Tickets for Death

by Brett Halliday

  Mr. Payson tapped on the window with a key and the old man jerked erect, peering out with disbelieving eyes. Payson held up a key and made motions that were supposed to indicate he desired admission, then walked to the heavy doors and turned the key in the lock.

  The door opened at once and the aged night watchman stood in the middle of the floor leaning on his mop and watching them with wary, watery eyes.

  “It’s all right, Jensen,” Payson assured him. “Perfectly in order. This man is with me. This isn’t a holdup or anything of the sort.”

  Payson led Shayne behind the partition, explaining nervously, “The cash and negotiable securities are protected by an inner vault with a time lock, of course. We couldn’t enter there if we tried. Not possible. Not even I.”

  “Hell, I don’t want to rob your bank.” Shayne’s grin wasn’t pleasant. “But I’ve got to see that mortgage in a hurry.” He stood back and watched the banker manipulate the silvered cylinders of the locking device. He sighed heavily when Payson finally grasped a lever and pressed it and the door came open.

  A dome light came on automatically, showing the interior to be higher than a man’s head, lined on both sides with filing-drawers from floor to ceiling.

  Payson stepped inside and paced along the floor, scanning the typed legend on the front of each door, pinching his plump cheek and mumbling to himself. He stopped and pulled one out on ball-bearing rollers, searched through the tabs on heavy Manila envelopes, then lifted an envelope with a triumphant flourish.

  “There you are,” he said, “though I still consider this a needless imposition. Totally needless.” His confidence and poise were restored to a degree of hauteur here in his own vast vaults.

  Shayne said, “You hired me to do a job,” and backed out of the stone enclosure with the bulging envelope. He laid it on a desk and untied the cord holding it securely, drew out a sheaf of papers. “You can find it quicker than I can,” he advised Payson, shoving the documents in front of him.

  Mr. Payson shuffled through them and almost instantly selected the one which Shayne had asked to see, a legal document stating with a great deal of detail and legal verbiage that the title to property therein described had changed hands on October 15, 1936, from the former owner, one Theodore Ross, to Gilbert Matrix, for the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations.

  Shayne’s keen gray eyes stopped on the name Theodore Ross. He hastily scribbled the name in his notebook while Payson dug out another document which he smoothed out for Shayne’s inspection.

  “Here” said Payson, “is the mortgage on that plant as executed by Mr. Matrix when the loan was granted. All perfectly in order as you can readily see.”

  Shayne stood for a moment with his face like granite, switching his cold gaze from one document to the other. His thumb and forefinger tugged at the lobe of his ear, then he asked, “Who passes on a loan such as this, Payson? Do you yourself have the full authority to act for the bank?”

  “No, indeed,” he answered with quiet dignity. “I wouldn’t care to assume such a responsibility even if I were authorized to do so by the board. Any transaction of this nature is discussed and passed on by the entire board of directors sitting in executive session. Here, as you can see, each of them placed his initials on the margin indicating approval.” He pointed out initials scrawled in ink on the margin.

  Shayne studied the inked initials for a moment. “I suppose each one of them inspects the collateral offered and passes on its value?”

  “Certainly. The care exercised in making such loans is the foundation on which the reliability of any banking institution must be based. You should realize—”

  “Who makes up your board of directors?” Shayne interrupted.

  “Mr. Newson, the realtor, Dr. Fairbanks, Mr. Hardeman, and Dr. Haynes, a dentist, Mr. MacFarlane—”

  “I see.” Shayne smiled grimly. “Practically a roster of Cocopalm’s most civic-minded citizens?”

  Mr. Payson drew himself up frigidly. “I had not completed the list. There is also—”

  “I heard you the first time,” Shayne said roughly and hastily. He began stuffing the papers back into the envelope, but Mr. Payson rescued them from him and retied the envelope in an orderly fashion. Shayne was waiting at the door for him when he emerged from the vault, locked it, and said good night to Jensen, whose eyes were inscrutable above his mop handle.

  “I trust you are entirely satisfied,” Mr. Payson said as he hurried to keep pace with Shayne’s long strides.

  Shayne didn’t reply until he was under the steering-wheel and had the roadster headed back toward the Payson mansion.

  “I’m entirely satisfied,” he said. “Far beyond my expectations, Payson.” He had the accelerator on the floorboard.

  Pulling up at the banker’s front gate, he waited for Payson to get out, then said, “Don’t worry about anything if your lady of light virtue in Miami alibis you.” He waved his hand and drove away while the banker scurried into the sanctity of his front yard and locked the gate securely behind him.

  A satanic grin spread over Shayne’s gaunt face. The grin was brief, resolving into a scowl which set itself upon his features.

  Chapter Sixteen: MIKE LOSES A ROUND

  HEADING BACK ON MAIN STREET, Shayne’s attention was caught by a flicker of light from a rear window of the Voice office. He came to an abrupt stop and stared upward, but the beam of light had vanished. All the windows were dark.

  He continued to sit immobile behind the wheel with his gaze slanted upward, fixed on that rear window. It had not been imagination. There had been a faint beam of light up there.

  It came again. A sliver of light glancing momentarily against the dark windowpane.

  He turned off his car lights and slithered to the curb, slid out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the southeast corner of the two-story building, hesitated only a moment looking upward, then walked silently back along the side of the building. A gaunt shadow in the illusive starlight and reflected lights from the illumined district around him, Shayne circled the rear and the north side to assure himself there was no exit from the upstairs office except the front steps. No rear stairs or fire escape led downward. He stationed himself in the deep shadow of a doorway which was across the street from the Tropical Hotel, and waited.

  Only a few cars were parked in front of the hotel at this hour in the evening before the races were over. He could see into the hotel lobby between looped-back silken draperies.

  Chief Gentry and Chief Boyle were standing near the doorway. Boyle was talking excitedly, waving his arms. Will Gentry was listening with a dour expression, nodding now and then and rubbing his blunt chin.

  Max Samuelson’s blue sedan, Shayne noticed, was nowhere in sight. He would have given a lot to know where it was—where Max and his two bodyguards were. The model camera and the plans were upstairs in the Voice safe. If Maxie was trying to play smart—

  Shayne tensed as his quickened perceptions caught the sound of light footsteps stealing down from the newspaper office. He pressed his body back against the closed doors so that his rangy body blended completely with the shadow. He pulled the brim of his hat low over his face and turned his head slowly.

  The door at the foot of the stairway squeaked as a hand pressed on it gently from the other side. It came open cautiously, inch by inch, not more than five feet from where Shayne stood, and his fingernails dug into calloused palms while he waited.

  He almost jerked into betraying motion when the door came wide open suddenly. He held himself quiet when he saw Gil Matrix step out jauntily onto the sidewalk, letting the door go shut behind him with a little slam.

  Matrix stood perfectly still for a moment, then he began whistling as he went down the street without a backward glance, his bare head giving the grotesque effect of an inflated balloon floating along above stout round shoulders which bent slightly forward as if he were pulling himself up a hill. A briefcase swung from his right hand and the sound o
f his heels on the sidewalk died away into the night stillness.

  Shayne took off his hat and wiped his face all over with a soiled handkerchief, then stepped out of his hideaway and walked boldly across the street. His eyes darted up and down the street, then examined the cars parked in front of the hotel carefully.

  It looked as though Maxie Samuelson, his burly getaway driver, and the sniveling Melvin with itching trigger fingers on both hands had got out of town.

  Will Gentry met Shayne with a surly growl when he stepped into the hotel lobby. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “Out,” Shayne returned almost happily.

  “Every time you get out of my sight, by God, something bad happens,” Chief Boyle proclaimed loudly.

  “What has happened this time?” Shayne asked.

  “A ruckus down at the Ace-High picture studio. Jake Liverdink was in the dark room doing some developing work when a thug broke in and knocked him out cold. Smashed up some things and got out before Jake could get a look at him.”

  “He couldn’t have seen much out cold,” Shayne parried.

  “Damn you!” Chief Boyle snarled, but Will Gentry interrupted:

  “We have it on good authority that you saw Jake Liverdink earlier in the evening, in a professional way. The way Chief Boyle looks at it—”

  Shayne grunted. “If I hadn’t been busy doing something else I might have visited Jake later in the evening—in a professional way. I happened to be busy breaking and entering the bank, however, so you can’t hang Jake’s troubles around my neck.”

  Boyle’s eyes started to pop out. “Breaking in the bank? Well, by God—”

  “Aided by the president of the institution,” Shayne cut him off. He turned to Gentry and asked: “Any telegram from Illinois, Will?”

  “Not yet.” Gentry chewed fiercely on the frayed butt of a cigar. He jerked it out of his mouth and sniffed it, then hurled it out the door. “I can’t stand around here all night,” he shot at Shayne. “I’m still working on the Martin murder and you haven’t given me a goddamn thing. You’re still the last man who saw her alive as far as I know.”

  Shayne nodded absently. “I still think you’ll clear it up by staying here in Cocopalm faster than it can be done in Miami. If Maxie was telling me the truth—”

  “Maxie? Samuelson? How does he fit in?” Gentry demanded irritably.

  “I’ll tell you, Will. That’s what I held out on you up in my room,” Shayne said with unmistakable seriousness. “I didn’t know how much pressure I’d need to use on Maxie and I wanted to keep that for myself if I needed it. But Maxie seems to have faded out of the picture up here. This is straight. Max Samuelson was on his way up to see the Martin woman when I walked out of her apartment.”

  Gentry’s beefy face grew slowly livid. “Then Samuelson saw her after you did. And he was here where I could get my hands on him and you didn’t tip me off.”

  “I couldn’t, Will,” Shayne insisted. “Not then. What good would it have done you anyway?”

  “What good?” Gentry was apoplectic with rage. “Hell, I would’ve put the screws on him. He would’ve talked plenty to me, he would.”

  “You can pick him up in Miami any time you want him,” Shayne reminded his old friend mildly. “I don’t think you’ll get much except to set the time of her death closely. He swears and be damned that she was dead when he got there.”

  “Oh, he does, does he? And you believed him?” Gentry’s heavy upper lip curled.

  “I haven’t got any beliefs yet, Will. All I’ve got is a theory.”

  “The hell you have.” Gentry’s sarcastic tone did not change. “Maybe you’d like to let us in on this theory. We are sort of interested too, you know. Maybe you don’t realize it, but we’ve both had a murder occur in our territory tonight. Of course, murders aren’t important to you while you’re chasing a fee, but they happen to be our job. Mike, if you don’t come clean—”

  “I can’t. Not yet. Not until that wire comes through from Illinois. Let me know as soon as you get it, Will.” He stood thoughtfully tugging at the lobe of his ear, then muttered, “I’ll be in my room,” and hurried toward the elevator.

  The door of the hotel suite was locked. Shayne knocked loudly. After a time he heard movement in the room, then the knob turned and the door opened a cautious inch.

  Shayne shoved the door wide open.

  Phyllis backed away from him. Her eyes were enormous and stared at him with hot rebellion. She wore a hostess gown of blue silk taffeta which swept to the floor in swinging fullness, rustling at her slightest movement. She folded her hands and stood straight and slim and outraged before him.

  Shayne grinned. “Are you practicing up for something, angel?” His gray eyes were laughing. He took a step toward her, pushing the door shut with a hand behind him.

  Phyllis put out a restraining hand. “Don’t touch me,” she ordered shortly. “Don’t even so much as lay a finger on me.”

  The smile went away from Shayne’s eyes, from his deeply lined face. Slowly, as though he willed it to remain but could not make his facial muscles obey.

  He said, “What the hell, Phyl?” looking down at himself appraisingly, sniffing to assure himself he hadn’t inadvertently become smeared with a stench.

  “Don’t try to be smug about it,” she flung at him. “I’ll never let you touch me again. Never—as long as I live.”

  “Hell’s bells,” he remonstrated, “I’m not being smug. I’m only being confounded. I never felt less smug in my life. What’s the matter with you?”

  Phyllis sniffled and there was a catch in her throat when she said, “I just happen to have some pride left. That’s all. I suppose you thought you had crushed it when you married me.”

  Shayne put his hands on his hips and studied her with narrowed eyes. She mimicked him by planting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes right back.

  He laughed, but it was a feeble attempt at humor. “Are you sore because I couldn’t get back sooner? I’ve been busy as the devil, and—”

  “I certainly am not,” she stormed at him. “If you had never come back it would have suited me better.”

  Shayne sighed. “If you’d only be reasonable, angel.”

  “Don’t call me angel,” she snapped. She stamped her small blue satin slipper on the rug. “Reasonable? Acquiescent is the word you want.”

  Shayne said, “Hell!” in a bitter, wondering tone. He turned away from her and went into the bathroom, where he uncorked his cognac bottle and splashed a water glass half full of the high-proof liquid.

  “That’s right,” Phyllis called in a high-pitched, hysterical voice, “soak yourself with brandy.”

  Shayne had the glass halfway to his lips. He held it there, scowling at the clear amber liquid. Then he tipped it up and took two big swallows.

  He set the glass down and examined himself carefully in the mirror. His hair was every which way and the scratches on his left cheek did not enhance his doubtful good looks. His eyes stared back at him with a weary expression. The stiff bristle on his face had grown unbelievably since morning.

  For the thousandth time he wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry a young, beautiful girl like Phyllis; wondered, with a fierce tingle of actual fright, how long she would be satisfied to remain married to him.

  Maybe this was the beginning of the end. A situation like this was something he didn’t know how to handle. He had had experience with hysterical women of an entirely different type. But, hell, a man couldn’t slap his wife around.

  He cocked his ear toward the partially open bathroom door. He could hear her wild sobbing, hear the choking in her throat.

  He closed the door silently, stalked back to the lavatory, and took another long drink, looking away from the unpleasant ugliness of his reflection.

  He poured more liquor into his glass and drank it. Then he looked around him, saw a cake of Phyllis’s complexion soap. He hurriedly took off his tie and turned his shirt back
at the throat, rolled up his sleeves, and doused himself with soapsuds and hot water. He found his razor, spread shave cream over his face, and shaved hurriedly, carefully edging the ugly scratches. He doused his bristly hair with hot water and combed it down sleek.

  Replacing his tie, he took a last look at his reflection in the mirror and strode into the living-room.

  Phyllis was sitting in a deep chair rocking back and forth with her hands covering her face. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably and the sounds of suffering from behind her fingers were unendurable.

  Shayne dropped on his knees before her and put a long arm around her. “Don’t, Phyl. For God’s sake, I can’t stand this.” He tugged gently at one of her hands to get it away from her face.

  Suddenly she lifted her head. There were no tears in her eyes. Convulsed with mirth, her eyes were wickedly bright, her young face radiant.

  “Michael Shayne,” she choked out, “how you ever got to be the world’s best detective I don’t know.”

  His arm tightened around her. Abruptly he swung her up from the chair and sat down in it, laying her neatly across his knobby knees. He cupped his palm to make a resounding noise as it came down.

  “I should have done this long ago,” he said grimly and in a tone which rang with sheer relief. “Say ‘’nuff’ when you’re ready.”

  “’Nuff,” she cried through her hysterical laughter.

  He swung her upright and caught her close in his arms. “Now, tell me, what’s the occasion for all this burlesque? You scared me out of my wits.”

  “Oh, Mike,” she caroled, “you looked so—so woebegone—so damn funny when I started in. I didn’t mean to keep it up, honest.”

  He muttered, “Yeh, I guess it was funny.”

  Phyllis drew back from him and looked at his hair. She ran soft fingers over his cheek, then she ran both hands through his hair and left it standing on end.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. It was a lousy trick. But I—I got started and couldn’t stop. It was—the first time I realized I could handle you.” She gazed at him with round, dark, wondering eyes.