“Out on North Miami Avenue.”
There was a long, indrawn sigh at the other end of the wire. “I just got Petey Painter out of here. I’ve spent the last hour proving to him that you were on a plane bound for New Orleans. How the living hell did you get back to town? And why?”
“I missed my plane again.”
“No, you didn’t. We checked with National. We know you were aboard when Flight Sixty-two took off tonight. The first stop was Palm Beach forty minutes later and there wasn’t any plane back. Even if you had quit the plane there and driven back the way you drive, you couldn’t possibly have reached Miami by one o’clock. That’s the only reason there isn’t a pick-up out for you right now,” Gentry ended.
“Why? What the hell is Painter trying to hang on me now?”
“It doesn’t matter much since you couldn’t possibly have been here. I suppose you did jump the plane at Palm Beach and drive back. Why, Mike? Why didn’t you keep on traveling away from here? Did you know you were sticking your neck out a mile? God in heaven! Less than three hours ago you were selling everyone on the idea you had to be on that midnight plane. Was that just a stall? Are you mixed up in this kidnaping? Is that why the fellow claimed he recognized you at the wreck where you couldn’t possibly have been?”
“Hold it, Will. What kidnaping? What fellow and what wreck?”
“The Deland kidnaping, goddamn it. There was an automobile wreck on Thirty-sixth at one-fifteen. A man and a woman in a gray sedan. The woman was cut and knocked out, and the man got away before anyone stopped him. One of the onlookers told police that he saw the man and swears it was you. Says he knows you well. Fellow by the name of Farrel.”
“Chick Farrel?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got his statement here. Edward H. Farrel.”
“That’s Chick,” Shayne told him. “He must have mistaken someone else for me.”
“Of course he did. That’s the idea I’ve been selling Painter. But when Petey finds out you did jump the plane in Palm Beach, he’ll figure you had an atomic rocket waiting to whisk you back, and even the discrepancy in time won’t convince him you weren’t in that wreck.”
“What would it matter if I were?” Shayne demanded.
“Plenty. The people in that car were the Deland kidnapers.”
“I haven’t heard of any kidnaping lately.”
“Neither had I until Painter came around an hour ago. They’re on the Beach, and it’s all been hush-hush until midnight tonight when the expected contact failed. The ransom was paid tonight. Fifty G’s. But the kid wasn’t returned by midnight as promised. They don’t know what went wrong. The contact man hasn’t showed either.”
“You say the couple in the wrecked sedan were the kidnapers? How do you know?”
“Because the girl’s body was crammed in the trunk of the sedan,” Gentry told him grimly.
Shayne’s belly muscles tightened. He asked, “Did the woman confess?”
“We haven’t got her,” Gentry rumbled. “She wasn’t hurt much. Just a crack across the head that knocked her out. She refused to go to a hospital, and an obliging cop drove her home and left her there.”
“After the body of the kidnaped girl was found in her car?” Shayne asked incredulously.
“It wasn’t found until later,” Gentry snarled. “None of them thought to look, of course. That would be too much to expect of the brainless wonders on my force.”
“If you know where she is or where she lives-”
“She’d skipped by the time anyone thought to go after her. What’s your interest, Mike? Are you mixed up in this thing?”
“Right up to my neck, Will,” said Shayne bitterly.
“How?”
“If I told you the truth, Will,” Shayne said soberly, “you’d have to arrest me. You couldn’t help yourself.”
Gentry breathed, “For God’s sake, Mike,” in a resigned whisper, and then was silent.
Shayne leaned against the side of the steaming hot telephone booth and thought rapidly. “Let me get this straight. Is Painter checking me on the plane?”
“That’s right. Even though the airline positively stated you were aboard, Petey figures you pulled some sort of trick to stay behind and get messed up in kidnaping and murder. You know how he is about you. As soon as your name was mentioned-”
“I know,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “If he finds out I was aboard the plane when it left, what would he do?”
“He has already given orders to have you taken off at the next stop and brought back for questioning.”
Shayne said, “Fair enough. Let’s go on from there. Who was the blonde driving the death car?”
“I didn’t say she was a blonde and I didn’t say she was driving,” Gentry lashed out. “Look here, Mike-”
“I heard some men talking about the accident in this joint a few minutes ago,” Shayne lied glibly. “Of course, I didn’t know I was supposed to be the guy in the car, nor about the kidnaping. Who is she?”
“Gerta Ross. She runs a nursing home on West Fifty-fourth.”
“A nursing home? Any record?”
“No. We’ve had an eye on her for some time, but she’s smart. Probably a front for illegal operations, but nothing to pin on her.”
“You know Fred Gurney?”
“Better than I want to.”
“Know where he hangs out? What he’s up to these days?”
“We haven’t picked him up for months. Is he in this?”
“I’ve got a lead that points in his direction,” said Shayne cautiously. “Where would you look if you wanted him?”
“I’d ask around Papa La Tour’s. For God’s sake, Mike, give me something.”
“I can’t, Will, and don’t go looking for Gurney just yet if you want to do me a favor.”
His only hope, Shayne knew, was to get Fred Gurney and Gerta Ross before the police picked them up. If either of them spilled the truth about being with him at the Fun Club while Flight Sixty-two was winging toward Palm Beach-
Not that he could gain more than a little time, he realized as an afterthought. As soon as Dawson was taken from the plane and told his story, Shayne’s alibi would evaporate into thin air and Painter would never be convinced that he hadn’t intentionally stayed behind to take some part in the kidnap pay-off.
Gentry remained silent at the other end of the wire while these thoughts raced through Shayne’s mind. The detective gripped the receiver tightly and went on in a strained voice: “Have you heard anything about ex-Senator Irvin lately?”
“That old goat?” Gentry exploded. “No. He was around town about a year ago.”
“Do you want him?” Shayne asked sharply.
“Stinking up my jail?” Gentry asked indignantly.
“Any queer stuff been passed around lately?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. What-”
“Skip it. You might want to ask the senator about a dead man in his basement garage,” Shayne interrupted. “Here’s the address. The faster you get some boys out there the better.” He swiftly described the location of the house where he’d been held prisoner. “That’s about all. The senator has a gun-pal named Perry who might’ve had something to do with the killing. The less they’re allowed to talk after you pick them up the better it’ll be for a friend of yours named Mike Shayne.”
“I don’t get any of this, Mike. If you’re in the clear-”
“I’m not. I need a few hours on my own, Will.” Shayne hung up and pushed the door open. He was wet with sweat from head to foot, and his big hands were clenched into hard fists.
He went out of the place swiftly, got behind the wheel of the commandeered car and headed south on Miami Avenue.
