Counterfeit Wife (19 page)

Shayne said, “We checked it outside.” He walked on and eased one hip down on the chief’s desk. Rourke crossed the room and slumped into a chair.

“I called your apartment ten minutes ago,” Gentry said. “A couple of things have popped.”

Shayne tugged at his ear lobe and waited.

“They finally got Gerta Ross’s stomach pumped out. When she sobered up, she told a very interesting story, Mike. I haven’t given it to Painter yet.”

Shayne shrugged. “Thanks for that, Will. But it’s hardly necessary to keep anything under cover much longer.”

“No?” Gentry looked relieved. “She makes out a fairly good case for herself, and with Gurney dead, she’ll probably have a chance to make it stick. Claims she didn’t know Kathleen Deland was kidnaped at first and that Gurney brought her to the nursing home doped up. She says the girl was on the verge of hysterics and needed to stay doped up for a couple of days. Then yesterday afternoon Gurney told her the truth, pointed out that she was an accomplice, and offered her five grand to keep her mouth shut and help him collect the ransom.”

“How much?”

“That’s a funny thing,” said Gentry. “Seems Gurney told her he was collecting twenty grand instead of the fifty he had demanded from Deland.”

Shayne murmured, “Forty cents on the dollar.” Then he said to Gentry, “Go ahead.”

“You’d already told me most of the rest of it,” Gentry went on sourly, “except the part about Dawson. Ross claims she and Gurney were in her car with the girl in the trunk—drugged but with plenty of air to breathe—watching when Deland delivered the money to Dawson near the causeway. She says they followed Dawson across but that, instead of following instructions and driving slowly up the boulevard, he double-crossed them by going like a bat out of Bimini, cutting around corners—and they finally lost him heading toward the airport a little before twelve.

“They suspected he might be trying to jump town with the money and went to the airport to check on him, but found he hadn’t gotten out of town by air.”

Shayne said gravely, “We might as well straighten things out right now. Dawson did leave on the midnight plane, Will. I was there and helped him catch it.”

“The same plane you were on?”

“He used my ticket.”

Gentry drew in a long breath and studied Shayne with worried eyes. “You helped him jump town with the ransom money, Mike? Then you
were
the redheaded guy who bought Gerta Ross a drink at the Fun Club later and who was seen leaving the wrecked car. Chick Farrel’s identification was correct.”

Shayne nodded and said easily, “You see what a spot I’ve been in, Will. If I told Painter that Dawson was actually the guy he traced to Palm Beach with my ticket, he’d have known I was in the wreck and would have arrested me on sight.”

Gentry’s big florid face flushed dangerously red.

“Watch that apoplexy, Will,” Rourke said, with a chuckle.

“I’m watching it,” Gentry said angrily. “If I weren’t, I’d blow up like an atom bomb right now.”

“Go on with Gerta’s story,” Shayne urged him placidly.

“It’s about like you said. She had a call from Gurney after she got home telling her to meet him at the Tower Cottages for the pay-off. That was a little before two-thirty. She called a cab and cruised all over town looking for an all-night drugstore where she could pick up some laudanum to mix with a bottle of gin.

“By the time she found that, and reached the Tower, she claims Gurney had already got paid off in full. She says she took a couple of swigs and passed out and dreamt about a big redheaded mug trying to roll her. She isn’t quite sure whether he succeeded or not,” Gentry ended with a grin.

“That doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know or guess,” Shayne grumbled. “You mentioned a couple of things—”

“That’s right. Some day I wish you’d tell me where you get your hunches.”

“I had a Dutch grandmother,” Shayne told him. “She knew the secret of talking to the wee folk. Now about Hale—”

“Emory Hale,” Gentry grunted, picking up a teletype sheet from his desk and studying it. “Park Avenue and all that. On the surface he’s okay, but, unofficially, he heads a gambling syndicate that runs the biggest baseball book in the city. He was a tinhorn until a couple of years ago when he finally hit the big-time.”

Shayne shook his head. “That doesn’t prove much.”

“He gave his bank as the Guaranty Trust on Forty-fourth, and claims they made up the packet of ransom money he brought down with him. He does carry a sizable account in that bank, but not nearly fifty grand, and the last withdrawal he made was for eight hundred dollars almost two weeks ago.”

“That’s it!” Rourke yelled excitedly, leaping up from his chair and coming over to slap Shayne on the back. “That explains the counterfeit money. Big New York gambler. The rest of it is straight enough. Dawson planned the deal, not knowing Hale would try to slip over a wad of phony stuff.”

“It’s time Dawson answered some questions,” Shayne agreed grimly. “Is he still in the hospital on the Beach?”

“I think he is. Resting well, the last I heard.”

“Let’s disturb his rest. Call Painter and have him pick up Hale and Deland and meet us at the hospital. This thing is ready to crack wide open.”

“Deland, too? Do we need to bother him?”

“I want to ask how he got acquainted with Gurney and whether he got hold of Gurney last night.”

“Do you mean that Arthur Deland knew Fred Gurney?” asked Gentry incredulously.

“And was out looking for him at two-thirty last night.” Shayne paused, his gray eyes very bright. “What about Slocum?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you still think he was killed by someone gunning for me? Or do you incline toward Petey’s idea that I undressed and did the job?”

Gentry smiled and said, “Painter doesn’t like it, but the doctor’s report seems to have cleared you on that. Blood on the vase was a different type from Slocum’s,” he went on to explain, “making it practically certain it came from the murderer. When Painter learned that, he couldn’t rest until he checked your blood type on a hospital record where they’d patched you up after one of your brawls. Your blood didn’t match, so Painter had to drop you as a suspect.”

“What about the drops of blood leading to the door of my apartment?”

“Slocum’s.”

Shayne said happily, “That’s the last thing I need. Get Painter on the phone and make that date.”

SHAYNE COMMITS A SUICIDE

DAWSON’S HOSPITAL ROOM was on the ninth floor of a brick building on Miami Beach. Peter Painter was already in the room with Emory Hale and Arthur Deland when the trio from Miami arrived. They were clustered around the bed talking to Dawson who wore a bandage across the left side of his head, but who otherwise looked all right. His face was no more and no less pasty than Shayne remembered it. His brown eyes under the oddly white brows held the same limpid wetness.

Painter nodded a brief greeting to the three men as they entered and, managing to give the appearance of strutting when standing perfectly still, he turned back to Dawson and resumed talking to him.

Rourke introduced Shayne to Hale and Deland in turn. Hale was a big, immaculate man, exuding an air of assurance and of well-being. His hands were fleshy and big, and a large diamond glittered on one of his fingers. His grip was firm and his voice friendly as he repeated the name.

“Michael Shayne? The detective, eh?”

Shayne said, “I didn’t realize my ill-fame had spread to New York.”

The big man laughed easily and naturally. “You’ve been in the papers enough. I recall several of your cases that I followed with a great deal of interest.”

“I’m flattered,” Shayne returned.

Then Hale looked away from Shayne’s steady gray gaze and said, “I trust you’ll be able to clear up this terrible tragedy—that is, give the police all the help you can.”

“I haven’t been retained on the case,” Shayne told him. He turned to Deland, who stood near the window with Rourke, and offered his hand gravely, saying, “You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Deland.”

Arthur Deland’s hand was bony and calloused. He gave it to Shayne apathetically and said something in a low voice. The man hadn’t shaved and his appearance was shocking. There were deep lines of suffering indelibly etched in his sunken cheeks and mirrored in the cavernous eyes which appeared opaque and sightless. He didn’t seem interested in Shayne’s identity, nor concerned as to why he had been brought here for conference with the police and his business partner.

Indeed, his actions were those of a man whose every interest in life had died with his daughter on the preceding night—a man who went on living automatically without any conscious desire to do so.

Rourke said cheerfully, “Shayne is going to solve this case right now, Mr. Deland. You’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that the guilty parties will be punished.”

Deland stared at Rourke vacantly and raised a rough hand to scratch the dark stubble on his cheek. “That don’t mean much now, Mr. Rourke. Seems like nothing means anything any more.”

“Nonsense,” said Rourke in a hearty, over-loud voice such as one uses with an idiot or a sulky child. He took hold of Deland’s arm and led him closer to the window where they could see bright sunlight on the smooth green lawn and well-tended shrubbery and flowers.

“It’s the same world as it was yesterday,” he told the grieving man. “The birds are singing and life still goes on. You can’t give way like this. It isn’t fair to your wife. And Kathleen wouldn’t want it; you know that.”

Shayne was watching the pair and listening with narrowed, bright eyes. Their backs were toward him, and as Rourke spoke he saw Deland’s stooped shoulders stiffen and a spasm of agony shake his gaunt frame. He leaned forward to grip the sill fiercely and stare down at the peaceful scene as though he listened intently for some sound he would never hear again.

Crossing over to them, the detective put his hand firmly on Deland’s shoulder, drawing him back from the window. He said to Rourke, “Don’t tempt the man. Don’t you see the condition he’s in? We’ve had enough tragedy without inviting suicide.”

Rourke’s jaw dropped open as the full impact of Shayne’s words struck him. “Good God, Mike! I didn’t think—”

“That’s your trouble,” Shayne growled. “Try to think what you’re doing next time.” With his hand gripping Deland’s shoulder, he turned him back into the room. The plumber quietly obeyed, as though he had no will of his own.

Shayne gave his shoulder a final encouraging squeeze as they neared the hospital bed. Will Gentry stepped up closer and stood beside him to look down into Dawson’s pallid face.

Gentry said, “Shayne tells me you two have already met, Dawson. At the airport last night.”

Dawson’s eyes wavered before Shayne’s gaze, and his bloodless lips pursed into a round O of surprise and of fear.

“What’s that?” asked Painter sharply. “At the airport? When? And under what conditions?”

“We were both trying to catch a plane,” Shayne told him. “Dawson made it, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? But—” His small black eyes darted from Shayne to Dawson and back again.

“Dawson used my ticket,” Shayne said impatiently. “He paid me for it with a couple of bills out of the ransom money he was making off with.”

“What’s that?” Emory Hale stepped quickly toward them. His voice boomed through the room, incredulous and incisive. “Do you mean to say that Dawson faked the hijacking story? What became of the money? What is this all about?”

“Dawson is actually your niece’s murderer,” Shayne told the New Yorker. “Though he probably can’t be convicted for it because Kathleen was alive at twelve o’clock last night. If Dawson had met the kidnapers at eleven as arranged, she would be at home and alive today. And a Negro named Getchie would still be alive,” he added savagely, “and an innocent man named Slocum. Fred Gurney probably would be alive, too, though his death isn’t any great loss.”

“By God, Dawson!” Hale’s voice was a roar as he attempted to force his way to the wounded man’s bedside.

Shayne held him back, saying coldly, “There’s a lot more to it, Hale. You didn’t help matters any by trying to palm off counterfeit money for the ransom.”

“Counterfeit money? You’re crazy,” said Hale shortly.

“I’m giving you the opinion of an expert.”

Peter Painter had not given an inch from his position beside Dawson’s bed. He shifted his eyes steadily from Hale to Shayne, nervously thumbnailing his mustache.

“I don’t believe it,” thundered Hale. “It can’t be so. God, man, do you realize I got that money from the bank in New York myself and flew down here with it as fast as I could?”

“The Guaranty Trust Company?” asked Shayne acidly.

“Yes. That’s where I carry my largest account.”

Shayne turned his head and said, “Tell him, Gentry.”

Chief Gentry had availed himself of one of the chairs in the room and drawn it up to a vantage point so that he could watch everyone in the room. His heavy, rumpled lids were low over his eyes as he watched and listened intently.

He did not move, but said, “The bank has reported that you didn’t withdraw any such amount.”

Shayne resumed impatiently. “Let’s not beat about the bush, Hale. We know where you got that wad of dough. From the bookie syndicate you run up in the big town.”

Hale flushed heavily, was silent for a moment, then admitted with dignity, “Perhaps I did have to call on my business associates to raise such a large amount in cash in the short time allotted me. But I swear it wasn’t counterfeit. I checked every bill and took off the serial numbers myself.”

“The list you gave Painter last night?”

“Yes. I listed them myself. I don’t think it matters where I obtained the money.”

“Except that it turned out to be queer,” Shayne told him, “and thus contributed to a couple of deaths. But that’s not the important thing,” he went on harshly. “The man who started this whole train of events is the actual criminal. The man who arranged for the girl’s kidnaping by Gurney.”

There was dead silence in the room when Shayne stopped speaking. Dawson turned his head slowly on the pillow, closing his eyes against the intent gaze of the men grouped around his bed. Emory Hale was shocked into stiff silence by the implications of Shayne’s statements. Gentry sat solidly in his chair, his eyes half closed, chewing silently on his sodden cigar stub. Only Arthur Deland appeared unmoved, as though he hadn’t heard or understood the blunt words.