Tickets for Death (18 page)

Shayne stood his ground with only the lines on his face deepening to give a hint of his true feelings. He said, “It’s now or never, Gil. If you love Midge the only thing you can do for her is to come along without a fuss.”

Matrix’s too-big shoulders were hunched forward, his round eyes staring bleakly down at the revolver on the floor. He reached to pick it up and Shayne made no move to interfere with his actions. Matrix got hold of the weapon with lax fingers, then stood up and handed it to the detective without a word.

Shayne took it and dropped it into his coat pocket. He swung on his heel and went out the door.

Gil Matrix joined him on the porch. They stood there for a moment and the sullen roar of the sea made a dirge-like background for the sobbing of the girl inside the cabin.

Matrix raised one hand in a savage gesture of renunciation. He muttered thickly, “What are we waiting for?” and plunged down the steps.

Shayne followed, saying, “We’d better take my car,” and Matrix went to it and got in without another word.

Sliding under the wheel, Shayne backed away. He drove to the business section and as he neared the hotel, Matrix said, “The police station is down this street half a block.”

Shayne turned a corner and drove half a block. A lot of cars lined the curb in front of the small police station. He parked beyond them and he and Matrix walked back together.

Shayne looked up to see Timothy Rourke lounging in the open doorway. “Hi, Mike,” he called out. “You’re holding up the proceedings.”

Shayne grinned and shook hands with Tim, introduced Matrix with a wave of his hand, “Mr. Matrix, editor of the Cocopalm
Voice.
Rourke from the Miami
News.”

“What the hell?” Rourke demanded as he shook hands with the local editor. “I thought you had this story on ice for me.”

“Matrix is pretty much on the inside,” Shayne explained. “I couldn’t very well cut him out just to give you an exclusive story. But, where is everybody?” he added with a glance inside the front office, empty except for a uniformed man regarding them uneasily from behind a scarred pine desk.

“I haven’t been able to get past the sentinel in blue.” Tim Rourke ruefully jerked his thumb toward the local policeman. “The big shots are in back somewhere and my press card isn’t worth a damn up here.”

Shayne said, “Come on. Get hold of my coattail and we’ll crash the conference.”

He started toward the rear with Matrix and Rourke directly behind him. The policeman got up hastily, saying, “You can’t go back there. Chief Boyle said I wasn’t to let no one in his private office.”

“Two negatives,” Shayne pointed out, “make an affirmative. In his ungrammatical way, Boyle actually meant you were to admit anyone.” He kept moving and the policeman stood aside helplessly, knowing in his slow-acting brain that he was being circumvented, but not quite sure how much authority Shayne possessed.

A closed door at the rear had neat gold lettering on it:
Chief of Police.
Shayne turned the knob and walked into a smoke-filled private office and a confused murmur of voices. The voices stopped suddenly as he entered. Shayne nodded curtly to Chief Boyle, who sat behind an oak desk with a typewritten sheet of paper in his hands. He stood aside to let Tim Rourke and Matrix file in behind him, then closed the door in the midst of complete silence.

Chapter Twenty:
TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE

THREE OTHER MEN WERE SEATED in the private office with Chief Boyle. At the chief’s right, Will Gentry held a burning stogie six inches from his mouth while he studied Shayne with a look of frank perplexity on his stolid face. Shayne caught his eye and quirked a bushy red brow at his old friend, but Gentry did not respond. Behind the look of perplexity there was a hint of grim resolution that refused to be easily diverted.

Albert Payson was uneasily huddled in a chair directly in front of Boyle’s desk. The village banker appeared shriveled, and his normally ruddy countenance held an expression of shocked horror, of inner disbelief that struggled unsuccessfully against outward acceptance.

Only Grant MacFarlane appeared wholly at ease and happy about the whole thing. He lounged in a chair tilted back against the wall, still wearing his well-cut evening clothes and a look of insolent approval on his finely chiseled features.

Chief Boyle spoke first. He no longer appeared blusteringly aware of his own unimportance and incompetence. Here, in his private office behind his own desk, he was in full command of the situation, and he immediately made it clear that he intended to retain command. He said, “I don’t think we need you any more, Shayne. Everything is cleared up.”

Shayne said, “That’s fine.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Timothy Rourke and that veteran of many such conferences sidled away unobtrusively, settling himself in a corner with copy paper on his knee, where he could listen and not be noticed.

Shayne took the editor’s arm and led him closer to the desk. “I’ve been having a talk with Mr. Matrix,” he explained mildly, “and I think you may be interested in what I’ve learned.”

Chief Boyle cleared his throat and rattled the typewritten sheet in his hands. “I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he said tolerantly. “I don’t know where you’ve been this last half hour, but you evidently don’t know what has happened.”

“That’s right.” Mr. Payson spoke up squeakily. “It looks as though the case has solved itself, Mr. Shayne. I fear you won’t be able to take the credit, and—”

“And won’t be able to collect my fee?” Shayne finished for him sardonically. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you. I figure I’ve got the whole thing in the palm of my hand.” He glanced from Payson to Gentry, met that same disapproving, unyielding glance.

“I doubt it, Shayne.” Chief Boyle was not to be denied. He laid the paper down in front of him and thumped it loudly with his fist. “I guess you don’t know, for instance, that Mr. Hardeman has just committed suicide.”

Shayne echoed, “Suicide?” in a loud unbelieving tone to cover a gasp of astonishment from Matrix by his side. His fingers tightened warningly on the editor’s arm. He frowned and shook his head. “Why, that’s unbelievable. That—changes everything.”

“Exactly.” Chief Boyle’s voice held the exultant ring of triumph.

“Look here,” Shayne growled. “That’s too damn many suicides to swallow in one gulp. Don’t forget that Mayme Martin and Ben Edwards were both murdered and fixed up to look like suicides. How do you know?”

“Hardeman’s death is definitely suicide,” Boyle snapped. “Mr. Gentry and I made a thorough investigation.”

“Is that so?” Shayne glanced at Will Gentry.

The Miami detective chief nodded soberly. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt. Shot with his own gun—and I checked it for prints myself. Hardeman’s are all over it—no one else has handled it.”

“And he left a note,” Boyle put in, tapping the sheet in front of him. “It explains everything.”

Gil Matrix cleared his throat. He moved back a step, his eyes warily darting from one of the group to another.

Shayne shrugged his big shoulders. “All right. If you gentlemen are certain Hardeman committed suicide, that’s enough for me. But it doesn’t change things any. Matrix has a confession to make.”

The little editor drew himself up to his full height as five pairs of eyes turned to him.

Mr. Payson leaned forward in his chair, shaking his head. “A confession?” he breathed. “But I don’t understand. Mr. Hardeman left a full and complete confession.”

“One thing at a time,” Shayne growled. He turned to address Chief Boyle directly. “Florida has a state law providing that any man with a prison record must register with the authorities as an ex-felon when he settles here. Mr. Matrix—or Theodore Ross, to be more exact—neglected that detail when he came to Cocopalm.”

Albert Payson wet his lips and spread his hands out in a distracted gesture. “Ross?” he muttered. “Then, it is true—”

“He’s ready to take his medicine,” Shayne said shortly. “Ben Edwards was guilty of the same mistake, but he’s already paid a heavier penalty than will be assessed against Matrix.”

The thud of Grant MacFarlane’s front chair legs striking the floor was loud in the office. He lounged to his feet and spoke to Boyle: “I don’t know why I have to be here. Everything seems to be all cleared up.”

“Sit down,” Shayne ordered. “You’re not in the clear by a long shot.” He waited while MacFarlane slowly sank back into his chair, then went on harshly: “Don’t bank on that picture Jake Liverdink took of me tonight. There won’t be any prints made of it.” He turned his attention back to Chief Boyle. “You say Hardeman made a confession?”

“He certainly did. Just before he shot himself.” Boyle rustled the sheet of paper. “The damnedest thing you ever read.”

“Wait a minute.” Shayne held up one hand and eased a hip down on the corner of Boyle’s desk so he directly faced Gentry and Payson. “I’m about to be gypped out of my fee,” he protested. “I was hired on a contingent basis to solve this counterfeiting case. Now, you birds are trying to prove it solved itself—just because Hardeman was a weakling who couldn’t stand the gaff when I put the pressure on. That’s not fair to me. Hell, I had it all tied up in a knot before Hardeman killed himself. How about it, Will? Won’t you help me get a square deal?”

Will Gentry sighed through pursed lips. His eyes rested on Shayne’s gaunt face, narrowed and speculative. He nodded slowly in response to his friend’s appeal. “I imagine Mr. Payson will be fair about it. If you can prove you actually had the solution and were ready to crack down, I’d say the track is legally responsible for your fee. Don’t you agree, Payson?”

“Well—er—yes, I would say so. If Mr. Shayne can prove to us that he was in possession of the salient facts.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Shayne boasted. “I’ll undertake to tell you just what was in Hardeman’s confession, though you all know I haven’t read a word of it.”

He lit a cigarette, glancing across at Tim Rourke, who was furiously taking notes. Rourke grinned and nodded encouragement. Shayne glanced from him to Matrix, who still stood aside awkwardly, his shoulders hunched in a defensive attitude, his gaze flickering suspiciously about as though he refused to believe anything he heard. “Take the weight off your feet, Gil,” Shayne advised, “while I try to earn seventeen thousand bucks. That’s the correct amount, isn’t it, Payson?”

“Approximately, yes. Since it appears the track will sustain no further loss after tonight.”

“All right,” Shayne began slowly, “here’s the story. Just for the record, let me say that I first began to suspect Mr. Hardeman at seven o’clock tonight.”

He paused, glancing at MacFarlane with an ironic grin. “Though I did also think you might easily be mixed up in the deal. That’s what you get for harboring crooks out at the Rendezvous.”

“At seven o’clock?” Gentry asked. “You mean that shooting in Hardeman’s hotel room?”

“Yep. It stank,” Shayne asserted cheerily. “In the first place, I don’t believe those birds intended to kill me. They didn’t have their guns out when I barged in—else I wouldn’t have come out of it alive. If they just planned to slug me—what object would be accomplished? No one would be fool enough to think I’d scare off a case that easy.

“That was the first thing that looked phony,” Shayne went on, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “Then there was Hardeman all tied up in the clothes closet. But the closet door had been left ajar so he wouldn’t smother in there. Why? Why were they being careful of Hardeman’s health—unless he was the one who had hired them to pull the attack on me?”

“By God,” Boyle broke in excitedly, “Hardeman mentions that right here. He realized leaving the closet door cracked was a mistake.”

“The only reason I could see for any of it was that Hardeman had fixed that scene to put himself wholly in the clear before the investigation started. By faking an attack on himself he hoped to divert suspicion from himself entirely. His own guilty conscience made him do it, of course, and it served to point suspicion at him instead.”

“Why didn’t you say something right then?” Payson interpolated with genuine regret. “Ben Edwards might still be alive if you had.”

“Hell,” Shayne snapped, “that wouldn’t have done any good. Where would my proof be? I just had a hunch. I’m sorry about Ben Edwards, but I’m not sure it isn’t better this way. If he had lived he would have gone back to Joliet to serve an unexpired sentence. He escaped after serving five years of a twenty- to fifty-year rap.”

“That’s right, too.” Boyle’s tone was full of awe. He tapped a forefinger on Hardeman’s confession and nodded. “It’s all written down here.”

Shayne directed his next explanation to Will Gentry, who had subsided and slumped to a restful position in his chair. “I wanted to talk to Mayme Martin before I started on the case, and made a flying trip back to Miami to see her. I didn’t have time before leaving.” He paused and grinned sardonically. “I had an important engagement with Mr. Hardeman at exactly seven o’clock.” Shayne caught Gentry’s eye. Gentry nodded approval. His gaze shifted to Tim Rourke. Rourke’s nostrils flared and his eyes twinkled.

“When I got back to her apartment, Mayme Martin was dead,” Shayne resumed. “I made the mistake of first thinking she was murdered to prevent her from talking. Then—when Gentry showed me a slip of paper with my name and phone number on it, I began to see it differently. It looked as though she had been
sent
to tell me something that someone
wanted me to know.
You understand, gentlemen, I knew nothing about the case when I talked to Miss Martin. The only name she mentioned was Payson’s. She knew, somehow, that Payson intended calling me in on the case.”

By way of interruption, Mr. Payson coughed delicately.

“Then I realized,” Shayne continued, “what had actually happened. Whoever sent her to me knew that I had been to see her. They didn’t know she had demanded money from me for herself and I had refused. Anyone who knows me would know that I would, naturally, refuse.” He paused and grinned, catching Will Gentry’s eye. “Right here, I would like to exonerate Mr. Payson. Miss Martin’s deal was entirely with Hardeman.