“What about him?” She sank back on the pillow.
“Hadn’t you better get up and sit over there on the couch? He might come in and find us like this.”
“Fred?” She moved her head slowly and negatively, closing her left eye so that her face took on an expression of sly cunning. “Don’t you worry about Freddie.”
“He’s in his bedroom, isn’t he?”
“Sure he is. I guess so,” she amended with indifference. “But hell, he’ll stay right there.”
“How do you know he will?”
“Whatcha wanta ask so many questions for?” she demanded crossly. “Let’s us have a drink and talk about you and me. That’ll be lots more fun.”
“But Gurney might wake up and come in here any minute,” Shayne warned her again.
“I told you he wouldn’t. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“Sure. Knife in his back.” She looked at him solemnly. “He won’t bother us.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“Did I?” A tear formed in the corner of each eye and rolled down her cheeks, but otherwise her placid face was without expression.
“You arranged to meet him here, didn’t you?”
“He phoned me to meet him.” She drew one hand across her eyes and sat up with a lurch. “Gonna have a drink,” she announced with decision.
“I’ll get us both one,” Shayne soothed her. “Just lie back and try to remember why you killed Freddie.” He got up and went into the bathroom and found two water glasses. He half filled both of them from the tap, carried them back into the room, and poured gin into the water, keeping his body between Gerta Ross and the bottle so she couldn’t see that the drink was diluted.
She lay back on the pillow with her eyes closed when he approached the bed again. Shayne pulled up a chair and sat down. She reached for one of the glasses. The pupils of her eyes were contracted to pin points, glassy with a hard brilliance. She greedily drank from the glass and said, “You did it, I bet. You killed Freddie because you were jealous. What a laugh that is. I went for you first thing. You didn’t have to kill Freddie.”
“Was he alone when you got here?”
“I guess he was. I don’t remember much about it. I got knocked out when the damned car turned over. Knot on my head big as an egg.” She touched the place gently and added, “Had a hell of a time stopping the blood.”
Shayne looked at the spot she touched. He could see the swelling now. Her heavy hair covered it. There was no sign of any blood.
He asked, “What about Dawson?”
“What about the bastard?” she countered.
“Maybe he killed Gurney.”
“Maybe he did,” she agreed without interest. She finished her drink and dropped the empty glass beside her. Holding out her arms she said, “Come on, honey. Give mamma a kiss.”
“What about the girl-Kathleen Deland? She was found in the trunk of your wrecked car.”
“Oh-her?”
“She’s dead, too,” Shayne told her sharply.
“Unh-uh. Just doped. She’s awright. Been keepin’ her doped ever since Freddie brought her to my place.”
“They hang people for kidnaping whether she’s dead or just doped,” Shayne said.
Gerta Ross moved her head negatively. Her eyes were tightly closed. “I didn’t kidnap her. Freddie said she was in trouble when he brought her to my place. Pretty young for that, but they do start young these days.” Her voice was becoming thicker, and she scarcely moved her lips when she spoke. Shayne had to lean close to distinguish the syllables.
“Did he tell you to keep her doped?”
“Sure. Said she was hysterical. Fine rich family.” She opened her eyes with an effort and looked into Shayne’s intent face only a few inches from hers, then pushed herself up to press her lips against his mouth.
Shayne pushed her back on the pillow. He said, “But you knew the girl was kidnaped.”
“Found it out later. Freddie said not to worry. He had inside dope. Told me to keep her drugged till Dawson paid off. It was all fixed, see?”
Shayne said, “Go on. Who else was in on it?”
“I don’ know anything else about it. It wasn’t a real kidnaping, see? Kiss me, honey.”
“How much was Dawson going to pay you?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Freddie said it’d be plenty. But the bastard tried to run out on us tonight.”
“Is Dawson the man Freddie was meeting here?” Shayne pressed her.
“Was he meeting somebody besides me?”
“Didn’t he phone you he was, and for you to come?”
“I guess so.” She closed her eyes wearily and said, “Let’s us have a drink.”
“First, tell me what Freddie said when he called you.”
“Said ever’thing was awright,” she muttered. “Said for me to come out here and we’d hide out a while and then get out of town. With that shrimp!” She laughed contemptuously. “Y’know what he’s got? He’s got false teeth. God, what a cluck.”
“Did he say he was meeting Dawson here?”
“Didn’t say. Just said it didn’t matter ’bout the car getting wrecked when I told him. Said we were getting paid for the job anyhow. And now how’s about a drink?” She cocked one eye open and sighed deeply.
Shayne said, “I guess it is about time.” He got the bottle and handed it to her. She fumbled for it with her eyes closed, cuddled it down in the valley between her breasts and lifted the bottom just enough for the liquor to trickle into her mouth.
Shayne leaned back and lit a cigarette while she sucked contentedly on the bottle, and the level of the drugged gin went steadily and rhythmically down.
She stopped drinking after a time and the bottle slid from her bosom onto the bed where a small portion of it spilled. Shayne smoked and watched her with alert eyes. Her head fell sidewise on the pillow. She pouted her lips and began snoring gently.
He got up and went into the other bedroom, turned on the lights and knelt beside Gurney’s lifeless body. Methodically, he went through the man’s pockets. He found a few bills and some silver, a key ring and a couple of policy tickets, but no scrap of paper of any sort-nothing to tell him any of the things he wanted to know.
He turned out the lights and went back to the other room, carefully wiped his fingerprints from the glasses and the bottle, and from everything he could remember having touched, then went to the front door.
He stood there for a moment before going out, giving the room a final searching scrutiny. The radio was still playing transcribed music very softly, and Gerta Ross looked very peaceful on the bed.
He shrugged his shoulders, went out, got in the sedan and drove away, circling past the lighted tower and heading back to 36th Street. It was full daylight now. The sun was pushing itself up from the Atlantic and the sky was garish with red and crimson banners.
Stopping at the first all-night restaurant he came to, he parked and went in to the telephone. He called the Miami Beach police department and asked if Timothy Rourke was around.
After a long wait, he heard Rourke’s voice come over the wire. Shayne said gruffly, “Here’s a tip-off from a pal. The Deland kidnapers are in a cabin-Number Sixteen-at the Tower Cottages on West Thirty-sixth in Miami.”
He hung up as soon as he finished, went out to the sedan and drove directly to his apartment on the Miami River. He went in the side entrance and climbed the stairs without seeing Henry or the elevator boy, entered his old apartment, and emptied the last three inches from the cognac bottle.
Chapter Fourteen
