“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.”
Chapter Nineteen
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 in
tently.
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.
Shayne turned to Deland and said, “You’d better tell us what your connection was with your daughter’s kidnaper.”
Deland shook his head slowly, like a man in a dream. He appeared utterly mystified by the abrupt question.
“I’m talking about Fred Gurney.” Shayne’s voice was harsh and compelling. “When did you meet him? How well did you know him?”
“But-I didn’t.” He put one hand up feebly, as though to ward off the question.
“You were looking for him at two-thirty last night-before anyone else knew he had any connection with the kidnaping. What made you think of him?”
“Wait a minute, Shayne,” said Emory Hale angrily. “You can’t talk to Arthur like that. Can’t you see he’s in a complete daze? He’s not responsible for anything he did last night. He doesn’t realize what you’re saying just now.”
“I’ll make him realize it,” said Shayne savagely. He addressed Deland again, speaking slowly, spacing his words. “I know you went to Papa La Tour’s last night and asked for Fred Gurney. Why?”
Deland slowly brought up a rough hand and passed it over his face. As it fell limply to his side, comprehension shone in his sunken eyes. “Oh-yes. I thought he-might know the man who would-do such a thing.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper in the ominous silence.
“Why did you think he’d know?”
“It was just-just an idea,” faltered Deland. “I felt I had to do something. I’m not-acquainted with the criminal element in the city, and I thought of Gurney. I didn’t know then that-that-” his voice trailed off, and he covered his face with his hands.
Tenseness grew in the small hospital room. The men listened silently. They watched Shayne as they would watch a barometer when a hurricane was about to strike-a force which would surely kill or injure someone among them.
Shayne’s voice was sharp when he said, “That’s quite a coincidence that you should go straight to the kidnaper of your beautiful young daughter, just on the off-chance that he might know something about it.”
Tears trickled from Deland’s eyes and ran down the creases in his face. He said, “I remembered what Emory said when he-introduced me to Gurney. Something about Gurney being a good man to know if I ever wanted a dirty job done. Like arson-or-poisoning my wife,” he ended, his body shaking with sobs.
Hale went over and took Deland by the shoulders and shook him soundly. “Get hold of yourself, Arthur. That’s nonsense. You know I wasn’t serious. I just happened to know Gurney was a cheap crook and I just told you that in fun. I’d had a few drinks,” he ended apologetically, and turned away.
Shayne said harshly, “Let him alone.” He asked Deland, “Did you telephone Gurney at the Fun Club last night?”
“Telephone him?” His cavernous eyes bored into Shayne’s, then wavered. “No, I went out there, but they said he’d already gone. So, I didn’t know where to look for him or what to do.” His arms fell limply against his thighs.
Shayne swung away from him and confronted Hale. He said bitterly, “So you knew Gurney. You knew he was a cheap crook who might be hired for a nice safe kidnaping?”
“God!” breathed Hale. “Do you think I’d arrange such a despicable thing as that? My own niece whom I loved like a child of my own?”
“You wouldn’t have thought Kathleen was in any real danger,” Shayne pointed out. “If it was all planned ahead and would mean no more than detaining her from home a day or two.”
Hale burst out furiously, “By God, I won’t stand for such an accusation.” He started toward Shayne with powerful hands doubled into fists.
As he did so the telephone on the bedstand beside Dawson rang. Shayne was standing over it. He scooped up the receiver and said, “Yeah?” He listened for a moment, then said, “He’s right here. How bad is it?” He listened again, then turned to Deland and announced quietly, “It’s the fire department. Your house is burning down.”
Deland hurried toward him, gasping, “Minerva! Is she all right?”
“Your wife is all right,” Shayne soothed him.
“How bad is it? The garage too?” His face was twisted with grief and panic.
“Just the house,” Shayne assured him. “You carry insurance, don’t you?” He spoke again into the instrument, saying, “Okay. If there’s nothing Deland can do about it, what was the use of calling him and piling up more bad news?” He hung up and turned to Emory Hale to answer his last outburst.
“The only reason I’m not accusing you,” he said, “is because I don’t see how you could have profited. Even if you did intend to furnish counterfeit money for the ransom you still wouldn’t make anything on the deal.”
Peter Painter turned to him, bristling angrily. “See here, Shayne. You’ve been doing a lot of talking about counterfeit money. It’s the first I’ve heard of any such thing. What are you trying to prove against Mr. Hale?”
Shayne silenced him with a gesture. “Keep on listening and you’ll learn lots of things about this case.” He turned to Dawson and said, “Though I don’t see how Hale could have profited by the kidnaping, you stood to make thirty grand if you promised Gurney twenty thousand for his part. You still didn’t know that money was counterfeit when you came back to my hotel looking for it and ran into Slocum, did you?”
Dawson moved his head feebly, but didn’t answer. Sweat stood on his pallid brow, and his eyes were dull through the wetness covering them.
Gentry pushed himself up ponderously from his chair and joined the others standing around the bed.
Shayne went on. “We know you murdered Slocum, Dawson. It had to be you. At the airport I mentioned that I’d try to get my old apartment back, and you found a paid-up hotel receipt in my luggage that gave my apartment number. We had you lined up for it all the time,” he added contemptuously, “but we didn’t have any proof until they compared the blood and some hairs on the vase with your blood and hair. You murdered Slocum in cold blood. He was just an innocent man wanting an apartment, and never harmed anyone.”
“It wasn’t murder,” panted Dawson. “I swear it wasn’t. It was self-defense.”
“Self-defense against me” said Shayne. “Not against Slocum.”
“Yes.” Dawson turned away wearily. “I expected you to open the door when I knocked, and I had a gun in my hand. The guy went berserk when he saw the gun. Before I could explain, he snatched up something and struck me. I hit him in self-defense. He wouldn’t go down. He fought back. I had to keep on hitting him.” Dawson covered his face and began to sob. “I had to,” he cried hysterical
ly. “Don’t you understand? I had to fight him all the way back to the bedroom and keep on hitting him until he lay quiet.”
Shayne turned to Gentry and said moodily, “I knew it had to be Dawson as soon as I learned Slocum had been attacked at the front door instead of in the bedroom.”
Gentry rumbled, “It was premeditated murder, Mike, even if the victim was an innocent bystander.”
“Yeah,” said Shayne absently. “The other party I suspected, Senator Irvin, had my keys and would have unlocked the door and walked in without knocking.”
“Some day,” said Gentry, “your Dutch grandmother may take a holiday from you and the wee folk.”
“Some day, maybe,” Shayne agreed.
Timothy Rourke made his way to Shayne’s side and said in a low voice, “So it was Dawson all the way. He planned the whole damned job and had himself appointed go-between so he’d handle the money. Then he tried to double-cross Gurney by jumping town with the dough, and inadvertently caused Kathleen’s death by the delay.”
“Not quite all the way.” Shayne spoke reluctantly, with a note of genuine sadness in his voice that none of his friends had ever heard before. “The man who arranged the kidnaping of Kathleen Deland had fifty grand in queer money to get rid of. Using it for a ransom pay-off seemed like an easy way of exchanging it for good money. If Dawson had planned it, he would have been careful to have the kidnaper name him as the go-between. But the kidnaper didn’t do that, Tim. You told me yourself that Arthur Deland named the go-between. So-”
There was a strangled gasp behind him as Arthur Deland whirled away from the group and sprang toward the open window nine stories above the ground. Painter leaped to intercept him, but somehow Shayne’s big body was in his way.
Deland dived through the flimsy screen headfirst, and those in the room stood rigid, listening for the dull thud that drifted up to the hospital room an instant later.
Chapter Twenty
Counterfeit Wife ms-14 Page 17
