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?”
“A little after two o’clock.”
“Ever see him around here before?”
“Never did.”
“Ever hear Fred Gurney mention Deland’s name or anything connected with him?” Shayne persisted.
Papa La Tour shook his white shock of hair decidedly. “Not that I passed much talk with Fred,” he added. “Paid his money and I let him stay around. That’s about the way it was with Fred and me.”
Shayne stood up, thanked him, and went out a side door and down a private walk shaded by an arbor of purple bougainvillea intermingled with brilliant blossoms of flame-vine climbing over the lattice.
He got in the sedan and sat behind the wheel while he tried to digest the fact he had just learned.
What did Arthur Deland’s attempt to see Fred Gurney mean? Had Deland suspected all along that Gurney was the kidnaper, and had he concealed the truth from the police for private reasons? It was inconceivable that a man who loved his family as Rourke had reported Deland loved his could have had any part in the tragedy that had befallen his sixteen-year-old daughter.
Shayne, however, had seen too many inconceivable things turn out to be true to reject the idea completely. He frowned angrily, trying to fit the possibility into the kidnap pattern.
First, there was the undeniable fact that the ransom money had not come from Deland himself. It had been furnished by his brother-in-law, Emory Hale. That was one way of extracting money from a wealthy relative. On the other hand, Rourke had intimated that Emory Hale had been generous with his sister, Minerva, and had helped her financially in the past. Deland’s financial standing would bear investigation, Shayne decided-a close checkup to determine whether he had any pressing need for so large a sum.
Second, if Deland had engineered the kidnaping, why had he taken Dawson in as his accomplice? It was evident that Dawson must have been an accomplice, else it would have been foolish to trust the ransom pay-off to him. An accomplice only meant added risk and the need to split the proceeds further. And if Dawson were an accomplice, had the midnight getaway on the plane with the cash been planned?
Shayne didn’t think so. It would have been a foolish move and wholly unnecessary. If the affair had been planned by Deland and Dawson together, the obvious thing was to have Dawson simply meet Gurney, pay the man his price, and get the Deland girl from him.
No, if it was that way, Shayne decided, Dawson had been pulling a neat double-cross on both his partner in business and on Gurney by slipping away on the midnight plane.
But how in hell did that counterfeit money enter into any of those possibilities? That was the discordant note in the entire affair. No portion of the puzzle could be properly evaluated until the counterfeit money was explained.
Feeling completely checkmated, Shayne jerked the car into gear and drove back to the boulevard and then southward until he reached a drugstore with a pay phone. He went in and found the address of Deland and Dawson, General Plumbers, on N.E. 6th Street.
Ten minutes later he entered the drab ground floor display room of the company. A railed-off portion at the back apparently protected a stringy female office girl from customers. Shayne wondered what sort of customers a plumbing business attracted that she needed protection.
She had a sharp nose and a sallow complexion. Her lifeless blonde hair was cut in page-boy style, the irregular bangs beginning just above her glasses. She was wiping tears from her unrouged cheeks when Shayne came up to the railing.
The girl got up, took off her glasses as she approached him, and dabbed at her pale blue eyes with a wadded piece of tissue. The tip of her nose was red, and it quivered when she moved her lips.
“What can I do for you?” The tone of her voice indicated that she wished he would go away and leave her alone.
Shayne ran knobby fingers through his stubble of red hair and said, “It’s a very sad day for you, I’m sure, Miss-”
“M-Morrison,” she replied. “I h-hope you’ll forgive my c-crying like this. It’s horrible, that’s what it is. I can’t believe it’s true. She used to come in here, perch herself on this railing, and laugh and chat with me just like I was one of her young friends. She was so sweet and thoughtful of everybody. I don’t see how I can stand it.” She looked at the wet ball of tissue that was wadded in her hand and turned back to her desk, saying, “Excuse me.”
She came back with a couple of fresh tissues, after blowing her sharp nose lustily. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Shayne sat with one hip on the railing. He said, “Kathleen seems to have affected you as she did a lot of other people. Have you worked here long?”
“To know her was to love her,” Miss Morrison said reverently, ignoring Shayne’s leading question. “Last Christmas she brought me a hanky. Real Irish lace, with such a beautiful card. I’ll always remember the verse on it.” She closed her eyes, squeezing out the tears, and wiping them with a fold of tissue.
“How long have you been with Mr. Deland and Mr. Dawson?” he asked again.
“Three years now, come December.”
“I understand that Mr. Dawson did most of the office work and storeroom work, while Mr. Deland went out on repair jobs?”
“Yes,” said Miss Morrison with a deep sigh. “Mr. Dawson took care of the inside mostly. If you’ve come to see him, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back in a few days. Poor man. He’s prostrated with grief. Don’t you think it was noble of him to fight off that gang the way he did?”
“I certainly do,” said Shayne seriously. “Is Dawson married?”
“Oh, no. He’s a widower.” She fluttered her wrinkled eyelids coyly. “I was always telling him that a state of single blessedness was no way for a man to live, and sometimes he’d agree with me.”
“He and Deland seem to have had a very nice business here,” said Shayne. “I’d say Dawson should be able to support a wife.”
“Mr. Dawson wasn’t what you’d call wealthy, but the business brought in a nice income. He was thinking some of taking it over, buying Mr. Deland out, you know. I used to urge him to. Seemed like it wasn’t fair for him to get only half, for all the hard work and long hours he put in.”
“Deland didn’t do his part, eh?”
“I wouldn’t say that. He was difficult at times, but he was a hard worker, spending half a day on a repair job that wouldn’t stand for more than three hours’ charge, and even then forgetting to enter the charge in the books at all-things like that. Mr. Deland was careless, but Mr. Dawson was always one for exact detail. Sometimes it seemed to me Mr. Deland was rather bored with the business. Maybe that’s why Mr. Dawson wanted to buy him out.”
“They didn’t get on well?” asked Shayne. “Is that why Mr. Deland was thinking of selling out?”
“I didn’t say Mr. Deland wanted to sell out,” she corrected him. “It’s something Mr. Dawson and I discussed privately.” Miss Morrison’s eyes looked down at the balled tissue in her hand, and Shayne wondered if she was going to wipe the drippings from her pointed nose; but she said curtly, “Why are you asking all these questions, and who are you?”
“I’m from the United States Treasury Department,” he told her. “Last year’s income tax.”
Her pallid eyelids lifted and her strange eyes were startled. “I was afraid there’d be trouble about that on account of Mr. Deland’s carelessness,” she stammered. “I told Mr. Dawson, ‘Just you mark my words-no telling how many jobs like that Greerson job don’t show on the books.’ That was this year, of course, but I told Mr. Dawson, ‘You just can’t tell how many like it never showed on the books.’”
Shayne said, “Suppose you tell me more about the-ah-Greerson job. It may help to explain some of the discrepancies in last year’s report.”
Miss Morrison’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. “Mr. Dawson is a keen business man, and I don’t understand why he wasn’t more strict with Mr. Deland. Of course, they were equal business partners and, as Mr. Dawson said, it really wasn’t his place to put his foot down. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t run our office on a businesslike basis, and I told him so.”
“About the Greerson job,” Shayne said again.
She didn’t answer for a time, looking away from him with her head lifted and staring into space. Then she turned toward Shayne, her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“It wasn’t anything, really. Not compared with her death.”
Shayne said, “Business is never important to children, but it is to men who have to work to support them.”
Miss Morrison sighed deeply. “What I was going to say is that the Greerson job didn’t matter. It just showed how carelessness makes trouble. We never billed him on it. When I asked Mr. Deland about it after the first of the month, he got angry and irritable. First he said he couldn’t remember, and then he said he had had trouble getting the parts. Anyway, he never did fix it the way it should be, and he didn’t feel it was honest to collect a bill like that.
“I told him we couldn’t run the business that way. I insisted that his time was worth something. That was the first time Mr. Dawson ever spoke sharp to me, and he apologized afterward. He said I wasn’t to question Mr. Deland.
“Later, he told me privately that he agreed with me,” she went on, her colorless eyes looking at the dirty ceiling as though it were studded with stars. “But after all, Mr. Deland was a partner and was in charge of the outside work. That’s when he spoke of buying out Deland’s share of the business a little later on when he expected to come into a small legacy.
“But now all this terrible thing has come up, and I don’t know what the outcome will be, with Mr. Dawson lying there in the hospital fighting for his life, and with the tragedy in the Deland home and all.”
She ran out of breath and began sobbing again.
Shayne stood up and patted her shoulder and told her he would come back some other time when things were a little more normal. He left hurriedly with another small item of information tucked away in his mind, though he didn’t see, at the moment, how it could help him.
It did establish a slim connection between ex-Senator Irvin, alias Greerson, and Deland; but he couldn’t see how that connection fitted into the kidnap picture.
Dawson, too, it appeared, had also acted strangely about the Greerson job, refusing to urge his partner to press what appeared to be a legitimate repair bill.
But he was making progress, Shayne reassured himself; and somewhere in the complex pattern lay the answer to four deaths within the space of four hours.