Tickets for Death Read online

  “No,” Midge protested. “I’m—all right. Really I am.” She drew her arm away from Phyllis, stared up at Shayne with taut defiance. “I should think you’d be ashamed to come here after what you did tonight. You—oh, you brute.” Tears gushed from her eyes and streamed down her pale cheeks. She slumped back, her mouth working convulsively, her hands balled into fists. Slowly she relaxed, gaining control of her tears.

  Shayne watched her narrowly, his fingers touching the scratches her nails had left on his cheek. He stood in the center of the small room, and after a time he said harshly, “I suppose you had reference to what happened to your brother?”

  “Yes—I—Oh, God! how can you stand there and gloat like that? Bud wasn’t bad—not really. I could have—I was trying so hard to make something of him.”

  Shayne’s brows came together in an angry scowl.

  Phyllis shook her head at him in an effort to stop his pitiless attitude toward the girl, but he disregarded her.

  “How were you trying to help him?” he ground out. “By getting into the same mess yourself? By hanging out at the Rendezvous and tarring yourself with the same stick?”

  Midge didn’t reply. Her head lolled back and tears again rolled unheeded from wide-open eyes.

  “Your brother,” Shayne went on mercilessly, “deserved what he got tonight. I killed him—while he was trying to kill me. If that makes me a brute, all right.” He dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette.

  Phyllis was beginning to understand dimly. She took a handkerchief from her purse and bent over Midge, wiping her cheeks and murmuring, “Please don’t. You’ve got to get hold of yourself. Mike is right. Your brother’s death was of his own making. I know just the way it happened.”

  Midge took the handkerchief from Phyllis and dabbed at her eyes. She swallowed back some more tears and choked out, “I—I know. Bud wouldn’t listen to me. He was so headstrong. I was all he had and I—I failed somehow. I didn’t know about tonight until—until after—” She nodded toward Shayne and sucked in her lower lip, swallowing hard again.

  “Until after you put on your act at the Rendezvous,” he supplied. “Who arranged that? Was Gil Matrix in on it?”

  “No—oh, no. Of course he wasn’t.” Midge pushed herself up straight. “You’ve got to believe me,” she implored. “Gil and I had an argument this evening—about Bud. He told me Bud wasn’t worth trying to save. But I knew that Bud—for all his wildness—clung to me—loved me. Everything else had failed, so I decided to go out to the Rendezvous and—shame him into quitting that rough crowd. I meant to pretend I would hang around there—and make him quit to get me to quit.

  “I had every intention of doing something sordid to show Bud how it felt to see his own sister do the things he thought were smart.” She paused, her eyes going from Phyllis to Shayne, pleading with them to believe her.

  Shayne’s gray eyes were noncommittal through a cloud of smoke. He said, “Well?”

  “Well, Mr. MacFarlane called me into his office and told me that Bud had done something terrible. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, except that he was in danger and a detective from Miami was after him. He suggested how I could—trap you—to make you leave Bud alone. He said he thought Bud would be willing to quit and go straight if he got out of this scrape. I believed him—and that’s why I did it.”

  When she finished speaking her chin was tilted at a proud angle. Her shoulders were straight, her whole manner one of defiance, but her hands were clenched so tightly in her lap that the knuckles showed white against the suntanned skin.

  Shayne nodded. “All right. I’m willing to believe what you say until I can prove something different. But I want to know this: Did Ben Edwards see you when Gil sent him out there just before you stopped me on the road?”

  “Why, no. I saw Ben pass—going both ways. I knew Gil was worried about me and wanted me to leave the Rendezvous.”

  Shayne said, “At last I’m beginning to find out one or two things.” He paused, then the question jumped at her:

  “What did Gil tell you a few minutes ago—when he stopped here?”

  She recovered swiftly from her surprise. “Nothing, except to talk to me about Bud and tell me about Ben Edwards.”

  Shayne got up abruptly. He rubbed his chin, darted a guilty glance at Phyllis, and asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Straight back,” Midge told him. “At the end of the hall.”

  Shayne strode away. When he returned, Phyllis had both Midge’s hands in hers and was talking to her in a low, sympathetic voice.

  Catching his wife’s eye, Shayne suggested, “Suppose you stay here with Miss Taylor for a while. I’m going to be dashing around.”

  Phyllis nodded happily. “Of course—” she began, but Midge interrupted swiftly:

  “No, you mustn’t do that. I couldn’t let you.”

  “But I’d love to,” Phyllis declared. “I’m sure it would be better than being alone at a time like this.”

  “No,” said Midge flatly. “I want to be alone. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help thinking that—that you’re his wife.”

  Phyllis said, “Oh,” disappointedly. She glanced at Shayne for guidance, but he had turned his back and walked to the door. “Well,” said Phyllis uncertainly, “well, then, I—I guess I won’t stay.”

  Midge didn’t say anything. She averted her face from Phyllis’s reproachful eyes.

  Phyllis caught up with her husband as he started down the steps. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I thought she had forgiven you. She seemed so friendly while we were alone in the room together. She changed all of a sudden when you came back from the bathroom and suggested that I stay with her.”

  Shayne patted her hand, which rested in the crook of his arm. His low chuckle held no mirth. When they reached the roadster he opened the door, helped her in, saying, “I’ll write you a letter of explanation the first spare minute I have.”

  He stalked around the car and got in. When they pulled away from the little beach cottage he muttered, “You’re entirely too trusting, angel. Too willing to believe what you want to believe. But don’t change—keep it up. It’s very becoming to your face.”

  “But, Michael, she did like me. I’m not guessing about that,” Phyllis flared.

  “Maybe she did. Under happier circumstances you two might be friends. But she was anxious to get rid of us just the same. I looked in the bedroom on my way to the end of the hall. She was just starting to pack her clothes. It looks as though Gil stopped by to tell her to get ready to skip out with him.”

  Phyllis’s dark eyes glowed with curiosity and regret. “Then you think Gil committed the murders—and is trying to get away.”

  “He won’t get away if I can prevent it,” Shayne said in a noncommittal tone. He pressed the roadster forward to greater speed, groped for one of Phyllis’s hands and squeezed it. “Life plays dirty tricks on people sometimes. If I were God I’d arrange things differently, but I’m not God. I’m just a private dick with a job to do.”

  She sighed and moved close to his big shoulder. “Just the same, I feel terribly sorry for both of them. I don’t believe either of them has ever known peace or happiness.”

  Chapter Fourteen: TWO FROM THREE LEAVES ONE

  SHAYNE MADE A WIDE SWING at the next intersection, and instead of following the direction Matrix had taken he drove back down the beach to the street on which the Edwards house was located.

  As he approached from the east he saw that only one automobile now stood in front of the lighted house. It was a bright blue sedan. Two men lolled back against the cushion of the front seat.

  Shayne drove past without slacking speed, swerved into the curb in the middle of the next block, and got out. Phyllis moved her lips to question him as he said:

  “Take the car on back to the hotel. Park it in front and leave the key with the clerk.” His voice was harsh, and Phyllis saw that all at once his lips were tight.

  She slid obediently
under the wheel. “Well, you needn’t snap my head off,” she told him, half seriously. “Why are you getting out here?”

  “Sorry, angel.” He patted her hand, then jerked his thumb toward the blue sedan. “I’m going back to see Mrs. Edwards. If you see Will Gentry or Chief Boyle around the hotel you might ask one of them to drive by and pick me up presently.”

  “But I could wait for you, Michael. Honestly, I don’t mind waiting at all.”

  He waggled a long forefinger at her. “Remember, you agreed to take orders when I’m working. Get going.”

  Disappointment came into her face, but she drove slowly away. He waited to be sure she didn’t turn back, then thrust his hands deep in his pockets and strolled back to the palm-shaded sidewalk, whistling. Curiously enough, the tune was his own off-key version of “The Campbells Are Coming.”

  He saw the flare of a match from the front seat of the sedan as he approached. He groped in his pocket for a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, then stepped to the curb side of the sedan and asked, “Got a match?”

  Melvin’s young round face twitched. He half turned to Hymie, who sat under the wheel, and his hand dived toward Hymie’s left armpit.

  Hymie knocked his hand away. “You wanta give him my rod too?” he growled.

  Shayne laughed softly. “Why don’t you tell him a fairy story to keep him quiet?”

  Melvin began to curse the detective in a high-pitched voice while tears of anger and mortification came into his eyes.

  “Lay off him,” Hymie demanded. “Sweet mother, what’s it get you to keep him riled up? We’re not bothering you.”

  Shayne said, “I get a kick out of making him cry.” He swung around and opened the gate leading onto the yard walk.

  Mrs. Ben Edwards answered the door. Her eyes were red but she was not weeping. Her plump face was stiffly set in tragic lines of acceptance and Shayne divined that she was through with waiting; glad, perhaps, that the time of waiting was ended.

  She nodded and said, “Come in, Mr. Shayne,” exactly as though he had kept an appointment.

  He went into the living-room and said, “Hello,” to Mr. Max Samuelson, whose bald head glowed as smooth as a buttered billiard ball. He was seated in the chair which Tommy had occupied earlier in the evening.

  The lawyer nodded without speaking. He was a greasily fat little man with a dimpled jaw nestling among many chins. His cheeks had the appearance of never needing a shave and his jowls were as soft and pink as a baby’s behind. Ridiculously tiny feet barely reached the floor, though he sat near the edge of the chair, and rings were embedded in the soft flesh of his fingers, which were playing with a heavy gold watch chain suspended across his front. His belly shivered gently, like a protuberant bowl of jelly, each time he breathed. He breathed heavily now, glowering up at Shayne.

  Shayne waited until Mrs. Edwards re-entered the room and took her seat on the couch. He said, “I’m sorry about your husband, but I know your friends have said that better than I.” He hesitated, glancing at Samuelson, whose eyes steadily watched him with reptilian intentness beneath ugly mottled lids.

  “I really stopped by because I saw Max’s car outside. I want to spike whatever plans he has for your husband’s invention.”

  “There is no reason for such an attitude, Shayne. If we could speak privately—” Max’s breath hissed out and he spoke with a perceptible thickening of his s’s.

  “We’ll do our talking here in front of Mrs. Edwards. What sort of an offer has he made?” Shayne put the question to the widow point blank.

  She stirred wearily. “He offered me a hundred dollars to sign a release on all rights to the camera—to turn the model and plans over to him.” She spoke softly, her eyes turning anxiously toward a rear door in the living-room.

  “Nice going, Maxie,” Shayne jeered. “If she refuses your generous offer I suppose you’re prepared to give your mugs the go-ahead to steal the plans and model.”

  “That is no nice thing to say,” Samuelson protested. “I take a chance when I offer a dollar of good money. The camera may be no good. There may be other patents. No one can say until the proper investigation is made.” He spread out his fat hands and diamonds flashed in the lamplight.

  “Please—don’t talk loud enough to wake up the boy,” Mrs. Edwards pleaded. “He has cried himself to sleep.”

  “Your pardon,” Shayne murmured. He kept his voice low and scathing when he turned to Samuelson again. “Why did you hurry up here with a couple of bodyguards after hearing what Mayme Martin had to say about the invention?”

  A wary look crept into Max Samuelson’s hard black eyes. He put up both hands in protest. “I think that is a matter we should not discuss in front of Mrs. Edwards.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want her to hear what Mayme told you?”

  The lawyer’s multiple chins shook with agitation. He sat forward and the tips of his polished little shoes touched the rug. “Do you want me to say out loud what I found at the Red Rose Apartment when I arrived after you left?”

  “Sure. Go ahead and say it.”

  “The lady was dead.” Mr. Samuelson shuddered. “A shocking sight. Blood spilled on the bathroom floor.”

  Mrs. Edwards uttered a low moan. She slumped sideways limply.

  Shayne jumped to his feet and supported her. He said, “That’s a lousy choice of words before a lady who’s just been told her husband has been killed,” in a low, angry voice.

  “It was the truth,” the lawyer insisted stubbornly. “I have told no one yet. And I expect you to tell no one she railed me and requested that I come to her apartment just before she died.”

  Shayne was anxiously fanning the limp woman with his hat. Her face was stricken and flaccid, wrinkled lids were lowered protectingly over her eyes. Her lips began to move and Shayne put his ear close to hear her almost inaudible words. They were a faint sigh, scarcely formed, like words welling up from the subconscious with such agony that the lips were forced to form them.

  “Mayme—and Ben—Gil. Gil—is he—next? Oh, God-did Gil—?”

  “What is she saying?” Max Samuelson had crossed the worn carpet silently and was bending over the couch anxiously, straining to hear the woman’s words.

  Shayne growled, “Nothing you’d be interested in. Nothing about the invention.” He shouldered the lawyer aside.

  Mrs. Edwards’s eyelids flickered and faint signs of color began to creep into her cheeks. Shayne straightened up from her and stepped in front of Samuelson, backing him away inexorably.

  “You’re through here, Maxie. As far as Edwards’s invention is concerned, you’re through altogether.” He backed the fat little lawyer toward the doorway, continuing in the same cold, hard tone:

  “That doesn’t mean I’m believing your story about Mayme Martin. You wouldn’t have wasted much time getting to her after she phoned. I’m not sure she was dead when you got there. The bathroom looked a lot like Hymie’s idea of a good way to get rid of her.”

  “No,” Samuelson breathed. His face was the color of putty. “I swear to you—”

  “Don’t waste your breath. There’s also the little matter of Ben Edwards’s murder. A widow is easier to deal with, Max. What the hell were you doing out there on the road in your car when he was killed? You had gone to the track half an hour previously. Where were you in the meantime? A phone call took Ben to his appointment with death. Who made that call?”

  “How do I know? How should I guess?” Samuelson backed through the door onto the porch before Shayne’s steady forward movement.

  “You had better think up a good alibi for the time between seeing Hardeman and when I saw your car parked near Edwards’s body—headed toward town. Don’t tell me you were playing the races, because you never gambled a penny in your life.”

  “Hey,” Hymie’s guarded voice called from the sedan. “Anything wrong, boss? You want Melvin and me to take that guy?”

  “Sure,” Shayne called back. He gave Samuelson a shove tha
t sent him teetering to the edge of the porch. “Come on, Hymie.”

  Mrs. Edwards stood behind them, swaying in the doorway, her arms forming a cross outstretched to support her. “Please—gentlemen. Please don’t wake Tommy.”

  There was movement in the front seat of the sedan. Samuelson called out through chattering teeth, “No, Hymie. Stay where you are.” He braced his short legs against a porch upright and summoned a semblance of dignity.

  Shayne whirled around and assisted Mrs. Edwards back to the couch, assuring her that there would be no more loud talk, then hurried back to the porch. Moving close to Samuelson, he signaled for him to continue.

  “I started back to town as soon as I saw Hardeman,” Samuelson said in a low voice. “There was no time between, when I could have been foolishly killing a man. I waited in Hardeman’s office for him to come.”

  “With no witnesses?” Shayne said. “That’s a hell of an alibi. It won’t sound so good in court.” With a gesture of disgust he turned from Samuelson, muttering, “I’ll see you later.”

  He hesitated at the door until Samuelson’s quick, short footsteps died away. He heard the motor start and a car door slam, then he went quietly into the living-room.

  Mrs. Edwards was sitting at the end of the couch. She watched his approach with wide eyes that were gray pools of misery, of disbelief and dismay conflicting with terrible certitude.

  Shayne stopped in front of her, moodily rubbing his jaw. “Maxie is gone,” he told her abruptly. “I don’t think he will worry you any more. Later I’ll put you in touch with a man who will honestly appraise your husband’s invention.”

  She wet her dry lips and said, “Thanks.” Her hands mechanically strayed out for the sewing-basket beside her.

  Shayne thrust his own hands deep into his pockets, stalked to the chair near the couch, and slouched down into it. “Isn’t it time you told me some things, Mrs. Edwards? Your husband is dead now. The truth can no longer hurt him. And Mayme Martin is past caring. There’s only Gil left.”