Tickets for Death ms-4

by Brett Halliday

  “Just for you to get out of Cocopalm, mister. Get out and stay out, see? We’ve been doing all right here without any nosy dicks from the big city butting in.”

  “And if I don’t get out?”

  “That’s okay too. You seem to go in for publicity. We’ll see how you like this picture on the front page. It’ll show you up some different from the one in today’s Voice.”

  Midge jerked herself to a strained and stiff position. “Oh-no!” she cried. “You couldn’t. They promised me-you know Gil wouldn’t print that picture.”

  “Gil’s hell bent on printing the news,” the man guffawed. “You know that as well as I do. Why shouldn’t he print it?”

  “Oh, God,” moaned the girl. She fell back against the couch, covering her face again, her shoulders quivering.

  Shayne laughed unpleasantly and asked, “Why the hell did you think you were pulling this stunt, sister? The only value of a picture like that is the threat of publicity.”

  “But they told me-they said you-that you wouldn’t-”

  “That,” said Shayne harshly, “is where ‘they’ miscalculated. I’m not afraid of publicity. But when your dad, the deacon, sees it-”

  The gunman snickered and slapped his thigh. “Your dad, the deacon, huh? By God, if you ain’t a card, Midge.”

  She jumped to her feet and went blindly toward the door. Neither of the men made any move to stop her. When she had gone out, Shayne said, “So, MacFarlane is worried about what I’ll pick up on the counterfeiting? Tell him for me that he’d better keep right on worrying. The only way I’ll leave Cocopalm is flat on my back.”

  The gunman’s eyes glistened. “Maybe that’s an idea.”

  Shayne nodded. “Maybe so. But he’d better hire a couple of faster rod flashers than those two he planted in the hotel for me tonight.”

  “That’s a funny thing.” The man screwed his forehead up in a perplexed frown. “I dunno why Leroy and Taylor went gunning for you. I know for a fact Mac didn’t give a damn what you did until you got so set on snooping around out here.”

  “Why?” Shayne shot at him. “Are the counterfeits being printed here at the club?”

  “I don’t know nothing about it,” the man grunted. Shayne glanced at his beer mug and saw a small amount of liquid in the bottom. He emptied it with relish, grinning as he set it down empty. He then took up the check for $23.50 and smoothed it out in his big hands. “I’ve still got to see MacFarlane to tell him where to stick this bill. Where will I find him?”

  “I wouldn’t go looking for Mac if I was you. Listen, why don’t you wise up? If you think that picture’s a bluff, you’re crazy. Want your wife to see it?”

  Shayne’s laugh was genuine. “So, that’s the angle, eh? Too bad you wasted the plate.”

  “You’re talking through your hat, buddy. You know damn well you can’t laugh that picture off.” The man moved uneasily, his ugly little eyes filled with alarm.

  “Don’t call me buddy,” Shayne snapped. “Print your picture and be damned.” He stood up. “I’m going to take a look over this joint before I leave.”

  “You better not,” the man said desperately. “I’m telling you.” He slid his hand into the coat pocket sagging with the weight of his gun.

  Shayne laughed. “MacFarlane wouldn’t want any shooting in here.” He strode toward the door leading into the hall.

  The door opened as he reached for the knob.

  A tall, ascetic man wearing immaculate dinner clothes confronted him. He had a long face and tired gray eyes which glanced past Shayne at the gunman. He said, “Put that gun back in your pocket, Conway, and get out.”

  “Sure, boss. Sure. But this mug, he won’t listen to sense. I was just telling him-”

  “I’ll do the telling,” Grant MacFarlane said. He waited until Conway went past him and out the door, then entered the room and sank down in the club chair.

  Shayne moved back to the couch and sat down on one arm of it, swinging one bony knee over the other. He said, “Don’t put too much faith in that picture Jake just snapped, MacFarlane. My reputation will take a lot of beatings without being injured.”

  “It was an idea,” MacFarlane said pleasantly. He opened a leather cigar case and offered one to the detective. He frowned when Shayne shook his head, and selected one for himself. “I don’t like the way things are going, Shayne. One of us is going to get hurt if we bump into each other often.”

  “That’s right.” Shayne lit a cigarette and waited for Cocopalm’s purveyor of vice to continue.

  “Why did you insist on coming out here tonight?” MacFarlane made a weary gesture with long, slender fingers. “The Rendezvous can’t afford any trouble with the law.”

  “You forced the issue,” Shayne pointed out. “Having your boys jump me in the hotel was an invitation for me to stick my nose in.”

  Grant MacFarlane nodded. “That was unfortunate.” He paused, studying the glowing tip of his cigar. “I presume you wouldn’t believe me if I told you they were not acting on my orders.”

  “Why should I?”

  MacFarlane sighed audibly, then nodded. “I see your point. But isn’t it conceivable to you that someone else arranged that little scene for the sole purpose of pointing at me if they failed to put you out of the way?”

  Shayne studied him with cold eyes. The man’s skin was grayish white, his face was long and finely chiseled. His coat sunk in over a concave belly, and his trouser legs bagged over long, skinny legs. He said, “Keep on talking, MacFarlane.”

  “You can understand how handy Taylor and Leroy’s known association with me would be.”

  Shayne dragged on his cigarette and let smoke curl from his wide nostrils. “I see the point you are trying to make,” he agreed placidly. “But you’re going to have a hard time convincing me you didn’t send the girl out on the road to bait me into this trap.”

  “That was after you had already determined to make trouble for me. On the other hand, there’s another answer to that. Midge Taylor is Gil Matrix’s sweetheart.”

  “Midge-Taylor?” A muscle in Shayne’s cheek quivered.

  “That’s right. She’s Bud Taylor’s sister. Knowing you had killed her brother, it wouldn’t take much to persuade Midge to harm you in any way she could.”

  Shayne studied those two fresh angles carefully. After a brief interval he asked, “Are you denying you planned this setup with Jake and Conway-and the girl?”

  “Would you believe me if I did deny it?”

  Shayne growled, “No.”

  “Then I shan’t bother.” MacFarlane spread out his long, classic fingers expressively. “I believe though that I have given you something else to think about-a few questions to ask yourself while you’re blundering around in the dark. Leave me alone, Shayne, and you’ll be left alone.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “I’ve always managed to take care of myself.” Grant MacFarlane hesitated, then asked plaintively, “Why can’t we get together? You’re no crusader for purity. I’ve got a good thing here and I admit you can make a fight expensive-without any gain to yourself.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve been hired to stop the counterfeiting at the dog track.”

  MacFarlane’s eyes glowed with a queer light. “Are you willing to settle on that basis?”

  “What basis? That the counterfeiting stop?”

  “Well, I believe I can promise-”

  Shayne said, “No,” emphatically. “I don’t close my cases that way. Stopping the cashing of counterfeit tickets won’t stop me, MacFarlane. It could start up again at another track just as easily. I’m not through in Cocopalm until I put my finger on the counterfeiter.”

  “And that,” MacFarlane murmured, “is what I’m offering to do for you.”

  Shayne narrowed his eyes and shook his head. He stood up and said, “It wouldn’t be any fun to play it your way even if you were on the level-which I don’t believe. I’ll take my game on the wing-after I’ve done my own flushing.
”

  “Have it your way,” MacFarlane answered lazily. He reached behind him and pressed a button on the wall.

  The door opened almost instantly. Conway and another man stood there.

  MacFarlane waved his hand toward Shayne and directed, “Show this man down the back stairs to his car. Follow along and see that he goes directly back to Cocopalm.”

  Shayne started for the door, hesitated, and turned back to the night club proprietor. He took the check for $23.50 from his pocket and handed it to MacFarlane. “I almost forgot. Take this and hang it in some convenient place.”

  He went out and the two men followed him down the stairs.

  Chapter Nine: MIKE FIGURES THE ANGLES

  Phyllis was sitting in a deep chair in the ladies’ lounge of the lobby, a self-conscious little nook set off from the main lobby by potted palms and ferns, decorated here and there with bright red poinsettia blossoms in tall, earth-filled urns. Her big dark eyes were anxious and a tiny frown showed between her brows.

  When Shayne walked in at the front door the frown evaporated as she went swiftly to meet him. She caught his arm, looked up into his face, and the frown appeared again.

  “Michael! What on earth is the matter with your face!”

  He patted her hand, propelling her firmly toward the empty and secluded lounge. “Not so loud, angel. You see, it was this way-I was driving along the highway, and there in front of me, clearly visible in the headlights, was a little kitten. It looked awfully thin and hungry and run down at the heels, so I stopped and took it in. Now, you know I’m always kind to animals, and I was kind to this one, but believe it or not, it scratched me.”

  Phyllis’s soft young mouth tightened. “Blonde or brunette?” she asked.

  “This was one of those little yellow kittens-a common variety,” he returned, still patting her hand.

  “After this, I’ll go with you,” she said.

  Shayne answered her with a soft chuckle but he did not commit himself.

  Phyllis stiffened and pulled her arm away from him as they reached the deserted lounge. “Will Gentry is here,” she said in an anxious undertone.

  “Now, Phyl, be reasonable,” he urged. “Where?” His eyes darted around the main lobby searching for the chief of the Miami detective bureau.

  “He’s upstairs-in our suite.” She sat down in one of the deep chairs and spread her hands in a prim, indignant gesture. “He and Chief Boyle are up there waiting for you. Mr. Gentry sounded quite grim when he telephoned and I said you were out but that I expected you back any minute. I slipped out and left the door open before he got there. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see him, so I came down to warn you.” She glanced up at his face again. “I go to all this trouble when you come back looking like-”

  “That was fast thinking, darling,” he interrupted. He grinned widely. “Must be something on the Martin killing.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” she answered faintly.

  Looking past her, past the screening palms and ferns and flowers, the redheaded detective stiffened. A deep line formed at the outer corner of each nostril, angled down to his wide mouth.

  Phyllis glanced up and saw his face. “What-” she began.

  “Oh. Yeh, I heard you, angel.” His tone was studiously casual. He turned slowly and looked down at her. “Why don’t you run out to the races and amuse yourself?”

  “And leave you here-in trouble? No.”

  “Trouble?” Shayne scoffed. “Not in Cocopalm. I’ve got the toughs eating out of my hand.”

  “But what about Mr. Gentry-and Chief Boyle?”

  “I’ll teach them to eat out of my hand too,” Shayne assured her lightly. He swung her up from the chair. “You run along to the track and pick some losers, angel. I’ll finish things up here and try to get out for the last race. Watch for me around the jinny pit.”

  She pouted and then raised gay, shining eyes to his. “I was just fooling about the kitty, Michael. I’ll go-if you’re sure there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Not a damned thing, angel.” He guided her to the door and called to the doorman, “Get the lady a cab to the dog track.”

  He kissed her lips, then stood in the doorway to watch her disappear into a cab. When it wheeled away, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped beads of sweat from his face. The lines deepened on his gaunt jaw and his eyes were bleak when he turned back into the lobby. He walked to the desk and beckoned the clerk with a jerk of his head. “Have you a Mr. Samuelson registered from Miami?”

  “Mr. M. Samuelson and party. Yes, sir. They arrived less than half an hour ago.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks,” and turned away. A reckless light glinted in his gray eyes. He strode toward two men sitting close together on a padded bench where they could watch people get on and off the elevators.

  He stopped directly in front of them on widespread feet. One of them pretended to be reading a newspaper while the other was busy cleaning his finger nails with a steel file.

  Shayne addressed the newspaper reader coldly. “You boys are off your beat tonight.”

  The man lifted glacially blue eyes at Shayne over the rim of his paper. He was about thirty with an athletic, well-knit body. He wore a sober brown suit with somber shirt and four-in-hand. His face was without expression, as inhumanly cold as his eyes. He said, “Scram,” and dropped his gaze again to the newspaper.

  Shayne did not move except to thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and teeter forward. The younger man glanced up quickly to meet the detective’s eyes. He had sulky lips and his plump cheeks were covered with a soft down. Long, dark lashes added to an effeminate appearance. He wore a wasp-waisted sports coat of expensive material with square padded shoulders. A faint flush crept into his cheeks as Shayne’s lips upquirked in harsh amusement. He glanced quickly aside at his older companion and then began carefully inspecting his nails.

  In a tone of gentle derision, Shayne said, “I’m surprised Maxie lets you associate with a tough baboon like this one, Melvin. Isn’t he afraid Hymie might rub off some of the bloom?”

  Melvin squirmed. He glanced at his companion again, entreating him to do something.

  Hymie lowered his newspaper. He fixed his glacial eyes on the bottom button of Shayne’s coat and advised dispassionately, “Go on back to your knitting, shamus. You’re out of your territory too.”

  “Maybe,” said Shayne, “this is some of my knitting.”

  Hymie shook his head slowly. “Don’t push us around. We got as much right here as you have.”

  Shayne’s smile was bland. “Why, sure. You’ll like it here in Cocopalm, Hymie. Only I thought maybe you didn’t know I was cleaning up the town. If they start running in gorillas from Miami I’m going to get sore.”

  Hymie grunted and put his newspaper up in front of his face again. Shayne transferred his attention to the younger man. “When you see Maxie again, tell him I was in Mayme Martin’s room this afternoon when she phoned him.” He turned and went to the elevator.

  The door of his suite was standing open. He walked in and nodded casually to Will Gentry and Chief Boyle. The Miami detective chief was a big thick-shouldered man with a pleasant, beefy face. He and Boyle were both working on fat cigars and the room was foul with smoke.

  Shayne asked, “Why haven’t you birds taken advantage of my hospitality to order a drink-or hadn’t you got round to that yet?”

  “We just hadn’t got round to it, Mike,” Gentry rumbled. “Make mine Scotch and soda.”

  Shayne turned to the Cocopalm chief, and Boyle nodded with some constraint. “The same for me.”

  Shayne went into the bedroom and crossed to the night table. He ordered two highballs sent up. When he re-entered the living-room, Gentry said placidly, “That wife of yours puts on a slick disappearing act, Mike. She answered the phone but ducked out before I could get up on the elevator.”

  “She’s determined to be helpful.” Shayne grinned widely. “She waylaid me do
wn in the lobby to warn me that a couple of hounds of the law were lying in wait for me up here.”

  “And you came up anyway?” Gentry squinted at him through a screen of thick blue smoke. “That means you’re ready to come clean, eh?”

  “On what?” Shayne went into the bathroom and poured himself a drink of cognac. The boy was at the door with the two whiskies when he returned. Shayne tipped him and signed the check, then passed the tall glasses to his guests. He sat down, swinging one leg over the arm of his chair.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about, Mike.”

  “Maybe I do. Maybe not. Do you want to make a parlor quiz out of it?”

  Gentry sighed and shifted his heavy bulk. “A woman named Mayme Martin was murdered in Miami tonight.”

  Shayne pursed his lips and whistled. “Murdered, eh?”

  Gentry nodded emphatically. “The killer messed things up trying to make it look like suicide by using a safety-razor blade. The medical examiner says she was dead before her throat was slit.”

  Shayne held up his glass and squinted through it. “Why are you telling me about it?”

  “Are you going to deny that you knew her?”

  “N-o-o,” Shayne hedged. “I won’t deny that I had met her, Will. But we didn’t get very well acquainted. I never saw her before this afternoon.”

  “She checked into the Red Rose from Cocopalm this afternoon,” Gentry told him. “You called on her just before dark-the only visitor she had. Then you came helling up here. What’s the connection?”

  “When was she killed?” Shayne countered.

  “Evidently not long after you went up to talk to her. The doctor hadn’t got around to picking an exact time.”

  “If I had done it,” Shayne growled, “I wouldn’t have been fool enough to think I could cross you up by slitting her throat after she was dead.”

  Will Gentry nodded unhappily. “I’m not going to hang the murder on you,” he protested. “But she’s mixed up in this Cocopalm thing somehow. I thought she might have told you something that would give us a line to work on.”