The Corpse That Never Was by Brett Halliday

Eighth Street just off the boulevard where a double cognac washed the cloying taste from his mouth, and he ate a hasty steak sandwich.
    His next stop, he decided, should be at the office of Harry Brandt, a nationally known expert on handwriting and the validation of questioned documents. Harry’s office was only three blocks away, and after he left the handwriting samples with him, a trip across the bay to Miami Beach and an interview with Paul Nathan was indicated.
    And that would about wind it up, Shayne told himself sourly. Thus far he hadn’t accomplished a damned thing to earn Eli Armbruster’s ten grand retainer. It was an easy way to pick up a hunk of cash, but Shayne didn’t like to earn his money so easily. There was still Nathan’s alibi to be checked, he reminded himself. Not that he expected to prove anything by it because there wasn’t yet a single circumstance that pointed the finger of suspicion at the husband, but it was one more thing to do before he made his final report to his client.
    Harry Brandt had the ground floor of an old Stucco residence on Fifth Street near the bay where he kept bachelor quarters and did the work which found its way to him from all over the country.
    He was a pleasant-faced tweedy man in his forties, and he took a foul-smelling pipe from his mouth to greet the redhead with a smile at his front door. “Come in, Mike,” he urged. “I see by the paper that you were on the spot again last night. Anything in it for me?”
    He led the way down the hall to a pleasant, masculinely-appointed sitting room and waved Shayne to a comfortable chair.
    “A very simple thing, but I have to check it out to satisfy a client.” Shayne dug into his pockets and extracted the two suicide notes and the letter that had been found in Elsa’s handbag. He pushed them over to Brandt, together with the rental agreement signed by Lambert.
    “I guess there’s no doubt that those first three were written by the same man. I don’t think there’s much doubt that this is also his signature… but that’s the thing I have to know.”
    Harry Brandt glanced through the notes and letter alertly. He said, “The man’s left-handed, of course. The second note shows more haste and strain, which is natural, if I understand the circumstances, but there’s enough difference that I’ll have to make a few tests to be positive the same person wrote them both. This signature…” He studied the name at the bottom of the agreement carefully, glanced aside to compare it with the other two “Robert Lambert’s.”
    “Off-hand, I’d say yes, Mike. You want more than that?”
    “I need a positive yes or no. And my client can afford to pay for it.”
    “Nice to have clients like that these days,” Brandt told him with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay. I’ll give it the works. You just want an opinion… not blow-ups to go into court with?”
    “I don’t think it’ll reach court, Harry. Certainly not if your answer is in the affirmative. Can I call you?”
    “Around four.”
    Shayne thanked him and went out to his car. He had memorized the Miami Beach address from the telephone book in Lambert’s apartment, and it was a pleasant thirty-minute drive to a modest, two-story, ocean-front house set in the middle of beautifully landscaped grounds.
    The glistening white driveway of crushed coral rock led past the house to a triple garage at the rear, and also curved past the colonnaded front under a porte-cochère to a circular turn-around.
    There were no other cars in view when Shayne got out and left his car under the porte-cochère. He went up stone steps and rang the doorbell, and the door was opened by a trim, colored maid in a dark blue uniform. She had nice, clean-cut features and intelligent eyes, and she shook her head gravely when Shayne asked, “Is Mr. Nathan at home?”
    “Not right this minute, he isn’t. I expect him back any time.” She had a soft, melodic voice and she formed her words carefully