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.
Chapter Eleven
Rourke began absently riffling through the bank notes. He appeared preoccupied, not actually looking at them
