Tickets for Death

by Brett Halliday

  The widow’s left eyelid fluttered uncontrollably. Her hands lay quiet and relaxed on the garment in her lap. “Why—do you say that?”

  “There’s something behind all this,” Shayne insisted. “Something I can’t put my finger on.” He paused, his hard gray eyes glowing speculatively. “Your husband was a very brilliant man. A genius in his line. Why did he bury himself here in this little town—working for the small salary Matrix could afford to pay on the Voice?”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” she faltered. “We were happy here in our little home.”

  “I don’t believe Ben Edwards was very happy. A man with his ability would be embittered and frustrated in the position of a small-town newspaper photographer. Yet he stayed here. Why?”

  “He and Mr. Matrix were old friends,” she defended her husband feebly. “Gil needed his help when he started in the newspaper business here. Ben was—happy to have a part in the Voice’s success.” Her voice gained strength and conviction as she spoke.

  “And Matrix and Mayme Martin were old friends,” Shayne mused aloud. “Now—two of the trio are dead. Only Gil is left. Don’t you see that you can’t hide the truth any longer?”

  Mrs. Edwards shook her head stubbornly. She pressed her lips into a tight straight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Shayne. Is there anything odd in the fact that three people who had been acquainted before should meet here in Cocopalm—where people from everywhere come?”

  He got up and paced the worn rug, darting sharp glances at her. She resumed her sewing on a boy’s small shirt. Her fingers scarcely trembled as she plied the needle in small, neat stitches. Her face was again placidly unresponsive.

  Shayne stopped in front of a framed and tinted photograph hanging on the wall. The picture was of a lean-jawed young man and a plump young lady with a determined look of pride on her face. Stoop-shouldered Ben Edwards might easily have posed as the young man a decade before, and there was little doubt that the proud woman by his side had turned into the placid-faced mother on the sofa. Worry over something had turned her hair gray prematurely, he decided.

  In the lower right-hand corner of the framed photograph was printed: Herrick-Lane Studio, Urban, Illinois.

  Shayne turned away from the picture and resumed his pacing. Mrs. Edwards continued to sew and said nothing. After a time Shayne broke the silence by asking, “How long have you and Ben been married?”

  “Ten years. Ten years lacking only a few days.” Mrs. Edwards’s voice faltered, but she went on resolutely: “Tuesday would have been our tenth anniversary. We had planned—we were going to Miami to make a day of it. Just the two of us. A regular celebration.” She dropped her hands into her lap and gazed past the detective, her eyes wet again, her lips trembling a little.

  He said, “I’m sorry—to bring up memories and regrets,” but she interrupted him with a fierce gladness:

  “You needn’t be sorry. Memories are all I have left of Ben. I’ll live with memories the rest of my life. Fine memories—nothing can take them away from me. Ben was a good man—a good husband, and a splendid father to our son.”

  Shayne said, “No. No one can take away your memories.” He went to a chair and picked up his hat, twisted it in his big hands. “I don’t think Samuelson will come back, Mrs. Edwards. If he does, refuse to deal with him on any basis. And I’d be careful of your husband’s model camera and his plans. As long as they are not patented, any crook who got his hands on them could call them his own.”

  The widow nodded listlessly. “They are perfectly safe for the time being—in the office safe.”

  Shayne said, “Good night, Mrs. Edwards,” abruptly, and went out.

  The street was deserted. The quarter moon was not visible above the tropical growth and houses westward. A strong salt-tanged breeze blew in from the east. Shayne took off his hat and let the breeze ruffle his hair as he walked briskly toward town.

  When he entered the Tropical Hotel, Will Gentry jumped up to greet him. “Where the devil have you been?” the Miami detective chief demanded. “Did you know there had been another murder out on the highway toward the dog track?”

  Shayne said, “Yeh. I know all about that, Will. Haven’t you seen Phyl?”

  “No. I just came in a few minutes ago. The clerk said Phyllis was in, but that you hadn’t come back.”

  Shayne nodded, absently running his long fingers through his disheveled hair. “What date is next Tuesday, Will?”

  “Next Tuesday? How the hell do I know. Count it up for yourself. This is Thursday. What do you care? With people getting murdered right and left—”

  Shayne was not listening. He was counting on his fingers and muttering to himself. He turned abruptly and strode to the hotel switchboard. “Get me police headquarters in Urban, Illinois,” he said to the pretty blond operator.

  She scribbled on a pad, looked up at him and asked, “Who’s calling?”

  “Charge it to my account, Michael Shayne, room three-ten.”

  “You can take the call in the second booth, Mr. Shayne.” Shayne went straight to the booth and closed the door tightly. He stood drumming his fingers on the little wooden shelf as he waited for the connection. Through the glass door he could see Will Gentry standing indecisively where he had left him, staring at the booth with open suspicion and hostility.

  It was stifling hot in the narrow enclosure. Shayne whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his face as the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and a voice said, “Here’s your party, sir.”

  “Hello—Headquarters, Urban,” a gruff voice at the other end of the line was saying.

  “Go ahead, Mr.—”

  “Hello,” Shayne’s voice roared, when the operator was about to call his name. “Let me speak to the chief.”

  “This is the chief talking,” the midwestern twang assured him.

  “This is Will Gentry, chief of detectives from Miami, Florida,” Shayne lied briskly. “I’m calling from Cocopalm, Florida, where I’m working on a double murder. I need your co-operation.”

  “Why, sure, sure. You bet, Gentry.” The chief of police in Illinois sounded suitably impressed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Rout your county clerk or recorder out of bed and have him look up the marriage records for 1931. I’m interested in a marriage on January 14, 1931. Got that?”

  “You bet. Got it written down. I’ll call Alonzo Twiggs right away and check up for you in a jiffy.”

  “Wire me at the Tropical Hotel in Cocopalm, Florida. Give me the names of bride and groom in any marriage on that date—all of them if there was more than one.”

  “’Tain’t likely there’ll be more’n one,” the Urban chief said. “It’s a red-letter day in Urban when there’s more than—”

  “That’s fine,” Shayne cut in heartily. “I’m depending on you, chief, and I’ll see that you get full credit when I crack the case.”

  He hung up and strolled out to the fuming Miami detective chief. “I just used your name and influence on a long-distance call, Will. You should be getting a wire from Urban, Illinois, before very long. If it comes collect, I’ll pay the bill.”

  “Now look here, Mike,” Gentry exploded, “what the devil do you—?”

  Shayne held up a big hand and backed away. “I don’t know—yet. I’ve got to see Mr. Albert Payson first. After that I hope I’ll know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope to God you do,” Gentry said irritably. “I’ve got a job to do too.” He went back and sat down in a deep chair, an expression of morose resignation on his broad, beefy face.

  Chapter Fifteen: OUTSIDE OF BANKING HOURS

  SHAYNE WENT OVER TO THE DESK and asked the hotel clerk whether Phyllis had left his car keys there. The young man obligingly produced them, and Shayne then inquired about directions for reaching the Albert Payson residence.

  “The Paysons live two blocks north of here, on Main Street. You can’t miss the house. It’s twice the size of any other house on the bloc
k.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks,” and long-legged it out to his car. He drove north two blocks and slowed in front of an impressive two-story residence, swung into a concrete driveway. He was halted by a seven-foot iron gate swung onto a concrete and native rock wall. He got out to open the gate and found it padlocked.

  Leaving his roadster with the bumper against the gate, he strode to a slightly lower iron gate which opened onto the wall leading to the main entrance. This, too, was padlocked.

  Gripping the bars firmly, he vaulted over it and went up the walk. There were lights in the front upstairs windows, but the lower portion of the mansion was dark. He pressed the button and waited.

  He heard a window open above his head and Mr. Payson called down fretfully, “Who’s there?”

  “The law,” Shayne called back cheerfully.

  “But that’s absurd,” Payson protested. “Chief Boyle released me on my own recognizance after assuring himself I was in no way culpable.”

  “This isn’t Chief Boyle.”

  There was a brief pause. Through the open upstairs window Shayne could hear a woman’s voice, subdued and tearful. Then Payson demanded, “Are you the detective from Miami?”

  “Yes. I want to talk to you about that news story Matrix killed for you this afternoon.”

  A briefer pause this time, and in a changed tone Payson said, “Very well. Though you’ll have to wait a few minutes.” His voice no longer came through the window, but Shayne could hear him saying to his wife, “I haven’t the slightest idea, Sarah, but I presume it’s something about that race-track business.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. The few minutes lengthened into five. Then a light came on inside the door and presently a key turned in the lock.

  Albert Payson wore an elaborate black silk dressing-gown belted around his rotund figure with pants showing beneath it and a tieless shirt showing between the lapels. He looked worried and distracted. He held up his hand and glanced behind him uneasily, whispering:

  “Please, Mr. Shayne, keep your voice down. Mrs. Payson will doubtless be listening at the head of the stairs.”

  Shayne grinned at the elderly Lothario’s discomfiture. He asked, sotto voce, “Is there some place we can talk without being overheard?”

  Payson cleared his throat gratefully. “Of course—in the library.” He scuttled before the rangy detective down a wide hall to French doors opening into a small room with uncomfortable-looking leather chairs and cases of books. He stood aside for Shayne to pass in, then closed the doors tightly. “After all, Mr. Shayne, one’s private affairs—it does seem to me—” He waved both plump hands to express disapproval, then lowered himself into a leather chair.

  Shayne remained standing. He arched bushy red brows at the local banker. “That’s the trouble with a murder investigation. It doesn’t respect the privacy of individuals involved. You have no idea what stenches we unearth before we finally crack a case sometimes.”

  Mr. Payson sat very still for a moment. He appeared thoroughly subdued and unhappy. “It will be terrible if Sarah learns of my—er—indiscretion, Mr. Shayne.”

  Shayne said mildly “You middle-aged Don Juans ought to think about that and keep your mind above your waistline. But I’ll do what I can—if you’ll give me the name of the woman you visited in Miami this afternoon.”

  Mr. Payson’s blobby nose quivered. “I see no necessity for that. None whatsoever.”

  “Look,” said Shayne patiently, “you’re square in the middle of a counterfeiting mess and a couple of murders. A key witness was murdered in Miami this afternoon. You were in Miami at the time. You begged the man who saw you there not to make that fact public, professing your reason is to keep a moral indiscretion from your wife. Hell, I’m not interested in your morals. I am interested in checking your alibi for the time of Mayme Martin’s death.”

  Mr. Payson stared at him in shocked amazement. “Surely you don’t suspect me?”

  “I suspect everybody,” Shayne growled. “The more I can eliminate, the easier my job is. Do I get the woman’s name and address?”

  The round-bellied little man squirmed and perspired under Shayne’s stalking gaze. Finally he recovered his poise and said with dignity, “It can’t possibly make any difference.” He gave Shayne a name and a hotel room number. Shayne wrote them down in a small notebook and nodded affably.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s attended to. If you’ve given me a phony I’ll know it pretty quick, and it won’t help your case any.”

  Albert Payson stood up.

  Shayne sat down in one of the stiff leather chairs. “Our conference has only begun. Sit down, Mr. Payson. Getting the name and address was a sort of gesture—tying up a loose end. What do you know about Gil Matrix?”

  “Mr. Matrix? Why—that his credit is above reproach. He meets his payments at the bank promptly.”

  “What do you know about the man himself?” Shayne quizzed. “His background—his life before he came to Cocopalm and purchased the Voice?”

  “Very little. He came to the bank with a business proposition. He had an opportunity to snap up the Voice at a low figure. He appeared an enterprising sort of man who would give our city the kind of newspaper it needed.”

  “The bank lent him the money to buy the Voice?”

  “Yes. We are always delighted to be of service to the community by advancing money to establish—”

  “Sure. I know how banks are that way,” Shayne cut him off. “But what did he put up for collateral? In being of service to the community you’re not likely to overlook a little item like security.”

  “Naturally not.”

  “What collateral did Matrix put up to secure the loan?” Shayne tapped the end of a cigarette on the arm of his chair, glancing up at Payson as he reached for a match. The trend of the conversation toward banking matters appeared to ease his physical and mental tension.

  “As I recall, the transaction went through on a deed to a printing plant in Illinois. In—ah—” Mr. Payson paused thoughtfully—“Fountain, Illinois, if my memory serves.”

  Shayne leaned back and closed his eyes, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “I want to get this perfectly straight,” he said musingly. “Matrix put up another printing plant in the town of Fountain, Illinois, as security for a loan to buy out the local newspaper?”

  “That is correct, and not at all surprising. A good many people have mortgaged their property in other parts of the country in order to re-establish themselves here on the southern tip of Florida. The deal with Matrix was legitimate in every respect. We took the precaution to investigate the Illinois property, naturally. It was appraised at more than twice the amount of our loan and was under capable management at the time. Our investment was safe in every respect.” Mr. Payson hesitated, then added, “In our investigation I recall that the previous owner, from whom Matrix had purchased the Fountain, Illinois, plant, was in prison at the time, though the details of the crime are somewhat hazy to me.”

  Shayne glanced around the room at the tiers of bookshelves and asked suddenly, “Have you an atlas in your collection?”

  Mr. Payson got up and went directly to a section, returning with the leather-bound atlas. Shayne turned to a map of Illinois and with a pencil located the towns of Urban and Fountain. They were very close together on the small-scale map.

  Observing him impatiently, Mr. Payson kept murmuring, “I don’t understand. I don’t see what possible bearing this can have on either the murders or the counterfeiting.”

  Shayne straightened up from his inspection of the map. He asked sharply, “Do you recall the name of the man who deeded the Illinois plant to Matrix?”

  “No. I can’t say offhand.”

  “I suppose the deed is at the bank?”

  “Naturally. In the vault.”

  Shayne said, “Get a coat and come with me. I’ve got to see that deed.”

  “But, Mr. Shayne, at this hour?” Mr. Payson was outraged. “Really, this
is going too far.”

  “Hell, it isn’t eleven o’clock,” Shayne growled. “Come on, for God’s sake, man. There isn’t any time to waste.”

  Mr. Payson became alarmed. “But why is it important to learn the name of an Illinois felon who previously owned a piece of property now held in Mr. Matrix’s name?”

  Shayne growled, “Cut out your stalling,” and seized the chunky man firmly by the arm.

  The banker subsided into frightened silence before the implacable look on the detective’s face. He let himself be pushed into the hall, where he drew away from Shayne’s grasp and went to the foot of the stairs, calling up in a quavering voice:

  “Oh—Sarah! I am going out, my dear. On a matter of serious import which will brook no delay.”

  Sarah called back some reply which sounded very much as if she refused him permission to go out, but Payson hurried toward Shayne, who waited with the front door open. Payson shucked off his robe and put on a coat which he secured from a small closet in the hallway. He buttoned the coat up tightly about his throat, then turned the collar up to hide his lack of a tie.

  Shayne chuckled. Mr. Payson’s whole appearance was one of a man bent upon the commission of a crime against God and man.

  “I dislike being rushed off in this manner,” Payson protested, but Shayne offered no comment. He hurried Payson to the front gate, waited impatiently while it was being unlocked, then rushed him to the roadster.

  The banker sat huddled beside him while he backed away and turned to head south.

  “The bank is on the corner this side of the hotel,” Payson told him after they had driven a block. “I’ll have to get the attention of the night watchman. This is most irregular, you understand. Strictly against the insurance regulations.”

  Shayne drove silently. He pulled up in front of the brick corner structure and Payson got out. Plate-glass windows fronting on the street glowed with lights from within. When they peered in the window they saw an old man indolently swishing a mop back and forth on the tiled floor of the bank’s foyer.