Brett Halliday: Tickets for Death

He lifted her chin with a broad palm and kissed her lips. “I’ll be all right as soon as I find out what’s going on and what to expect.” He put her gently aside and went into the living-room. He paced the floor for a couple of minutes, then returned to the bedroom, unstrapped his Gladstone, pawed around under the clothes until his hand encountered cold steel. He lifted out a. 45 automatic and stuffed it under his belt in a lightning gesture, buttoned his coat over it just as Phyllis looked up from unpacking a hatbox.

“Are you looking for your cognac bottle?” she asked.

Shayne said, “Yeh. My cognac bottle.” He probed for the bottle and found it, went into the bathroom with it dangling from his fingers.

He set the bottle down and swiftly checked his automatic. It was loaded and the safety catch was on. He thrust it back under his belt, poured a small drink in a water glass, and went back into the room sipping it.

Phyllis smiled at him and said, “You run along and solve the case while I amuse myself in this gorgeous place pretending I’m the mistress of a retired hog raiser from Iowa.”

Shayne set his empty glass down. “Okay. I’ll let you know how things work out, Mrs. Shayne.” He went out the door and closed it firmly behind him and sauntered down the hall to 312.

The door was closed but dim light showed through the transom. Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he stopped in front of the door. He slid his hand down to the butt of his weapon and pushed off the safety. He knocked once and then twice, standing crouched and tense.

The door opened instantly and silently.

Shayne’s lunge smashed the door back against the man who was opening it. His own body force carried him past the descending blackjack in the hand of the other man ambushed against the threshold.

Checking his rush, he whirled, pulling his gun free and dropping to his knees as the man beside the open door dropped his blackjack and cursed gutturally, dragging a pistol from a shoulder holster.

Shayne shot him through his thick neck as the gun came out, then drove another slug into his open-mouthed surprise as he toppled forward.

Pain stung Shayne’s belly muscles like a searing flame. He lurched sideways and snapped a bullet at the youth who had been flung back when the door crashed and now held a smoking revolver in his hand.

A nickeled. 32 thudded to the rug and the pallid-faced lad went slowly to his knees, both hands hugging his stomach. A low whimper escaped his lips as he crouched there. His eyes glazed slowly and he went limp to the floor. His legs twitched and gray slobber drooled from between bloodless lips.

Shayne sat crosslegged on the rug and dropped his pistol in front of him. He put his hand to his side and it came away smeared with blood. Then he investigated more carefully and sighed with relief. It was only a flesh wound, nicking the muscles between rib-ends and hipbone.

He got to his feet wearily when people began to come into the room through the open door.

He grinned and waggled his finger at Phyllis when he saw her pushing in behind the others. Above the excited chattering and questioning and hysterical pandemonium he pantomimed to her that he could do with a drink, then moved back to sit upon the bed when she nodded and her pale, frightened face disappeared.

The Tropical Hotel house detective and an assistant manager made quick work of clearing the room of ogling bellboys and hysterical guests.

The house detective was a fat man with rosy cheeks and a pleasant expression. His slightly bulging eyes were grave as he bent over first one body and then the other. He made mumbling noises to himself, but spoke no intelligible words aloud. When he stood up, his gaze swept around the room as if seeking to place proper blame upon whoever had entered his premises and disturbed the even tenor of his way.

The assistant manager was tall and twittery and somewhat distinguished by perfect attire and Oxford glasses which failed to remain astride his prominent nose in coordination with his nervous gestures. He stood in the center of the room, plainly dismayed, yet apparently determined to reveal himself as an official of the hotel.

“This sort of thing is appalling, dreadfully appalling,” he said finally to Shayne. He caught his glasses in midair and settled them firmly on his nose. “We have the hotel’s reputation to think of.”

The entrance of a physician through the open door cut short further reproval by the assistant manager. Behind him, Phyllis appeared with her hands behind her. All eyes were on the doctor as he bent over the bodies with a stethoscope which he took from his hip pocket, and no one paid any attention to Phyllis as she crossed the room to sit beside her husband on the bed. Her eyes were still dilated with fright and her face white, but her fingers were steady when she pulled the cork.

Shayne took a long drink and grinned at her. He said, “Thanks, angel,” and winced as he inadvertently moved the injured portion of his body.

Watching him narrowly, Phyllis caught her breath at the sight of blood on the spread between them. She sprang to her feet and cried out to the doctor:

“My husband-Doctor, he’s injured. He is bleeding to death. Do something!”

The doctor looked up mildly into her dark agitated eyes, folded the stethoscope tenderly, and returned it to his hip pocket. “I can’t do anything for these men,” he said. “They’re dead.” He stood up and went to Shayne. “What happened to you? Did you stop a bullet too?”

“Here,” Shayne said, indicating the spot. He lay back across the bed with his hand holding the wound.

The doctor deftly disinfected and bandaged the wound while Phyllis looked on in an agony of terror. Suddenly she ran from the room and returned with a clean undershirt and a fresh shirt. The doctor smiled gravely at her pale face when Shayne growled:

“There’s no time for that.”

“But, Michael, you’re all blood,” she cried.

“You can change suits later,” the doctor told him amiably, and assisted Phyllis in disrobing Shayne’s torso and getting him into a clean undershirt.

Shayne did not resist them until his gray eyes strayed to the door as two men entered. “Damn,” he muttered, and grabbed the top shirt and put it on unassisted.

One of the men was a burly fellow with a black felt pushed far back on his forehead. A silver star sagged from his open coat and the word Chief was engraved on it. He wore a movie-cowboy cartridge belt with a. 45 swinging rakishly low in an open holster. He heeled the door shut and spoke harshly and authoritatively to the hotel detective:

“What’s going on here, Gleason?”

Before Gleason could reply, the little man who entered with the chief chuckled happily and said:, “It looks like big city methods have come to Cocopalm, Chief Boyle. This is Michael Shayne or I miss my guess.” He jerked a bushy, oversized head toward the tall detective sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Shayne? Damned if I like this.” Chief Boyle thrust a belligerent, double-chinned jaw toward Shayne.

“I don’t care a hell of a lot for it myself,” Shayne drawled.

Phyllis stood by patiently holding his necktie in her hand. He reached up and took it from her, saying under his breath, “Go on back to your room, angel. This is no place for you.”

Her eyes flashed defiance. She didn’t say anything, but stepped back into a corner and sank into a deep chair, her eyes very bright and angry on Chief Boyle, who scowled down at Shayne’s automatic lying on the floor.

He asked, “Is this your gun, Shayne?”

Shayne said, “Yes. I’ve got a permit to carry it.”

“But no permit to go around killing people.” The chief frowned. “I’ve heard about the rough stuff you pull in Miami, but it won’t go here in Cocopalm.”