“You didn’t? But-” His small black eyes darted from Shayne to Dawson and back again.
“Dawson used my ticket,” Shayne said impatiently. “He paid me for it with a couple of bills out of the ransom money he was making off with.”
“What’s that?” Emory Hale stepped quickly toward them. His voice boomed through the room, incredulous and incisive. “Do you mean to say that Dawson faked the hijacking story? What became of the money? What is this all about?”
“Dawson is actually your niece’s murderer,” Shayne told the New Yorker. “Though he probably can’t be convicted for it because Kathleen was alive at twelve o’clock last night. If Dawson had met the kidnapers at eleven as arranged, she would be at home and alive today. And a Negro named Getchie would still be alive,” he added savagely, “and an innocent man named Slocum. Fred Gurney probably would be alive, too, though his death isn’t any great loss.”
“By God, Dawson!” Hale’s voice was a roar as he attempted to force his way to the wounded man’s bedside.
Shayne held him back, saying coldly, “There’s a lot more to it, Hale. You didn’t help matters any by trying to palm off counterfeit money for the ransom.”
“Counterfeit money? You’re crazy,” said Hale shortly.
“I’m giving you the opinion of an expert.”
Peter Painter had not given an inch from his position beside Dawson’s bed. He shifted his eyes steadily from Hale to Shayne, nervously thumbnailing his mustache.
“I don’t believe it,” thundered Hale. “It can’t be so. God, man, do you realize I got that money from the bank in New York myself and flew down here with it as fast as I could?”
“The Guaranty Trust Company?” asked Shayne acidly.
“Yes. That’s where I carry my largest account.”
Shayne turned his head and said, “Tell him, Gentry.”
Chief Gentry had availed himself of one of the chairs in the room and drawn it up to a vantage point so that he could watch everyone in the room. His heavy, rumpled lids were low over his eyes as he watched and listened intently.
He did not move, but said, “The bank has reported that you didn’t withdraw any such amount.”
Shayne resumed impatiently. “Let’s not beat about the bush, Hale. We know where you got that wad of dough. From the bookie syndicate you run up in the big town.”
Hale flushed heavily, was silent for a moment, then admitted with dignity, “Perhaps I did have to call on my business associates to raise such a large amount in cash in the short time allotted me. But I swear it wasn’t counterfeit. I checked every bill and took off the serial numbers myself.”
“The list you gave Painter last night?”
“Yes. I listed them myself. I don’t think it matters where I obtained the money.”
“Except that it turned out to be queer,” Shayne told him, “and thus contributed to a couple of deaths. But that’s not the important thing,” he went on harshly. “The man who started this whole train of events is the actual criminal. The man who arranged for the girl’s kidnaping by Gurney.”
There was dead silence in the room when Shayne stopped speaking. Dawson turned his head slowly on the pillow, closing his eyes against the intent gaze of the men grouped around his bed. Emory Hale was shocked into stiff silence by the implications of Shayne’s statements. Gentry sat solidly in his chair, his eyes half closed, chewing silently on his sodden cigar stub. Only Arthur Deland appeared unmoved, as though he hadn’t heard or understood the blunt words.
Shayne turned to Deland and said, “You’d better tell us what your connection was with your daughter’s kidnaper.”
Deland shook his head slowly, like a man in a dream. He appeared utterly mystified by the abrupt question.
“I’m talking about Fred Gurney.” Shayne’s voice was harsh and compelling. “When did you meet him? How well did you know him?”
“But-I didn’t.” He put one hand up feebly, as though to ward off the question.
“You were looking for him at two-thirty last night-before anyone else knew he had any connection with the kidnaping. What made you think of him?”
“Wait a minute, Shayne,” said Emory Hale angrily. “You can’t talk to Arthur like that. Can’t you see he’s in a complete daze? He’s not responsible for anything he did last night. He doesn’t realize what you’re saying just now.”
“I’ll make him realize it,” said Shayne savagely. He addressed Deland again, speaking slowly, spacing his words. “I know you went to Papa La Tour’s last night and asked for Fred Gurney. Why?”
Deland slowly brought up a rough hand and passed it over his face. As it fell limply to his side, comprehension shone in his sunken eyes. “Oh-yes. I thought he-might know the man who would-do such a thing.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper in the ominous silence.
“Why did you think he’d know?”
“It was just-just an idea,” faltered Deland. “I felt I had to do something. I’m not-acquainted with the criminal element in the city, and I thought of Gurney. I didn’t know then that-that-” his voice trailed off, and he covered his face with his hands.
Tenseness grew in the small hospital room. The men listened silently. They watched Shayne as they would watch a barometer when a hurricane was about to strike-a force which would surely kill or injure someone among them.
Shayne’s voice was sharp when he said, “That’s quite a coincidence that you should go straight to the kidnaper of your beautiful young daughter, just on the off-chance that he might know something about it.”
Tears trickled from Deland’s eyes and ran down the creases in his face. He said, “I remembered what Emory said when he-introduced me to Gurney. Something about Gurney being a good man to know if I ever wanted a dirty job done. Like arson-or-poisoning my wife,” he ended, his body shaking with sobs.
Hale went over and took Deland by the shoulders and shook him soundly. “Get hold of yourself, Arthur. That’s nonsense. You know I wasn’t serious. I just happened to know Gurney was a cheap crook and I just told you that in fun. I’d had a few drinks,” he ended apologetically, and turned away.
Shayne said harshly, “Let him alone.” He asked Deland, “Did you telephone Gurney at the Fun Club last night?”
“Telephone him?” His cavernous eyes bored into Shayne’s, then wavered. “No, I went out there, but they said he’d already gone. So, I didn’t know where to look for him or what to do.” His arms fell limply against his thighs.
Shayne swung away from him and confronted Hale. He said bitterly, “So you knew Gurney. You knew he was a cheap crook who might be hired for a nice safe kidnaping?”
“God!” breathed Hale. “Do you think I’d arrange such a despicable thing as that? My own niece whom I loved like a child of my own?”
“You wouldn’t have thought Kathleen was in any real danger,” Shayne pointed out. “If it was all planned ahead and would mean no more than detaining her from home a day or two.”
Hale burst out furiously, “By God, I won’t stand for such an accusation.” He started toward Shayne with powerful hands doubled into fists.
As he did so the telephone on the bedstand beside Dawson rang. Shayne was standing over it. He scooped up the receiver and said, “Yeah?” He listened for a moment, then said, “He’s right here. How bad is it?” He listened again, then turned to Deland and announced quietly, “It’s the fire department. Your house is burning down.”
Deland hurried toward him, gasping, “Minerva! Is she all right?”
“Your wife is all right,” Shayne soothed him.
“How bad is it? The garage too?” His face was twisted with grief and panic.
“Just the house,” Shayne assured him. “You carry insurance, don’t you?” He spoke again into the instrument, saying, “Okay. If there’s nothing Deland can do about it, what was the use of calling him and piling up more bad news?” He hung up and turned to Emory Hale to answer his last outburst.
“The only reason I’m not accusing you,” he said, “is because I don’t see how you could have profited. Even if you did intend to furnish counterfeit money for the ransom you still wouldn’t make anything on the deal.”