Brett Halliday - Tickets for Death

It looked as though Maxie Samuelson, his burly getaway driver, and the sniveling Melvin with itching trigger fingers on both hands had got out of town.

Will Gentry met Shayne with a surly growl when he stepped into the hotel lobby. “Where the devil have you been?”

“Out,” Shayne returned almost happily.

“Every time you get out of my sight, by God, something bad happens,” Chief Boyle proclaimed loudly.

“What has happened this time?” Shayne asked.

“A ruckus down at the Ace-High picture studio. Jake Liverdink was in the dark room doing some developing work when a thug broke in and knocked him out cold. Smashed up some things and got out before Jake could get a look at him.”

“He couldn’t have seen much out cold,” Shayne parried.

“Damn you!” Chief Boyle snarled, but Will Gentry interrupted:

“We have it on good authority that you saw Jake Liverdink earlier in the evening, in a professional way. The way Chief Boyle looks at it-”

Shayne grunted. “If I hadn’t been busy doing something else I might have visited Jake later in the evening-in a professional way. I happened to be busy breaking and entering the bank, however, so you can’t hang Jake’s troubles around my neck.”

Boyle’s eyes started to pop out. “Breaking in the bank? Well, by God-”

“Aided by the president of the institution,” Shayne cut him off. He turned to Gentry and asked: “Any telegram from Illinois, Will?”

“Not yet.” Gentry chewed fiercely on the frayed butt of a cigar. He jerked it out of his mouth and sniffed it, then hurled it out the door. “I can’t stand around here all night,” he shot at Shayne. “I’m still working on the Martin murder and you haven’t given me a goddamn thing. You’re still the last man who saw her alive as far as I know.”

Shayne nodded absently. “I still think you’ll clear it up by staying here in Cocopalm faster than it can be done in Miami. If Maxie was telling me the truth-”

“Maxie? Samuelson? How does he fit in?” Gentry demanded irritably.

“I’ll tell you, Will. That’s what I held out on you up in my room,” Shayne said with unmistakable seriousness. “I didn’t know how much pressure I’d need to use on Maxie and I wanted to keep that for myself if I needed it. But Maxie seems to have faded out of the picture up here. This is straight. Max Samuelson was on his way up to see the Martin woman when I walked out of her apartment.”

Gentry’s beefy face grew slowly livid. “Then Samuelson saw her after you did. And he was here where I could get my hands on him and you didn’t tip me off.”

“I couldn’t, Will,” Shayne insisted. “Not then. What good would it have done you anyway?”

“What good?” Gentry was apoplectic with rage. “Hell, I would’ve put the screws on him. He would’ve talked plenty to me, he would.”

“You can pick him up in Miami any time you want him,” Shayne reminded his old friend mildly. “I don’t think you’ll get much except to set the time of her death closely. He swears and be damned that she was dead when he got there.”

“Oh, he does, does he? And you believed him?” Gentry’s heavy upper lip curled.

“I haven’t got any beliefs yet, Will. All I’ve got is a theory.”

“The hell you have.” Gentry’s sarcastic tone did not change. “Maybe you’d like to let us in on this theory. We are sort of interested too, you know. Maybe you don’t realize it, but we’ve both had a murder occur in our territory tonight. Of course, murders aren’t important to you while you’re chasing a fee, but they happen to be our job. Mike, if you don’t come clean-”

“I can’t. Not yet. Not until that wire comes through from Illinois. Let me know as soon as you get it, Will.” He stood thoughtfully tugging at the lobe of his ear, then muttered, “I’ll be in my room,” and hurried toward the elevator.

The door of the hotel suite was locked. Shayne knocked loudly. After a time he heard movement in the room, then the knob turned and the door opened a cautious inch.

Shayne shoved the door wide open.

Phyllis backed away from him. Her eyes were enormous and stared at him with hot rebellion. She wore a hostess gown of blue silk taffeta which swept to the floor in swinging fullness, rustling at her slightest movement. She folded her hands and stood straight and slim and outraged before him.

Shayne grinned. “Are you practicing up for something, angel?” His gray eyes were laughing. He took a step toward her, pushing the door shut with a hand behind him.

Phyllis put out a restraining hand. “Don’t touch me,” she ordered shortly. “Don’t even so much as lay a finger on me.”

The smile went away from Shayne’s eyes, from his deeply lined face. Slowly, as though he willed it to remain but could not make his facial muscles obey.

He said, “What the hell, Phyl?” looking down at himself appraisingly, sniffing to assure himself he hadn’t inadvertently become smeared with a stench.

“Don’t try to be smug about it,” she flung at him. “I’ll never let you touch me again. Never-as long as I live.”

“Hell’s bells,” he remonstrated, “I’m not being smug. I’m only being confounded. I never felt less smug in my life. What’s the matter with you?”

Phyllis sniffled and there was a catch in her throat when she said, “I just happen to have some pride left. That’s all. I suppose you thought you had crushed it when you married me.”

Shayne put his hands on his hips and studied her with narrowed eyes. She mimicked him by planting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes right back.

He laughed, but it was a feeble attempt at humor. “Are you sore because I couldn’t get back sooner? I’ve been busy as the devil, and-”

“I certainly am not,” she stormed at him. “If you had never come back it would have suited me better.”

Shayne sighed. “If you’d only be reasonable, angel.”

“Don’t call me angel,” she snapped. She stamped her small blue satin slipper on the rug. “Reasonable? Acquiescent is the word you want.”

Shayne said, “Hell!” in a bitter, wondering tone. He turned away from her and went into the bathroom, where he uncorked his cognac bottle and splashed a water glass half full of the high-proof liquid.

“That’s right,” Phyllis called in a high-pitched, hysterical voice, “soak yourself with brandy.”

Shayne had the glass halfway to his lips. He held it there, scowling at the clear amber liquid. Then he tipped it up and took two big swallows.

He set the glass down and examined himself carefully in the mirror. His hair was every which way and the scratches on his left cheek did not enhance his doubtful good looks. His eyes stared back at him with a weary expression. The stiff bristle on his face had grown unbelievably since morning.

For the thousandth time he wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry a young, beautiful girl like Phyllis; wondered, with a fierce tingle of actual fright, how long she would be satisfied to remain married to him.

Maybe this was the beginning of the end. A situation like this was something he didn’t know how to handle. He had had experience with hysterical women of an entirely different type. But, hell, a man couldn’t slap his wife around.

He cocked his ear toward the partially open bathroom door. He could hear her wild sobbing, hear the choking in her throat.

He closed the door silently, stalked back to the lavatory, and took another long drink, looking away from the unpleasant ugliness of his reflection.

He poured more liquor into his glass and drank it. Then he looked around him, saw a cake of Phyllis’s complexion soap. He hurriedly took off his tie and turned his shirt back at the throat, rolled up his sleeves, and doused himself with soapsuds and hot water. He found his razor, spread shave cream over his face, and shaved hurriedly, carefully edging the ugly scratches. He doused his bristly hair with hot water and combed it down sleek.