Shayne chuckled without moving his sore lip. “Unless Hale has guts enough to come through with the truth and hand out the real list of serial numbers,” he agreed. “Petey’s probably strutting in his sleep right this minute.”
“Hale won’t dare confess the truth now,” said Rourke sadly. “Not as long as he thinks it was his cleverness with the bills that contributed to his niece’s death.”
“But he doesn’t think that any more,” Shayne pointed out patiently. “Not if he believes Dawson’s story about having been hijacked. Don’t you see? That clears Hale of any responsibility for things going wrong on the pay-off. The natural thing for him to do now is to admit the truth about the money and give the correct list to Painter to work on. The way things have worked out, Hale will be congratulating himself for having foreseen just such an outcome and furnishing the kidnapers with bills that can easily be identified. Think what a relief it must be to Hale to have Dawson come back and to realize that Kathleen isn’t dead because the kidnapers refused to accept easily identified money.”
Rourke nodded almost imperceptibly. “As soon as he hears Dawson’s story, you think he’ll come clean and tell Painter the truth about the serial sequence of the bills?”
“If he doesn’t,” said Shayne grimly, “we can bet there’s something screwier about him than just being dumb about the pay-off money.”
Rourke twisted his thin body around on the couch, fell back with his head resting on the upholstered arm, and lay inert.
Shayne picked up the cognac bottle, took a final swig, and stood up.
“What now, Mike?” Rourke asked.
“I’d like to know how Hale reacts to Dawson’s story. Maybe he hasn’t heard it yet. No matter how he takes the news, there’s still the problem of Irvin’s connection with the deal and how he and Bates got hold of the correct list of serial numbers.”
“Why don’t we go over to the Beach and see what’s going on?” Rourke’s voice was eager, though he didn’t move a muscle.
Shayne didn’t answer. He took off Dawson’s too-short and too big-middled clothing, stepped out of the sandals and said with disgust, “I haven’t a stitch of my own to put on.”
“What about Slocum’s things?” Rourke suggested. “He was nearer your size.”
“Slocum?” Shayne’s gray eyes grew bleak for a moment, then he said, “Maybe I can outfit myself temporarily from his clothes. It’s a cinch he won’t mind.”
He strode into the bedroom and circled the area where the homicide squad had washed the pool of blood from the floor, leaving dark stains around the edges. They had been through the dead man’s belongings and piled them on the dresser and in the open suitcase at the foot of the bed.
Shayne found clean underwear and socks, a shirt, and a light tan suit and sports shoes.
Rourke grimaced when he re-entered the living-room carrying the clothing. “The poor devil isn’t even cold yet. How’ll you feel wearing his things?”
“Pretty good-if they fit me.”
Slumped on the couch, Rourke watched him through half-closed eyes. Shayne got a paper sack and, after stripping off two of the bills from one of the bundles of currency, stuffed them into his pocket, then put the remaining bundles in the sack.
“Are we going to hand back all that jack?” the reporter asked.
“Not until we know what the score is. Don’t forget, you souse, that if one word leaks out about our having the money we’re both in the middle of something right up to our necks.”
“You mean that’s where Dawson would be,” Rourke protested.
“I told you Dawson got the jump on us with his story of being hijacked. The best we can hope for now would be to have Painter prove that you and I were the hijackers. For God’s sake, Tim, use your head for once.”
“You betcha.” Rourke grinned owlishly and swayed to his feet, clapping a soiled hat on the back of his head. “Holds my hat on, anyhow.” He took Shayne’s arm for support and they went out of the room.
Downstairs, Shayne tossed the paper sack filled with money on the desk. “I found the key Slocum used,” he said. “I guess you know I’ve moved in upstairs.”
Henry said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. It’s too bad about Mr. Slocum, but that apartment seems rightfully yours after all the years you lived in it.”
“Thanks,” said Shayne, then added casually, “There’s approximately fifty grand in this paper sack, Henry. Lock it in the safe for me.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.” From Henry’s expression one might have supposed the detective had told him the sack contained a pair of. dirty socks. “Would you like a receipt?”
“No need of that. But I would like to get about fifty on the cuff until the bank opens.”
Again Henry said, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.” He opened a drawer and counted out four tens and two fives, wrote a memorandum on a slip of paper which he thrust in the drawer, then closed it. He counted the bills carefully and handed them to Shayne.
Shayne thrust them in his right-hand trouser pocket and went out the side door with Rourke.
“That clerk,” said the reporter, “thinks you’re a little tin god on a stick.”
“We’re old friends,” Shayne told him.
“He wouldn’t hesitate to murder a guy to create a vacancy if you needed a room.”
Shayne chuckled. “Don’t tell Painter, but it’s my private hunch that’s exactly what happened to Slocum.” He opened the door of the sedan to let Rourke in, then walked around the front to appraise the damage done to it when he crashed out of the senator’s basement garage.
The car was a late model with a lot of chromium falsework on the radiator. This was smashed in, and the left fender was curled back; but otherwise the car appeared not to be damaged.
Shayne got under the wheel and made a U-turn back toward Flagler Street. The reporter settled down comfortably in the seat beside him and began to snore gently. He had to be shaken awake when Shayne found an empty taxi at a stand on N.E. 2nd Street. “End of the line for you, Tim. Transfer here for the Beach.”
Rourke yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Thought you were going along,” he protested sleepily.
“I’m headed for some fun at the Fun Club. You get over to the Beach and keep an eye on things.”
Shayne leaned past him to open the door, gave him a gentle shove, and, when he saw Rourke get in the cab, drove on north toward 36th Street.
Chapter Twelve
There were no cars parked in front of the Fun Club, and the outside lights were turned off when Shayne reached it. A dim light shone through the front windows, however, and Shayne turned into the driveway on the chance that the proprietor had not left.
He tried the front door and found it was locked, walked to one of the windows and peered inside. Chairs were stacked on the tops of tables, and the only person he could see was the bent figure of a man mopping the floor.
Going around to the rear door, Shayne pounded on it loudly. After a time he heard a bolt slide back and the door opened to show the dark face and oily black head of the waiter he had encountered earlier in the evening.
He said, “We close up, mister. Nobody here.”
“Not even Bates?” Shayne shoved the door open and walked into the dimly lit room.
The waiter recognized him, and his black eyes widened with fright. “No. He go half hour ago,” he whimpered.
Shayne went to the bar, saying over his shoulder, “Let’s have a drink. Then you can tell me where Bates lives.”
The man shook his head vigorously. “We close up,” he insisted. “No serva drink now.” He still held the mop in one hand and gesticulated toward a wall clock with the other.
“That’s all right,” Shayne told him. “I like this. I’ll serve myself.” He went behind the bar, found a bottle of Martell and poured a couple of ounces in the glass. “I’ve got a few drinks coming to me,” he reminded the man, “from that bill your boss took off me.”