Brett Halliday - Tickets for Death

She hung up and glanced defiantly at the detective. “There! What did I tell you? He’s coming right over.”

“That cheap little shyster,” Shayne said with acid distinctness. “If you think I’m going to bid against him you’re wrong.”

Mayme’s laugh was shrill. Her eyes glittered with greedy delight. “Shows you don’t know what it’s all about. What I’m selling Max Samuelson is different from what I’m offering you. Sort of different, that is.” She frowned, shaking her head to clear away the fog of perplexity. “What I mean is, you and Mr. Samuelson are on different sides of the fence.”

“We always have been,” Shayne growled. He hesitated, watching her carefully. “I’ll treat you fairly,” he urged. “If you’ll tell me what you’re trying to sell I’ll see about getting the cash.”

Mayme shook her head cheerfully. She wavered to her feet. “Come back after I make a deal with Mr. Samuelson. I swear I’m not playing you against each other. I got something that’s worth a grand to both of you.”

Shayne’s mouth tightened into a grim line as he fixed three names in his memory: Albert Payson, Ben Edwards, Max Samuelson. He studied Mayme Martin for a moment, then said, “Be careful,” softly, and went out.

He was sweating when he closed the door of No. 14. The hall lights had been turned on and as he passed doors which stood ajar, radio music floated into the hall.

A sweet-faced redhead stood in an open door near the head of the stairs. She cocked her head and spoke a soft greeting as Shayne passed. He stopped on the first step and looked back at her. She was no older than Phyllis and she couldn’t know much about the life that lay ahead of her. He started to speak and she moved toward him. He turned from her and went on down the stairs and out into the clean coolness of the tropical twilight.

Clouds were banked against the southern sky and a fresh southeasterly wind whipped at his hair. He got into his car and tossed his hat aside, rolled down the windows. Still thinking of the young redhead and wondering whether he was developing a belated social conscience, he muttered “Damn” and swung around to Biscayne Boulevard and south past Bayfront Park. There he turned to the right, then to the left, and parked in front of an apartment hotel on the bank of the Miami River.

Passing through the lobby he nodded curtly to the clerk, then went up three flights in the elevator. Down the hall he stopped before the door of a pleasant corner apartment, opened it, and stopped short just inside the room and whistled in shrill surprise.

A slim, black-haired girl was on her knees struggling with the straps of a Gladstone bag which was packed too full. Two handsome pieces of luggage stood conspicuously on the floor beside her.

Phyllis Shayne looked up from her task and said, “It’s high time you came home. Here I have to do all your office work and the packing for the family and you’re not even interested enough in your business to let me know where I can reach you.”

Shayne said mildly, “Packing, angel?” flinging off his hat and rumpling his coarse red hair. He reached her in six long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To Cocopalm.” Phyllis settled back on her trim high heels and let her husband strap the Gladstone. “If I wasn’t around to take messages you’d never get a case,” she said severely and with a twinkle of pride.

Shayne queried, “Cocopalm?” narrowing his gray eyes at her.

She nodded her dark head emphatically. “We’ll have to eat and run. It looks as if it’s going to rain little frogs and fishes, and you have an appointment with Mr. Hardeman at seven o’clock sharp. There’s barely time to make it. I’ve got dinner ready.”

Shayne echoed, “Hardeman?” in a wondering voice.

“John Hardeman,” she elaborated. “He’s the manager or something of the greyhound track at Cocopalm. Some one has been cashing counterfeit tickets at the dog track and they’re going to have to close it up if you don’t do something. So, I told him you’d be up tonight and put a stop to it.” She smiled, flushed and radiant, waiting for his approval of the manner in which she had conducted his affairs in his absence.

Shayne snapped the last catch on the bag and stood up without saying anything. He circled his wife and the packed luggage on the floor to arrive at the built-in wall mirror, which swung out to reveal a completely equipped bar. His angular face was sober and questioning as he poured a drink of cognac. He turned back toward Phyllis with the glass in his hand.

“Now tell me just what happened this afternoon, angel.”

She sat flat on the floor looking up at him, her dark eyes deep and serious. “First, about three o’clock a Mr. Albert Payson phoned. I don’t think it was long-distance. When he asked for you, I told him in a very businesslike way that I was Detective Shayne’s private secretary. He didn’t want to tell me anything, but I assured him I took care of the office and received all messages when you were out.”

“Never mind the suspense, angel. Who is Albert Payson and what did he want?”

“Oh, he owns the dog track at Cocopalm. He said they wanted you to come up and track down the counterfeiters. I guess Mr. Hardeman didn’t know Mr. Payson had already called you because he told me the same thing. I’m positive his call was long-distance from Cocopalm. He was very explicit about your seeing him at the Tropical Hotel at seven tonight.” She paused again, counting off the messages on her fingers. “Then there was the message from that girl. I called Tim Rourke and he said he’d find you. I didn’t tell Tim about Mr. Payson calling because I didn’t think you’d want anybody knowing about it but us.”

“Tim found me,” Shayne told her soberly. His face grew suddenly hard and his eyes were bleak.

Phyllis sprang to her feet. “Michael,” she breathed, “have I made a mistake-saying you’d take the case?”

He smiled and moved his head in quick negation. “Hell, no, angel. You did exactly right. Only-I wish I’d known about this an hour ago.”

“Well, it’s your own fault. You didn’t telephone me all afternoon.” She linked her arm in his and urged him toward the dinette where dinner was waiting.

“Starting tomorrow,” Shayne said jovially, setting his glass of cognac on the table, “I’m going to install a broadcasting station so you can tune in on me-”

“We’ve got to hurry,” she interrupted. “Sit down and I’ll put dinner on.”

“Cocopalm is only thirty or forty miles up the coast. I won’t need all those clothes you’ve packed, particularly the hatbox. I always wear my hat, you know.”

“That old hat,” she scoffed. “Anyway, the other bags are for me.”

“But, Phyl-”

She placed a three-inch rare steak on his plate and surrounded it with French-fried potatoes. “If you think you’re going off on a case, darling, and leave me behind to twiddle my thumbs, you’re mistaken. It’s all arranged… I’ve reserved a suite at the Tropical Hotel by telephone.”

Shayne said, “You do think of everything, angel. If you think it’ll be more entertaining to twiddle your thumbs in a Cocopalm hotel suite than here in our apartment, it’s okay by me.”

She prepared her own plate and sat down. Shayne emptied the cognac glass, then cut into the steak with the relish and gusto of a starving man.

Phyllis watched anxiously through the dinette window as heavy clouds obscured the sky and brought dark on early. They ate hurriedly and Phyllis was standing in the doorway with her hat on and ready to go when Michael pushed his chair back and rose from the table.

Rain came down in violent wind-driven torrents as they made a dash for the parked roadster, a blinding semi-tropical deluge accompanied by sheet lightning and rolling thunder. Shayne yanked the luggage compartment open and jammed the bags in while Phyllis hugged a brilliant transparent raincape protectively around her sports frock and white fur chubby.