Brett Halliday - Tickets for Death

“It was the truth,” the lawyer insisted stubbornly. “I have told no one yet. And I expect you to tell no one she railed me and requested that I come to her apartment just before she died.”

Shayne was anxiously fanning the limp woman with his hat. Her face was stricken and flaccid, wrinkled lids were lowered protectingly over her eyes. Her lips began to move and Shayne put his ear close to hear her almost inaudible words. They were a faint sigh, scarcely formed, like words welling up from the subconscious with such agony that the lips were forced to form them.

“Mayme-and Ben-Gil. Gil-is he-next? Oh, God-did Gil-?”

“What is she saying?” Max Samuelson had crossed the worn carpet silently and was bending over the couch anxiously, straining to hear the woman’s words.

Shayne growled, “Nothing you’d be interested in. Nothing about the invention.” He shouldered the lawyer aside.

Mrs. Edwards’s eyelids flickered and faint signs of color began to creep into her cheeks. Shayne straightened up from her and stepped in front of Samuelson, backing him away inexorably.

“You’re through here, Maxie. As far as Edwards’s invention is concerned, you’re through altogether.” He backed the fat little lawyer toward the doorway, continuing in the same cold, hard tone:

“That doesn’t mean I’m believing your story about Mayme Martin. You wouldn’t have wasted much time getting to her after she phoned. I’m not sure she was dead when you got there. The bathroom looked a lot like Hymie’s idea of a good way to get rid of her.”

“No,” Samuelson breathed. His face was the color of putty. “I swear to you-”

“Don’t waste your breath. There’s also the little matter of Ben Edwards’s murder. A widow is easier to deal with, Max. What the hell were you doing out there on the road in your car when he was killed? You had gone to the track half an hour previously. Where were you in the meantime? A phone call took Ben to his appointment with death. Who made that call?”

“How do I know? How should I guess?” Samuelson backed through the door onto the porch before Shayne’s steady forward movement.

“You had better think up a good alibi for the time between seeing Hardeman and when I saw your car parked near Edwards’s body-headed toward town. Don’t tell me you were playing the races, because you never gambled a penny in your life.”

“Hey,” Hymie’s guarded voice called from the sedan. “Anything wrong, boss? You want Melvin and me to take that guy?”

“Sure,” Shayne called back. He gave Samuelson a shove that sent him teetering to the edge of the porch. “Come on, Hymie.”

Mrs. Edwards stood behind them, swaying in the doorway, her arms forming a cross outstretched to support her. “Please-gentlemen. Please don’t wake Tommy.”

There was movement in the front seat of the sedan. Samuelson called out through chattering teeth, “No, Hymie. Stay where you are.” He braced his short legs against a porch upright and summoned a semblance of dignity.

Shayne whirled around and assisted Mrs. Edwards back to the couch, assuring her that there would be no more loud talk, then hurried back to the porch. Moving close to Samuelson, he signaled for him to continue.

“I started back to town as soon as I saw Hardeman,” Samuelson said in a low voice. “There was no time between, when I could have been foolishly killing a man. I waited in Hardeman’s office for him to come.”

“With no witnesses?” Shayne said. “That’s a hell of an alibi. It won’t sound so good in court.” With a gesture of disgust he turned from Samuelson, muttering, “I’ll see you later.”

He hesitated at the door until Samuelson’s quick, short footsteps died away. He heard the motor start and a car door slam, then he went quietly into the living-room.

Mrs. Edwards was sitting at the end of the couch. She watched his approach with wide eyes that were gray pools of misery, of disbelief and dismay conflicting with terrible certitude.

Shayne stopped in front of her, moodily rubbing his jaw. “Maxie is gone,” he told her abruptly. “I don’t think he will worry you any more. Later I’ll put you in touch with a man who will honestly appraise your husband’s invention.”

She wet her dry lips and said, “Thanks.” Her hands mechanically strayed out for the sewing-basket beside her.

Shayne thrust his own hands deep into his pockets, stalked to the chair near the couch, and slouched down into it. “Isn’t it time you told me some things, Mrs. Edwards? Your husband is dead now. The truth can no longer hurt him. And Mayme Martin is past caring. There’s only Gil left.”

The widow’s left eyelid fluttered uncontrollably. Her hands lay quiet and relaxed on the garment in her lap. “Why-do you say that?”

“There’s something behind all this,” Shayne insisted. “Something I can’t put my finger on.” He paused, his hard gray eyes glowing speculatively. “Your husband was a very brilliant man. A genius in his line. Why did he bury himself here in this little town-working for the small salary Matrix could afford to pay on the Voice?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” she faltered. “We were happy here in our little home.”

“I don’t believe Ben Edwards was very happy. A man with his ability would be embittered and frustrated in the position of a small-town newspaper photographer. Yet he stayed here. Why?”

“He and Mr. Matrix were old friends,” she defended her husband feebly. “Gil needed his help when he started in the newspaper business here. Ben was-happy to have a part in the Voice’s success.” Her voice gained strength and conviction as she spoke.

“And Matrix and Mayme Martin were old friends,” Shayne mused aloud. “Now-two of the trio are dead. Only Gil is left. Don’t you see that you can’t hide the truth any longer?”

Mrs. Edwards shook her head stubbornly. She pressed her lips into a tight straight line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Shayne. Is there anything odd in the fact that three people who had been acquainted before should meet here in Cocopalm-where people from everywhere come?”

He got up and paced the worn rug, darting sharp glances at her. She resumed her sewing on a boy’s small shirt. Her fingers scarcely trembled as she plied the needle in small, neat stitches. Her face was again placidly unresponsive.

Shayne stopped in front of a framed and tinted photograph hanging on the wall. The picture was of a lean-jawed young man and a plump young lady with a determined look of pride on her face. Stoop-shouldered Ben Edwards might easily have posed as the young man a decade before, and there was little doubt that the proud woman by his side had turned into the placid-faced mother on the sofa. Worry over something had turned her hair gray prematurely, he decided.

In the lower right-hand corner of the framed photograph was printed: Herrick-Lane Studio, Urban, Illinois.

Shayne turned away from the picture and resumed his pacing. Mrs. Edwards continued to sew and said nothing. After a time Shayne broke the silence by asking, “How long have you and Ben been married?”

“Ten years. Ten years lacking only a few days.” Mrs. Edwards’s voice faltered, but she went on resolutely: “Tuesday would have been our tenth anniversary. We had planned-we were going to Miami to make a day of it. Just the two of us. A regular celebration.” She dropped her hands into her lap and gazed past the detective, her eyes wet again, her lips trembling a little.

He said, “I’m sorry-to bring up memories and regrets,” but she interrupted him with a fierce gladness:

“You needn’t be sorry. Memories are all I have left of Ben. I’ll live with memories the rest of my life. Fine memories-nothing can take them away from me. Ben was a good man-a good husband, and a splendid father to our son.”