Brett Halliday - Tickets for Death

“It’s lucky for you they left the door open a crack so you wouldn’t smother,” Shayne interposed gravely when the man stopped for a long-drawn breath.

“You can’t imagine my relief,” Hardeman continued, “when I heard the others enter the room and I gathered that you had actually turned the tables on those murderous rogues. I must confess, though, no one seemed unduly curious as to my whereabouts,” he ended with a reproachful glance at the men standing around the room.

“Did the thugs do any talking that made sense?” Shayne demanded. “Could you gather who or what was behind the attack on me?”

“Very little.” Hardeman pursed his lips, spat out another small piece of cotton, then shook his head. He whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “They assured me that I would not be harmed if they succeeded in their designs on you. I didn’t put any trust in their promise. The motivation behind the attack was evidently your appearance here in Cocopalm to investigate the counterfeit racing-tickets.”

“It seems a reasonable assumption,” Shayne conceded dryly. “And I think I can thank our crusader editor for arranging things so neatly in my behalf. His front-page story was an invitation for something like this.”

“Don’t thank me,” Matrix protested with a thin smile. “It was printed as a public service. Hardeman has been reluctant to take the bull by the horns and call in outside help, and I forced his hand by making you front-page news after he agreed to ask for your help.”

“And making it impossible for me to get any line on who was behind the attack,” Shayne pointed out harshly. “Instead of having those directly interested know I was coming, you made it common knowledge.”

“I certainly had no intention of broadcasting it,” Hardeman avowed. He shot a malevolent glance at the editor. “I might even suggest that Matrix hoped for some such result when he printed the story.”

“You’ve got to admit it worked, if that was what I wanted,” Matrix chortled. “This little affair is going to sell a lot of papers tomorrow.”

Shayne turned away from him with a grunt of disgust. “Let’s go to my room for our conference, Mr. Hardeman.” He stooped to pick up his automatic, which still lay on the floor, but Chief Boyle stopped him.

“Better let me have that gun. I’m not rightly sure but what I ought to lock you up to boot.”

Shayne straightened up with the weapon dangling from his fingers. “I told you I had a permit to carry it.”

“There’s been killing done,” the chief persisted doggedly. “Don’t you go trying to push me around like you push the cops in Miami. Inciting trouble, that’s what you’re doing, coming in here and stirring things up.”

Shayne snorted and thrust the gun in his belt. He turned to Hardeman and asked curtly, “Are you coming?”

“See here, now,” the chief began, but Shayne strode past him to Phyllis, who held out both her hands as if she doubted her strength to stand alone. He lifted her from the chair and held her firmly by the arm, steering her from the room.

Hardeman followed after a moment’s hesitation, and Matrix edged past Boyle, chuckling maliciously. “You’d better call up Grant MacFarlane for further orders. He’s likely to be very unhappy about all this.”

At the door of their suite Shayne stood aside while Phyllis and Hardeman passed through. Gil Matrix came up behind them and aggressively caught the door knob as Shayne started to close the door.

“You’d better let me sit in on this conference, Shayne,” he warned. “The Voice prints all the news and we have to guess at what we don’t know. If you want factual reporting, don’t shut me out.”

Shayne stared speculatively at the little man, then nodded and allowed Matrix to enter.

Phyllis had gone unobtrusively into the bedroom and closed the door when Shayne entered behind Matrix. Hardeman was mopping his brow again. When he saw the editor, he asked his host fretfully:

“Need we make this a public meeting? It seems to me our business could be much better discussed in private.”

Shayne ignored his question and motioned both men to be seated. “I like to get all the angles on a new case. I presume,” he turned to Matrix, “you have some ideas regarding this counterfeiting proposition.”

Matrix laughed harshly and perched himself on the arm of a chair. “Any man with one eye and the brain of a gnat would have an idea. Hell, who do you think turned those two punks on you in Hardeman’s room?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne replied mildly. “My only thought is that your newspaper story set the thing up for them.”

“All right. Maybe it did.” Matrix spread out thin fingers and closed them into a tight fist. “It brought matters to a head. Things that have been simmering and stinking beneath the surface too long. Grant MacFarlane knew the jig was up when I finally prodded Hardeman into calling you in. He knows your reputation and he knew he had to take quick action. That reception in Hardeman’s room was his answer to the threat.”

Shayne asked, “Are you accusing this MacFarlane of doing the counterfeiting?”

The fiery little editor hesitated briefly, then nodded vigorously. “He’s your best bet. His Rendezvous is nothing but a hangout for hoodlums from all the way up and down the coast. It would take quite an organization to cash all the forged tickets that have been going through the payoff windows lately.”

“Is that the only evidence you have against him-the fact that you don’t like him and that he has facilities for running such a deal?”

“Exactly what I’ve said to Matrix time and again,” Hardeman complained. “He keeps insisting that we should force Chief Boyle to take some action against MacFarlane, while I contend that Boyle is a thoroughly honest though somewhat bewildered officer of the law.”

“Boyle is under MacFarlane’s thumb,” Matrix barked. “You can’t laugh that off.”

“I invited you in here to get the news,” Shayne reminded Matrix. “There won’t be any news if you don’t let me find out some things from Hardeman.”

“There never is any news in this damn burg anyway,” Matrix grated viciously. “I have to make a headline if any are printed. Which reminds me”-he jumped to his feet excitedly-“I should be getting some pix of those bodies before Boyle has them removed.” He scurried out unceremoniously and slammed the door.

“You mustn’t mind Matrix too much,” Hardeman said stiffly. “Like all little men, he is ferociously determined to overcome the unfair deal he feels nature gave him when he was created. He’s quite a town character, really. Came here a few years ago a total stranger. He has built up the Voice from a struggling weekly into an aggressive and somewhat progressive daily.”

Shayne nodded. “Let’s get down to cases on this counterfeiting. How long has it been going on?”

“For weeks. Though we didn’t actually know we were cashing counterfeit tickets until a few days ago.”

“So?” Shayne’s right eyebrow arched quizzically.

“We have been noting shortages for some time. Annoying and inexplicable,” Hardeman went on, “but not large enough sums to cause any great concern. We have a totalizer at the track, you understand, and it is exceedingly difficult for a dishonest clerk to get away with any irregularities. We checked and double-checked quietly, and were thoroughly stumped for a time. We even had an expert up from Miami to go over the totalizer and he pronounced it in perfect condition. Yet each night’s play found us actually losing money instead of earning the percentage provided by law.”

John Hardeman paused to mop his forehead. He shook his gray head sadly and winced at the thought of the outrageous state of affairs in which race-track patrons were getting more than an even break. Then he resumed: