“You know this stuff then?”
“Every Treasury agent in the country knows it by sight. I didn’t recognize it at once, because I was surprised to have it turn up in Miami right now. It isn’t due here for at least two months.”
Shayne took a deep breath and said, “Keep on talking.”
“These hundred-dollar bills first appeared a few years ago in New York. When the black market was at its height and big deals were being handled on a cash basis to avoid detection. New York banks were flooded with the stuff for about a month.
“Then the flow stopped abruptly. At least three hundred thousand was passed in the New York area during that period. But by the time it was recognized and all the banks were alerted, the gang folded their tents and closed up business. Not another bill turned up until after the Kentucky Derby was run that year. There was plenty of loose money and heavy betting on the Derby, and another hundred grand of the stuff was thrown into circulation there before we realized it.
“They’re devilishly smart. They waited a year before hitting Southern California with another two hundred thousand. That’s why I expected the stuff here this winter. But not until the season was well along. They’re getting careless if they’ve started passing it so early.”
Marsten paused, glancing at Shayne who was worrying his ear lobe with thumb and forefinger. “Do you mind telling me where you picked these up?”
Shayne waived the question. “Tell me how they work it to get so much out so fast.”
“They have it planned very carefully,” Marsten told him. “They select the time and the spot-a place where there’s some sort of a boom with big money rolling. They line up as many contacts as possible and place the stuff in readiness to go. Gambling houses are good bets, and bookie joints-any place that handles big money and can get rid of bills this size without too much trouble. They all let go at once, and there’s your clean-up. By the time it begins to trickle into the banks and we start tracing it, the tide dries up and the boys move on.”
Shayne nodded slowly. He reached over and picked up the other bill and fingered it, wondering how this information tied in with the ransom pay-off. “It sounds slick. You say the ordinary bank teller can’t detect the stuff?”
“We planned to be ready for them in Miami this year,” Marsten told him. “We’re printing circulars, getting press releases ready, hoping to educate the public so no one will be willing to accept a C-note without a written endorsement from the Secretary of the Treasury. If they’re jumping the gun on us, I’m glad to know it.”
“I don’t think they are,” said Shayne slowly. “In fact, I think it’s just the opposite and they’re as worried as you are about this stuff getting into circulation too soon.”
Marsten lifted his black and tufted brows. “So? What do you know about it, Mike?”
“Not much. I’m guessing. Just fifty grand of the stuff I ran into,” he admitted. “What’s it worth?” he ended abruptly.
“To whom?”
“Anyone who might get their hands on it. Me, for instance.”
Marsten studied the detective’s face thoughtfully, then said, “Someone with the right contacts could probably get forty cents on the dollar without too much trouble.” He frowned and added quietly, “You haven’t given me much, Mike.”
Shayne looked squarely into the keen dark eyes of the counterfeit expert and said, “I’ll give you this, Marsten. Your hunch about their preparing to hit Miami with the queer stuff this season is probably right. Do some checking on ex-Senator Irvin, for one. He’s got a gunman named Perry, and until early this morning he had a Negro razor expert named Getchie and a place on Thirty-eighth Street that might have been headquarters. There was a fire there, and the Herald carried the story. I think one of Irvin’s passing contacts might have been the Fun Club on Thirty-sixth. A man named Bates runs it, and there’s a bookie joint in the back during the season.”
Marsten was making notes while Shayne talked. When the detective stopped, he looked up and asked, “Is that where you got the two bills?”
Shayne shook his red head and said absently, “I don’t believe they’re ready to start shoving it yet. The gang may be breaking up, with one faction trying to jump the gun on the other. That’s all I can give you right now.”
“It’s a good start, Mike,” Marsten said, looking straight into Shayne’s eyes. “Later, maybe?”
“Later,” said Shayne. “And thanks.”
Marsten was reaching for the telephone when Shayne got up, waved his hand in farewell, and went out.
Chapter Fifteen
There were flabby, liver-colored pouches under Chief Gentry’s eyes when Shayne entered his office after leaving the bank. He was chewing on the soggy butt of a black cigar, and he rumbled, “I’ve been trying to get hold of you ever since I came down this morning.”
Shayne pulled up a chair and dropped into it. “You look as though you’ve been out on a binge, Will.”
Gentry rubbed a big hand wearily over his ruddy face and growled. “Damned little chance I have for binges when you’re in town. Where did you get your hunch about Fred Gurney last night?”
“Gurney?” Shayne looked innocently puzzled. “Did I have a hunch about him?”
“Over the phone,” Gentry rumbled. “When you gave me the tip-off on the fire on Thirty-eighth that hadn’t started yet.”
“I didn’t say there was going to be a fire.”
“You told me about the body in the basement. I’ve got a report on that. He was dead before the fire caught him. Bled to death from a ripped jugular. Doc says it looks as though somebody had deliberately shoved a jagged broken whisky bottle in the man’s neck and twisted it.”
“People do the damnedest things nowadays,” marveled Shayne.
Gentry took the sodden cigar butt from his mouth, looked at it with extreme distaste, then tossed it over his shoulder toward a cuspidor in the corner. His aim had not improved with years of practice.
“You mentioned Gurney in connection with the Deland kidnaping.”
“I believe I did say something about having a lead that pointed to Gurney,” Shayne admitted.
“Sure you did. Where’d you get the lead, Mike?”
“You know how it is, Will.” Shayne made a negligible gesture. “A guy overhears something here and something else there. He adds them up-”
“And they make another murder,” Gentry interrupted in a deep rumble that held a grim significance.
“Another murder?” Shayne tried to look genuinely surprised, but Gentry had known him too long and too intimately.
“Tim Rourke got another one of those anonymous tips over the phone about daylight. Someone who wanted him to have a break on the story of Gurney’s murder-and the capture of Gerta Ross.”
“Tim has lots of friends around town,” murmured Shayne.
“Sure. Tim’s a very friendly guy,” agreed Gentry. “Could be the man who made the call was a big redheaded bozo who inquired at the Tower Cottage Camp for a Mr. and Mrs. Fred Smith about the time the murder was committed. The proprietor says he can identify that man, Mike.”
“After the murder was committed,” Shayne corrected equably. “Fred Gurney had a knife in his back, and the Ross woman had passed out in bed when I got there.”
“She says not. Says she guesses you killed Freddie so you could have her without a showdown with him.”
“How much of that is gin and laudanum?”
“Most of it, I guess.” Gentry grinned briefly. “They are pumping the stuff out of her stomach now. Look, Mike. Sometimes I do some adding up, too. You knew Gerta Ross was a blonde and was driving the death car. You mentioned Fred Gurney as soon as I told you about the kidnaping.” He meticulously ticked the two items off on blunt fingertips. “You knew there was a dead Negro in the Thirty-eighth Street house. There was a dead man in your old apartment. You got to Fred Gurney and Gerta Ross while the whole police force was looking for them.” He held up the five fingers of his left hand when he finished. “Add all those things up and it looks like you’re mixed up in the kidnaping all the way up to your neck.”