murder, Gurney wasn’t the courageous type to cover up for him. So Gurney had to be wiped out fast.”
“Dawson?” Will Gentry was doodling furiously. “If you’re sure he kept that fifty grand instead of losing it to hijackers, it begins to add up. He knew all about Emory Hale. By having himself appointed go-between, he had a beautiful chance simply to keep the money, claiming he’d turned it over to the kidnapers. But why didn’t he do just that, Mike? If Dawson planned it that way, all he had to do was meet Gurney and Ross as planned, get the girl from them and take her home.”
“It could be a slight case of double-cross,” suggested Shayne. “He must have agreed to give Gurney a fair split of the money. Suppose he just decided to keep it all for himself? How does that work out?”
A heavy silence lay between them for a long moment. Gentry dropped his pencil and folded his hands on the desk. Shayne put his head back and blew clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.
“In that case,” Gentry conceded presently, “Dawson might have thought a fake hijacking was smart. Knowing Gurney to be weak, he might’ve trusted the guy to turn Kathleen loose unharmed and say no more about it after he found out the deal was off.”
“I think, if I’d been Dawson,” Shayne muttered, clearly envisioning the pasty-faced little man, “I would have tried to jump town with the money.”
“But we know Dawson didn’t do that,” said Gentry. “I imagine he felt he was safe until he learned the girl was dead and we were on the trail of the kidnapers. Then he had to put Gurney out of the way before he was caught and started talking. That might even explain the blow on his head. Maybe Gurney socked him once before Dawson could use the knife.”
Shayne shook his head slowly, recalling the knife in Gurney’s back. “I don’t know. It’s a fair theory, but it leaves a hell of a lot of things unexplained.”
“Such as Slocum and the dead Negro and the fire,” Gentry agreed. “And most of all, how do you know so much when you were flying to Palm Beach and hitchhiking back?”
Shayne grinned at him and moved toward the door. He said quietly, “And how come the ransom pay-off was in counterfeit bills?” He went out quickly before the Chief could recover from his consternation and question him further.
Chapter Sixteen
Papa La Tour’s Rest Home was on the bay-front, north of 20th Street. It was factitiously known to the authorities as a rest home because of Papa’s well-known and strictly enforced rule that none of his guests should engage in any of their various professions while residing there. It was comfortable and pleasant, a place to lie low and relax between jobs; a place where old friends could meet again and hobnob while planning new ventures in the world of crime.
The place had never been raided by the police, and, in return for this unofficial immunity, Papa La Tour had, on several occasions, given the authorities valuable information concerning some of the more unsavory characters who had sought protection there, which resulted in their arrest later on when Papa could not possibly be implicated.
As a consequence, the old gentleman basked in the trust of his well-paying guests, and in the confidence of the law-enforcing agents in Miami.
Papa La Tour had his own set of standards, a personal code of morals which had nothing whatever to do with legal definitions.
In his day, he had been the soup man for a mob of very successful safe-crackers who had operated for years through the Middle Atlantic states, saving their swag after each perfectly planned and masterfully executed job until enough years had passed to make each member financially independent and able to lead a more genteel and certainly a much safer life.
Papa La Tour had invested his own nest egg in a huge, rambling old house in Miami after the boom-bubble had burst and left the get-rich-quick guys holding the proverbial bag. It eventually paid him big dividends in the high rates he charged for the elaborate recreation facilities and other special services he offered.
The guests who were welcome at the rest home were those he defined as “honest criminals.” Papa’s idea of an honest criminal was, basically, one who pitted his wits against the world; who stole from corporations rather than individuals; whose activities caused no havoc in personal lives.
It was, in Papa’s estimation, perfectly all right to rub out a cop, if the officer got in the way of one who was legitimately pursuing his criminal way, but downright indecent and shocking for a crook to do his job so amateurishly as to disturb the victim and be forced to commit bodily harm in order to escape.
Thus, Papa La Tour did not appear in the least surprised to see Michael Shayne in his private office the morning after the Kathleen Deland kidnaping. His head was big, and bushy with white hair that stood up stiffly. He had a round belly that bulged just below his long torso and just above his short legs. His blue eyes twinkled with a tranquil enjoyment of life, his own portion of it in particular.
Shayne said, “I hear you’ve been putting Fred Gurney up here.”
“That lousy punk,” he wheezed, sinking into a chair. “Sit down, Mike. Who’d have guessed he’d pull a dirty one like that? Living right here at my place while he had a little girl staked out. Do you think it’d be fitting if I sent a wreath to the funeral?”
Shayne didn’t smile at the suggestion. He eased himself into a chair opposite his host and nodded. “I think a wreath would be in order. You could put in a card reading, ‘From a friend.’”
“Thanks, Mike. That’s a clever idea. I feel mighty bad about it. Sort of responsible. But I swear I didn’t know what was in Fred’s mind.”
“Sure, I know it. No one blames you, Papa. Fred was always just a cheap punk, with no real harm in him.”
“That’s the way I looked at it. Who’d have thought he’d pull a job like that?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” Shayne hitched his chair closer and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “I’m guessing someone put him up to it.”
“None of the boys here. None of them. I swear it.”
“I don’t mean that, Papa. But you and I know Fred wouldn’t figure out a deal like that on his own.”
“That’s right, Mike. Fred’s too dumb. That’s what he is-dumb.”
“Do you know what Fred’s been doing and who he’s been hanging around with lately?” Shayne asked.
Papa La Tour rubbed his plump chin with a plump hand. “Not much going on this time of year. I guess maybe he hustled for a couple of doctors when a girl, say, was in trouble. I never could see how that was bad, Mike. Sometimes a girl needs help.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t know any more about it than I’ve told you. You know I don’t meddle. Is Gerta Ross in the kidnaping with Fred, like the newspapers say?”
Shayne nodded. “Innocently, maybe. She claims Fred brought Kathleen Deland to her, said she needed an operation, and asked her to keep the girl doped a couple of days. Fred admitted it was a snatch, after she was in too deep to get out.”
“There was a man here last night asking for Fred Gurney,” La Tour said. “I looked at all them pictures in the paper this morning. I don’t know for sure. This fella was excited or maybe sort of drunk. He favored one of the pictures in the paper. Just favored it, understand. I wouldn’t swear ’twas him.”
“Which one?”
“The girl’s father, Mike. Arthur Deland, it says his name is in the paper.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. “Arthur Deland was here last night? Asking for Fred Gurney?”
“Early this morning it was. Fellow in my business don’t get much sleep. Never know when somebody’s going to pop up and ask questions. I didn’t know the man and he didn’t say his name. I didn’t know anything about this other then, neither. Claimed he was a friend of Fred’s, and I says, ‘Maybe-just maybe-you’ll find Fred at the Fun Club,’ and he went away.”
“What time was that?”
