Counterfeit Wife

by Brett Halliday

  “But that list of serial numbers he gave Painter,” protested Rourke. “Where did it come from?”

  Shayne shrugged. “Maybe he had anticipated such a possibility and forearmed himself with an innocuous list. Maybe he began to realize the terrible mistake he’d made while they waited for Kathleen’s return, and slipped back to his room to make up a new list. We can only guess about that. There are several other much more important questions.”

  “Such as?” Rourke’s head rested in the palms of his hands as he sat forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “Number one.” Shayne counted it off on one finger. “How did Irvin get hold of the correct list? Why was he looking for that money? And, most important and most impossible of all,” he continued, pulling down a finger with each question, “where did Hale get hold of five hundred rumpled and dirty bills in exact numerical sequence?”

  “Wait,” said Rourke, frowning. “I don’t quite see that last one.”

  “It’s very simple. When new bills come from the mint they are in direct sequence. But no kidnaper wants new bills. As soon as bills get into circulation they get all mixed up. It would take an army of men years to gather up five hundred old bills in the complete sequence that these are. Yet, Hale claims he picked them up at a New York bank in a few hours’ notice. Figure that one out.”

  “You figure it out,” said Rourke wearily.

  “I’d like to know a lot more about Emory Hale—and the bank that gave him this money.”

  There was a heavy silence between them. Rourke lifted his head from his palms and asked, “What are we going to do about Dawson?”

  “Nothing. He thinks he’s perfectly safe and he’ll sit tight. And I’ll be safe from Painter’s interference as long as he thinks I was on the midnight plane for New Orleans. The moment I tell him what I know about Dawson, I’m placed right back there in that kidnap car, along with Gerta Ross.”

  “And we’re the only ones who know the truth about the money,” the reporter said dully. “Painter will be circulating that phony list of nonexistent money all over the country trying to catch a gang of nonexistent hijackers.”

  Shayne chuckled without moving his sore lip. “Unless Hale has guts enough to come through with the truth and hand out the real list of serial numbers,” he agreed. “Petey’s probably strutting in his sleep right this minute.”

  “Hale won’t dare confess the truth now,” said Rourke sadly. “Not as long as he thinks it was his cleverness with the bills that contributed to his niece’s death.”

  “But he doesn’t think that any more,” Shayne pointed out patiently. “Not if he believes Dawson’s story about having been hijacked. Don’t you see? That clears Hale of any responsibility for things going wrong on the pay-off. The natural thing for him to do now is to admit the truth about the money and give the correct list to Painter to work on. The way things have worked out, Hale will be congratulating himself for having foreseen just such an outcome and furnishing the kidnapers with bills that can easily be identified. Think what a relief it must be to Hale to have Dawson come back and to realize that Kathleen isn’t dead because the kidnapers refused to accept easily identified money.”

  Rourke nodded almost imperceptibly. “As soon as he hears Dawson’s story, you think he’ll come clean and tell Painter the truth about the serial sequence of the bills?”

  “If he doesn’t,” said Shayne grimly, “we can bet there’s something screwier about him than just being dumb about the pay-off money.”

  Rourke twisted his thin body around on the couch, fell back with his head resting on the upholstered arm, and lay inert.

  Shayne picked up the cognac bottle, took a final swig, and stood up.

  “What now, Mike?” Rourke asked.

  “I’d like to know how Hale reacts to Dawson’s story. Maybe he hasn’t heard it yet. No matter how he takes the news, there’s still the problem of Irvin’s connection with the deal and how he and Bates got hold of the correct list of serial numbers.”

  “Why don’t we go over to the Beach and see what’s going on?” Rourke’s voice was eager, though he didn’t move a muscle.

  Shayne didn’t answer. He took off Dawson’s too-short and too big-middled clothing, stepped out of the sandals and said with disgust, “I haven’t a stitch of my own to put on.”

  “What about Slocum’s things?” Rourke suggested. “He was nearer your size.”

  “Slocum?” Shayne’s gray eyes grew bleak for a moment, then he said, “Maybe I can outfit myself temporarily from his clothes. It’s a cinch he won’t mind.”

  He strode into the bedroom and circled the area where the homicide squad had washed the pool of blood from the floor, leaving dark stains around the edges. They had been through the dead man’s belongings and piled them on the dresser and in the open suitcase at the foot of the bed.

  Shayne found clean underwear and socks, a shirt, and a light tan suit and sports shoes.

  Rourke grimaced when he re-entered the living-room carrying the clothing. “The poor devil isn’t even cold yet. How’ll you feel wearing his things?”

  “Pretty good—if they fit me.”

  Slumped on the couch, Rourke watched him through half-closed eyes. Shayne got a paper sack and, after stripping off two of the bills from one of the bundles of currency, stuffed them into his pocket, then put the remaining bundles in the sack.

  “Are we going to hand back all that jack?” the reporter asked.

  “Not until we know what the score is. Don’t forget, you souse, that if one word leaks out about our having the money we’re both in the middle of something right up to our necks.”

  “You mean that’s where Dawson would be,” Rourke protested.

  “I told you Dawson got the jump on us with his story of being hijacked. The best we can hope for now would be to have Painter prove that you and I were the hijackers. For God’s sake, Tim, use your head for once.”

  “You betcha.” Rourke grinned owlishly and swayed to his feet, clapping a soiled hat on the back of his head. “Holds my hat on, anyhow.” He took Shayne’s arm for support and they went out of the room.

  Downstairs, Shayne tossed the paper sack filled with money on the desk. “I found the key Slocum used,” he said. “I guess you know I’ve moved in upstairs.”

  Henry said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. It’s too bad about Mr. Slocum, but that apartment seems rightfully yours after all the years you lived in it.”

  “Thanks,” said Shayne, then added casually, “There’s approximately fifty grand in this paper sack, Henry. Lock it in the safe for me.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.” From Henry’s expression one might have supposed the detective had told him the sack contained a pair of. dirty socks. “Would you like a receipt?”

  “No need of that. But I would like to get about fifty on the cuff until the bank opens.”

  Again Henry said, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne.” He opened a drawer and counted out four tens and two fives, wrote a memorandum on a slip of paper which he thrust in the drawer, then closed it. He counted the bills carefully and handed them to Shayne.

  Shayne thrust them in his right-hand trouser pocket and went out the side door with Rourke.

  “That clerk,” said the reporter, “thinks you’re a little tin god on a stick.”

  “We’re old friends,” Shayne told him.

  “He wouldn’t hesitate to murder a guy to create a vacancy if you needed a room.”

  Shayne chuckled. “Don’t tell Painter, but it’s my private hunch that’s exactly what happened to Slocum.” He opened the door of the sedan to let Rourke in, then walked around the front to appraise the damage done to it when he crashed out of the senator’s basement garage.

  The car was a late model with a lot of chromium falsework on the radiator. This was smashed in, and the left fender was curled back; but otherwise the car appeared not to be damaged.

  Shayne got under the wheel and made a U-turn back toward Flagler Street. The reporter set
tled down comfortably in the seat beside him and began to snore gently. He had to be shaken awake when Shayne found an empty taxi at a stand on N.E. 2nd Street. “End of the line for you, Tim. Transfer here for the Beach.”

  Rourke yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Thought you were going along,” he protested sleepily.

  “I’m headed for some fun at the Fun Club. You get over to the Beach and keep an eye on things.”

  Shayne leaned past him to open the door, gave him a gentle shove, and, when he saw Rourke get in the cab, drove on north toward 36th Street.

  Chapter Twelve

  PEACEFULLY PASSED OUT

  THERE WERE NO CARS parked in front of the Fun Club, and the outside lights were turned off when Shayne reached it. A dim light shone through the front windows, however, and Shayne turned into the driveway on the chance that the proprietor had not left.

  He tried the front door and found it was locked, walked to one of the windows and peered inside. Chairs were stacked on the tops of tables, and the only person he could see was the bent figure of a man mopping the floor.

  Going around to the rear door, Shayne pounded on it loudly. After a time he heard a bolt slide back and the door opened to show the dark face and oily black head of the waiter he had encountered earlier in the evening.

  He said, “We close up, mister. Nobody here.”

  “Not even Bates?” Shayne shoved the door open and walked into the dimly lit room.

  The waiter recognized him, and his black eyes widened with fright. “No. He go half hour ago,” he whimpered.

  Shayne went to the bar, saying over his shoulder, “Let’s have a drink. Then you can tell me where Bates lives.”

  The man shook his head vigorously. “We close up,” he insisted. “No serva drink now.” He still held the mop in one hand and gesticulated toward a wall clock with the other.

  “That’s all right,” Shayne told him. “I like this. I’ll serve myself.” He went behind the bar, found a bottle of Martell and poured a couple of ounces in the glass. “I’ve got a few drinks coming to me,” he reminded the man, “from that bill your boss took off me.”

  “Tony know nothin’ ’bout that, mister. Never saw boss act lika that before. He say you no pay when I take him hunner-dollar.”

  Shayne walked around to the front of the bar and sat on a stool. “Put that mop down and come over here. I want to ask you some questions.”

  The Italian dropped the mop and glided lazily toward the bar. He perched himself on a stool beside Shayne, watching the detective warily.

  Shayne said, “Exactly how did Bates act and what did he say when you took him the bill for change?”

  The waiter looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I give boss big bill an’ ask for change. He taka bill an’ go to safe. He stop queek and looka like thees at big bill.” Tony demonstrated, holding an imaginary bill some fifteen inches from his eyes and scowling deeply. “Boss swing ’round and say, ‘Where you get thees money? From customer out there?’ I say you,” he went on, pointing a finger at Shayne, “an’ he make me show heem. Then boss tella me go bring you to offeece,” he ended.

  Tony took out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco and started nervously making a cigarette.

  “Here, have one of these,” said Shayne, and held out his pack. The waiter took one and Shayne held a light to it. “What else did he do?”

  He again shook his head vigorously. “Tony not know,” he said, and crossed himself.

  Shayne twirled the glass of cognac thoughtfully in his big hands. “Are you certain Bates didn’t look at a sheet of paper or something after he’d looked at the bill you gave him?”

  “I no onnderstan’,” he declared, and made a gesture of complete bewilderment.

  “I mean did he check the serial number of the bill with a list written on a paper, or anything like that?” Shayne repeated. “Damn it, I’m trying to find out what was the matter with that hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Eet looka like other money, only we no getta many such big bills. No, no, boss no look at paper.”

  “You’re positive?” Shayne asked harshly.

  Tony nodded violently. “Tony sure.”

  “What happened after I left?” Shayne asked.

  “Boss get very mad. Then two men come in, talk to boss a minute, and run out queeck. We hear coupla car racin’ and gun go off. When he look out you gone. Mees Ross’ car gone. Boss mucha mad. He go back to offeece and shutta door—slam!”

  “Where can I find Bates right now?”

  “Not know. On Beach, but not know where.”

  “Do you know the man who came in with Miss Ross?”

  The waiter’s black eyes brightened. “Mr. Gurney? Sure. He beeg shot.”

  Shayne frowned and took a sip of cognac. “Gambling in the back?”

  Tony shook his head. “No, no. Mr. Gurney what you calla bookie for horse race.”

  “Do Gurney and Miss Ross hang around here much?”

  Again the sleek-haired little man moved his head from side to side. “One, two time a week. They drinka much lousy drink.” He curled his lips in disgust.

  “Do you know Senator Irvin? Or a torpedo named Perry?”

  Tony thought for a moment, his eyes puzzled, then frightened. He make a slight negative movement, slid from the stool, and picked up his mop. “Tony gotta finish mop an’ go home.”

  “Wait a minute,” Shayne called. He carefully described the ex-senator and Perry, but the man disclaimed any knowledge of the two men. He denied, also, that he knew anything whatever of Bates’s personal life or habits, and said the proprietor would be in his office some time after noon.

  Shayne finished his brandy while the waiter silently mopped the floor. Then he asked, “How long did Fred Gurney stay around tonight after the excitement?”

  Tony thought for a moment. “Have ’nother drink—maybe two. Mr. Gurney mucha excited when gun pop off and Mees Ross go. Then he getta phone call and go out. He take taxi.”

  “Do you know the driver of the taxi?”

  The waiter leaned on his mop and thought for a moment. The look of fright and doubt was still in his eyes. “Taxi driver come in an’ want drink. Mr. Gurney not givva him time. He in beeg hurry.”

  “Do you know his name or the taxi company he works for?”

  “Pinky,” Tony told him hesitantly. “He have red hair lika you. Beeg man. Maybe Black an’ White, maybe Greena Top, maybe—”

  “Maybe,” Shayne repeated disgustedly. “And maybe it was Fred Gurney’s private chauffeur driving his Packard car.”

  The waiter’s jaw dropped open and he looked baffled. “Mr. Gurney no hava car. No chauffeur.”

  Shayne grunted angrily and got up from the stool and went out. The eastern sky was paling above the horizon, and the air was very still and damply cool. Complete silence lay over the community; the small houses were dark. Shayne’s footsteps were loud on the gravel as he made his way wearily to the sedan.

  Again he felt that queer sensation of surprise that people were sleeping peacefully in all those houses. People for whom rest and sleep came naturally during the hours of darkness. People who never had any dealings with corpses or ransom money or big blondes who sighed for laudanum in their gin.

  He got in the car and sat there for a time, his big hands gripping the steering wheel as he scowled at the paling stars and the growing radiance in the east.

  He needed sleep, but he needed more desperately to get hold of Gerta Ross, and Fred Gurney. Soon it would be day, and he had many things to do. And the police would be looking for Ross and Gurney, too. At least for Gerta Ross. He didn’t know whether the police knew of the connection between the two.

  He set himself grimly to think things out. Gerta would have been frightened after the accident. She must have realized that the girl was likely to be discovered in the trunk of her wrecked car. Yet, she probably hadn’t expected it to occur immediately.

  But what about Gurney? He didn’t know about the wreck. That
is, he probably hadn’t known about it when he left the Fun Club. Unless the telephone call he had received was from Gerta, warning him of what had happened.

  What then? He’d be frightened, too. But there was still the fact that neither of them knew what had become of Dawson and the ransom money. Neither of them was likely to skip town until they were sure they weren’t going to get their hands on the fifty grand.

  On the other hand, neither of them would continue to stay any place where the police were likely to locate them. That’s one reason why Shayne hadn’t bothered to follow up Gentry’s tip and ask at Papa La Tour’s for Fred Gurney. If that was a regular hangout, it was one place where he was not likely to be.

  While he sat there indecisively the door to the Fun Club opened, and the waiter came out. He approached the parked car and peered in at Shayne.

  “Tony theenk maybe you still here. No hear car go.”

  Shayne said, “Well?”

  The man hesitated as though trying to formulate his thoughts, then said, “I get theenking after you go.”

  “It’s a bad habit,” Shayne growled. “You’ve got something to tell me?”

  The man nodded slowly. “You wanta know where Mr. Gurney go when he leave Club?”

  “With a guy named Pinky, maybe, who was driving some sort of a taxi, maybe.”

  “Mr. Gurney maka phone call afta he get one I tella you ’bout. Not hear mucha what he say. He get mad and holler, ‘At Tower an’ make it snappy. I register under name Fred Smith.’”

  “The Tower?” Shayne said doubtfully. “I don’t know of any hotel by that name.”

  “Not hotel. Tourist camp. I worka there once.” He made a wry face and a gesticulation of disgust and added, “This Tower not nice place. Outta past airport—leetle off road.” He pointed in the direction of the air terminal.

  Shayne had a five-dollar bill in his hand and the motor started. “Thanks, Tony,” he said, and thrust the bill into the man’s hand. He backed around and drove west across the new steel bridge and on past the airport to a cabin camp set well back from the street in a grove of palms and Australian pines.