Tickets for Death (2 page)

Shayne lit a cigarette while she flipped the pages, straining her eyes to read the small print. He waited with an expression of curiosity mingled with annoyance to see what she would do next.

Presently she nodded and lifted the receiver in an unsteady hand. She dialed a number and waited, not looking at Shayne, conscious of his presence but aggressively ignoring him.

She spoke into the mouthpiece with a false note of brightness, “This is Mayme Martin calling. Uh-huh. From Cocopalm. But I’m in Miami now. Is this Mr. Max Samuelson?”

Shayne stiffened and pivoted toward her slowly. His lean face was a study in anger, but he made no move to interrupt the conversation.

“I thought you’d remember me,” Mayme Martin was saying. “I met you in Cocopalm last month. Sure, that’s right. When you were up to see Ben Edwards about his invention. It’s finished now. They say it works perfectly. Naw. The nut still don’t want a patent.”

She paused, and then her voice took on a fierce note of determination: “Now, you listen to me. I know where those plans are. I know a lot about a lot of things. But I’m not talking, see? There’s them that think I don’t know what the score is and think they can make a stooge out of me for nothing. But I’m sitting in the driver’s seat right now, and I’m staying there until I get my price. All right, come on over, but you’d better bring some cash with you. Nothing else talks to me. Sure. Right away. Number fourteen, the Red Rose Apartments.”

She hung up and glanced defiantly at the detective. “There! What did I tell you? He’s coming right over.”

“That cheap little shyster,” Shayne said with acid distinctness. “If you think I’m going to bid against him you’re wrong.”

Mayme’s laugh was shrill. Her eyes glittered with greedy delight. “Shows you don’t know what it’s all about. What I’m selling Max Samuelson is different from what I’m offering you. Sort of different, that is.” She frowned, shaking her head to clear away the fog of perplexity. “What I mean is, you and Mr. Samuelson are on different sides of the fence.”

“We always have been,” Shayne growled. He hesitated, watching her carefully. “I’ll treat you fairly,” he urged. “If you’ll tell me what you’re trying to sell I’ll see about getting the cash.”

Mayme shook her head cheerfully. She wavered to her feet. “Come back after I make a deal with Mr. Samuelson. I swear I’m not playing you against each other. I got something that’s worth a grand to both of you.”

Shayne’s mouth tightened into a grim line as he fixed three names in his memory: Albert Payson, Ben Edwards, Max Samuelson. He studied Mayme Martin for a moment, then said, “Be careful,” softly, and went out.

He was sweating when he closed the door of No. 14. The hall lights had been turned on and as he passed doors which stood ajar, radio music floated into the hall.

A sweet-faced redhead stood in an open door near the head of the stairs. She cocked her head and spoke a soft greeting as Shayne passed. He stopped on the first step and looked back at her. She was no older than Phyllis and she couldn’t know much about the life that lay ahead of her. He started to speak and she moved toward him. He turned from her and went on down the stairs and out into the clean coolness of the tropical twilight.

Clouds were banked against the southern sky and a fresh southeasterly wind whipped at his hair. He got into his car and tossed his hat aside, rolled down the windows. Still thinking of the young redhead and wondering whether he was developing a belated social conscience, he muttered “Damn” and swung around to Biscayne Boulevard and south past Bayfront Park. There he turned to the right, then to the left, and parked in front of an apartment hotel on the bank of the Miami River.

Passing through the lobby he nodded curtly to the clerk, then went up three flights in the elevator. Down the hall he stopped before the door of a pleasant corner apartment, opened it, and stopped short just inside the room and whistled in shrill surprise.

A slim, black-haired girl was on her knees struggling with the straps of a Gladstone bag which was packed too full. Two handsome pieces of luggage stood conspicuously on the floor beside her.

Phyllis Shayne looked up from her task and said, “It’s high time you came home. Here I have to do all your office work and the packing for the family and you’re not even interested enough in your business to let me know where I can reach you.”

Shayne said mildly, “Packing, angel?” flinging off his hat and rumpling his coarse red hair. He reached her in six long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To Cocopalm.” Phyllis settled back on her trim high heels and let her husband strap the Gladstone. “If I wasn’t around to take messages you’d never get a case,” she said severely and with a twinkle of pride.

Shayne queried, “Cocopalm?” narrowing his gray eyes at her.

She nodded her dark head emphatically. “We’ll have to eat and run. It looks as if it’s going to rain little frogs and fishes, and you have an appointment with Mr. Hardeman at seven o’clock sharp. There’s barely time to make it. I’ve got dinner ready.”

Shayne echoed, “Hardeman?” in a wondering voice.

“John Hardeman,” she elaborated. “He’s the manager or something of the greyhound track at Cocopalm. Some one has been cashing counterfeit tickets at the dog track and they’re going to have to close it up if you don’t do something. So, I told him you’d be up tonight and put a stop to it.” She smiled, flushed and radiant, waiting for his approval of the manner in which she had conducted his affairs in his absence.

Shayne snapped the last catch on the bag and stood up without saying anything. He circled his wife and the packed luggage on the floor to arrive at the built-in wall mirror, which swung out to reveal a completely equipped bar. His angular face was sober and questioning as he poured a drink of cognac. He turned back toward Phyllis with the glass in his hand.

“Now tell me just what happened this afternoon, angel.”

She sat flat on the floor looking up at him, her dark eyes deep and serious. “First, about three o’clock a Mr. Albert Payson phoned. I don’t think it was long-distance. When he asked for you, I told him in a very businesslike way that I was Detective Shayne’s private secretary. He didn’t want to tell me anything, but I assured him I took care of the office and received all messages when you were out.”

“Never mind the suspense, angel. Who is Albert Payson and what did he want?”

“Oh, he owns the dog track at Cocopalm. He said they wanted you to come up and track down the counterfeiters. I guess Mr. Hardeman didn’t know Mr. Payson had already called you because he told me the same thing. I’m positive his call was long-distance from Cocopalm. He was very explicit about your seeing him at the Tropical Hotel at seven tonight.” She paused again, counting off the messages on her fingers. “Then there was the message from that girl. I called Tim Rourke and he said he’d find you. I didn’t tell Tim about Mr. Payson calling because I didn’t think you’d want anybody knowing about it but us.”

“Tim found me,” Shayne told her soberly. His face grew suddenly hard and his eyes were bleak.

Phyllis sprang to her feet. “Michael,” she breathed, “have I made a mistake—saying you’d take the case?”

He smiled and moved his head in quick negation. “Hell, no, angel. You did exactly right. Only—I wish I’d known about this an hour ago.”

“Well, it’s your own fault. You didn’t telephone me all afternoon.” She linked her arm in his and urged him toward the dinette where dinner was waiting.

“Starting tomorrow,” Shayne said jovially, setting his glass of cognac on the table, “I’m going to install a broadcasting station so you can tune in on me—”

“We’ve got to hurry,” she interrupted. “Sit down and I’ll put dinner on.”

“Cocopalm is only thirty or forty miles up the coast. I won’t need all those clothes you’ve packed, particularly the hatbox. I always wear my hat, you know.”

“That old hat,” she scoffed. “Anyway, the other bags are for me.”

“But, Phyl—”

She placed a three-inch rare steak on his plate and surrounded it with French-fried potatoes. “If you think you’re going off on a case, darling, and leave me behind to twiddle my thumbs, you’re mistaken. It’s all arranged… I’ve reserved a suite at the Tropical Hotel by telephone.”

Shayne said, “You do think of everything, angel. If you think it’ll be more entertaining to twiddle your thumbs in a Cocopalm hotel suite than here in our apartment, it’s okay by me.”

She prepared her own plate and sat down. Shayne emptied the cognac glass, then cut into the steak with the relish and gusto of a starving man.

Chapter Two:
KNOCK ONCE, THEN TWICE

PHYLLIS WATCHED ANXIOUSLY through the dinette window as heavy clouds obscured the sky and brought dark on early. They ate hurriedly and Phyllis was standing in the doorway with her hat on and ready to go when Michael pushed his chair back and rose from the table.

Rain came down in violent wind-driven torrents as they made a dash for the parked roadster, a blinding semi-tropical deluge accompanied by sheet lightning and rolling thunder. Shayne yanked the luggage compartment open and jammed the bags in while Phyllis hugged a brilliant transparent raincape protectively around her sports frock and white fur chubby.

“Get in and start the motor,” Shayne muttered. “I’ve got to make a stop before I leave town.”

“But, Michael—”

“Hurry up, angel. It’s important.” He slammed the door of the compartment and was seated in the car before she could arrange the dripping cape around her.

“We haven’t time to stop anywhere, Michael,” she said. “We’ll be lucky to get to Cocopalm by seven, and I promised Mr. Hardeman.”

Shayne stepped on the starter with his number twelve and pulled out cautiously. He snapped on the windshield wiper and it swung rhythmically back and forth to no avail. The deluge kept the glass opaque and visibility was further obstructed by the reflection of street lights.

“I’ve got to see your pal Mayme Martin,” Shayne told her.

“Why, she’s the girl—Watch out, Mike, there’s a car!”

“Damn,” he said, and swerved to the right. “Never mind. She’s probably still too drunk to talk sense.”

“You wouldn’t have time anyway,” Phyllis pointed out in a prim, businesslike voice. “Mr. Hardeman said it was terribly important for you to be there at seven.”

“If this keeps up we’ll be lucky to get there by morning,” Shayne answered sharply. “Okay, angel, first stop is Cocopalm.”

“It won’t keep up,” she consoled him. “You know how it rains here. Flooding everything, and then all of a sudden dust is flying in your face.”

Shayne grunted and crept along First Avenue to Flagler, where he turned right and continued on the boulevard. The rain slackened a little, and by the time he reached Grand Concourse there was only a light drizzle. A road sign ahead said:
Speed Limit 35 miles per hr,
and Shayne stepped up to fifty. A few miles farther on the headlights shone upon a dark straight line separating wet pavement from dry. The road sign read:
50 miles per hr.
Shayne pressed on the accelerator and the indicator shot to sixty-five.

Phyllis was strained forward peering through the windshield. She sat back with a sigh and looked at her wrist watch. “It’s six-thirty,” she said, “and it’s twenty-five miles to Cocopalm.”

Shayne grinned. “We’ll make it with a minute or two to spare.”

The broad highway approached the outskirts of Cocopalm along the Atlantic shore, and at the southern edge of town veered off from the north-south highway to strike directly through the business district. To the left of the wide street as they entered the city limits a high board fence enclosed the brilliantly lighted greyhound track. The sport attracted clients from the entire coastal region lying between Palm Beach and Miami.

A band was swinging a march as Shayne drove past. The grandstands were filled with sporting enthusiasts, though the first race of the evening was not scheduled to start for half an hour.

“I’ll bet they’re parading the dogs,” Phyllis cried excitedly, her dark eyes glowing.

Shayne’s face was grim. He slowed to forty. “Counterfeit racing-tickets could be a serious problem here,” he muttered as he left the track’s bright lights behind. “It would be a simple matter to print duplicates for each race and have stooges supplied with them in advance to cash after the race is won. I wonder why someone hasn’t thought of it before.”

“How would they know which dog was going to win?” Phyllis asked. “Doesn’t each ticket have the number of a certain dog printed right on it?”

“Sure. But they could print a whole series of tickets for every race. If each stooge is supplied with all the numbers, all he has to do is wait until the winning number goes up on the board and then discard all his losing tickets and cash the right ones.”

“Oh.” Phyllis nodded. “No wonder Mr. Hardeman sounded so upset about it. I gathered that it has been going on for some time and they’ve kept it quiet, hoping the practice wouldn’t spread to other tracks. But it has finally got so bad they have to take steps or close the track.”

Shayne responded with a glum nod. He was thinking back to Mayme Martin’s words. “It wouldn’t be difficult to clean up two or three thousand a night if it was worked right,” he said, and slowed to thirty as they approached the downtown section of Cocopalm. He stopped for a traffic light, then drove three blocks and pulled up between two rows of gleaming royal palms at the door of the Tropical Hotel.

The place looked like money. A uniformed doorman stared down his nose at the shabby roadster. Shayne snapped, “Get the luggage out of the compartment.” He helped Phyllis to shed her wet raincoat, took her hand as she stepped from the car, and grunted sourly, “This is one of those tourist traps where they charge you for drawing your breath. I hope to God my fee at least covers the bill.”

Phyllis said, “Pooph,” lightly. “You always manage to get along, Detective Shayne, and I adore the service and the luxury of these hotels.”

They went into the lobby with Phyllis clinging happily to his arm. At the desk, the clerk admitted that there was a suite reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Michael Shayne.

“Mr. Hardeman is expecting you, sir,” he told Shayne. “His number is three-twelve, just down the hall from your suite.”

A rack of newspapers caught Shayne’s eye as he turned away from the desk after registering. They were afternoon editions of the Cocopalm
Voice,
and a black headline announced:
Miami Detective Called In.

Shayne paid a nickel for a paper and read it as they went up in the elevator. He swore at a blurred picture of himself, read a sketchy review of the important cases he had broken in past years, and the
Voice
did not hesitate to predict that the gang of counterfeiters would soon be brought to justice.

Pressing against him, Phyllis read the front page and chuckled with pride and delight. Shayne winced inwardly. When they stepped from the elevator a bellboy darted from a service elevator and preceded them to the door, unlocked it to reveal a magnificent living-room with doors leading into a bedroom. After opening the windows, the boy stood politely waiting further orders. Shayne tossed him a fifty-cent piece and he went out.

Shayne threw the newspaper down angrily and muttered, “I don’t know why they didn’t have the brass band out to meet us. This is a hell of a way to call a private dick in on a job.” He strode to the doorway of a large bedroom overlooking the ocean.

Phyllis was unpacking and exclaiming delightedly over the luxurious appointments of the room.

“To hell with all this, angel.” Shayne was feeling suddenly uncertain; he’d never gone on a case in this holiday mood before. Finally he strode to the night table and picked up the telephone. “Connect me with room three-twelve.”

The phone rang several times at the other end before there was an answer. The voice that came over the wire was thin and harassed. “Yes? Who is it?”

“Mike Shayne—from Miami. I think I have an appointment with you, Mr. Hardeman.”

“Can you come to my room right away?”

“Presently,” Shayne growled. He looked at his watch. It was one minute to seven.

“Knock once and then twice on my door when you come, Mr. Shayne, so I can be certain it is you.”

Shayne said, “Right,” and hung up. He stood staring down at the telephone while his thumb and forefinger massaged the lobe of his ear. A questioning look came into his eyes and one bushy brow twitched upward in a V.

Phyllis asked quickly, “Is everything all right? Isn’t Mr. Hardeman expecting you?”

Shayne turned his face away from her. The lines on his gaunt cheeks and forehead had deepened into trenches. He said, “Sure, angel. Everything’s all right.”

“If everything is all right, why are you pulling at your ear?” She went swiftly to him and put her arms around his neck. “You’ve been acting queer ever since you came home and I told you about this case, Michael. Are you angry because I took it without consulting you?”

He lifted her chin with a broad palm and kissed her lips. “I’ll be all right as soon as I find out what’s going on and what to expect.” He put her gently aside and went into the living-room. He paced the floor for a couple of minutes, then returned to the bedroom, unstrapped his Gladstone, pawed around under the clothes until his hand encountered cold steel. He lifted out a .45 automatic and stuffed it under his belt in a lightning gesture, buttoned his coat over it just as Phyllis looked up from unpacking a hatbox.

“Are you looking for your cognac bottle?” she asked.

Shayne said, “Yeh. My cognac bottle.” He probed for the bottle and found it, went into the bathroom with it dangling from his fingers.

He set the bottle down and swiftly checked his automatic. It was loaded and the safety catch was on. He thrust it back under his belt, poured a small drink in a water glass, and went back into the room sipping it.

Phyllis smiled at him and said, “You run along and solve the case while I amuse myself in this gorgeous place pretending I’m the mistress of a retired hog raiser from Iowa.”

Shayne set his empty glass down. “Okay. I’ll let you know how things work out, Mrs. Shayne.” He went out the door and closed it firmly behind him and sauntered down the hall to 312.

The door was closed but dim light showed through the transom. Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he stopped in front of the door. He slid his hand down to the butt of his weapon and pushed off the safety. He knocked once and then twice, standing crouched and tense.

The door opened instantly and silently.

Shayne’s lunge smashed the door back against the man who was opening it. His own body force carried him past the descending blackjack in the hand of the other man ambushed against the threshold.

Checking his rush, he whirled, pulling his gun free and dropping to his knees as the man beside the open door dropped his blackjack and cursed gutturally, dragging a pistol from a shoulder holster.

Shayne shot him through his thick neck as the gun came out, then drove another slug into his open-mouthed surprise as he toppled forward.

Pain stung Shayne’s belly muscles like a searing flame. He lurched sideways and snapped a bullet at the youth who had been flung back when the door crashed and now held a smoking revolver in his hand.

A nickeled .32 thudded to the rug and the pallid-faced lad went slowly to his knees, both hands hugging his stomach. A low whimper escaped his lips as he crouched there. His eyes glazed slowly and he went limp to the floor. His legs twitched and gray slobber drooled from between bloodless lips.

Shayne sat crosslegged on the rug and dropped his pistol in front of him. He put his hand to his side and it came away smeared with blood. Then he investigated more carefully and sighed with relief. It was only a flesh wound, nicking the muscles between rib-ends and hipbone.

He got to his feet wearily when people began to come into the room through the open door.

He grinned and waggled his finger at Phyllis when he saw her pushing in behind the others. Above the excited chattering and questioning and hysterical pandemonium he pantomimed to her that he could do with a drink, then moved back to sit upon the bed when she nodded and her pale, frightened face disappeared.