“One piece of advice I’ll hand you on a platter,” Shayne told him, dragging himself to a straight position. “Don’t waste any time looking for the hijackers who held Dawson up.”
“Like that, huh? What would you advise me to concentrate on, Mike?”
“Checking any connection Dawson or Deland or Hale might ever have had with counterfeit money, with Fred Gurney, with the Fun Club on Thirty-sixth Street, or with ex-Senator Irvin, alias Greerson, who lived on Thirty-eighth Street until the house burned down last night.”
Gentry was jotting notations on a sheet of paper. “It would help a lot,” he complained, “if I knew why you want to know those things.”
Shayne said, “Fred Gurney didn’t plan and carry out that kidnaping all by himself.”
“There’s another queer angle to that kidnaping you haven’t mentioned,” grumbled Gentry.
“Do you mean why Kathleen Deland was chosen as the victim?”
“Sure. Anyone who knew anything about the Delands would know it was preposterous to expect them to pay a fifty grand ransom for the girl.”
“Unless it was someone who knew them intimately enough to know about the rich brother-in-law and uncle in New York.”
“Even a rich uncle,” Gentry dissented, “isn’t always the type to shell out that kind of money.”
“That’s right,” said Shayne blandly. “It must have been engineered by someone close enough to know about Hale’s love for his sister and her daughter, and the fact that he was the sort of uncle who had shelled out before.”
Gentry doodled on the sheet of paper. “Dawson?” he asked.
Shayne shrugged. “He’d be in a position to know those facts. Add that to his fake story of being hijacked last night and see if it doesn’t make it worth while to keep an eye on him.”
“That’s the second time you’ve spoken of fake hijackers. What gives you that idea?”
Shayne started to grin, but stopped in time to prevent splitting his lip wound. “It isn’t an idea. It’s not even a hunch. I know Dawson’s whole story was a lie.”
The horizontal creases in Gentry’s forehead deepened, the puffy flesh between the lines paling from their natural ruddiness. “According to Doc Thompson on the Beach, Dawson’s head injury wasn’t faked. He says it couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted.”
Shayne thought that over for a moment, trying to fit it into the hazy picture his mind was forming. “Exactly what time did Dawson check in at the Beach?”
“Around three-thirty. I can find out, if it’s important.”
“It may not be. What’s the best you can do on Gurney’s death?”
“Between two and four-thirty. The call to Rourke came a few minutes before five o’clock.”
“It was four-twenty-eight when I found him dead. He hadn’t been dead more than an hour. I’d guess thirty minutes. Do you know of any other callers for him at the Tower Cottages except the big redheaded guy you mentioned?”
“Not in person. The old man out there says there was a phone call at about two-thirty. Someone asked if Fred Smith had checked in and what his cabin number was.”
“Whoever made that call was Gurney’s murderer,” Shayne declared. “Here’s what actually happened last night, Will. I’ll give it to you straight-as much of it as I can right now-if you won’t ask any questions.”
Gentry said, “Give it to me.”
“Gurney and the Ross woman were badly worried when the pay-off didn’t materialize. They hung around a joint between twelve-thirty and one while Gurney tried to reach someone by telephone. Gerta Ross left him there while she went out and smashed up her car. He received a call some time after one o’clock, then called her at home to tell her he was meeting someone at the Tower Cottages for the pay-off and that he would register as Fred Smith. Whoever made that date with him called up later to get his cabin number, went out and slid a bone-handled hunting knife in his back.
“The only person who had any motive for that,” Shayne went on slowly, thinking things out as he spoke, “is the unknown person who hired Gurney to pull the job. With the girl dead, he was in a very bad spot. Accused of murder, Gurney wasn’t the courageous type to cover up for him. So Gurney had to be wiped out fast.”
“Dawson?” Will Gentry was doodling furiously. “If you’re sure he kept that fifty grand instead of losing it to hijackers, it begins to add up. He knew all about Emory Hale. By having himself appointed go-between, he had a beautiful chance simply to keep the money, claiming he’d turned it over to the kidnapers. But why didn’t he do just that, Mike? If Dawson planned it that way, all he had to do was meet Gurney and Ross as planned, get the girl from them and take her home.”
“It could be a slight case of double-cross,” suggested Shayne. “He must have agreed to give Gurney a fair split of the money. Suppose he just decided to keep it all for himself? How does that work out?”
A heavy silence lay between them for a long moment. Gentry dropped his pencil and folded his hands on the desk. Shayne put his head back and blew clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.
“In that case,” Gentry conceded presently, “Dawson might have thought a fake hijacking was smart. Knowing Gurney to be weak, he might’ve trusted the guy to turn Kathleen loose unharmed and say no more about it after he found out the deal was off.”
“I think, if I’d been Dawson,” Shayne muttered, clearly envisioning the pasty-faced little man, “I would have tried to jump town with the money.”
“But we know Dawson didn’t do that,” said Gentry. “I imagine he felt he was safe until he learned the girl was dead and we were on the trail of the kidnapers. Then he had to put Gurney out of the way before he was caught and started talking. That might even explain the blow on his head. Maybe Gurney socked him once before Dawson could use the knife.”
Shayne shook his head slowly, recalling the knife in Gurney’s back. “I don’t know. It’s a fair theory, but it leaves a hell of a lot of things unexplained.”
“Such as Slocum and the dead Negro and the fire,” Gentry agreed. “And most of all, how do you know so much when you were flying to Palm Beach and hitchhiking back?”
Shayne grinned at him and moved toward the door. He said quietly, “And how come the ransom pay-off was in counterfeit bills?” He went out quickly before the Chief could recover from his consternation and question him further.
Chapter Sixteen
Papa La Tour’s Rest Home was on the bay-front, north of 20th Street. It was factitiously known to the authorities as a rest home because of Papa’s well-known and strictly enforced rule that none of his guests should engage in any of their various professions while residing there. It was comfortable and pleasant, a place to lie low and relax between jobs; a place where old friends could meet again and hobnob while planning new ventures in the world of crime.
The place had never been raided by the police, and, in return for this unofficial immunity, Papa La Tour had, on several occasions, given the authorities valuable information concerning some of the more unsavory characters who had sought protection there, which resulted in their arrest later on when Papa could not possibly be implicated.
As a consequence, the old gentleman basked in the trust of his well-paying guests, and in the confidence of the law-enforcing agents in Miami.
Papa La Tour had his own set of standards, a personal code of morals which had nothing whatever to do with legal definitions.
In his day, he had been the soup man for a mob of very successful safe-crackers who had operated for years through the Middle Atlantic states, saving their swag after each perfectly planned and masterfully executed job until enough years had passed to make each member financially independent and able to lead a more genteel and certainly a much safer life.
Papa La Tour had invested his own nest egg in a huge, rambling old house in Miami after the boom-bubble had burst and left the get-rich-quick guys holding the proverbial bag. It eventually paid him big dividends in the high rates he charged for the elaborate recreation facilities and other special services he offered.