“By the time she found that, and reached the Tower, she claims Gurney had already got paid off in full. She says she took a couple of swigs and passed out and dreamt about a big redheaded mug trying to roll her. She isn’t quite sure whether he succeeded or not,” Gentry ended with a grin.
“That doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know or guess,” Shayne grumbled. “You mentioned a couple of things-”
“That’s right. Some day I wish you’d tell me where you get your hunches.”
“I had a Dutch grandmother,” Shayne told him. “She knew the secret of talking to the wee folk. Now about Hale-”
“Emory Hale,” Gentry grunted, picking up a teletype sheet from his desk and studying it. “Park Avenue and all that. On the surface he’s okay, but, unofficially, he heads a gambling syndicate that runs the biggest baseball book in the city. He was a tinhorn until a couple of years ago when he finally hit the big-time.”
Shayne shook his head. “That doesn’t prove much.”
“He gave his bank as the Guaranty Trust on Forty-fourth, and claims they made up the packet of ransom money he brought down with him. He does carry a sizable account in that bank, but not nearly fifty grand, and the last withdrawal he made was for eight hundred dollars almost two weeks ago.”
“That’s it!” Rourke yelled excitedly, leaping up from his chair and coming over to slap Shayne on the back. “That explains the counterfeit money. Big New York gambler. The rest of it is straight enough. Dawson planned the deal, not knowing Hale would try to slip over a wad of phony stuff.”
“It’s time Dawson answered some questions,” Shayne agreed grimly. “Is he still in the hospital on the Beach?”
“I think he is. Resting well, the last I heard.”
“Let’s disturb his rest. Call Painter and have him pick up Hale and Deland and meet us at the hospital. This thing is ready to crack wide open.”
“Deland, too? Do we need to bother him?”
“I want to ask how he got acquainted with Gurney and whether he got hold of Gurney last night.”
“Do you mean that Arthur Deland knew Fred Gurney?” asked Gentry incredulously.
“And was out looking for him at two-thirty last night.” Shayne paused, his gray eyes very bright. “What about Slocum?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you still think he was killed by someone gunning for me? Or do you incline toward Petey’s idea that I undressed and did the job?”
Gentry smiled and said, “Painter doesn’t like it, but the doctor’s report seems to have cleared you on that. Blood on the vase was a different type from Slocum’s,” he went on to explain, “making it practically certain it came from the murderer. When Painter learned that, he couldn’t rest until he checked your blood type on a hospital record where they’d patched you up after one of your brawls. Your blood didn’t match, so Painter had to drop you as a suspect.”
“What about the drops of blood leading to the door of my apartment?”
“Slocum’s.”
Shayne said happily, “That’s the last thing I need. Get Painter on the phone and make that date.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dawson’s hospital room was on the ninth floor of a brick building on Miami Beach. Peter Painter was already in the room with Emory Hale and Arthur Deland when the trio from Miami arrived. They were clustered around the bed talking to Dawson who wore a bandage across the left side of his head, but who otherwise looked all right. His face was no more and no less pasty than Shayne remembered it. His brown eyes under the oddly white brows held the same limpid wetness.
Painter nodded a brief greeting to the three men as they entered and, managing to give the appearance of strutting when standing perfectly still, he turned back to Dawson and resumed talking to him.
Rourke introduced Shayne to Hale and Deland in turn. Hale was a big, immaculate man, exuding an air of assurance and of well-being. His hands were fleshy and big, and a large diamond glittered on one of his fingers. His grip was firm and his voice friendly as he repeated the name.
“Michael Shayne? The detective, eh?”
Shayne said, “I didn’t realize my ill-fame had spread to New York.”
The big man laughed easily and naturally. “You’ve been in the papers enough. I recall several of your cases that I followed with a great deal of interest.”
“I’m flattered,” Shayne returned.
Then Hale looked away from Shayne’s steady gray gaze and said, “I trust you’ll be able to clear up this terrible tragedy-that is, give the police all the help you can.”
“I haven’t been retained on the case,” Shayne told him. He turned to Deland, who stood near the window with Rourke, and offered his hand gravely, saying, “You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Deland.”
Arthur Deland’s hand was bony and calloused. He gave it to Shayne apathetically and said something in a low voice. The man hadn’t shaved and his appearance was shocking. There were deep lines of suffering indelibly etched in his sunken cheeks and mirrored in the cavernous eyes which appeared opaque and sightless. He didn’t seem interested in Shayne’s identity, nor concerned as to why he had been brought here for conference with the police and his business partner.
Indeed, his actions were those of a man whose every interest in life had died with his daughter on the preceding night-a man who went on living automatically without any conscious desire to do so.
Rourke said cheerfully, “Shayne is going to solve this case right now, Mr. Deland. You’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that the guilty parties will be punished.”
Deland stared at Rourke vacantly and raised a rough hand to scratch the dark stubble on his cheek. “That don’t mean much now, Mr. Rourke. Seems like nothing means anything any more.”
“Nonsense,” said Rourke in a hearty, over-loud voice such as one uses with an idiot or a sulky child. He took hold of Deland’s arm and led him closer to the window where they could see bright sunlight on the smooth green lawn and well-tended shrubbery and flowers.
“It’s the same world as it was yesterday,” he told the grieving man. “The birds are singing and life still goes on. You can’t give way like this. It isn’t fair to your wife. And Kathleen wouldn’t want it; you know that.”
Shayne was watching the pair and listening with narrowed, bright eyes. Their backs were toward him, and as Rourke spoke he saw Deland’s stooped shoulders stiffen and a spasm of agony shake his gaunt frame. He leaned forward to grip the sill fiercely and stare down at the peaceful scene as though he listened intently for some sound he would never hear again.
Crossing over to them, the detective put his hand firmly on Deland’s shoulder, drawing him back from the window. He said to Rourke, “Don’t tempt the man. Don’t you see the condition he’s in? We’ve had enough tragedy without inviting suicide.”
Rourke’s jaw dropped open as the full impact of Shayne’s words struck him. “Good God, Mike! I didn’t think-”
“That’s your trouble,” Shayne growled. “Try to think what you’re doing next time.” With his hand gripping Deland’s shoulder, he turned him back into the room. The plumber quietly obeyed, as though he had no will of his own.
Shayne gave his shoulder a final encouraging squeeze as they neared the hospital bed. Will Gentry stepped up closer and stood beside him to look down into Dawson’s pallid face.
Gentry said, “Shayne tells me you two have already met, Dawson. At the airport last night.”
Dawson’s eyes wavered before Shayne’s gaze, and his bloodless lips pursed into a round O of surprise and of fear.
“What’s that?” asked Painter sharply. “At the airport? When? And under what conditions?”
“We were both trying to catch a plane,” Shayne told him. “Dawson made it, but I didn’t.”