Free Counterfeit Wife by Brett Halliday Page A

I told you the truth, Will,” Shayne said soberly, “you’d have to arrest me. You couldn’t help yourself.”
    Gentry breathed, “For God’s sake, Mike,” in a resigned whisper, and then was silent.
    Shayne leaned against the side of the steaming hot telephone booth and thought rapidly. “Let me get this straight. Is Painter checking me on the plane?”
    “That’s right. Even though the airline positively stated you were aboard, Petey figures you pulled some sort of trick to stay behind and get messed up in kidnaping and murder. You know how he is about you. As soon as your name was mentioned—”
    “I know,” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “If he finds out I was aboard the plane when it left, what would he do?”
    “He has already given orders to have you taken off at the next stop and brought back for questioning.”
    Shayne said, “Fair enough. Let’s go on from there. Who was the blonde driving the death car?”
    “I didn’t say she was a blonde and I didn’t say she was driving,” Gentry lashed out. “Look here, Mike—”
    “I heard some men talking about the accident in this joint a few minutes ago,” Shayne lied glibly. “Of course, I didn’t know I was supposed to be the guy in the car, nor about the kidnaping. Who is she?”
    “Gerta Ross. She runs a nursing home on West Fifty-fourth.”
    “A nursing home? Any record?”
    “No. We’ve had an eye on her for some time, but she’s smart. Probably a front for illegal operations, but nothing to pin on her.”
    “You know Fred Gurney?”
    “Better than I want to.”
    “Know where he hangs out? What he’s up to these days?”
    “We haven’t picked him up for months. Is he in this?”
    “I’ve got a lead that points in his direction,” said Shayne cautiously. “Where would you look if you wanted him?”
    “I’d ask around Papa La Tour’s. For God’s sake, Mike, give me something.”
    “I can’t, Will, and don’t go looking for Gurney just yet if you want to do me a favor.”
    His only hope, Shayne knew, was to get Fred Gurney and Gerta Ross before the police picked them up. If either of them spilled the truth about being with him at the Fun Club while Flight Sixty-two was winging toward Palm Beach—
    Not that he could gain more than a little time, he realized as an afterthought. As soon as Dawson was taken from the plane and told his story, Shayne’s alibi would evaporate into thin air and Painter would never be convinced that he hadn’t intentionally stayed behind to take some part in the kidnap pay-off.
    Gentry remained silent at the other end of the wire while these thoughts raced through Shayne’s mind. The detective gripped the receiver tightly and went on in a strained voice: “Have you heard anything about ex-Senator Irvin lately?”
    “That old goat?” Gentry exploded. “No. He was around town about a year ago.”
    “Do you want him?” Shayne asked sharply.
    “Stinking up my jail?” Gentry asked indignantly.
    “Any queer stuff been passed around lately?”
    “Not that I’ve heard of. What—”
    “Skip it. You might want to ask the senator about a dead man in his basement garage,” Shayne interrupted. “Here’s the address. The faster you get some boys out there the better.” He swiftly described the location of the house where he’d been held prisoner. “That’s about all. The senator has a gun-pal named Perry who might’ve had something to do with the killing. The less they’re allowed to talk after you pick them up the better it’ll be for a friend of yours named Mike Shayne.”
    “I don’t get any of this, Mike. If you’re in the clear—”
    “I’m not. I need a few hours on my own, Will.” Shayne hung up and pushed the door open. He was wet with sweat from head to foot, and his big hands were clenched into hard fists.
    He went out of the place swiftly, got behind the wheel of the commandeered car and headed south on Miami Avenue.

 
Chapter Seven
    UNWELCOME GUEST
     
    SHAYNE