Counterfeit Wife Page 10

  Shayne nodded decisively. His steel-gray eyes were very bright. “Dawson gave me that money, Tim. About two minutes before midnight.”

  “Dawson! Good God, Mike! Were you really mixed up in that kidnaping?” Rourke’s voice was shaking and his tone incredulous and horrified.

  “By accident,” Shayne told him. “Sit back and take a drink while I tell you all about it. And I swear to God I’ll wring your scrawny neck if you don’t believe every word I tell you.”

  Chapter Ten

  BLOOD MONEY

  ROURKE’S EYES BLAZED venomously into Shayne’s for a moment. He started to push himself up from the couch, but the bleakness in Shayne’s eyes and the muscles moving in his gaunt face brought back memories of times when the detective had bound and gagged him to force him to listen to reason before spouting off and rushing headlines to his newspaper.

  He settled back wearily after pouring a drink. “Okay, Mike. But this time it’s got to be good. Understand?”

  Shayne nodded. He gave a brief account of his experience at the airport, dwelling upon the meeting with Dawson.

  “When the porter brought me a Gladstone from the plane I didn’t realize he’d brought me the wrong one,” he explained. “I didn’t know I had Dawson’s bag until I discovered it was locked. You were very helpful in opening it for me right in Painter’s presence,” he added with a dry grin.

  “Then Dawson is using your ticket and your name,” he exclaimed. “It’s actually Dawson who jumped the plane in Palm Beach.”

  Shayne nodded and then related the story of the lush blonde with much less enthusiasm than he had felt at the time it happened. “I trailed her out,” he resumed, “because I didn’t know whether to tell her the truth about her supposed husband or not. She got in a gray sedan with Fred Gurney.”

  “Gurney? He’s one of the cons there was such a stink about a few years ago. I covered that story. Bought a pardon from Raiford. There was a state-wide scandal afterward, involving a lot of other high-ups.”

  Shayne nodded. “Senator Irvin was the central figure. They hushed it up somehow.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Rourke sadly.

  “I trailed the blonde and Gurney to a joint on Thirty-sixth street,” Shayne continued. “The Fun Club. Run by a guy named Bates. Ever heard of him?”

  Rourke shook his head.

  Shayne then told him about trying to pay for some drinks with one of the bills given him by Dawson, of the phone call Bates had made, and of his escape with Gerta Ross in the sedan.

  “My God,” breathed Rourke. “Then you were the passenger in the wreck. Chick Farrel did recognize you. Why did you run away, Mike?” he went on excitedly. “Did you know the girl was in the trunk?”

  “I didn’t run away,” Shayne told him. “I walked away with a gun in my back.” He gave a quick summary of his interview with ex-Senator Irvin and his escape from the house on 38th Street. “I stopped in a joint on Miami Avenue and called Gentry,” he explained. “He told me Farrel had spotted me in the wreck. That was the first time I knew there had been a kidnaping. I asked him to pick up Irvin, and that’s why he told me about the fire and the dead Negro in the basement. A broken glass bottle is a hell of a thing to shove into anyone’s face,” he added.

  “I don’t get that stuff about the bills.” Rourke picked up the ten-grand bundle he had discarded and studied one of the bills carefully. “I don’t see anything out of the way about this.”

  “That’s why I asked whether the ransom money was marked. Don’t forget what Bates told Irvin over the phone—‘I got a C-note from that batch of fifty G’s you been hunting.’ That couldn’t have been later than twelve-forty-five, Tim. Even if the money was marked, how could Bates and Irvin know?”

  “Emory Hale is the only one who could have known that,” Rourke agreed. “Maybe he told them.”

  “Hale wouldn’t have turned that information over to a bunch of crooks,” Shayne protested. “There’s a possibility he may have lied to his brother-in-law and Painter. He might have played smart by having some secret marking on the bills, and he might even have turned that information over to the F.B.I., in New York and didn’t want to admit it after the pay-off went sour. But suppose he did? How did Irvin get it? And suppose Irvin did have a list he’d circulated to stooges like Bates? Would he gain anything by chasing down the ransom money after it had been paid?”

  “Could Irvin be playing it straight?” asked Rourke doubtfully. “Undercovering for the F.B.I., down here?”

  “Even undercover agents for the F.B.I., don’t go around murdering innocent bystanders like this fellow Slocum,” Shayne reminded him ruefully.

  “God! Do you think Irvin—”

  “Who else? I’m actually Slocum’s murderer,” Shayne went on, the trenches deepening in his gaunt cheeks, and his gray eyes bleak. “I put the finger on him with my story about where I got those two bills. It was a lousy story, but I couldn’t think of a better one with Perry’s gun on me. Of course it was Irvin, or one of his trigger-men. They had the address and the apartment number. They even had my key after they stripped me in the basement,” he ended savagely.

  “It looks as though Dawson was trying to duck out of town with the ransom money,” muttered Rourke. “That makes him Kathleen Deland’s actual murderer, Mike. Do you realize that? She didn’t die until about twelve-thirty—after Gerta Ross had driven all over hell and gone to catch up with Dawson and deliver the girl. If he hadn’t skipped on your ticket, she would be alive right now.”

  “It seems likely,” Shayne admitted.

  “And you’re letting him get away with it,” Rourke told him harshly. “You’re covering up for him by not reporting him as the airplane passenger instead of yourself.” He got shakily to his feet and walked up and down before Shayne, on unsteady legs.

  “What do you think Painter would do if I told him the truth?” Shayne grated.

  “He’d get men in Palm Beach on Dawson’s trail, by God!”

  “He might believe me enough to do that,” Shayne admitted. “A trail that’s at least two hours old, Tim. But don’t you see I’m placed right in the kidnap car if I kill my plane alibi by telling the truth?”

  “You’re in the clear, Mike.” Rourke stopped before him, his talon-like fingers clenched tightly. “No one would blame you after hearing the whole story.”

  “Not if they believed it,” Shayne said quietly.

  “I believe it.”

  “You’re not Painter. He won’t believe a damned word of it. Look,” he went on patiently, “what proof have I got? Irvin and Perry have skipped, and that leaves Bates. He’ll deny every word of it. Where does that leave me? With fifty grand ransom money, joy-riding in the kidnap car, and an unexplained corpse here in the apartment. Who but you would believe such a cockeyed story as that?”

  “You’ve got to take a chance on it. Damn it, Mike, you can’t let a skunk like Dawson escape just to keep your own neck clear.”

  “I’ll get Dawson.”

  “How? By sitting here drinking cognac?”

  “That’s the best way I know of. Don’t forget that I’ve got something Dawson wants pretty badly.”

  “The money?”

  Shayne nodded absently and was silent for a moment while Rourke prowled the room, plopping his fist into an open palm.

  “See here,” Shayne resumed, “by this time Dawson must have discovered the switch in suitcases. But he doesn’t know if I’ve discovered it yet. He’ll be frantic when he finds out he has contributed to the death of his partner’s daughter for nothing. He doesn’t know what I’ll do with the money when I find it. Give him a chance to come to me.”

  “But he may not do it. He may keep right on going.”

  “He may,” Shayne admitted. He slumped to a more comfortable position, his long legs stretched out and his knobby hands folded over his flat stomach.

  “You can’t take a chance on it by keeping quiet.” Rourke again stopped before him. “You’ve got to put t
he cops on him. I’m telling you he murdered Kathleen Deland just as surely as if he’d slit her throat.”

  Shayne said wearily, “My going to jail won’t help catch Dawson. Damn it, Tim, don’t you see the interpretation Painter’ll put on my story? He’ll just believe what he wants to. He’ll see the whole thing as prearranged for Dawson to slip the money to me at the airport while I give him my seat on the plane to make his getaway. He’ll never believe a word of my story about Bates and Irvin—and they’re mixed up in it somehow. They have to be. What good will it do to catch Dawson? Maybe he did contribute to murder, but there are others mixed up in it. We’ve got to find out what Irvin’s interest in the ransom money is and pin the Slocum murder on him. For God’s sake, be logical. You and I are the only two on the inside. With us behind bars you know the sort of job Painter will do. He’ll name me the kidnap-killer and you my accessory, and sit back smirking and thumbnailing his damned mustache while all the rest of them get away.”

  “Accessory? Me?” Rourke’s feverish eyes were filled with consternation. “How do you figure that?”

  “You knew I had the ransom money, didn’t you? You saw it in the bag and you didn’t say a word to Painter. If you didn’t expect a slice of it, why didn’t you yell right away?”

  Rourke doubled up his fist and took a step toward Shayne. “Damn you, Mike, I’ll—”

  “Hold it,” Shayne said angrily. “I’m telling you how it can be made to look. Use your head. There’s a hell of a lot more to this than appears on the surface. If you’re so hell-bent on bringing Kathleen’s murderers to justice, you’ll have to play ball with me and keep your mouth shut.”

  Rourke took a short turn about the room, then came back and sat down on the couch. “I’ve seen you hold out on the police before, Mike,” he said in a slightly subdued tone. “I’ve always helped you get away with it. But you always had a good reason.”

  “Isn’t avoiding a kidnap-murder rap a good reason?”

  “You could beat that,” said Rourke earnestly. “You know damned well you could beat it.”

  “Maybe. After I’ve rotted in Painter’s jail for a few months and the real killers got away.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to keep this hushed up?”

  “What do you mean?” growled Shayne.

  “That.” Rourke spoke hoarsely, pointing a trembling finger at the bundles of currency on the floor. “Fifty thousand dollars. You haven’t pulled down a fee on either of your last two cases, have you?”

  Shayne said, “No, I haven’t.” His gaunt face was expressionless, and he tugged at his ear lobe abstractedly.

  “It’s a hell of a lot of money. If Dawson isn’t caught, no one will ever know what became of it, will they?”

  “Not unless we tell them,” Shayne agreed woodenly.

  “And if Dawson is caught and tells the truth, we can claim we were holding it out for bait and meant to turn it back as soon as it served its purpose.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s blood money, Mike. Maybe that’s what Bates and the senator saw on those bills. Kathleen Deland’s blood. That’s what you’d begin to see after a while.” The reporter spoke jerkily, his eyes burning into Shayne’s face.

  Shayne said, “If you think that about me you’d better call Painter right away.”

  “I’m going to.”

  Rourke lifted the receiver. In a voice that resembled nothing Shayne had ever heard before, he croaked out the number of the Miami Beach police station.

  Shayne took a long drink and set the bottle back on the floor. He picked up one of the bundles of bank notes and examined the outside bill with meticulous care. The thing that bothered him most at the moment was the question of how Bates and Irvin had immediately recognized the two bills Dawson had given him. If all five hundred of the bills followed a straight sequence of serial numbers, it would be a simple matter to spot one of them. But Emory Hale denied that they were in any numbered order or that the money had been marked in any way.

  Shayne glanced idly at the number on the first bill, then turned it back to look at the next bill. They were Federal Reserve notes, with the familiar picture of Franklin in the center. He frowned when he saw that the identifying letters were the same on both bills, and the first five numbers were exactly the same on both bills: F3704-1615A and F37041890A. He felt his belly muscles tighten as he turned bill after bill and glanced at the serial numbers. They all had the same identifying letters and the same first five numbers. Only the final three numbers were different on each bill, and Shayne quickly established the fact that the variance in the last three numbers did not range beyond five hundred.

  He was vaguely aware of Rourke talking on the phone, but didn’t hear what he was saying. He picked up each bundle of currency and hurriedly riffled them. His quick inspection showed every bill to have the same 37041, and the last three numbers on any bill were not higher than 992 or lower than 512.

  In the space of a few minutes he was convinced that all of the five hundred bills were in a straight sequence of serial numbers between 37041500 and 37041999. True, each of the five bundles had been well mixed so that none of the bills followed each other in actual numbered sequence, but he knew that was no more than an amateurish precaution and wouldn’t fool a shrewd crook for a moment. The first thing a receiver of ransom money would look for would be identifying marks on the bills, or a sequence of serial numbers.

  He heard the receiver click on the telephone, saw Rourke coming toward him with a queer look on his face.

  “I just talked to Painter,” he said in an awed tone.

  “Is he sending the goon squad to pick me up?”

  “He’s not sending anybody.” He sat down and grabbed for the cognac bottle, drank with desperate urgency, then said, “I didn’t tell him anything, after all.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks, Tim.”

  “Don’t thank me for a break. Thank Dawson.”

  “What’s Dawson done?”

  “Come back,” Rourke told him. “He stumbled into the Beach police station twenty minutes ago with a wild story about having been beaten by a band of masked ruffians out on the highway and having the money stolen from him. He evidently gave an account of his adventures that completely convinced Painter. I was so bowled over when Petey told me the story that I couldn’t do anything but listen and hang up.”

  “It’s a good thing you did,” Shayne pointed out grimly. “Dawson has got the jump on us. This knocks my story into a cocked hat. My word against his, and you know Painter wouldn’t take my word against that of a thrice-convicted perjurer.”

  “Wait a minute, Mike. I’ve got to think this out. Dawson can’t get away with it. We know he’s lying and that he tried to skip with the ransom money.”

  “We’re the only ones who do know that,” Shayne reminded him. “Remember, he traveled to Palm Beach as Michael Shayne. That’s the name on the airline passenger list.”

  “We can prove it wasn’t you,” the reporter protested weakly. “The stewardess can identify him and testify he was using your ticket.”

  “Sure. In a day or so. After they bring her back here to make the identification. And maybe she won’t remember him after being aboard so short a time. He would make himself inconspicuous. We can’t take a chance on it, Tim.”

  Rourke was silently thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid you’re right. That slick bastard. Does he actually think he can get away with a story like that?”

  “Why not?” Shayne shrugged and spread out his big hands. “Look at it from his angle. As soon as he opened my Gladstone he realized what had happened. He knows I’ll eventually find the fifty grand. Does he expect me to hunt him up to return the money? What would you think if you knew a perfect stranger had suddenly found himself with his hands on fifty thousand dollars?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’d—”

  “Exactly,” Shayne cut in sharply. “You’d figure he’d take it on the lam, but
fast. That’s the way Dawson figured. Without the money for a getaway, he’d be a penniless fugitive from the F.B.I., the rest of his life. His safest bet was to do exactly what he did. Now, I’ve got a surprise for you. Look at the serial numbers on these bills.”

  Shayne handed him one of the bundles of currency.

  Chapter Eleven

  VACANCY BY MURDER

  ROURKE BEGAN absently riffling through the bank notes. He appeared preoccupied, not actually looking at them at first. Then he began turning them slowly, studying them as Shayne had done. He sucked in his breath, let out a shrill whistle, and said, “Are all the other bundles the same?”

  Shayne nodded. “See what I mean? Well mixed up, but not a single bill outside that limited sequence of numbers.”

  Rourke dropped the packet carelessly on the couch. He sat hunched over, staring into space, the cracking of his knuckles sounding loud in the quiet room. He said finally, “Maybe my sob story was wrong as far as Emory Hale was concerned, Mike. The bastard lied about the money. That list of serial numbers he gave Painter was a phony. I saw it. But why? Why would he do that?” He looked at Shayne with aggrieved and disillusioned eyes. “I was so positive—”

  Shayne chuckled. “You’ve a few things yet to learn before you write a masterpiece, Tim. Remember how I had to hog-tie you a couple of times when you jumped at wrong conclusions? But don’t let it worry you,” he went on consolingly. “This is the way I see it:

  “It was evident to Hale that something had gone wrong. Think of his position as he waited there with his sister and brother-in-law for Kathleen’s return. Until past midnight. Until he knew something must have happened to her. Hale is evidently a man of the world. Not a simple, trusting soul like Deland or his wife. Think how he must have felt. He must have realized what a fool he’d been to get five hundred bills in straight sequence and hope that the kidnapers wouldn’t notice a thing like that. He couldn’t admit the whole thing was his fault in front of the girl’s parents. He felt like Kathleen’s murderer, and he knew they’d feel the same if they knew the truth.”