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.”
“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.”
