Brett Halliday - Shoot the Works

“Oh yes. Mr. Jeffer. He will be along presently. As soon as he is disengaged. Though I seriously doubt he will be much help, Mr. Shayne. It appears to have been a routine purchase, one of hundreds he handled during the course of the day, and, unless there was some reason, I doubt if he will recall any particulars of the sale.”

“One thing you can tell me while we wait. On a flight like this to South America, what about passports? Does the buyer have to show his?”

“Not at the time of purchase, no, Mr. Shayne. He is instructed, however, that a valid passport and a correct visa will be required by Customs before departure else he will not be allowed aboard.”

Shayne got up and went to the desk to mash out his cigarette in a clean ashtray, tugging at his ear thoughtfully. “Suppose a ticket-holder turned up with a valid passport made out in a name different from the one he had given when he bought the tickets. Would he be allowed to leave?”

“I really can’t say. It would be most irregular. I don’t know if there’s any precedent for such a situation. If he could prove his actual identity as matching the passport, I see no reason why he would be held up. It would cause some confusion and the manifest would have to be corrected. However, if he presented valid tickets for the flight and a valid passport I should think the legal requirements would be fulfilled.”

There was a light knock on the rear door, and he swiveled in his chair to call, “Yes? Come.”

The door opened and a blond, college-type youngster sauntered in. He wore a blue, pin-stripe suit and a bow tie and his manner was very respectful. “You wanted me, Mr. Hitchcock?”

“Yes, Jeffer. It’s about a pair of tickets you sold yesterday on our Flight Seventeen to Rio this morning.” Mr. Hitchcock held up the two tickets and waved them in the air as though they offended him. “This is a private detective who wants to question you about the purchaser.”

Jeffer looked at Shayne curiously and said, “I’ll do my best.” He took the tickets and looked down at them helplessly. “What about them?”

“I’ll jog your memory a bit. I’ve ascertained they were sold the middle of yesterday afternoon for cash by a buyer who gave you the name of James Richards and his address as the Biltmore Hotel. Just the fact they were paid for in cash might jog your memory, Jeffer. You don’t sell too many tickets to South America for cash, certainly.”

The young man shrugged. “At least half my sales are for cash, I’d say. James Richards?” He repeated the name thoughtfully, closing his eyes as though he savored it, then shaking his crew-cut head. “It doesn’t ring any bell, Mr. Hitchcock. Gosh, the way people are crowding in all day… I suppose I sold fifty tickets to South America yesterday.”

Shayne sighed and asked, “I suppose there’s no possibility you didn’t explain carefully that a properly visaed passport would be required before he enplaned?”

“Oh, no. That’s part of our routine. We have a little printed folder giving all the necessary information on flights to various parts of the world.”

“And you couldn’t say whether the buyer was fat or thin, young or old, male or female?” Shayne pursued.

“I’m afraid I can’t. If there had been anything to draw my attention to these particular tickets…” The young man paused helplessly.

Shayne shrugged and stood up and leaned forward to twitch the tickets from his hand. “I imagine the person who bought them took particular care not to draw attention to himself… or herself.” He hesitated as a further thought struck him. “You wouldn’t have thought it peculiar if a woman had bought the tickets… instead of a man?”

“Why… no. Women often come in to buy tickets for their husbands and themselves.”

Shayne nodded in defeat and repocketed the tickets. “Thank you both, and I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

Mr. Hitchcock followed him to the door and effusively assured him that was perfectly all right and he was delighted to have been of any assistance whatever in serving any segment of Pan-American’s vast clientele, and if he could be of any further service…

Outside the office, Shayne made his way out of the bustling terminal and to his car in the parking lot with a dissatisfied frown on his face. In one sense, this had been a complete waste of time. All he knew was that someone who had given the name of James Richards and a fake address had bought a pair of tickets to Rio the preceding afternoon for cash… a pair of tickets that had subsequently turned up in the wallet of a murdered man who had apparently been packing a bag for such a trip when he was murdered. Whether Wallace, himself, had bought the tickets and given a false name, or whether someone else had bought them for him, was still shrouded in mystery. Twenty minutes remained before his appointment with Martin and Tompkins when he pulled away from the seaplane base.

Shayne stopped at the Beef House in Miami Avenue for a fast drink and a roast beef sandwich before going on to the Weymore. The bartender saw him enter, and he slid a four-ounce glass and a bottle of cognac onto the bar for him, and as Shayne poured the glass half full he leaned forward and confided, “Mr. Rourke was asking for you. He’s in a booth.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Pat.” He went back along the line of booths carrying his glass, found Timothy Rourke seated alone, fondling an after-luncheon drink, and slid into the seat opposite him, asking a waiter to hurry along a sandwich. The cadaverous reporter twitched his thin lips into a tight grin as Shayne sat down. “Last time we ate here we had a divertissement in the shape of a jealous husband. Hope you haven’t got one gunning for you today.”

Shayne shook his head, thinking about Gene and the switchblade knife that still reposed in his pocket. He said, “Not gunning this time, Tim. But if you see a character come in waving a knife, get under the table fast.” He took a sip of his drink and reached for Tim’s water glass to wash it down, and nodded slowly when the reporter asked, “Anything new on Wallace?”

“Several things and none of them add up.” Shayne turned the glass round and round between big fingers. “You got anything?”

Rourke said, “Nothing important. Will’s running around trying to knock holes in Mrs. Wallace’s story. I don’t think he’s succeeded except for that gap he turned up at the Olinar last night.”

“It wasn’t a real gap,” Shayne reminded him. “Just a lack of positive verification.”

“I know.” Rourke leaned back and laced bony fingers behind his head. “I saw him in his office about an hour ago. He’s sore about something, Mike. Something to do with you.”

Shayne nodded and downed the rest of his drink as the waiter placed an open sandwich of rare beef in front of him. He said, “Coffee,” and cut into the red meat. “Lucy told me he was throwing his weight around in my office. I gather it’s some hunch Will got after talking with Martin and Tompkins. He acted sore when he found me there before him this morning, though I don’t know why he should be. Did he pick up a new lead from them?”

“He didn’t tell me if he did,” grumbled Rourke, and Shayne knew that the secret of the missing million was still safe from the newspapers even if Gentry had got some inkling of it.

Between bites, he asked, “Is there a Brazilian Consulate in Miami?”

“I… think so. There’s a lot of air traffic these days.”

Shayne said, “Check, will you, Tim? Find out if Wallace had a passport visaed there recently. Or if anybody named James Richards applied for a visa recently.”

Rourke’s deepset eyes brightened alertly. “Was that what Wallace was packing his bag for?”