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
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.”
“But that list of serial numbers he gave Painter,” protested Rourke. “Where did it come from?”
Shayne shrugged. “Maybe he had anticipated such a possibility and forearmed himself with an innocuous list. Maybe he began to realize the terrible mistake he’d made while they waited for Kathleen’s return, and slipped back to his room to make up a new list. We can only guess about that. There are several other much more important questions.”
“Such as?” Rourke’s head rested in the palms of his hands as he sat forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Number one.” Shayne counted it off on one finger. “How did Irvin get hold of the correct list? Why was he looking for that money? And, most important and most impossible of all,” he continued, pulling down a finger with each question, “where did Hale get hold of five hundred rumpled and dirty bills in exact numerical sequence?”
“Wait,” said Rourke, frowning. “I don’t quite see that last one.”
“It’s very simple. When new bills come from the mint they are in direct sequence. But no kidnaper wants new bills. As soon as bills get into circulation they get all mixed up. It would take an army of men years to gather up five hundred old bills in the complete sequence that these are. Yet, Hale claims he picked them up at a New York bank in a few hours’ notice. Figure that one out.”
“You figure it out,” said Rourke wearily.
“I’d like to know a lot more about Emory Hale-and the bank that gave him this money.”
There was a heavy silence between them. Rourke lifted his head from his palms and asked, “What are we going to do about Dawson?”
“Nothing. He thinks he’s perfectly safe and he’ll sit tight. And I’ll be safe from Painter’s interference as long as he thinks I was on the midnight plane for New Orleans. The moment I tell him what I know about Dawson, I’m placed right back there in that kidnap car, along with Gerta Ross.”
“And we’re the only ones who know the truth about the money,” the reporter said dully. “Painter will be circulating that phony list of nonexistent money all over the country trying to catch a gang of nonexistent hijackers.”