Felice were… intimate. And he has said things to me… small innuendos, with a sly suggestiveness in his voice, which I have pretended not to understand.”
“Are you trying to tell me you think Nathaniel Freed may have written this note?”
“I am telling you he is the only man I have met in Miami who could have written it,” she responded with spirit.
“How about some man you knew in the North who has recognized you here?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” she cried, despairingly. “None who might write a letter like that. There have been men who made love to me in the past,” she went on reflectively, “but I can’t think of any who might know I’m working for the Peraltas and using the name of Marsha Briggs.”
“What do you intend to do about this telephone call at midnight?”
Marsha looked down at the change the waiter had left beside her, and pushed it away. “I am your client now,” she told him composedly.
“Make the phone call,” Shayne told her. “Say exactly what he says to say, and then hang up.” He made a mental note of the telephone number and shoved the letter back to her.
“And… the assignation?”
Shayne said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, tell me where the twins got hold of the cyanide they fed the Boxers?”
The question took Marsha completely off base. She looked at him with round frightened eyes. “How do you know about the dogs?”
Shayne said, “I’m a detective. One who detects. What about the poison?”
“I don’t think the children did it, Mr. Shayne. Whoever told you they did, is…” She paused, searching for a word.
Shayne asked, gently, “Didn’t they admit it?”
“They boasted of it.” Her nice lips curved in a curious, contemplative smile. “They are queer ones, those twins. So old in some ways, and yet…” She paused, shaking her head earnestly. “Sometimes I think I will never understand them. Their rearing in a foreign country with no mother. Only nurses and native maids for companionship. And a father who is…” She paused again, compressing her lips.
“What sort of man is Julio Peralta?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. A curious mixture of soft idealism and harsh parental authority. It is all mixed up somehow with the political situation in Cuba. I don’t understand that. People coming and going at night, and secret conferences.”
“What’s that got to do with the poisoning of two dogs?”
“Nothing, probably. Yet, perhaps everything. They were Laura’s dogs,” she explained. “He hated them. I think she insisted on keeping them because he did hate them. I think the twins made up their story of poisoning them just to infuriate her more… and perhaps to please their father.”
“What sort of story did they tell?”
“That they got the cyanide from the house next door… where they are forbidden to go. It is closed for the season with only a caretaker. And yet I see lights sometimes late at night, and boats docking there from the Inland Waterway. This is a forbidden subject at the Peralta house. I think it has some connection with his political activities. He was furiously angry once when he learned that Felice had been seeing the caretaker at night. He would have discharged her, but Laura would not allow it.”
“Felice is the maid who was fired after the bracelet was stolen? I want her address from you, by the way. Mr. Peralta said you would have it.”
“Yes. It is here in my bag.” She started to open her handbag, but Shayne intervened. “What sort of investigation was made into the poisoning of the dogs?”
“None. Laura was furious and wanted to call the police, but Mr. Peralta refused. Perhaps he believed the twins did do it, and kept it quiet on that account.”
“But you don’t?” persisted Shayne.
Marsha sighed wearily and twisted her hands together on the table in front of her. “I told you I think I will never understand what goes on in those young minds. When it happened, I had the impression that their father encouraged them, at least, to make up their story of poisoning the dogs.”
“At least?” Shayne asked alertly.
She gave him a tired smile. “I know it’s all mixed up and confused. If Mr. Peralta learns I’ve discussed it with you, I’m sure he’ll fire me at once.” She looked at her watch. “I must be getting back to them.”
“One thing before you go.” Shayne put his hand on her arm. “This caretaker next door whom Felice used to see? You think he poisoned the dogs, don’t you?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Shayne. I think he may have even given the poison to the twins and told them how to do it. He is an evil man.”
Shayne settled back and got out a notebook. “Let’s not forget Felice’s address.”
“No.” She opened her bag. “It is in Miami.” She found a small address book and thumbed through it, and read out a street address in the Northeast section. “Felice Perrin,” she told him.
She hesitated while he wrote it down, then said impulsively, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but… I don’t think you’ll find her at home until much later tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I told you how she was friendly with the caretaker of the empty house next door. Brad his first name is. I don’t know the other.”
Shayne nodded. “And that Peralta disapproved strenuously of her seeing him.”
“He was terribly angry and forbade her ever to see the man again. My room is on the top floor, Mr. Shayne, overlooking the house next door. That is why I have noticed lights late at night and boats coming up to the dock. There is a high, stone wall around the entire estate, with iron gates in front that are kept padlocked. On the other side of the grounds is a smaller side entrance that is also kept locked, but is used by Brad when he goes in or out. Felice had a key to that entrance. She showed it to me one night.”
Marsha paused, dropping her eyes demurely from Shayne’s intent gaze. “Felice is not bad,” she said, as though trying to convince herself of the fact. “She is young and light-hearted, and sex to her is a natural instinct or function.”
Shayne nodded. “You mentioned that Freed had been her lover.”
“Hardly her lover, Mr. Shayne. That was before she met Brad. He was no more than a… convenience, I would say.”
Shayne brought her back to the immediate subject. “You say Felice had a key to the side entrance.”
“Yes. From my room, the high wall cuts off the view from the other side of the entrance, but through the trees I can see a small part of the walk in from the gate. At dusk tonight, just before real darkness, I heard a car drive up beyond the side gate and stop. I watched out my window idly, and in a few moments saw Brad hurry out the walk to the gate. It opened before he quite reached it, and a woman hurried in. She stumbled and he caught her in his arms and supported her up the path out of my sight. I could not see her face, but she was young and slender and I had a quick impression it was Felice. The car drove away almost at once. A taxi, perhaps. I did not see it.”
“So you think Felice has kept the key and continues to visit the caretaker at night?”
“There is one other small reason I think it was she. She had been drinking with Brad the night she showed me the key, and she boasted of the exciting time they had together. He is supposed to live in the servants’ quarters over the boathouse, but, for their lovemaking, he took her to the master bedroom in the big house and brought up champagne from the cellar. That bedroom is on the second-floor with windows on my side.”
“And?” Shayne pressed her when she stopped.
“Tonight, soon after the brief scene at the gate, lights came on in that room behind drawn shades. They remained on until I went downstairs to dinner. That is why I think Felice will be late reaching home tonight.”
Shayne looked at his watch and said easily, “I have another stop to make first anyway.”
“I know,” she said composedly, without amplifying what she knew. “No matter how late you call on Felice,” she went on with a twinkle in her eyes, “I am very sure she will be most welcoming.”
Shayne had risen and pulled the end of the table back so she could slip out more easily. He paused, looking down at her. “Just what do you mean by that crack?”
“It is not a crack,” she told him sweetly. “It is a fact of life. I think you will have rapport with Felice.” She stood up and tilted her head back to smile at him challengingly. “I like being your client, Michael Shayne,” she announced seriously and surprisingly.
“You’ll make that phone call tonight?”
“Yes. And now I will take a taxi back and you can hurry to the Green Jungle.”
Shayne was taken aback for a moment. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I saw Laura when she looked at you from the dining-table… and when she came back from talking with you.”
Shayne took Marsha’s arm and led her toward the door.
“The Green Jungle can wait. I’ll drive you back.”
He led her firmly to Tim Rourke’s coupe and helped her in.