Arthur Deland’s hand was bony and calloused. He gave it to Shayne apathetically and said something in a low voice. The man hadn’t shaved and his appearance was shocking. There were deep lines of suffering indelibly etched in his sunken cheeks and mirrored in the cavernous eyes which appeared opaque and sightless. He didn’t seem interested in Shayne’s identity, nor concerned as to why he had been brought here for conference with the police and his business partner.
Indeed, his actions were those of a man whose every interest in life had died with his daughter on the preceding night-a man who went on living automatically without any conscious desire to do so.
Rourke said cheerfully, “Shayne is going to solve this case right now, Mr. Deland. You’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that the guilty parties will be punished.”
Deland stared at Rourke vacantly and raised a rough hand to scratch the dark stubble on his cheek. “That don’t mean much now, Mr. Rourke. Seems like nothing means anything any more.”
“Nonsense,” said Rourke in a hearty, over-loud voice such as one uses with an idiot or a sulky child. He took hold of Deland’s arm and led him closer to the window where they could see bright sunlight on the smooth green lawn and well-tended shrubbery and flowers.
“It’s the same world as it was yesterday,” he told the grieving man. “The birds are singing and life still goes on. You can’t give way like this. It isn’t fair to your wife. And Kathleen wouldn’t want it; you know that.”
Shayne was watching the pair and listening with narrowed, bright eyes. Their backs were toward him, and as Rourke spoke he saw Deland’s stooped shoulders stiffen and a spasm of agony shake his gaunt frame. He leaned forward to grip the sill fiercely and stare down at the peaceful scene as though he listened intently for some sound he would never hear again.
Crossing over to them, the detective put his hand firmly on Deland’s shoulder, drawing him back from the window. He said to Rourke, “Don’t tempt the man. Don’t you see the condition he’s in? We’ve had enough tragedy without inviting suicide.”
Rourke’s jaw dropped open as the full impact of Shayne’s words struck him. “Good God, Mike! I didn’t think-”
“That’s your trouble,” Shayne growled. “Try to think what you’re doing next time.” With his hand gripping Deland’s shoulder, he turned him back into the room. The plumber quietly obeyed, as though he had no will of his own.
Shayne gave his shoulder a final encouraging squeeze as they neared the hospital bed. Will Gentry stepped up closer and stood beside him to look down into Dawson’s pallid face.
Gentry said, “Shayne tells me you two have already met, Dawson. At the airport last night.”
Dawson’s eyes wavered before Shayne’s gaze, and his bloodless lips pursed into a round O of surprise and of fear.
“What’s that?” asked Painter sharply. “At the airport? When? And under what conditions?”
“We were both trying to catch a plane,” Shayne told him. “Dawson made it, but I didn’t.”
“You didn’t? But-” His small black eyes darted from Shayne to Dawson and back again.
“Dawson used my ticket,” Shayne said impatiently. “He paid me for it with a couple of bills out of the ransom money he was making off with.”
“What’s that?” Emory Hale stepped quickly toward them. His voice boomed through the room, incredulous and incisive. “Do you mean to say that Dawson faked the hijacking story? What became of the money? What is this all about?”
“Dawson is actually your niece’s murderer,” Shayne told the New Yorker. “Though he probably can’t be convicted for it because Kathleen was alive at twelve o’clock last night. If Dawson had met the kidnapers at eleven as arranged, she would be at home and alive today. And a Negro named Getchie would still be alive,” he added savagely, “and an innocent man named Slocum. Fred Gurney probably would be alive, too, though his death isn’t any great loss.”
“By God, Dawson!” Hale’s voice was a roar as he attempted to force his way to the wounded man’s bedside.
Shayne held him back, saying coldly, “There’s a lot more to it, Hale. You didn’t help matters any by trying to palm off counterfeit money for the ransom.”
“Counterfeit money? You’re crazy,” said Hale shortly.
“I’m giving you the opinion of an expert.”
Peter Painter had not given an inch from his position beside Dawson’s bed. He shifted his eyes steadily from Hale to Shayne, nervously thumbnailing his mustache.
“I don’t believe it,” thundered Hale. “It can’t be so. God, man, do you realize I got that money from the bank in New York myself and flew down here with it as fast as I could?”
“The Guaranty Trust Company?” asked Shayne acidly.
“Yes. That’s where I carry my largest account.”
Shayne turned his head and said, “Tell him, Gentry.”
Chief Gentry had availed himself of one of the chairs in the room and drawn it up to a vantage point so that he could watch everyone in the room. His heavy, rumpled lids were low over his eyes as he watched and listened intently.
He did not move, but said, “The bank has reported that you didn’t withdraw any such amount.”
Shayne resumed impatiently. “Let’s not beat about the bush, Hale. We know where you got that wad of dough. From the bookie syndicate you run up in the big town.”
Hale flushed heavily, was silent for a moment, then admitted with dignity, “Perhaps I did have to call on my business associates to raise such a large amount in cash in the short time allotted me. But I swear it wasn’t counterfeit. I checked every bill and took off the serial numbers myself.”
“The list you gave Painter last night?”
“Yes. I listed them myself. I don’t think it matters where I obtained the money.”
“Except that it turned out to be queer,” Shayne told him, “and thus contributed to a couple of deaths. But that’s not the important thing,” he went on harshly. “The man who started this whole train of events is the actual criminal. The man who arranged for the girl’s kidnaping by Gurney.”
There was dead silence in the room when Shayne stopped speaking. Dawson turned his head slowly on the pillow, closing his eyes against the intent gaze of the men grouped around his bed. Emory Hale was shocked into stiff silence by the implications of Shayne’s statements. Gentry sat solidly in his chair, his eyes half closed, chewing silently on his sodden cigar stub. Only Arthur Deland appeared unmoved, as though he hadn’t heard or understood the blunt words.
Shayne turned to Deland and said, “You’d better tell us what your connection was with your daughter’s kidnaper.”
Deland shook his head slowly, like a man in a dream. He appeared utterly mystified by the abrupt question.
“I’m talking about Fred Gurney.” Shayne’s voice was harsh and compelling. “When did you meet him? How well did you know him?”
“But-I didn’t.” He put one hand up feebly, as though to ward off the question.
“You were looking for him at two-thirty last night-before anyone else knew he had any connection with the kidnaping. What made you think of him?”
“Wait a minute, Shayne,” said Emory Hale angrily. “You can’t talk to Arthur like that. Can’t you see he’s in a complete daze? He’s not responsible for anything he did last night. He doesn’t realize what you’re saying just now.”
“I’ll make him realize it,” said Shayne savagely. He addressed Deland again, speaking slowly, spacing his words. “I know you went to Papa La Tour’s last night and asked for Fred Gurney. Why?”
Deland slowly brought up a rough hand and passed it over his face. As it fell limply to his side, comprehension shone in his sunken eyes. “Oh-yes. I thought he-might know the man who would-do such a thing.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper in the ominous silence.
“Why did you think he’d know?”
“It was just-just an idea,” faltered Deland. “I felt I had to do something. I’m not-acquainted with the criminal element in the city, and I thought of Gurney. I didn’t know then that-that-” his voice trailed off, and he covered his face with his hands.
