Shayne let his legs down and dumped her on the floor. “Next time you pull a stunt like that I’ll whale hell out of you.”
Phyllis turned her bright smile into a pout. “Well, I really had cause to put on a scene. You certainly looked as if you were playing for keeps in that picture.”
Shayne looked down at her sitting with her knees doubled up and her arms clasping them. “What picture, angel?”
“Why, the one of you and that Taylor girl.” She swung to her feet and ran across the room to a small table. She picked up a photographer’s envelope and came back, opening the flap and drawing out a glossy print.
“There,” she said, handing it to him and dropping again to the floor in front of him. “If that isn’t the most shameless thing I ever saw.”
The photograph was, as Conway had gloatingly predicted, a honey. Three lines of blood showed on Shayne’s cheek and the camera had caught a perfect expression of guilt as he jerked his head toward the flash of the bulb. His arm was tightly around Midge’s waist as though he hung on doggedly while she sought to wrestle away, and the fingers of his other hand were curved suggestively close to the torn bosom of her dress as they might have been had he ripped the fabric.
Midge Taylor was drawn back from him tautly, a look of real terror and of maidenly anger on her face.
Shayne studied the print from several angles, nodding gravely. “Playboy Shayne at his best,” he commented. “That’s an example of the technique I had just perfected when you slipped up on my blind side and married me.”
Phyllis laughed scornfully. “That’s your innate modesty. You know you never had to tear the clothes off women.”
“How did you get hold of this?” He reached for the envelope and read the printed legend: Ace-High Studio, Jake Liverdink, Prop.
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” Phyllis said. She sprang from the floor and sat on the arm of his chair, cuddling against him. “Mr. Matrix sent it up while you were out—along with this note.” She unzipped the front of her gown to get out a folded note.
Shayne took it and read:
Here’s the only print there’ll ever be. Keep it for a souvenir from Midge and me. This puts you in the clear to go after MacFarlane and his racket any way you want to.
GIL MATRIX.
A queer light came into Shayne’s eyes and he sat for a moment staring into space.
Phyllis looked impatient. “What does it mean?” she demanded eagerly. “Is this what you wouldn’t tell me about your trip out to the Rendezvous—when you insisted on talking about kittens in the road?”
Shayne grinned and nodded. “That’s exactly it, angel. Gil spoiled the game by breaking into the studio and smashing the plate—as much for Midge as for us, I imagine.”
The telephone rang in the bedroom before Phyllis could question him further.
Shayne sprang to his feet as though propelled by a coiled spring and rushed to answer it.
Will Gentry said, “I’ve just received a wire signed by the chief of police of Urban, Illinois.”
“Read it to me.”
He said, “Claude Bates and Lucretia Grant only couple married on that date. Now, what the hell, Mike?”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will,” and hung up quickly. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down the two names, then sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his lean jaw.
He then lifted the phone and asked the hotel switchboard operator to get him the warden of the state penitentiary at Joliet, Illinois.
Chapter Seventeen: NO REST FOR THE CORONER
MICHAEL SHAYNE HELD THE TELEPHONE to his ear with one hand and fished a cigarette from a pack in his pocket while he waited. Phyllis came in and sat beside him, struck a match and lit his cigarette with silent competence.
He listened to long-distance operators talking back and forth, and finally a voice informed him, “We are ready with the state penitentiary at Joliet, Mr. Shayne, but the warden is not in. Will you talk to someone else?”
“Anyone in authority,” Shayne answered, and after another brief wait the voice said, “Here’s your party. Go ahead, please.”
Shayne said, “Hello, Joliet,” and a male voice answered, “Hello.”
“This is Michael Shayne speaking—a private detective in Miami, Florida. I’m working on a murder and counterfeiting case and I think you have information that will crack it for me.”
“What information do you need?”
“The dope on a couple of former inmates. Their names are Claude Bates and Theodore Ross. Got that?”
“Just a minute while I write them down. All right.”
“I don’t know the date you received these men. About ten years ago—or less than that. I don’t know what the charge or sentence was, though I have a hunch they went up for some sort of counterfeiting racket—printed forgeries of some sort, I imagine.”
“It’ll take some time to check the records on that meager information,” the voice from the penitentiary warned him. “Do you want it tonight or—”
“I want it right now. I’ll hold the line while you check.”
He heard a resigned, “Very well,” and relaxed to wait. He sucked on the cigarette, staring straight in front of him with brows knitted. Though he had spoken over the telephone with crisp certainty, he wasn’t at all certain that his hunch was right. In one sense it had to be that way, but in a dozen other logical answers there might be one that would fit the facts in his possession as well.
After waiting and listening for ten minutes, he said to Phyllis, “It’s taking them a hell of a long time to get the information. They should have all the names of former prisoners filed alphabetically. It shouldn’t take so long—”
His fingers tightened on the telephone when a voice came through. He frowned and said resignedly, “Yes—waiting.”
Then, the deep furrows smoothed out as he listened to the prison deputy. He said, “That’s swell. Nineteen-thirty-one, eh? Twenty to fifty years. Escaped in ’thirty-six.” He kept nodding while he listened, a pleasurable gleam in his gray eyes.
“That’s fine,” he said presently. “I’ve got all that, and thanks. I’m quite sure I’ll have something on that for you tomorrow.”
With the instrument held to his ear he broke the connection, and when the switchboard answered he said, “I want to speak to Timothy Rourke.” He gave a Miami residence telephone number and waited.
Phyllis asked, “Are you going to have a scoop for Tim?” excitedly.
Shayne grinned and gestured for silence. In a moment he said, “Hello—Tim? Shayne speaking. Come on up to Cocopalm right away. I’m about to play an ace that’ll win the pot if somebody doesn’t play the joker.”
“What’s up, Mike? Something on the Mayme Martin murder?”
“Maybe. And there are a couple of other angles. I thought maybe you’d want to be in on it since you dealt the hand when you delivered that message from Phyl this afternoon.”
“Maybe! Mike, why didn’t you call me—”
“See you at headquarters in Cocopalm.”
When he cradled the receiver Phyllis was tugging at his arm. “What is it, Michael? You look like a cat that’s swallowed three canaries. Who are these men—Bates and Ross? I’ve never even heard their names in connection with the case.”
Shayne stood up slowly and the expression of exultation slowly went from his face. He stared down at his hands, cracking one knuckle after the other.
“It’s the roundup, Phyl. I know who’s been doing the counterfeiting—who murdered Mayme Martin and Ben Edwards—and why they were murdered.”
“You don’t look very happy about it. Have you forgotten the fee you’ll have coming? And who—?”
He silenced her with a long, searching look. “This isn’t going to be any fun, Phyl. Someone else is going to get hurt. That’s the hell of crime.”
He shrugged his shoulders, bent and kissed her lips lightly. “Don’t worry. And Phyl—”
“Yes?”
�
��I wish you’d get dressed to go out. I don’t know, but I think I may call on you for a little help after a while.”
“Of course.” She sprang to her feet, seized his arm. “Is it that girl—out on the beach?”
He said, “Yeh. Midge. It’s funny how life slaps some people around.”
He went out and grabbed his hat and went down in the elevator. Will Gentry was waiting for him in the lobby. He growled, “Well, you got the wire you wanted. It’s taken you a hell of a long time to get down here. Now what?”
“The rest of it is easy. Only—you and Chief Boyle will have to fight over jurisdiction. Your man also killed Ben Edwards.”
“Who? What the hell do you know?”
“I’ll handle the finish my own way,” Shayne advised him dryly. “I don’t want either you or Boyle horning in at the last minute and spoiling my claim on the fee from the race-track officials.”
He stalked away from Gentry and went to the desk. “How long ago was Matrix here—when he brought that envelope you sent up to my wife?”
The clerk pursed his lips and glanced up at the clock. “Something like half an hour ago, I imagine. He said you were in his office waiting for him then.”
“Matrix said I was waiting for him in his office?”
“Why, yes. He offered to take the message over to you, and since he was going anyway—”
Shayne’s fingers closed down on the clerk’s forearm and drew a little yelp of pain from him. “What message are you talking about?”
“Why, the one that came for you by messenger. A plain sealed envelope marked Urgent. It came while Mr. Matrix was standing here at the desk, and I thought—of course—”
“You didn’t think,” Shayne snapped. His nostrils flared and he breathed through them heavily. He dropped the man’s limp forearm with a flat, tired oath, then strode to the switchboard and ordered the girl to connect him with John Hardeman at the race track at once.
He leaned against the railing and lit a cigarette while the operator’s fingers nimbly put plugs in holes and pulled plugs out of holes. She looked up after a time and said brightly, “I’m sorry. Mr. Hardeman does not answer.”
Shayne dragged himself erect. He saw Gentry watching him quizzically but the burly chief made no move to interfere. Shayne went back to the desk and asked the hotel clerk, “Where does Matrix live?”
“One block down.” The clerk gestured southward. “The Magnolia Apartments.”
Shayne surged out of the lobby and across the street to where he had left his roadster parked when he reconnoitered the printing plant and its strange flashes of light. He slammed it down the street in second gear, screeched up in front of the Magnolia Apartments and leaped out.
Four long strides took him into a small foyer with mail slots all around. Matrix’s name was on No. 4.
He found No. 4 at the end of the hall. It was dark and his knock went unanswered. He tried three keys in the lock before finding one that would open it.
He snapped on a ceiling light. The apartment was in a state of complete disorder, with three closed traveling-bags and a briefcase standing in the center of the floor.
Turning off the light and closing the door as he went out, Shayne walked slowly back to his car. Under the wheel, he paused to light a cigarette and draw on it thoughtfully before putting the car in gear. Then he wheeled around and drove to the hotel at slow speed.
Will Gentry looked up with interest when Shayne approached from the doorway. He started to ask a question, but did not after he got a good look at Shayne’s face.
The redheaded detective gripped Gentry’s arm and led him to the door. “Will you do something for me, Will? Without asking questions?”
Gentry said, “Sure,” and waited.
Shayne gave him the address of a cottage on the beach. “Drive out there and park within a block or so. Gil Matrix will be there after a while. Leave him alone—until he tries to leave the cottage with a girl. If he does that before I get out there, stop him—and wait there for me.”
Gentry agreed without asking any questions. He got in his car and drove in the opposite direction while Shayne raced his roadster toward the race track.
A few automobiles were leaving the track parking-lot when Shayne approached, the early-departing vanguard of the rush that would follow the final race, those who liked to avoid the final rush or who had lost all their money through the pari-mutuels and were willing to call it a night.
Shayne drove into the lot, but this time did not affront the attendant by parking for a quick getaway. He slid his roadster into the spot indicated, got out and strode at a swinging pace to the entrance gate, which was open and deserted at an hour when the night’s racing was almost over.
The grandstand appeared as crowded with gay costumes as it had been earlier in the evening, and throngs still surged about the betting-windows as the dogs were paraded for the last race.
Shayne shouldered his way among them, grim-faced and calm, went to the door under the grandstand leading to the offices. The same clattering of calculating machines and typewriters smote his ears as before.
This time he went direct to the door of John Hardeman’s office. He knocked tentatively, with the air of a man who did not expect his knock to be answered.
It was not answered.
The knob refused to turn when he put pressure on it.
He shielded his action with his body while drawing a ring crowded with keys from his pocket. He tried half a dozen without success, but persevered until the right key came to his hand.
It turned grudgingly in the lock. He glanced around the empty corridor before pushing the door open and sliding into the dark office.
He took time to get the key out of the lock and close the door on the night latch before feeling for a light switch. His nostrils twitched with the lingering acrid odor of gun smoke in them as he found the switch and pressed it. He turned slowly and stared with somber eyes at the dead body of John Hardeman slumped sideways in his swivel chair with a small powder-marked hole in his right temple.
Band music came through the open window mingled with the hopeful shouts of the racing throng.
Chapter Eighteen: WHILE THE CROWD ROARS
SHAYNE STOOD BACKED AGAINST THE DOOR without moving for a full minute. Then he glanced at the open window and went to it, circling the flat desk and the corpse.
The rear of the office abutted almost against the blankness of a high board wall enclosing the track with barely room for a body to squeeze between wall and window. Shayne stepped back, satisfied that no one could look into the office through the aperture.
He stopped a foot from Hardeman’s body, right thumb and forefinger seizing the lobe of his left ear and kneading it absently while his gray eyes studied every minute detail of the death scene before him.
Hardeman’s chair was swiveled to the left, halfway between the flat-topped desk and typewriter stand behind him. His head rested laxly on his left shoulder slumped low in the chair and his left arm hung down over the chair arm with the tips of his fingers almost touching the office floor.
His right hand rested inside the open top drawer of the desk, barely touching the butt of a Police Positive .38 lying on top of a batch of papers. The forefinger of his right hand still wore the protective rubber covering with which he had been picking out letters on the typewriter when Shayne had entered the office earlier.
A sheet of paper was rolled in the typewriter behind him. It carried the printed letterhead of the race track, with John Hardeman’s name in modest letters in the left-hand corner under the legend Manager.
The date had been typed beneath the letterhead. That was as far as Hardeman had got with whatever communication he had been on the point of typing.
The single bullet which had killed the manager had not come out the back of his head. There was only the wound, pockmarked with powder burns all around, a little above and halfway between his right ear and eye. Blood had run from the wound and made a path down Hardeman’
s cheek to the point of his chin, where it dripped off to the rug.
Blood continued to dribble from the wound as Shayne stood there. Single thick drops, widely spaced as the fluid clotted. It fell with a dull plopping sound into the thickening pool directly beneath.
It was a simple matter to reconstruct the exact manner in which John Hardeman had met his death. He had been turned away from his desk typing with the rubber-covered forefinger when someone entered his office. The door had been unlocked, Shayne recalled, on his previous visit.
Swiveling about to face his visitor, the race-track manager had looked into the muzzle of a gun. His instinctive reaction had been to make a desperate reach for his own pistol, which lay conveniently at hand in the open drawer. He had died before his fingers could grasp the weapon.
Everything else in the office was the same as Shayne had seen it before. Apparently nothing had been tampered with in any way. Hardeman’s killer must have fled furtively as soon as the lethal shot was fired. It was entirely practicable to enter and leave the private office via the hallway unnoticed, as Shayne was fully aware.
After a thorough inspection of the dead man, Shayne stopped rolling his earlobe and stepped back. He hooked one thigh over a corner of Hardeman’s desk and considered the situation carefully, in respect to himself, and as it had a bearing on two other murders and the conclusion he had worked out in his mind for the case.
A queer hot light flickered in his gray eyes. They stared unblinkingly at the dead figure before him. A grim look of questioning came over his face. He got up and approached Hardeman again, turned back his coat, and nodded at sight of a leather wallet in the dead man’s inside breast pocket.
He hesitated, then whisked out a handkerchief and draped it over his fingers, gingerly drew the wallet out and went back to sit on the desk.
Using his handkerchief to prevent his own fingerprints being left behind, he opened the wallet and emptied the inner compartments of a miscellany of cards, receipts, and folded memoranda onto the desk.
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