Counterfeit Wife (11 page)

“It seems likely,” Shayne admitted.

“And you’re letting him get away with it,” Rourke told him harshly. “You’re covering up for him by not reporting him as the airplane passenger instead of yourself.” He got shakily to his feet and walked up and down before Shayne, on unsteady legs.

“What do you think Painter would do if I told him the truth?” Shayne grated.

“He’d get men in Palm Beach on Dawson’s trail, by God!”

“He might believe me enough to do that,” Shayne admitted. “A trail that’s at least two hours old, Tim. But don’t you see I’m placed right in the kidnap car if I kill my plane alibi by telling the truth?”

“You’re in the clear, Mike.” Rourke stopped before him, his talon-like fingers clenched tightly. “No one would blame you after hearing the whole story.”

“Not if they believed it,” Shayne said quietly.

“I believe it.”

“You’re not Painter. He won’t believe a damned word of it. Look,” he went on patiently, “what proof have I got? Irvin and Perry have skipped, and that leaves Bates. He’ll deny every word of it. Where does that leave me? With fifty grand ransom money, joy-riding in the kidnap car, and an unexplained corpse here in the apartment. Who but you would believe such a cockeyed story as that?”

“You’ve got to take a chance on it. Damn it, Mike, you can’t let a skunk like Dawson escape just to keep your own neck clear.”

“I’ll get Dawson.”

“How? By sitting here drinking cognac?”

“That’s the best way I know of. Don’t forget that I’ve got something Dawson wants pretty badly.”

“The money?”

Shayne nodded absently and was silent for a moment while Rourke prowled the room, plopping his fist into an open palm.

“See here,” Shayne resumed, “by this time Dawson must have discovered the switch in suitcases. But he doesn’t know if I’ve discovered it yet. He’ll be frantic when he finds out he has contributed to the death of his partner’s daughter for nothing. He doesn’t know what I’ll do with the money when I find it. Give him a chance to come to me.”

“But he may not do it. He may keep right on going.”

“He may,” Shayne admitted. He slumped to a more comfortable position, his long legs stretched out and his knobby hands folded over his flat stomach.

“You can’t take a chance on it by keeping quiet.” Rourke again stopped before him. “You’ve got to put the cops on him. I’m telling you he murdered Kathleen Deland just as surely as if he’d slit her throat.”

Shayne said wearily, “My going to jail won’t help catch Dawson. Damn it, Tim, don’t you see the interpretation Painter’ll put on my story? He’ll just believe what he wants to. He’ll see the whole thing as prearranged for Dawson to slip the money to me at the airport while I give him my seat on the plane to make his getaway. He’ll never believe a word of my story about Bates and Irvin—and they’re mixed up in it somehow. They have to be. What good will it do to catch Dawson? Maybe he did contribute to murder, but there are others mixed up in it. We’ve got to find out what Irvin’s interest in the ransom money is and pin the Slocum murder on him. For God’s sake, be logical. You and I are the only two on the inside. With us behind bars you know the sort of job Painter will do. He’ll name me the kidnap-killer and you my accessory, and sit back smirking and thumbnailing his damned mustache while all the rest of them get away.”

“Accessory? Me?” Rourke’s feverish eyes were filled with consternation. “How do you figure that?”

“You knew I had the ransom money, didn’t you? You saw it in the bag and you didn’t say a word to Painter. If you didn’t expect a slice of it, why didn’t you yell right away?”

Rourke doubled up his fist and took a step toward Shayne. “Damn you, Mike, I’ll—”

“Hold it,” Shayne said angrily. “I’m telling you how it can be made to look. Use your head. There’s a hell of a lot more to this than appears on the surface. If you’re so hell-bent on bringing Kathleen’s murderers to justice, you’ll have to play ball with me and keep your mouth shut.”

Rourke took a short turn about the room, then came back and sat down on the couch. “I’ve seen you hold out on the police before, Mike,” he said in a slightly subdued tone. “I’ve always helped you get away with it. But you always had a good reason.”

“Isn’t avoiding a kidnap-murder rap a good reason?”

“You could beat that,” said Rourke earnestly. “You know damned well you could beat it.”

“Maybe. After I’ve rotted in Painter’s jail for a few months and the real killers got away.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to keep this hushed up?”

“What do you mean?” growled Shayne.

“That.” Rourke spoke hoarsely, pointing a trembling finger at the bundles of currency on the floor. “Fifty thousand dollars. You haven’t pulled down a fee on either of your last two cases, have you?”

Shayne said, “No, I haven’t.” His gaunt face was expressionless, and he tugged at his ear lobe abstractedly.

“It’s a hell of a lot of money. If Dawson isn’t caught, no one will ever know what became of it, will they?”

“Not unless we tell them,” Shayne agreed woodenly.

“And if Dawson is caught and tells the truth, we can claim we were holding it out for bait and meant to turn it back as soon as it served its purpose.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s blood money, Mike. Maybe that’s what Bates and the senator saw on those bills. Kathleen Deland’s blood. That’s what
you’d
begin to see after a while.” The reporter spoke jerkily, his eyes burning into Shayne’s face.

Shayne said, “If you think that about me you’d better call Painter right away.”

“I’m going to.”

Rourke lifted the receiver. In a voice that resembled nothing Shayne had ever heard before, he croaked out the number of the Miami Beach police station.

Shayne took a long drink and set the bottle back on the floor. He picked up one of the bundles of bank notes and examined the outside bill with meticulous care. The thing that bothered him most at the moment was the question of how Bates and Irvin had immediately recognized the two bills Dawson had given him. If all five hundred of the bills followed a straight sequence of serial numbers, it would be a simple matter to spot one of them. But Emory Hale denied that they were in any numbered order or that the money had been marked in any way.

Shayne glanced idly at the number on the first bill, then turned it back to look at the next bill. They were Federal Reserve notes, with the familiar picture of Franklin in the center. He frowned when he saw that the identifying letters were the same on both bills, and the first five numbers were exactly the same on both bills: F3704-1615A and F37041890A. He felt his belly muscles tighten as he turned bill after bill and glanced at the serial numbers. They all had the same identifying letters and the same first five numbers. Only the final three numbers were different on each bill, and Shayne quickly established the fact that the variance in the last three numbers did not range beyond five hundred.

He was vaguely aware of Rourke talking on the phone, but didn’t hear what he was saying. He picked up each bundle of currency and hurriedly riffled them. His quick inspection showed every bill to have the same 37041, and the last three numbers on any bill were not higher than 992 or lower than 512.

In the space of a few minutes he was convinced that all of the five hundred bills were in a straight sequence of serial numbers between 37041500 and 37041999. True, each of the five bundles had been well mixed so that none of the bills followed each other in actual numbered sequence, but he knew that was no more than an amateurish precaution and wouldn’t fool a shrewd crook for a moment. The first thing a receiver of ransom money would look for would be identifying marks on the bills, or a sequence of serial numbers.

He heard the receiver click on the telephone, saw Rourke coming toward him with a queer look on his face.

“I just talked to Painter,” he said in an awed tone.

“Is he sending the goon squad to pick me up?”

“He’s not sending anybody.” He sat down and grabbed for the cognac bottle, drank with desperate urgency, then said, “I didn’t tell him anything, after all.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Tim.”

“Don’t thank me for a break. Thank Dawson.”

“What’s Dawson done?”

“Come back,” Rourke told him. “He stumbled into the Beach police station twenty minutes ago with a wild story about having been beaten by a band of masked ruffians out on the highway and having the money stolen from him. He evidently gave an account of his adventures that completely convinced Painter. I was so bowled over when Petey told me the story that I couldn’t do anything but listen and hang up.”

“It’s a good thing you did,” Shayne pointed out grimly. “Dawson has got the jump on us. This knocks my story into a cocked hat. My word against his, and you know Painter wouldn’t take my word against that of a thrice-convicted perjurer.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. I’ve got to think this out. Dawson can’t get away with it. We know he’s lying and that he tried to skip with the ransom money.”

“We’re the only ones who do know that,” Shayne reminded him. “Remember, he traveled to Palm Beach as Michael Shayne. That’s the name on the airline passenger list.”

“We can prove it wasn’t you,” the reporter protested weakly. “The stewardess can identify him and testify he was using your ticket.”

“Sure. In a day or so. After they bring her back here to make the identification. And maybe she won’t remember him after being aboard so short a time. He would make himself inconspicuous. We can’t take a chance on it, Tim.”

Rourke was silently thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid you’re right. That slick bastard. Does he actually think he can get away with a story like that?”

“Why not?” Shayne shrugged and spread out his big hands. “Look at it from his angle. As soon as he opened my Gladstone he realized what had happened. He knows I’ll eventually find the fifty grand. Does he expect me to hunt him up to return the money? What would you think if you knew a perfect stranger had suddenly found himself with his hands on fifty thousand dollars?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d—”

“Exactly,” Shayne cut in sharply. “You’d figure he’d take it on the lam, but fast. That’s the way Dawson figured. Without the money for a getaway, he’d be a penniless fugitive from the F.B.I., the rest of his life. His safest bet was to do exactly what he did. Now, I’ve got a surprise for you. Look at the serial numbers on these bills.”

Shayne handed him one of the bundles of currency.

VACANCY BY MURDER

ROURKE BEGAN absently riffling through the bank notes. He appeared preoccupied, not actually looking at them at first. Then he began turning them slowly, studying them as Shayne had done. He sucked in his breath, let out a shrill whistle, and said, “Are all the other bundles the same?”

Shayne nodded. “See what I mean? Well mixed up, but not a single bill outside that limited sequence of numbers.”

Rourke dropped the packet carelessly on the couch. He sat hunched over, staring into space, the cracking of his knuckles sounding loud in the quiet room. He said finally, “Maybe my sob story was wrong as far as Emory Hale was concerned, Mike. The bastard lied about the money. That list of serial numbers he gave Painter was a phony. I saw it. But why? Why would he do that?” He looked at Shayne with aggrieved and disillusioned eyes. “I was so positive—”

Shayne chuckled. “You’ve a few things yet to learn before you write a masterpiece, Tim. Remember how I had to hog-tie you a couple of times when you jumped at wrong conclusions? But don’t let it worry you,” he went on consolingly. “This is the way I see it:

“It was evident to Hale that something had gone wrong. Think of his position as he waited there with his sister and brother-in-law for Kathleen’s return. Until past midnight. Until he knew something must have happened to her. Hale is evidently a man of the world. Not a simple, trusting soul like Deland or his wife. Think how he must have felt. He must have realized what a fool he’d been to get five hundred bills in straight sequence and hope that the kidnapers wouldn’t notice a thing like that. He couldn’t admit the whole thing was his fault in front of the girl’s parents. He felt like Kathleen’s murderer, and he knew they’d feel the same if they knew the truth.”

“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.”