Shayne took a long drink and grinned at her. He said, “Thanks, angel,” and winced as he inadvertently moved the injured portion of his body.
Watching him narrowly, Phyllis caught her breath at the sight of blood on the spread between them. She sprang to her feet and cried out to the doctor:
“My husband—Doctor, he’s injured. He is bleeding to death. Do something!”
The doctor looked up mildly into her dark agitated eyes, folded the stethoscope tenderly, and returned it to his hip pocket. “I can’t do anything for these men,” he said. “They’re dead.” He stood up and went to Shayne. “What happened to you? Did you stop a bullet too?”
“Here,” Shayne said, indicating the spot. He lay back across the bed with his hand holding the wound.
The doctor deftly disinfected and bandaged the wound while Phyllis looked on in an agony of terror. Suddenly she ran from the room and returned with a clean undershirt and a fresh shirt. The doctor smiled gravely at her pale face when Shayne growled:
“There’s no time for that.”
“But, Michael, you’re all blood,” she cried.
“You can change suits later,” the doctor told him amiably, and assisted Phyllis in disrobing Shayne’s torso and getting him into a clean undershirt.
Shayne did not resist them until his gray eyes strayed to the door as two men entered. “Damn,” he muttered, and grabbed the top shirt and put it on unassisted.
One of the men was a burly fellow with a black felt pushed far back on his forehead. A silver star sagged from his open coat and the word Chief was engraved on it. He wore a movie-cowboy cartridge belt with a .45 swinging rakishly low in an open holster. He heeled the door shut and spoke harshly and authoritatively to the hotel detective:
“What’s going on here, Gleason?”
Before Gleason could reply, the little man who entered with the chief chuckled happily and said: , “It looks like big city methods have come to Cocopalm, Chief Boyle. This is Michael Shayne or I miss my guess.” He jerked a bushy, oversized head toward the tall detective sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Shayne? Damned if I like this.” Chief Boyle thrust a belligerent, double-chinned jaw toward Shayne.
“I don’t care a hell of a lot for it myself,” Shayne drawled.
Phyllis stood by patiently holding his necktie in her hand. He reached up and took it from her, saying under his breath, “Go on back to your room, angel. This is no place for you.”
Her eyes flashed defiance. She didn’t say anything, but stepped back into a corner and sank into a deep chair, her eyes very bright and angry on Chief Boyle, who scowled down at Shayne’s automatic lying on the floor.
He asked, “Is this your gun, Shayne?”
Shayne said, “Yes. I’ve got a permit to carry it.”
“But no permit to go around killing people.” The chief frowned. “I’ve heard about the rough stuff you pull in Miami, but it won’t go here in Cocopalm.”
The little whiplash of a man chuckled fiendishly behind the chief. “You’ve plugged a pair of our most reputable citizens,” he said with sharp irony. “I figured you’d give us action, Shayne, but I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
“Neither was I,” Shayne retorted. He whipped the necktie around his collar and let it hang. “Are you Hardeman?”
“Good Lord, no. I’m Gil Matrix, editor, owner and publisher of the Voice. Prints all the news that’s fit to print and a lot that isn’t. Let me be the first to welcome you to our city.” Matrix pushed forward and held out his hand.
Shayne took it, grunting sourly, “I’ve already been met by a reception committee that can probably be traced to the front-page stuff you ran this afternoon.”
Matrix’s grin was unabashed. “I meant to stir things up. Lord,” he muttered, his eyes going again to the dead figures on the floor, “and did I ever! Chief Boyle here has been sitting on the lid too long and it was time the powder keg exploded.”
“That’ll be enough from you, Gil.” Chief Boyle stepped angrily into the center of the room, shouldering the undersized editor aside with his great bulk. He glared down at Shayne, who now nonchalantly tied his tie. “What have you done with Mr. Hardeman?”
Shayne shot him a quick curious glance. “Hell, I haven’t got him.” He got up slowly and nodded toward the two dead men. “I thought one of those was Hardeman.”
Boyle’s eyes were hot with incredulity and disbelief as he stepped back a pace. “You thought one of them was—”
“On my right lies Pug Leroy,” Gil Matrix said in a loud voice, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets as he circled the thick-bodied man on the floor. He shrugged heavy, slightly hunched shoulders which made his short body seem incongruous.
“Leroy,” he went on dramatically, “has been working toward murder through the gentler stages of crime for a couple of years. His demise won’t be excessively mourned.
“And this other lad is Bud Taylor, a local product.” He spoke in a harsh, rasping voice, looking down at the thin-faced, youthful gunman who could not have been more than twenty-two.
There was utter silence in the room.
The little man dominated the scene as his owlishly round eyes slowly challenged everyone in the room, beginning with Chief Boyle, who was standing to one side with the hotel detective, passing on to the subdued assistant manager, and finally stopping when they rested upon Phyllis, who shrank deeper into her chair. The doctor, whose back was turned, silently closed his medical bag and stole from the room.
“Bud Taylor,” Gil Matrix repeated, “one of those unfortunate weaklings easily led astray—a product of his environment, let us say. A youth who could have taken the right turn, but was induced to take the wrong one. We are all responsible for the Bud Taylors of this world,” he went on fiercely. “Every one of us ensconced in our citadels of smugness who tolerate a festering growth in our community that sucks in a lad like Bud Taylor with the glamour of easy money. Easy money,” he repeated in a strange whisper. “We shall all be judged,” he jerked out, “I say—”
“Cut out the oration, Gil.” Chief Boyle produced a handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. “This ain’t the time or the place for a sermon.”
“There’ll be no better time or place,” Matrix told him wrathily. “You ought to be down on your knees asking God to pity the citizens of Cocopalm who entrust their security to your supine hands—”
“Maybe the parson’ll let you preach the funeral sermon,” Chief Boyle snapped angrily.
The interruption left Matrix undismayed. His round eyes were bleak as he waved a hand and continued: “So long as you allow the Rendezvous to flourish under police protection on the outskirts of Cocopalm, just so long will we have the spectacle of our youth turning into gangsters and gunmen—and worse.”
“Now see here, Gil,” Boyle roared, “you know damn well the Rendezvous is out of the city limits and out of my jurisdiction.”
“Yes, and I also know that Grant MacFarlane is your brother-in-law,” Matrix lashed back. “You can’t deny that Bud Taylor has been hanging around out there getting himself inoculated with the idea that the law is something to beat, to be scoffed at—which, by God, it is here in Cocopalm—and that he—”
“Shut up, Gil.” Chief Boyle’s voice was loud with authority. His face was the color of raw beef.
Shayne’s amusement at the scene was wearing thin. He came impatiently to his feet and said, “I’m inclined to agree with the chief. I’d like to get your ideas later, Matrix, but right now I’m wondering why Mr. Hardeman wasn’t here in this room to keep his appointment with me. While you fellows are throwing the gab around he might be heeding help.”
The assistant manager came to life, shook his head vigorously, and deftly caught his big-rimmed Oxford glasses as they flew from his nose. He readjusted them and glanced around the room with officious, but nevertheless nervous eyes. “Mr. Hardeman doesn’t seem to be here at all. I happen to know that his engagement with Mr. Shayne
was important. He gave orders that the detective was to be shown up immediately, and I’m quite positive he hasn’t gone out since dinner.”
Shayne’s keen gray eyes traveled around the room to notice that three doors led away from the large bedroom. One, in a corner behind the bed, stood slightly ajar, while another, across the room, was tightly closed as was the one leading to the hall. He saw, also, that Phyllis sat drawn back in her chair, her big dark eyes filled with questioning and wonderment. He shook his head at her and motioned toward the front door. Phyllis moved her own dark head slightly and negatively. Her soft round chin was set.
Shayne frowned and turned his attention to the two other doors. He strode to the closed one and jerked it open. It led into an empty tiled bathroom. His brows came down in a puzzled frown. Then he whirled about and went to the other door in the corner.
Jerking it open, he peered inside, then stepped back with a wide gesture. He said calmly:
“Come and see if this is Hardeman.”
Matrix’s nose quivered. He was the first to reach Shayne’s side while the others crowded up. “That’s John Hardeman, all right,” he chortled, “neatly done up in a knot.”
Shayne looked steadily down at Hardeman for a moment and then stepped back, drawing the editor with him. Chief Boyle and Gleason dragged the bound and gagged race-track manager out of the spacious closet.
His body was long, big boned and heavy shouldered, but not fleshy. His forehead was of the high sort that is popularly supposed to be intellectual. His face was deeply suntanned, and his hair and eyes were gray. At the moment, indeed, his eyes rolled upward and around the room wildly. Gleason bent over him and struggled with the knot of the handkerchief at the back of his head; Chief Boyle took out his knife and cut the cords binding his arms.
Hardeman came slowly to his feet, sputtering incoherently and spitting a wad of cotton from his mouth. “This is ghastly,” he complained, “a ghastly experience, to lie helpless in the closet and hear two assailants cold-bloodedly plan Shayne’s murder. I must say you handled the situation masterfully.”
He seized Shayne’s hand in a bone-numbing grip and shook it. “I was terrified when I heard the telephone ring and one of them answer it. Pug Leroy it was. He simulated my voice almost perfectly. Those were moments of sheer agony when I listened to them take their places beside the door and wait to hear you knock.” He paused to pluck a small piece of cotton from his tongue. Shayne wondered
if that accounted for the high-flown manner in which he spoke and concluded that it didn’t. “When the shooting began I couldn’t conceive how you might escape with your life. If they had succeeded in killing you, I would certainly have been next.”
“It’s lucky for you they left the door open a crack so you wouldn’t smother,” Shayne interposed gravely when the man stopped for a long-drawn breath.
“You can’t imagine my relief,” Hardeman continued, “when I heard the others enter the room and I gathered that you had actually turned the tables on those murderous rogues. I must confess, though, no one seemed unduly curious as to my whereabouts,” he ended with a reproachful glance at the men standing around the room.
“Did the thugs do any talking that made sense?” Shayne demanded. “Could you gather who or what was behind the attack on me?”
“Very little.” Hardeman pursed his lips, spat out another small piece of cotton, then shook his head. He whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “They assured me that I would not be harmed if they succeeded in their designs on you. I didn’t put any trust in their promise. The motivation behind the attack was evidently your appearance here in Cocopalm to investigate the counterfeit racing-tickets.”
“It seems a reasonable assumption,” Shayne conceded dryly. “And I think I can thank our crusader editor for arranging things so neatly in my behalf. His front-page story was an invitation for something like this.”
“Don’t thank me,” Matrix protested with a thin smile. “It was printed as a public service. Hardeman has been reluctant to take the bull by the horns and call in outside help, and I forced his hand by making you front-page news after he agreed to ask for your help.”
“And making it impossible for me to get any line on who was behind the attack,” Shayne pointed out harshly. “Instead of having those directly interested know I was coming, you made it common knowledge.”
“I certainly had no intention of broadcasting it,” Hardeman avowed. He shot a malevolent glance at the editor. “I might even suggest that Matrix hoped for some such result when he printed the story.”
“You’ve got to admit it worked, if that was what I wanted,” Matrix chortled. “This little affair is going to sell a lot of papers tomorrow.”
Shayne turned away from him with a grunt of disgust. “Let’s go to my room for our conference, Mr. Hardeman.” He stooped to pick up his automatic, which still lay on the floor, but Chief Boyle stopped him.
“Better let me have that gun. I’m not rightly sure but what I ought to lock you up to boot.”
Shayne straightened up with the weapon dangling from his fingers. “I told you I had a permit to carry it.”
“There’s been killing done,” the chief persisted doggedly. “Don’t you go trying to push me around like you push the cops in Miami. Inciting trouble, that’s what you’re doing, coming in here and stirring things up.”
Shayne snorted and thrust the gun in his belt. He turned to Hardeman and asked curtly, “Are you coming?”
“See here, now,” the chief began, but Shayne strode past him to Phyllis, who held out both her hands as if she doubted her strength to stand alone. He lifted her from the chair and held her firmly by the arm, steering her from the room.
Hardeman followed after a moment’s hesitation, and Matrix edged past Boyle, chuckling maliciously. “You’d better call up Grant MacFarlane for further orders. He’s likely to be very unhappy about all this.”
At the door of their suite Shayne stood aside while Phyllis and Hardeman passed through. Gil Matrix came up behind them and aggressively caught the door knob as Shayne started to close the door.
“You’d better let me sit in on this conference, Shayne,” he warned. “The Voice prints all the news and we have to guess at what we don’t know. If you want factual reporting, don’t shut me out.”
Shayne stared speculatively at the little man, then nodded and allowed Matrix to enter.
Chapter Four: THE PRESSURE IS ON
PHYLLIS HAD GONE UNOBTRUSIVELY INTO THE BEDROOM and closed the door when Shayne entered behind Matrix. Hardeman was mopping his brow again. When he saw the editor, he asked his host fretfully:
“Need we make this a public meeting? It seems to me our business could be much better discussed in private.”
Shayne ignored his question and motioned both men to be seated. “I like to get all the angles on a new case. I presume,” he turned to Matrix, “you have some ideas regarding this counterfeiting proposition.”
Matrix laughed harshly and perched himself on the arm of a chair. “Any man with one eye and the brain of a gnat would have an idea. Hell, who do you think turned those two punks on you in Hardeman’s room?”
“I don’t know,” Shayne replied mildly. “My only thought is that your newspaper story set the thing up for them.”
“All right. Maybe it did.” Matrix spread out thin fingers and closed them into a tight fist. “It brought matters to a head. Things that have been simmering and stinking beneath the surface too long. Grant MacFarlane knew the jig was up when I finally prodded Hardeman into calling you in. He knows your reputation and he knew he had to take quick action. That reception in Hardeman’s room was his answer to the threat.”
Shayne asked, “Are you accusing this MacFarlane of doing the counterfeiting?”
The fiery little editor hesitated briefly, then nodded vigorously. “He’s your best bet. His Rendezvous is nothing but a hangout for hoodlums from all the way up and down the coast. It would take quite an organi
zation to cash all the forged tickets that have been going through the payoff windows lately.”
“Is that the only evidence you have against him—the fact that you don’t like him and that he has facilities for running such a deal?”
“Exactly what I’ve said to Matrix time and again,” Hardeman complained. “He keeps insisting that we should force Chief Boyle to take some action against MacFarlane, while I contend that Boyle is a thoroughly honest though somewhat bewildered officer of the law.”
“Boyle is under MacFarlane’s thumb,” Matrix barked. “You can’t laugh that off.”
“I invited you in here to get the news,” Shayne reminded Matrix. “There won’t be any news if you don’t let me find out some things from Hardeman.”
“There never is any news in this damn burg anyway,” Matrix grated viciously. “I have to make a headline if any are printed. Which reminds me”—he jumped to his feet excitedly—“I should be getting some pix of those bodies before Boyle has them removed.” He scurried out unceremoniously and slammed the door.
“You mustn’t mind Matrix too much,” Hardeman said stiffly. “Like all little men, he is ferociously determined to overcome the unfair deal he feels nature gave him when he was created. He’s quite a town character, really. Came here a few years ago a total stranger. He has built up the Voice from a struggling weekly into an aggressive and somewhat progressive daily.”
Shayne nodded. “Let’s get down to cases on this counterfeiting. How long has it been going on?”
“For weeks. Though we didn’t actually know we were cashing counterfeit tickets until a few days ago.”
“So?” Shayne’s right eyebrow arched quizzically.
“We have been noting shortages for some time. Annoying and inexplicable,” Hardeman went on, “but not large enough sums to cause any great concern. We have a totalizer at the track, you understand, and it is exceedingly difficult for a dishonest clerk to get away with any irregularities. We checked and double-checked quietly, and were thoroughly stumped for a time. We even had an expert up from Miami to go over the totalizer and he pronounced it in perfect condition. Yet each night’s play found us actually losing money instead of earning the percentage provided by law.”
Tickets for Death Page 3
