Tickets for Death Read online

  John Hardeman paused to mop his forehead. He shook his gray head sadly and winced at the thought of the outrageous state of affairs in which race-track patrons were getting more than an even break. Then he resumed:

  “There was only one possible answer. We were cashing more win tickets than we were selling. It was quickly established that this was a fact, but a careful examination of the cashed tickets failed to reveal the counterfeits. The forgeries are so cleverly done as actually to defy detection, even though we know a certain portion of them are counterfeits. You can see how impossible it would be for a paying teller to detect a counterfeit in the confusion of cashing tickets after each race. And there is no way to make a man identify himself as having actually purchased the ticket he presents for payment. If it isn’t stopped at once, Mr. Shayne, the track will have to close down.”

  “How much is the take amounting to?”

  Hardeman shuddered. “More than three thousand dollars last night. You can see how easily it runs into a stupendous amount when you consider that many of the tickets pay off as much as ten or fifteen to one. It wouldn’t take many persons mixing with the honest patrons to cash in several thousand dollars in forgeries.”

  “Who prints the tickets?”

  “They are printed right here in Cocopalm at a small shop just down the street. We called for bids at the beginning of the season and the Elite Printing Shop underbid Matrix, who has the only other printing establishment in town. The Elite, by the way, is owned by a reputable citizen, a brother of one of our largest stockholders—a circumstance which Matrix chose to believe had a bearing on the awarding of the contract, but such was not the case.”

  Shayne frowned and rubbed his angular chin. “Seems to me you might try making an identifying mark on each genuine ticket as it is sold. In that way you could catch the counterfeit as it is presented.”

  “We thought of that almost at once,” Hardeman answered. “The counterfeits came through just the same, marked exactly like the others. We inferred that the crooks were taking the simple precaution of buying a ticket on each race to guard against just such a ruse.”

  Shayne nodded glumly. “I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea.”

  Conversation languished for a few minutes while both men sat in deep thought, then Shayne said, “It seems to me you could change the design of the tickets from day to day—vary the wording or the type used. Change the shape or color of the tickets.”

  The suggestion appeared to bore Mr. Hardeman. He said wearily, “We did not call in an outside detective until we had tried all such obvious remedies and found them worthless, Mr. Shayne. The counterfeiter uses his brains. Though we varied the tickets from one night to the next the forgeries turned up just the same, always exact duplicates of the new set for that night.”

  Shayne stood up and took a few paces around the room, tugging at his earlobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a bottle and two glasses. “Have a drink,” he offered.

  Hardeman declined with thanks. Shayne poured a water glass half full. “I think better with a drink inside of me.” He sat down, nursing the glass in his big palm. “From what you say,” he resumed, “I judge this is an inside job. Someone who knows what the new design is going to be must tip off the counterfeiters.”

  “That deduction is obvious,” John Hardeman agreed dryly. “Though we have taken every precaution to keep each new batch a secret until we begin selling them at the track.”

  “There is evidently some precaution which you haven’t taken,” Shayne argued. “Who decides on the new design?”

  “I—and I alone. No one else knows what the tickets will look like until I go to the Elite Printing Shop just in time to have them set up and run off before the races. Mr. Payson, one of the largest stockholders and the brother of the printer, accompanies me to the shop and he or I manage to remain constantly on guard while the type is set up and the printing done. As the tickets are finished, Chief Boyle takes charge of them and sees to their delivery at the track just in time for distribution to the selling windows. I tell you, Shayne, it isn’t possible—yet forgeries are ready at the end of the first race.”

  “How many employees at the print shop see the tickets?”

  “Only two in addition to the proprietor. Both are men above reproach, and they have been kept under close surveillance from the time the tickets are printed until the races start.”

  “But someone tips off the counterfeiters in time for them to get their tickets printed,” Shayne argued.

  “That’s quite true.” Hardeman made a hopeless gesture. “It is your problem now, Mr. Shayne.”

  “How about my fee?”

  John Hardeman took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. “At a board meeting last night it was agreed that your fee should be in direct proportion to the time it takes you to produce results. In other words, the sooner the counterfeiters are stopped, the more money the track will save. We agreed to give you a week. Continuing as we are now, the track stands to lose at least twenty thousand dollars during that week. We will pay you whatever portion of that twenty thousand you save us.”

  Shayne read the document and put it in his inside coat pocket. “The agreement seems all right. And—I get nothing if I don’t get results within the week?”

  “That’s right. We plan to close down the track if you fail.”

  Shayne finished off his drink, grinned, and stretching his long legs out in front of him, sat contemplating the toes of his number twelves. “That puts the pressure on me to get started. I like that. Let me check, now. The newspaper office is the only other printing plant in town?”

  “That’s correct. The Voice office is right across the street, on the second floor. There are only three vacant lots between it and the Elite, a job printing plant. There are no intervening buildings.”

  Shayne looked up quickly as a harsh note crept into Hardeman’s voice. “Do you suspect Matrix?” he asked pointedly.

  “Please, Mr. Shayne, I suspect no one in particular. I simply state facts.” Hardeman spoke impatiently.

  Shayne nodded. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture clear in my mind.” He paused to light a cigarette, puffed smoke through his nostrils, and asked, “How well do you know Mayme Martin?”

  Hardeman’s thin smile showed mild surprise. “Not very well. She is a common figure around Cocopalm—turned up here soon after Matrix arrived. Until a few months ago she occupied an adjoining apartment to Matrix’s. It was common gossip that—ah—the connecting door was not always kept locked,” he ended delicately with a glance toward the bedroom door of Shayne’s suite.

  Shayne followed his glance and saw that the door had been opened a crack. He said, “You mean Miss Martin and Matrix were living together?”

  Hardeman lifted his shoulders and spread out his long fingers. “Matrix is a bachelor, or represents himself to be one. I believe he doesn’t deny that he and Miss Martin were acquainted before they came to Cocopalm.”

  “And now they’re busted up?” Shayne persisted.

  “I couldn’t vouch for that. She moved from the apartment a few months ago and hasn’t been seen much with him in public since. Why do you ask?” he ended curiously.

  “I had a talk with the woman in Miami this afternoon.” Shayne paused, rubbed his chin, then stood up. “I think my next move is a talk with Grant MacFarlane.”

  “I’d be careful in approaching him. He has a reputation for ruthlessness.”

  Shayne said, “So have I,” with a wolfish grin. “There’s one other thing,” he continued as Hardeman stood up. “You heard Matrix say tonight that he felt it was necessary to publish that item about me in order to force you to go through with the idea of calling me in. Yet you say the board of directors actually made that decision last night. If that’s true, Matrix must have known no forcing was needed.”

  “Certainly he knew it. He simply wanted to create a sensation, and when it backfired into an attempt on your life, he gave
the only excuse he could think of.”

  Shayne’s eyes glinted. “I see. That’s a point I’ll take up with Matrix direct. Now, I presume I’m keeping you from the track.”

  “Yes. I should have been in my office before this.”

  Shayne went to the door and opened it. “I’ll get right to work,” he promised. “I’ll let you know as soon as I begin to get results.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call on me for any information I can supply,” Hardeman requested as he turned and went down the hall.

  Shayne closed the door and turned to see Phyllis flying noiselessly across the deep carpet. “There, now,” she exclaimed ecstatically, “aren’t you glad I’m such an efficient secretary? Twenty thousand dollars!”

  “I haven’t earned it yet, angel.”

  “But you will. Oh—I almost forgot—how is your side?” She caught his arm and urged him toward the bedroom.

  “It’s not bad,” he declared. “A bullet picks on a tough customer when it whizzes in my direction.” He grinned reassuringly. “Of course, a little drink—”

  “I know. Your brain cells need stimulating, but you’re not going to have a drop until you change suits.” She got behind him and shoved him into the bedroom. “Blood is all caked on that one.”

  When he started undressing she went back to the living-room and picked up his glass, took it to the bathroom for a refill. She returned sober-faced and anxious. “Promise you’ll be more careful, Michael. Everything depends on where a bullet hits.”

  Shayne buckled the belt of a fresh pair of trousers and said casually, “There’s no danger now. This case looks too open and shut. I’m afraid of it—but I think the hoodlums will lay off of me from now on.”

  “You suspect Mr. Matrix, don’t you? Everybody else does.” Shayne put on his coat and she followed him into the living-room, where he sank into a chair and set his glass on a table near by.

  “I always begin a case by suspecting everybody,” he said.

  She snuggled down beside him in the big chair. “Don’t you think Mr. Hardeman suspects the editor?” she persisted.

  Shayne rumpled up his forehead and answered, “Hardeman hates Matrix,” absently. He took a long sip of cognac and started across the room.

  “What did you mean by asking about Mayme Martin?”

  “Just wanted to find out. Miss Martin offered to crack the case for a grand, and I put her off. I might have made twenty grand by betting one that she was telling the truth.”

  Phyllis caught her lower lip between perfect white teeth, her big dark eyes round and thoughtful. Thinking made her look extremely young—younger than her twenty years. She said, “The chances are Mayme Martin knows a lot if she has been Mr. Matrix’s mistress. If I were anyone’s mistress, I’d not hesitate to listen in at a keyhole.”

  Shayne chuckled. His steel-gray eyes softened upon his young wife. “Mayme may be on the level,” he said, then resumed his vacant stare across the room. He cracked his knuckles audibly.

  “Every day that passes while you’re solving the case costs you three thousand dollars,” Phyllis reminded him sweetly.

  “All women are mercenary,” Shayne grinned. He sobered immediately and added, “A thousand bucks paid to Mayme Martin would net me two if her information would save me a day.” He eased her head from his shoulder and stood up. “Let’s go for a ride, angel.”

  “To Miami—to see Miss Martin?”

  Shayne nodded. “We can make it there and back in an hour. We won’t be missed from Cocopalm. No one needs to know we’ve gone.”

  He waited impatiently while she got a fur chubby from the closet and slipped into it. He jammed a hat down on his head and they went through the hall together.

  Chief Boyle stepped from the open door of Hardeman’s room to intercept them.

  Shayne’s fingers tightened on his wife’s arm. He stopped in front of the chief and asked curtly, “What’s on your mind now?”

  Boyle stood his ground, glowering, a pugnacious jaw outthrust. “Where are you going?”

  Shayne said, “Out.”

  “I can’t have a man just walk in here and shoot up the town, kill two men, without holding him responsible,” the chief protested. He frowned weightily.

  Shayne smiled. “Are you going to arrest me for being an old meanie and not standing around with my hands in my pockets while your brother-in-law’s thugs blast my guts out?”

  “I’m not saying the shooting wasn’t justified,” the chief admitted gravely. “But that’s something a coroner’s jury will have to decide. I’ll have to ask you not to leave town until after the inquest tomorrow.”

  Shayne said, “All right, you’ve asked me.” He steered Phyllis forward. The chief backed away a step but did not move aside.

  “Not so fast there. You haven’t said you’d stay.”

  Shayne’s lips curled away from his teeth. He put Phyllis gently aside, but she clung to his arm, her face white with strain.

  “Don’t dive in over your depth,” Shayne warned Boyle. “I’ll smash any man who stands in my way tonight.” His big hands balled into fists. He shifted his weight to a fighter’s stance.

  Phyllis breathed, “Please, Michael,” and tugged at his hard arm. She appealed to the chief, “Don’t be absurd. My husband isn’t going to run away from any inquest. He has a job to do, and—”

  “Don’t make it easy on him,” Shayne said angrily. “I’m not asking his permission to do anything.”

  “Well, now,” Boyle said placatingly, “if the lady gives me her word I guess that’s good enough. You folks go ahead, but I can’t guarantee to give you protection if you don’t tell me what you’re going to do.”

  Shayne snorted and strode past him with his wife clinging to his arm. She smiled up into his sultry eyes as he stalked to the elevator.

  “Why do you insist on being so tactless, Michael?” she asked with a catch in her voice. “You could avoid all sorts of complications if you would just leave a man like that a little corner to back into. He’s sort of pathetic,” she ended thoughtfully.

  Shayne laughed suddenly and in a wondering tone said, “You’re marvelous, Phyl. I’ll never understand how I got along all these years without you.” He squeezed her arm with rough tenderness, then lifted her into the elevator as it stopped in front of them.

  Chapter Five: THE SMELL OF BLOOD

  THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND DUSKILY BLUE from the pale light of a quarter moon when they got into the roadster. There was little traffic going south, and in spite of the parade of racing cars traveling north toward the race track, Shayne reached the outskirts of Miami in thirty minutes. He glanced at his watch as he slowed for the traffic signal at 79th Street, then swerved to the right off the boulevard.

  He said, “I’ve got to find some place where I can get a check cashed, angel,” in response to a silent inquiry in her dark eyes. “The Lucky-Seven Club will just about be opening for business and that’s my best bet to pick up a thousand dollars at this hour.”

  They bumped across the F.E.C. tracks at Little River, turned left on Northeast Second Avenue. A dozen blocks farther south he turned into a graveled circle drive leading through tropical shrubbery to the front of a solid stucco structure set unobtrusively back from the street. The neon light was not on over the entrance, but curtained windows glowed with lights from within.

  Shayne stopped in front of the door and got out. “I’ll only be a minute,” he promised, striding around the car and up flagstone steps.

  He put his finger on the electric button and held it down. After a few seconds a bulb glowed above his head and a panel in the door slid back. A pair of black eyes set in white orbs rolled at him through the slit, then the latch clicked and the door came open.

  Shayne said, “Hello, Foots,” to a fat Negro and received a nod and a white-toothed grin.

  “You-all’s moughty early tonight, Mistah Shayne. Ain’t hahdly got the tables unkivered.”

  “Is Chips in his office?”

&nbs
p; “Yassuh, he sho is. Mistah O’Neil am busy right now layin’ out de money fo’ tonight’s play.”

  Shayne went down a carpeted hall past an archway opening into a huge square room where men were taking covers from roulette tables, crap layouts, and curved blackjack set-ups. He went through an open door and at the end of the hall said, “Hi, Chips,” to a tall black-haired man who squatted on the floor in front of a large safe.

  Chips O’Neil turned his head and said, “Hello there, shamus.” He stood up with neat bundles of bills in his hands, arching iron-gray eyebrows ironically. He complained, “Don’t tell me I’ve got to start paying off the private dicks along with the regulars.”

  Shayne grinned. “This isn’t a jerkdown—unless my check bounces.” He took a checkbook from his pocket and sat down at a desk. “Can you let me have a grand?”

  “Sure. How do you want it?”

  “Make it twenties.” He made out a check to Cash and signed it.

  “A ransom payoff?” O’Neil asked curiously as he counted out a stack of twenties.

  Shayne smoothed the bills and folded them into a wallet. “Nothing like that. Just a little matter of business. Thanks, Chips.”

  Chips O’Neil said, “That’s okay, shamus,” and Shayne went out to his car. He nodded to Phyllis as he stepped on the starter. “I got the money. When I spread this stuff out in front of Mayme Martin she’ll tell me everything she knows.”

  He drove on down Second Avenue and parked opposite the Red Rose Apartments. When Phyllis started to unlatch the door on her side, he said, “Better stay in the car, angel.”

  “But I want to come in,” she protested. “Why are you always trying to make me stay back or get out of the room when something interesting is about to happen?”