The guests who were welcome at the rest home were those he defined as “honest criminals.” Papa’s idea of an honest criminal was, basically, one who pitted his wits against the world; who stole from corporations rather than individuals; whose activities caused no havoc in personal lives.
It was, in Papa’s estimation, perfectly all right to rub out a cop, if the officer got in the way of one who was legitimately pursuing his criminal way, but downright indecent and shocking for a crook to do his job so amateurishly as to disturb the victim and be forced to commit bodily harm in order to escape.
Thus, Papa La Tour did not appear in the least surprised to see Michael Shayne in his private office the morning after the Kathleen Deland kidnaping. His head was big, and bushy with white hair that stood up stiffly. He had a round belly that bulged just below his long torso and just above his short legs. His blue eyes twinkled with a tranquil enjoyment of life, his own portion of it in particular.
Shayne said, “I hear you’ve been putting Fred Gurney up here.”
“That lousy punk,” he wheezed, sinking into a chair. “Sit down, Mike. Who’d have guessed he’d pull a dirty one like that? Living right here at my place while he had a little girl staked out. Do you think it’d be fitting if I sent a wreath to the funeral?”
Shayne didn’t smile at the suggestion. He eased himself into a chair opposite his host and nodded. “I think a wreath would be in order. You could put in a card reading, ‘From a friend.’”
“Thanks, Mike. That’s a clever idea. I feel mighty bad about it. Sort of responsible. But I swear I didn’t know what was in Fred’s mind.”
“Sure, I know it. No one blames you, Papa. Fred was always just a cheap punk, with no real harm in him.”
“That’s the way I looked at it. Who’d have thought he’d pull a job like that?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” Shayne hitched his chair closer and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “I’m guessing someone put him up to it.”
“None of the boys here. None of them. I swear it.”
“I don’t mean that, Papa. But you and I know Fred wouldn’t figure out a deal like that on his own.”
“That’s right, Mike. Fred’s too dumb. That’s what he is-dumb.”
“Do you know what Fred’s been doing and who he’s been hanging around with lately?” Shayne asked.
Papa La Tour rubbed his plump chin with a plump hand. “Not much going on this time of year. I guess maybe he hustled for a couple of doctors when a girl, say, was in trouble. I never could see how that was bad, Mike. Sometimes a girl needs help.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t know any more about it than I’ve told you. You know I don’t meddle. Is Gerta Ross in the kidnaping with Fred, like the newspapers say?”
Shayne nodded. “Innocently, maybe. She claims Fred brought Kathleen Deland to her, said she needed an operation, and asked her to keep the girl doped a couple of days. Fred admitted it was a snatch, after she was in too deep to get out.”
“There was a man here last night asking for Fred Gurney,” La Tour said. “I looked at all them pictures in the paper this morning. I don’t know for sure. This fella was excited or maybe sort of drunk. He favored one of the pictures in the paper. Just favored it, understand. I wouldn’t swear ’twas him.”
“Which one?”
“The girl’s father, Mike. Arthur Deland, it says his name is in the paper.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. “Arthur Deland was here last night? Asking for Fred Gurney?”
“Early this morning it was. Fellow in my business don’t get much sleep. Never know when somebody’s going to pop up and ask questions. I didn’t know the man and he didn’t say his name. I didn’t know anything about this other then, neither. Claimed he was a friend of Fred’s, and I says, ‘Maybe-just maybe-you’ll find Fred at the Fun Club,’ and he went away.”
“What time was that?”
“A little after two o’clock.”
“Ever see him around here before?”
“Never did.”
“Ever hear Fred Gurney mention Deland’s name or anything connected with him?” Shayne persisted.
Papa La Tour shook his white shock of hair decidedly. “Not that I passed much talk with Fred,” he added. “Paid his money and I let him stay around. That’s about the way it was with Fred and me.”
Shayne stood up, thanked him, and went out a side door and down a private walk shaded by an arbor of purple bougainvillea intermingled with brilliant blossoms of flame-vine climbing over the lattice.
He got in the sedan and sat behind the wheel while he tried to digest the fact he had just learned.
What did Arthur Deland’s attempt to see Fred Gurney mean? Had Deland suspected all along that Gurney was the kidnaper, and had he concealed the truth from the police for private reasons? It was inconceivable that a man who loved his family as Rourke had reported Deland loved his could have had any part in the tragedy that had befallen his sixteen-year-old daughter.
Shayne, however, had seen too many inconceivable things turn out to be true to reject the idea completely. He frowned angrily, trying to fit the possibility into the kidnap pattern.
First, there was the undeniable fact that the ransom money had not come from Deland himself. It had been furnished by his brother-in-law, Emory Hale. That was one way of extracting money from a wealthy relative. On the other hand, Rourke had intimated that Emory Hale had been generous with his sister, Minerva, and had helped her financially in the past. Deland’s financial standing would bear investigation, Shayne decided-a close checkup to determine whether he had any pressing need for so large a sum.
Second, if Deland had engineered the kidnaping, why had he taken Dawson in as his accomplice? It was evident that Dawson must have been an accomplice, else it would have been foolish to trust the ransom pay-off to him. An accomplice only meant added risk and the need to split the proceeds further. And if Dawson were an accomplice, had the midnight getaway on the plane with the cash been planned?
Shayne didn’t think so. It would have been a foolish move and wholly unnecessary. If the affair had been planned by Deland and Dawson together, the obvious thing was to have Dawson simply meet Gurney, pay the man his price, and get the Deland girl from him.
No, if it was that way, Shayne decided, Dawson had been pulling a neat double-cross on both his partner in business and on Gurney by slipping away on the midnight plane.
But how in hell did that counterfeit money enter into any of those possibilities? That was the discordant note in the entire affair. No portion of the puzzle could be properly evaluated until the counterfeit money was explained.
Feeling completely checkmated, Shayne jerked the car into gear and drove back to the boulevard and then southward until he reached a drugstore with a pay phone. He went in and found the address of Deland and Dawson, General Plumbers, on N.E. 6th Street.
Ten minutes later he entered the drab ground floor display room of the company. A railed-off portion at the back apparently protected a stringy female office girl from customers. Shayne wondered what sort of customers a plumbing business attracted that she needed protection.
She had a sharp nose and a sallow complexion. Her lifeless blonde hair was cut in page-boy style, the irregular bangs beginning just above her glasses. She was wiping tears from her unrouged cheeks when Shayne came up to the railing.
The girl got up, took off her glasses as she approached him, and dabbed at her pale blue eyes with a wadded piece of tissue. The tip of her nose was red, and it quivered when she moved her lips.
“What can I do for you?” The tone of her voice indicated that she wished he would go away and leave her alone.
Shayne ran knobby fingers through his stubble of red hair and said, “It’s a very sad day for you, I’m sure, Miss-”