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.
The office was lighted, and the small building was surmounted by a white tower topped with a high, lighted spire. He cut off the motor in front of the office and heard a couple of radios playing in cabins and the sound of singing and laughter.
A bleary-eyed man blinked at him as he strode into the office, then stood up and opened a registration book. Shayne forestalled him, saying, “I’m looking for a friend of mine who took a cabin here late tonight. His name is Smith.”
The man chuckled tonelessly. “We’ve had quite a lot of Smiths tonight. Ran ahead of the Joneses, I do believe.”
Shayne said, “Fred Smith.”
“M-m-m.” The man ran his finger down the list, then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fred Smith. Number Sixteen. That’s right around the circle in front, at the far end. They’re still there far’s I know.”
Shayne went out to the car and drove around the circle to Number 16. It was one of the lighted cabins, and a radio was playing softly inside.
He got out, opened the door, and went in. The room he entered was nicely furnished for a tourist cabin, with a rug on the floor, a couch, two overstuffed chairs, and a pull-down bed. An open door on one side evidently led into another bedroom.
Gerta Ross lay on the pull-down bed, snoring gently. Her hair was uncoiled and lay in a tangle about her face. Her suit coat was hanging on a chair, and she wore a sheer white blouse with the gray skirt.
A half-empty gin bottle stood on the floor just beyond the reach of her trailing fingertips. There was a queer, sweetish smell in the room.
Shayne closed the cabin door softly and went over to pick up the gin bottle and smell it. It had been a long time since he had smelled laudanum, but he knew the gin had been spiked with the opiate. He set the bottle on the table beside the radio and went on to the open side door.
The bedroom was dark except for the beam of light coming through the door. He turned on the light and looked at Fred Gurney lying on the floor beside the neatly made bed. Gurney was fully dressed, and he looked peacefully passed out with his mouth vacuously open and his eyelids closed.
Shayne didn’t know he was dead until he knelt beside him and listened for his breathing, then felt for a pulse. His wrist was warm, but not as warm as living flesh should be. There was no pulse.
The time was 4:28 by Shayne’s wrist watch. He squatted back on his heels and studied the dead man thoughtfully. He didn’t see any wound at first, but when he turned the man slightly he saw blood underneath the body and the bone handle of a hunting knife protruding from between his thin shoulder blades.
Shayne got up and went back into the other room, turning off the bedroom light and pulling the door shut without touching the knob.
Gerta Ross still snored peacefully. He sat down on the bed beside her and put his hand on her shoulder and shook her urgently. Her snoring changed to a whimpering sound and she tried to snuggle her face farther down in the pillow to shut the light from her eyes.
Shayne slapped her lightly and she opened her eyes, rolled them up at him, and said in a husky, drowsy voice, “I must have dozed off while I was waiting for you to come. I thought you’d never get here, honey.”
Chapter Thirteen
Before Shayne could say anything she reached up and locked her arms around his neck, pulling him down to crush his face against hers with surprising strength.
Shayne twisted his head, and his mouth slid off hers to the side of her throat. Her grip was like a wrestler’s, and he had to struggle against it, getting his hands on her shoulders and prying upward to lift himself from her grasp.
Laughter gurgled from her moist lips and her blue eyes were wide open, staring up into his with pleased recognition.
“Don’t be like that, honey,” she coaxed. “Let’s us have a drink and be chummy.”
Shayne said, “You’ve had too many drinks.”
“I never had too many drinks. Not ever in my whole life,” she said thickly. She sounded more drugged than drunk. She lifted herself on one elbow to look for the bottle, squinted at it with one eye when she saw it on the table, and said, “Gimme a drink, big boy.”
“I told you you’d already had too many. What about Gurney?”
