Counterfeit Wife Page 12

  The office was lighted, and the small building was surmounted by a white tower topped with a high, lighted spire. He cut off the motor in front of the office and heard a couple of radios playing in cabins and the sound of singing and laughter.

  A bleary-eyed man blinked at him as he strode into the office, then stood up and opened a registration book. Shayne forestalled him, saying, “I’m looking for a friend of mine who took a cabin here late tonight. His name is Smith.”

  The man chuckled tonelessly. “We’ve had quite a lot of Smiths tonight. Ran ahead of the Joneses, I do believe.”

  Shayne said, “Fred Smith.”

  “M-m-m.” The man ran his finger down the list, then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fred Smith. Number Sixteen. That’s right around the circle in front, at the far end. They’re still there far’s I know.”

  Shayne went out to the car and drove around the circle to Number 16. It was one of the lighted cabins, and a radio was playing softly inside.

  He got out, opened the door, and went in. The room he entered was nicely furnished for a tourist cabin, with a rug on the floor, a couch, two overstuffed chairs, and a pull-down bed. An open door on one side evidently led into another bedroom.

  Gerta Ross lay on the pull-down bed, snoring gently. Her hair was uncoiled and lay in a tangle about her face. Her suit coat was hanging on a chair, and she wore a sheer white blouse with the gray skirt.

  A half-empty gin bottle stood on the floor just beyond the reach of her trailing fingertips. There was a queer, sweetish smell in the room.

  Shayne closed the cabin door softly and went over to pick up the gin bottle and smell it. It had been a long time since he had smelled laudanum, but he knew the gin had been spiked with the opiate. He set the bottle on the table beside the radio and went on to the open side door.

  The bedroom was dark except for the beam of light coming through the door. He turned on the light and looked at Fred Gurney lying on the floor beside the neatly made bed. Gurney was fully dressed, and he looked peacefully passed out with his mouth vacuously open and his eyelids closed.

  Shayne didn’t know he was dead until he knelt beside him and listened for his breathing, then felt for a pulse. His wrist was warm, but not as warm as living flesh should be. There was no pulse.

  The time was 4:28 by Shayne’s wrist watch. He squatted back on his heels and studied the dead man thoughtfully. He didn’t see any wound at first, but when he turned the man slightly he saw blood underneath the body and the bone handle of a hunting knife protruding from between his thin shoulder blades.

  Shayne got up and went back into the other room, turning off the bedroom light and pulling the door shut without touching the knob.

  Gerta Ross still snored peacefully. He sat down on the bed beside her and put his hand on her shoulder and shook her urgently. Her snoring changed to a whimpering sound and she tried to snuggle her face farther down in the pillow to shut the light from her eyes.

  Shayne slapped her lightly and she opened her eyes, rolled them up at him, and said in a husky, drowsy voice, “I must have dozed off while I was waiting for you to come. I thought you’d never get here, honey.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  TOO MANY DRINKS

  BEFORE SHAYNE COULD SAY ANYTHING she reached up and locked her arms around his neck, pulling him down to crush his face against hers with surprising strength.

  Shayne twisted his head, and his mouth slid off hers to the side of her throat. Her grip was like a wrestler’s, and he had to struggle against it, getting his hands on her shoulders and prying upward to lift himself from her grasp.

  Laughter gurgled from her moist lips and her blue eyes were wide open, staring up into his with pleased recognition.

  “Don’t be like that, honey,” she coaxed. “Let’s us have a drink and be chummy.”

  Shayne said, “You’ve had too many drinks.”

  “I never had too many drinks. Not ever in my whole life,” she said thickly. She sounded more drugged than drunk. She lifted herself on one elbow to look for the bottle, squinted at it with one eye when she saw it on the table, and said, “Gimme a drink, big boy.”

  “I told you you’d already had too many. What about Gurney?”

  “What about him?” She sank back on the pillow.

  “Hadn’t you better get up and sit over there on the couch? He might come in and find us like this.”

  “Fred?” She moved her head slowly and negatively, closing her left eye so that her face took on an expression of sly cunning. “Don’t you worry about Freddie.”

  “He’s in his bedroom, isn’t he?”

  “Sure he is. I guess so,” she amended with indifference. “But hell, he’ll stay right there.”

  “How do you know he will?”

  “Whatcha wanta ask so many questions for?” she demanded crossly. “Let’s us have a drink and talk about you and me. That’ll be lots more fun.”

  “But Gurney might wake up and come in here any minute,” Shayne warned her again.

  “I told you he wouldn’t. He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. Knife in his back.” She looked at him solemnly. “He won’t bother us.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “Did I?” A tear formed in the corner of each eye and rolled down her cheeks, but otherwise her placid face was without expression.

  “You arranged to meet him here, didn’t you?”

  “He phoned me to meet him.” She drew one hand across her eyes and sat up with a lurch. “Gonna have a drink,” she announced with decision.

  “I’ll get us both one,” Shayne soothed her. “Just lie back and try to remember why you killed Freddie.” He got up and went into the bathroom and found two water glasses. He half filled both of them from the tap, carried them back into the room, and poured gin into the water, keeping his body between Gerta Ross and the bottle so she couldn’t see that the drink was diluted.

  She lay back on the pillow with her eyes closed when he approached the bed again. Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. She reached for one of the glasses. The pupils of her eyes were contracted to pin points, glassy with a hard brilliance. She greedily drank from the glass and said, “You did it, I bet. You killed Freddie because you were jealous. What a laugh that is. I went for you first thing. You didn’t have to kill Freddie.”

  “Was he alone when you got here?”

  “I guess he was. I don’t remember much about it. I got knocked out when the damned car turned over. Knot on my head big as an egg.” She touched the place gently and added, “Had a hell of a time stopping the blood.”

  Shayne looked at the spot she touched. He could see the swelling now. Her heavy hair covered it. There was no sign of any blood.

  He asked, “What about Dawson?”

  “What about the bastard?” she countered.

  “Maybe he killed Gurney.”

  “Maybe he did,” she agreed without interest. She finished her drink and dropped the empty glass beside her. Holding out her arms she said, “Come on, honey. Give mamma a kiss.”

  “What about the girl—Kathleen Deland? She was found in the trunk of your wrecked car.”

  “Oh—her?”

  “She’s dead, too,” Shayne told her sharply.

  “Unh-uh. Just doped. She’s awright. Been keepin’ her doped ever since Freddie brought her to my place.”

  “They hang people for kidnaping whether she’s dead or just doped,” Shayne said.

  Gerta Ross moved her head negatively. Her eyes were tightly closed. “I didn’t kidnap her. Freddie said she was in trouble when he brought her to my place. Pretty young for that, but they do start young these days.” Her voice was becoming thicker, and she scarcely moved her lips when she spoke. Shayne had to lean close to distinguish the syllables.

  “Did he tell you to keep her doped?”

  “Sure. Said she was hysterical. Fine rich family.” She opened her eyes with an effort and looked into Shayne’s intent face only
a few inches from hers, then pushed herself up to press her lips against his mouth.

  Shayne pushed her back on the pillow. He said, “But you knew the girl was kidnaped.”

  “Found it out later. Freddie said not to worry. He had inside dope. Told me to keep her drugged till Dawson paid off. It was all fixed, see?”

  Shayne said, “Go on. Who else was in on it?”

  “I don’ know anything else about it. It wasn’t a real kidnaping, see? Kiss me, honey.”

  “How much was Dawson going to pay you?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. Freddie said it’d be plenty. But the bastard tried to run out on us tonight.”

  “Is Dawson the man Freddie was meeting here?” Shayne pressed her.

  “Was he meeting somebody besides me?”

  “Didn’t he phone you he was, and for you to come?”

  “I guess so.” She closed her eyes wearily and said, “Let’s us have a drink.”

  “First, tell me what Freddie said when he called you.”

  “Said ever’thing was awright,” she muttered. “Said for me to come out here and we’d hide out a while and then get out of town. With that shrimp!” She laughed contemptuously. “Y’know what he’s got? He’s got false teeth. God, what a cluck.”

  “Did he say he was meeting Dawson here?”

  “Didn’t say. Just said it didn’t matter ’bout the car getting wrecked when I told him. Said we were getting paid for the job anyhow. And now how’s about a drink?” She cocked one eye open and sighed deeply.

  Shayne said, “I guess it is about time.” He got the bottle and handed it to her. She fumbled for it with her eyes closed, cuddled it down in the valley between her breasts and lifted the bottom just enough for the liquor to trickle into her mouth.

  Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette while she sucked contentedly on the bottle, and the level of the drugged gin went steadily and rhythmically down.

  She stopped drinking after a time and the bottle slid from her bosom onto the bed where a small portion of it spilled. Shayne smoked and watched her with alert eyes. Her head fell sidewise on the pillow. She pouted her lips and began snoring gently.

  He got up and went into the other bedroom, turned on the lights and knelt beside Gurney’s lifeless body. Methodically, he went through the man’s pockets. He found a few bills and some silver, a key ring and a couple of policy tickets, but no scrap of paper of any sort—nothing to tell him any of the things he wanted to know.

  He turned out the lights and went back to the other room, carefully wiped his fingerprints from the glasses and the bottle, and from everything he could remember having touched, then went to the front door.

  He stood there for a moment before going out, giving the room a final searching scrutiny. The radio was still playing transcribed music very softly, and Gerta Ross looked very peaceful on the bed.

  He shrugged his shoulders, went out, got in the sedan and drove away, circling past the lighted tower and heading back to 36th Street. It was full daylight now. The sun was pushing itself up from the Atlantic and the sky was garish with red and crimson banners.

  Stopping at the first all-night restaurant he came to, he parked and went in to the telephone. He called the Miami Beach police department and asked if Timothy Rourke was around.

  After a long wait, he heard Rourke’s voice come over the wire. Shayne said gruffly, “Here’s a tip-off from a pal. The Deland kidnapers are in a cabin—Number Sixteen—at the Tower Cottages on West Thirty-sixth in Miami.”

  He hung up as soon as he finished, went out to the sedan and drove directly to his apartment on the Miami River. He went in the side entrance and climbed the stairs without seeing Henry or the elevator boy, entered his old apartment, and emptied the last three inches from the cognac bottle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ROCKERED BILLS

  IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK when Shayne awoke. He made a distasteful grimace at the wrinkled clothing in which he had slept, and scowled as he pulled on the tight shoes. His scowl deepened when he looked at his puffed lip in the bathroom mirror. He made a sketchy toilet with cold water splashed over his face and neck.

  The day clerk was on duty when he went down to the lobby, and he looked surprised when Shayne strode through to the front door.

  Shayne walked two blocks to a restaurant where he bought a morning Herald and ordered a big breakfast.

  The Deland kidnap-murder was spread all over the front page. There were pictures of the bereaved parents and the uncle, and three different poses of the sweet-faced girl who was dead. The parents looked about as Rourke described them, weary with long and anxious waiting and broken with grief.

  The picture of the uncle interested him more than the others. Emory Hale had a square jaw and a tight mouth and eyes that looked cold and remorseless. The story described him as “A wealthy New York sportsman and financier” and quoted his offer of a $10,000 reward for the person or persons responsible for his beloved niece’s death. It gave a dramatic account of Hale’s hasty airplane flight south with the ransom money to meet the kidnaper’s demands, and painted a pathetic picture of his personal grief and outraged anger over the outcome of his rescue flight.

  Rourke’s story covered the front page. Shayne was glad to note that the copy smacked of the old vigorous reporter he’d known for years, and not in the least like the sob story he had told Shayne.

  On an inside page, however, a woman reporter described the scene in these words:

  There was silence in the little house as Chief Peter Painter turned from the telephone and announced, “I am sorry to inform you that your daughter is dead.” The silence continued, thick and heavy-laden with disbelieving grief while the Miami Beach chief of detectives tersely explained the circumstances under which Kathleen Deland’s body had been discovered.

  The tears of the stricken mother coursed down her cheeks and dropped upon the bosom of her simple dress. The hands of the anguished father lay still in his lap while his cavernous eyes were lifted to the framed photograph of his daughter above the mantel.

  Mr. Emory Hale’s visage was like that of a statue carved from granite. There was no outward change of expression, yet with such a show of inward suffering and despair that the look upon his face will remain stamped indelibly upon my memory. He sat there, erect in his chair, one hand placed firmly on each knee, leaning forward slightly from the waist, his gaze fixed on Chief Painter’s face.

  It was Mr. Hale who broke the silence first—the devoted uncle who had responded so swiftly and without question to his sister’s plea for help across the miles separating them; who had moved heaven and earth to obtain the required ransom money from his New York bank and fly south with it to meet the deadline set by the kidnapers.

  Mr. Hale spoke flatly and without emotion, with a machine-like precision that conveyed an impression of dynamic force beneath the surface: “Have they found Dawson yet?”

  Chief Painter replied, “Dawson seems to have disappeared into thin air, Mr. Hale. Along with your fifty thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Hale made a brief and savage gesture to indicate that the loss of the ransom money meant nothing to him now. “And the man responsible for Kathleen’s death?”

  “There have been no arrests as yet,” the detective chief admitted sadly. “However, the owner of the death car is known and I assure you that everything humanly possible is being done to apprehend the kidnapers.”

  Emory Hale stood up to his full height. He thrust both hands in his pockets and strode from the room without another word.

  Mr. Deland got up and said in a dead and hopeless voice, “I wonder where Emory is going. I wonder if I ought to—”

  Mrs. Deland spoke the first words she had uttered since hearing the agonizing truth of her child’s death. She said simply, “Go after him, Arthur, before he does something desperate. You know he loved Kathleen as though she were his own.”

  Arthur Deland nodded mutely and left the room, pausing only to lay a rough h
and gently upon his wife’s bowed head.

  I moved across the room then and sat beside Mrs. Deland. For a long time neither of us spoke. What could I say? What words of mine could assuage the mother’s grief—

  The waiter brought Shayne’s breakfast, and he stopped reading the sob story. Following instructions at the end of the article, he turned to page six for more pictures.

  There was one of Dawson, Deland’s partner in the plumbing business and go-between in the ransom pay-off. There was an inset showing a faded photograph of Gerta Ross as she had looked a decade or more ago above a caption: Find This Woman. And a diagram showing the spot on the highway northward from Miami where Dawson claimed he had been set upon by armed thugs and forced to give them the ransom money.

  Shayne ate his scrambled eggs and bacon and drank three cups of coffee while he carefully read Dawson’s account of his adventures as given to the police at an early hour that morning. It was ingeniously simple and straightforward, and had the ring of truth.

  Following instructions (said Dawson) he drove across the causeway after receiving the packet of money from Deland and turned north on Biscayne Boulevard at a moderate pace. He naturally presumed he was being trailed every foot of the way, and he did nothing to arouse suspicion in the minds of the kidnapers or to upset the plan for Kathleen Deland’s exchange for the ransom money.

  After passing 79th Street, there was less traffic and he noticed that he was being followed at a distance of about five hundred feet by another car. He was confident then that the contact had been established and that the kidnapers would approach him as soon as they thought it safe to do so.

  Fearing to do anything not in strict accordance with instructions, Dawson said he drove on northward at the same steady pace mile after mile, past the Hollywood traffic circle and onto the nearly deserted stretch of highway south of Fort Lauderdale.

  The pursuing car came abreast of him suddenly, honked as it passed, and turned in front of him onto a dark side road. Happy in his belief that he was soon to have his partner’s daughter safe in his own car, Dawson followed the other car a quarter of a mile down the side road and stopped behind it