“Tony know nothin’ ’bout that, mister. Never saw boss act lika that before. He say you no pay when I take him hunner-dollar.”
Shayne walked around to the front of the bar and sat on a stool. “Put that mop down and come over here. I want to ask you some questions.”
The Italian dropped the mop and glided lazily toward the bar. He perched himself on a stool beside Shayne, watching the detective warily.
Shayne said, “Exactly how did Bates act and what did he say when you took him the bill for change?”
The waiter looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I give boss big bill an’ ask for change. He taka bill an’ go to safe. He stop queek and looka like thees at big bill.” Tony demonstrated, holding an imaginary bill some fifteen inches from his eyes and scowling deeply. “Boss swing ’round and say, ‘Where you get thees money? From customer out there?’ I say you,” he went on, pointing a finger at Shayne, “an’ he make me show heem. Then boss tella me go bring you to offeece,” he ended.
Tony took out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco and started nervously making a cigarette.
“Here, have one of these,” said Shayne, and held out his pack. The waiter took one and Shayne held a light to it. “What else did he do?”
He again shook his head vigorously. “Tony not know,” he said, and crossed himself.
Shayne twirled the glass of cognac thoughtfully in his big hands. “Are you certain Bates didn’t look at a sheet of paper or something after he’d looked at the bill you gave him?”
“I no onnderstan’,” he declared, and made a gesture of complete bewilderment.
“I mean did he check the serial number of the bill with a list written on a paper, or anything like that?” Shayne repeated. “Damn it, I’m trying to find out what was the matter with that hundred-dollar bill.”
“Eet looka like other money, only we no getta many such big bills. No, no, boss no look at paper.”
“You’re positive?” Shayne asked harshly.
Tony nodded violently. “Tony sure.”
“What happened after I left?” Shayne asked.
“Boss get very mad. Then two men come in, talk to boss a minute, and run out queeck. We hear coupla car racin’ and gun go off. When he look out you gone. Mees Ross’ car gone. Boss mucha mad. He go back to offeece and shutta door-slam!”
“Where can I find Bates right now?”
“Not know. On Beach, but not know where.”
“Do you know the man who came in with Miss Ross?”
The waiter’s black eyes brightened. “Mr. Gurney? Sure. He beeg shot.”
Shayne frowned and took a sip of cognac. “Gambling in the back?”
Tony shook his head. “No, no. Mr. Gurney what you calla bookie for horse race.”
“Do Gurney and Miss Ross hang around here much?”
Again the sleek-haired little man moved his head from side to side. “One, two time a week. They drinka much lousy drink.” He curled his lips in disgust.
“Do you know Senator Irvin? Or a torpedo named Perry?”
Tony thought for a moment, his eyes puzzled, then frightened. He make a slight negative movement, slid from the stool, and picked up his mop. “Tony gotta finish mop an’ go home.”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne called. He carefully described the ex-senator and Perry, but the man disclaimed any knowledge of the two men. He denied, also, that he knew anything whatever of Bates’s personal life or habits, and said the proprietor would be in his office some time after noon.
Shayne finished his brandy while the waiter silently mopped the floor. Then he asked, “How long did Fred Gurney stay around tonight after the excitement?”
Tony thought for a moment. “Have ’nother drink-maybe two. Mr. Gurney mucha excited when gun pop off and Mees Ross go. Then he getta phone call and go out. He take taxi.”
“Do you know the driver of the taxi?”
The waiter leaned on his mop and thought for a moment. The look of fright and doubt was still in his eyes. “Taxi driver come in an’ want drink. Mr. Gurney not givva him time. He in beeg hurry.”
“Do you know his name or the taxi company he works for?”
“Pinky,” Tony told him hesitantly. “He have red hair lika you. Beeg man. Maybe Black an’ White, maybe Greena Top, maybe-”
“Maybe,” Shayne repeated disgustedly. “And maybe it was Fred Gurney’s private chauffeur driving his Packard car.”
The waiter’s jaw dropped open and he looked baffled. “Mr. Gurney no hava car. No chauffeur.”
Shayne grunted angrily and got up from the stool and went out. The eastern sky was paling above the horizon, and the air was very still and damply cool. Complete silence lay over the community; the small houses were dark. Shayne’s footsteps were loud on the gravel as he made his way wearily to the sedan.
Again he felt that queer sensation of surprise that people were sleeping peacefully in all those houses. People for whom rest and sleep came naturally during the hours of darkness. People who never had any dealings with corpses or ransom money or big blondes who sighed for laudanum in their gin.
He got in the car and sat there for a time, his big hands gripping the steering wheel as he scowled at the paling stars and the growing radiance in the east.
He needed sleep, but he needed more desperately to get hold of Gerta Ross, and Fred Gurney. Soon it would be day, and he had many things to do. And the police would be looking for Ross and Gurney, too. At least for Gerta Ross. He didn’t know whether the police knew of the connection between the two.
He set himself grimly to think things out. Gerta would have been frightened after the accident. She must have realized that the girl was likely to be discovered in the trunk of her wrecked car. Yet, she probably hadn’t expected it to occur immediately.
But what about Gurney? He didn’t know about the wreck. That is, he probably hadn’t known about it when he left the Fun Club. Unless the telephone call he had received was from Gerta, warning him of what had happened.
What then? He’d be frightened, too. But there was still the fact that neither of them knew what had become of Dawson and the ransom money. Neither of them was likely to skip town until they were sure they weren’t going to get their hands on the fifty grand.
On the other hand, neither of them would continue to stay any place where the police were likely to locate them. That’s one reason why Shayne hadn’t bothered to follow up Gentry’s tip and ask at Papa La Tour’s for Fred Gurney. If that was a regular hangout, it was one place where he was not likely to be.
While he sat there indecisively the door to the Fun Club opened, and the waiter came out. He approached the parked car and peered in at Shayne.
“Tony theenk maybe you still here. No hear car go.”
Shayne said, “Well?”
The man hesitated as though trying to formulate his thoughts, then said, “I get theenking after you go.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Shayne growled. “You’ve got something to tell me?”
The man nodded slowly. “You wanta know where Mr. Gurney go when he leave Club?”
“With a guy named Pinky, maybe, who was driving some sort of a taxi, maybe.”
“Mr. Gurney maka phone call afta he get one I tella you ’bout. Not hear mucha what he say. He get mad and holler, ‘At Tower an’ make it snappy. I register under name Fred Smith.’”
“The Tower?” Shayne said doubtfully. “I don’t know of any hotel by that name.”
“Not hotel. Tourist camp. I worka there once.” He made a wry face and a gesticulation of disgust and added, “This Tower not nice place. Outta past airport-leetle off road.” He pointed in the direction of the air terminal.
Shayne had a five-dollar bill in his hand and the motor started. “Thanks, Tony,” he said, and thrust the bill into the man’s hand. He backed around and drove west across the new steel bridge and on past the airport to a cabin camp set well back from the street in a grove of palms and Australian pines.
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.