Brett Halliday - Tickets for Death

Shayne patted her hand, which rested in the crook of his arm. His low chuckle held no mirth. When they reached the roadster he opened the door, helped her in, saying, “I’ll write you a letter of explanation the first spare minute I have.”

He stalked around the car and got in. When they pulled away from the little beach cottage he muttered, “You’re entirely too trusting, angel. Too willing to believe what you want to believe. But don’t change-keep it up. It’s very becoming to your face.”

“But, Michael, she did like me. I’m not guessing about that,” Phyllis flared.

“Maybe she did. Under happier circumstances you two might be friends. But she was anxious to get rid of us just the same. I looked in the bedroom on my way to the end of the hall. She was just starting to pack her clothes. It looks as though Gil stopped by to tell her to get ready to skip out with him.”

Phyllis’s dark eyes glowed with curiosity and regret. “Then you think Gil committed the murders-and is trying to get away.”

“He won’t get away if I can prevent it,” Shayne said in a noncommittal tone. He pressed the roadster forward to greater speed, groped for one of Phyllis’s hands and squeezed it. “Life plays dirty tricks on people sometimes. If I were God I’d arrange things differently, but I’m not God. I’m just a private dick with a job to do.”

She sighed and moved close to his big shoulder. “Just the same, I feel terribly sorry for both of them. I don’t believe either of them has ever known peace or happiness.”

Shayne made a wide swing at the next intersection, and instead of following the direction Matrix had taken he drove back down the beach to the street on which the Edwards house was located.

As he approached from the east he saw that only one automobile now stood in front of the lighted house. It was a bright blue sedan. Two men lolled back against the cushion of the front seat.

Shayne drove past without slacking speed, swerved into the curb in the middle of the next block, and got out. Phyllis moved her lips to question him as he said:

“Take the car on back to the hotel. Park it in front and leave the key with the clerk.” His voice was harsh, and Phyllis saw that all at once his lips were tight.

She slid obediently under the wheel. “Well, you needn’t snap my head off,” she told him, half seriously. “Why are you getting out here?”

“Sorry, angel.” He patted her hand, then jerked his thumb toward the blue sedan. “I’m going back to see Mrs. Edwards. If you see Will Gentry or Chief Boyle around the hotel you might ask one of them to drive by and pick me up presently.”

“But I could wait for you, Michael. Honestly, I don’t mind waiting at all.”

He waggled a long forefinger at her. “Remember, you agreed to take orders when I’m working. Get going.”

Disappointment came into her face, but she drove slowly away. He waited to be sure she didn’t turn back, then thrust his hands deep in his pockets and strolled back to the palm-shaded sidewalk, whistling. Curiously enough, the tune was his own off-key version of “The Campbells Are Coming.”

He saw the flare of a match from the front seat of the sedan as he approached. He groped in his pocket for a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, then stepped to the curb side of the sedan and asked, “Got a match?”

Melvin’s young round face twitched. He half turned to Hymie, who sat under the wheel, and his hand dived toward Hymie’s left armpit.

Hymie knocked his hand away. “You wanta give him my rod too?” he growled.

Shayne laughed softly. “Why don’t you tell him a fairy story to keep him quiet?”

Melvin began to curse the detective in a high-pitched voice while tears of anger and mortification came into his eyes.

“Lay off him,” Hymie demanded. “Sweet mother, what’s it get you to keep him riled up? We’re not bothering you.”

Shayne said, “I get a kick out of making him cry.” He swung around and opened the gate leading onto the yard walk.

Mrs. Ben Edwards answered the door. Her eyes were red but she was not weeping. Her plump face was stiffly set in tragic lines of acceptance and Shayne divined that she was through with waiting; glad, perhaps, that the time of waiting was ended.

She nodded and said, “Come in, Mr. Shayne,” exactly as though he had kept an appointment.

He went into the living-room and said, “Hello,” to Mr. Max Samuelson, whose bald head glowed as smooth as a buttered billiard ball. He was seated in the chair which Tommy had occupied earlier in the evening.

The lawyer nodded without speaking. He was a greasily fat little man with a dimpled jaw nestling among many chins. His cheeks had the appearance of never needing a shave and his jowls were as soft and pink as a baby’s behind. Ridiculously tiny feet barely reached the floor, though he sat near the edge of the chair, and rings were embedded in the soft flesh of his fingers, which were playing with a heavy gold watch chain suspended across his front. His belly shivered gently, like a protuberant bowl of jelly, each time he breathed. He breathed heavily now, glowering up at Shayne.

Shayne waited until Mrs. Edwards re-entered the room and took her seat on the couch. He said, “I’m sorry about your husband, but I know your friends have said that better than I.” He hesitated, glancing at Samuelson, whose eyes steadily watched him with reptilian intentness beneath ugly mottled lids.

“I really stopped by because I saw Max’s car outside. I want to spike whatever plans he has for your husband’s invention.”

“There is no reason for such an attitude, Shayne. If we could speak privately-” Max’s breath hissed out and he spoke with a perceptible thickening of his s’s.

“We’ll do our talking here in front of Mrs. Edwards. What sort of an offer has he made?” Shayne put the question to the widow point blank.

She stirred wearily. “He offered me a hundred dollars to sign a release on all rights to the camera-to turn the model and plans over to him.” She spoke softly, her eyes turning anxiously toward a rear door in the living-room.

“Nice going, Maxie,” Shayne jeered. “If she refuses your generous offer I suppose you’re prepared to give your mugs the go-ahead to steal the plans and model.”

“That is no nice thing to say,” Samuelson protested. “I take a chance when I offer a dollar of good money. The camera may be no good. There may be other patents. No one can say until the proper investigation is made.” He spread out his fat hands and diamonds flashed in the lamplight.

“Please-don’t talk loud enough to wake up the boy,” Mrs. Edwards pleaded. “He has cried himself to sleep.”

“Your pardon,” Shayne murmured. He kept his voice low and scathing when he turned to Samuelson again. “Why did you hurry up here with a couple of bodyguards after hearing what Mayme Martin had to say about the invention?”

A wary look crept into Max Samuelson’s hard black eyes. He put up both hands in protest. “I think that is a matter we should not discuss in front of Mrs. Edwards.”

“Why not? Don’t you want her to hear what Mayme told you?”

The lawyer’s multiple chins shook with agitation. He sat forward and the tips of his polished little shoes touched the rug. “Do you want me to say out loud what I found at the Red Rose Apartment when I arrived after you left?”

“Sure. Go ahead and say it.”

“The lady was dead.” Mr. Samuelson shuddered. “A shocking sight. Blood spilled on the bathroom floor.”

Mrs. Edwards uttered a low moan. She slumped sideways limply.

Shayne jumped to his feet and supported her. He said, “That’s a lousy choice of words before a lady who’s just been told her husband has been killed,” in a low, angry voice.