“Information about what?”
“This counterfeiting deal.”
“I was pretty sure there had to be a connection. That makes three killings in one evening, Mike.” He looked at the redheaded detective reproachfully. “Boyle says you hadn’t more than reached town before you blasted two of the local yokels.”
“In self-defense,” Shayne replied cheerfully.
“I know all about that. But the Martin woman wasn’t murdered in self-defense.” Gentry paused to sip his drink. “Nobody in the apartment house saw anybody else go in or out of her room except you.”
“Did you talk to the redhead at the end of the hall?”
“Yep. She says you acted funny. Passed her by when she gave you the come-on.”
Shayne grinned, then stated flatly, “Mayme Martin was plenty alive when I left her room.”
“Maybe so. But the hell of it is nobody saw her alive afterward.”
“No one,” Shayne corrected, “that you know anything about.”
“Well, yes. You were the only one seen visiting her.”
“I know at least one person who saw her after I did.”
“Good. I thought maybe you’d have something, Mike. Who was it?”
Shayne shook his head solemnly. “Not yet, Will. I’ve got to figure the angles.”
Will Gentry’s manner became brusque. “Don’t hold out on me.”
“But I’ve got to see where I stand,” Shayne protested. “Maybe I’ve got something to trade on. If I give it to you I won’t have anything left.”
“If you don’t give it to me you’re going to be in pretty deep yourself.”
“So that’s the way it is?”
Gentry lifted a square, pudgy palm. “I’m giving it to you straight. We found a little something in her room that I think you can explain.”
Shayne’s eyes narrowed and his face took on a hard, pinched expression. He wasn’t deceived by Will Gentry’s placidly casual approach. They had been friends a long time, but Gentry never mixed friendship with business. Shayne knew he would get a square deal from the Miami detective chief, but no more than that.
He said, “I’m willing to explain anything I can, but I swear to God, Will, I don’t know any more about the woman than you do.”
“Are you sure of that? Sure you never saw her before this evening?”
Shayne nodded and growled, “I’ve never had to prove a statement to you before.”
“You’ve never made the mistake of making one I think I can disprove,” Gentry told him.
Shayne’s wide mouth tightened. He started to say something, but restrained himself. Gentry was selecting an envelope from among several in his coat pocket. He opened it in his lap and selected a torn slip of paper. He held it toward Shayne and asked, “Ever see that before?”
Shayne looked down at his own name and Miami telephone number written in blue ink on the piece of paper. Below were the two words Thursday afternoon.
He wrinkled his forehead and shook his head. “Why should I have seen it before?”
“It was in Miss Martin’s purse. It isn’t her writing. There wasn’t any blue ink in her apartment. It looks more like the sort of thing a man would write and give a woman when he wanted her to call him on a certain day. This is Thursday.”
“Sure. And yesterday was Wednesday. Why does that mean I’ve seen it before?”
“Positive it isn’t your writing?” Gentry persisted. “It looks a hell of a lot like the way you write your name, Mike. Boyle and I compared it with your signature downstairs when you registered.”
“That’s right,” Boyle agreed.
Shayne snorted disgust through his nose. “It’s no more like my writing than that of a thousand other men. Give it to your handwriting expert and he’ll point out a thousand differences.”
“I’ll do that.” Gentry sighed and took the slip of paper from the detective, replaced it in its identifying envelope. “If that’s all you’ve got—” Shayne began angrily, but Gentry shook his head and held up his hand.
“On top of that,” he said, “and maybe it isn’t your writing, what happened here in the hotel tonight looks to me like pretty good proof that she did tell you something. Are you going to deny that you had advance information that you were going to be jumped by those two torpedoes when you arrived?”
Shayne’s gray eyes were frosty with suppressed anger. “Suppose I do deny it?”
“It’s going to be pretty hard for me to swallow, Mike. In the first place, why did you take a gun with you when you went to Hardeman’s room? I’ve never known you to carry a gun on a case before. From Hardeman’s story, they were all set and waiting for you the moment you stepped in. Yet you came out of it with nothing but a grazed side. Pretty damned lucky if you walked in there without knowing what was coming.”
“What are you trying to prove?” Shayne asked.
“That Mayme Martin talked to you this afternoon. She’s the only contact you had with the case before you arrived. It must have been her that tipped you off. And if she told you that much, she must have told you a lot more. Don’t hold out on us. I know how you are about suppressing information until you’re all ready to spring it and clean up—but three people are already dead. Don’t be stubborn and hold out until some more die.”
“You’ll be held accountable if you do,” Boyle warned him importantly.
Shayne didn’t pay any attention to Boyle. He spoke earnestly to Will Gentry: “Did they tell you that the guy in Hardeman’s room who answered the phone told me to knock in a peculiar way so he’d know for sure it was me when I came?”
“No,” Gentry admitted, “but—”
“But, hell!” Shayne interrupted impatiently. “Don’t you think that was enough to put me on my guard? It sounded phony as the devil—coming from a guy who had insisted on a seven-o’clock appointment on the dot. You know how it is in this work—one little thing will tip off your subconscious.”
Gentry studied his earnest face with a hard glance. “Are you trying to talk me off the track, Mike? Didn’t Mayme Martin tell you anything this afternoon?”
“Not one damned thing. Only that she could give me the lowdown on the Cocopalm case, and when I was talking to her I didn’t even know there was a Cocopalm case. It wasn’t until I got home after seeing Mayme that Phyl told me about Hardeman’s call. Naturally I was curious and tried to get it out of her, but she was set on having a thousand berries laid on the line before she talked. You know I’d never lay out a grand without knowing what I was paying for.”
“Damn you, Mike,” Gentry complained, “you fast-talk me out of every idea I get. I figured I’d have the answer on the Martin murder by finding out why you saw her this afternoon.”
“I don’t much doubt that the answer is right here in Cocopalm,” Shayne encouraged him. “Why not stick around here at least for the night and see what turns up? I may crack this counterfeiting case any minute.”
“Have you really got something,” Gentry queried dubiously, “or are you just talking through your hat?”
“I’ve really got something,” Shayne insisted with a wolfish grin. “I’ve just come from the Rendezvous, where I had a very illuminating interview with Grant MacFarlane.”
Chief Boyle appeared to shrivel a trifle in his chair. He hastily set down what was left of his drink and got to his feet, mumbling, “Well, I gotta be going. Can’t be sitting around here all night while there’s work to be done.”
He wandered out, looking thoroughly unhappy, and Gentry frowned after his hulking figure. “What happened to him all of a sudden?”
“MacFarlane is Boyle’s brother-in-law,” Shayne explained. “Among other iniquities, the proprietor of the Rendezvous is strongly suspected of complicity in the counterfeiting.”
“Any other suspects?”
“Plenty—including some of the village’s most prominent citizens.” Shayne grinned cheerfully and finished his drink. “All I have to do is sort out the right one—and st
ay alive while I’m doing it.”
He got up and stretched, suppressing a yawn. “I’ve got to look up a local man named Ben Edwards. Ever hear of him?”
Will Gentry stood up, shaking his head thoughtfully and negatively. “Should I have heard of him?”
“Damned if I know, Will. He fits in some place. Want to string along while I find him?”
“I guess not.” Gentry laid his hand on the detective’s arm. “About your information on the Martin killing—are you sure you don’t want to come across?”
“I can’t, Will. Not yet.”
“Don’t frame up anything while I’m waiting for it,” Gentry warned him steadily.
Shayne laughed aloud and slapped him on the back. “I’ll give it to you as soon as I know where I stand.”
They went out together and Shayne locked the door. Gentry went down in the elevator with him, and as they stepped into the lobby, Shayne nudged his stolid companion and whispered loudly, “Don’t look now, but do you see what I see?”
Gentry blinked at Hymie and Melvin sitting on the bench where Shayne had left them. Melvin dropped his lashes before Gentry’s hard gaze, but Hymie stared back blankly.
Shayne laughed again and took Gentry’s arm, led him past the two Miami hoodlums. “Don’t jump them,” he urged. “I want to see what they’re up to. You might get Boyle to put a tail on them, though.”
“I’ll see if it can be arranged,” Gentry promised, and Shayne went out to the street.
Chapter Ten: NO ACCIDENT
THE HOTEL DOORMAN GAVE SHAYNE PRECISE DIRECTIONS for finding Ben Edwards’s house. It was an unimpressive frame structure on a wide corner lot two blocks from the ocean.
Shayne shut off his motor and sat slouched behind the wheel for a moment. Two front windows showed light behind drawn shades.
He swung his long body out to the sidewalk and opened a wire gate on a neatly painted picket fence. The lawn was smooth and freshly mown, and there was not much shrubbery, the net effect giving an atmosphere of quiet dignity to the small house.
Stepping onto the wooden porch, he rang the bell and dragged off his hat when the door opened. He faced a motherly woman who studied him with still, gray eyes, then smiled and said, “Yes?”
Shayne asked, “Is Mr. Edwards in?” and she shook her graying head. Folding plump hands over her neat tan house dress, she said, “But I’m expecting him any minute. He’s generally through at the office before this.” Her manner and voice were patiently cordial, carrying a half-voiced invitation for the stranger to come in and wait.
Shayne promptly accepted by saying, “Do you mind if I wait a few minutes? It’s important.”
“Of course not.” She pushed the screen open and Shayne went past her into a small, well-lighted living-room. A Scottie romped toward him over the clean, worn rug, his tail erect and courteously wagging. He sniffed the cuffs of Shayne’s trousers, then allowed the detective to scratch the back of his neck. He retired with dignity after this amenity was concluded. Raising his head, Shayne saw a bright-faced boy of eight or ten who was curled up in a deep chair with schoolbooks and papers. He said, “Hello.”
The boy observed the newcomer with questioning eyes and replied, “Good evening,” in a disinterested tone.
“You’ll have to excuse Tommy’s manners,” his mother apologized. “He’s always too buried under books and papers to stand up.”
Tommy then added his own apology, which was a big grin that spread over his freckled face, and resumed his schoolwork.
Shayne turned to the woman and said, “I presume you’re Mrs. Edwards.” She nodded, and he introduced himself.
“I knew you the instant I saw you at the door, Mr. Shayne. I recognized you from that picture in the afternoon paper.”
An animated, “Gee!” came from Tommy. “The detective, huh?”
“Now, Tommy,” his mother admonished.
Shayne chuckled. “Do I add up to your idea of a private dick, Tommy?”
“You look plenty tough, all right. Boy! the way you mowed ’em down at the hotel! The Green Hornet couldn’t of done no better.”
“Couldn’t have done any better, Tommy,” his mother corrected patiently. “Won’t you take this rocker, Mr. Shayne?”
Shayne said he would. He sat down just back from the circle of light provided by one floor lamp between Tommy’s chair and a faded couch. Mrs. Edwards sat on the end of the couch nearest the lamp and picked up a sewing-basket, carefully arranged her glasses which had been laid aside when she answered the door, snipped a thread with her teeth, and said, “I suppose it’s something about the counterfeiting you’ve come to see Ben about, but I don’t know what he could tell you.”
“Dad hadda go down to take pictures of the gangsters you killed,” Tommy put in importantly. “Maybe you’ve killed some more gangsters since then, huh? Maybe that’s why he ain’t home yet.”
His mother corrected his grammar again and admonished him to get his homework finished. Tommy said, “Isn’t,” his eyes bright and questioning on Shayne.
Shayne shook his head. “I haven’t bumped into any more of them, Tommy.” He turned his body in the rocking chair to face Mrs. Edwards. “Is your husband a professional photographer?”
“He takes all the pictures for the Voice, along with setting type and a dozen other things.” Mrs. Edwards bent her head and began sewing up a split in a boy’s shirt. The lamp-glow turned her hair to dark silver, giving the illusion of a bright halo over her head where the new hairs curled up.
Tommy fidgeted in his chair and regarded Shayne with awed eyes, but said nothing more. A smoking-stand by Shayne’s elbow held an ash tray. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, let smoke trail lazily from his nostrils. Casually, he asked, “Do you know any reason why a lawyer from Miami—Mr. Samuelson—would be coming up here to see your husband?”
Mrs. Edwards jabbed the point of the needle into her thumb. Her hands jerked and spilled the contents of the sewing-basket on to the couch. Her eyes looked at Shayne steadily, veiled now, and secretive.
“A lawyer? From Miami? Why—no, I certainly don’t know, Mr. Shayne.”
“Shucks, Ma,” Tommy broke in, “that’s the name of the guy that—”
She silenced him with a sharp “Tommy!” Her pursed lips rebuked him, then she directed, “Take your things and go to your room. Say good night to Mr. Shayne.”
“Aw, gee, Ma, I—”
She said, “Tommy!” again, and he dropped his eyes from hers and nodded. He gathered up his books and papers in silence, then submissively arose and said, “Good night, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne sucked on his cigarette and didn’t say anything. Mrs. Edwards gathered her sewing into her lap again and said, “I don’t know what gets into Tommy sometimes. He’s so anxious not be left out of grown-up talk that he makes things up to get attention.”
“Not at all strange for a bright youngster like Tommy.” Shayne paused, looking away from the woman, then continued: “But he wasn’t making up his story about Mr. Samuelson.”
Her toil-roughened hands lay still in her lap. When the detective looked at her he saw abject fright and pleading in her eyes. “Is Ben—is he in any trouble, Mr. Shayne?”
“Not that I know of. Not yet.”
“But—what did you mean about the lawyer?”
“I’m trying to get some information,” he told her readily. “Max Samuelson is a bloodsucker. He’s known as the smartest patent attorney in the South, but I pity the unsuspecting inventor who gets in his clutches. If your husband has an invention, tell him to stay away from Samuelson.”
“My husband hasn’t any invention.” Mrs. Edwards pressed blunt finger tips against her eyes. “I don’t know where—people get that idea.”
“I got it from Samuelson’s interest in him. Maxie wouldn’t be putting his nose in the picture if he didn’t smell profits.”
“Do you mean Mr. Samuelson is here—in Cocopalm?”
Shayne nodded. He leaned back and
crossed his legs. “He’s in town right now—guarded by a couple of torpedoes from Miami—gunmen, to you. There’s something up, and I can’t put my finger on it.”
Mrs. Edwards moved her head slowly from side to side. Her wide, generous mouth was puckered into a tight slit. “I really don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Shayne. It’s true that Ben is—well, he putters in his workshop in the shed outside in his spare time. A month or so ago he got excited when he thought he had made a great discovery—an invention, he called it. Mr. Hardeman suggested that he talk to a lawyer in Miami—about patents and such things.” She spread out her hands and relaxed her lips into a tremulous smile. “That’s all it ever came to. Ben decided not to get a patent, though Mr. Samuelson urged him to do so. He felt that the lawyer was just encouraging him in order to get a big fee.”
Shayne crushed out his cigarette in the ash tray. “Did Mr. Edwards continue to work on his discovery?”
“No. He hasn’t been to the workshop for weeks. I do wish he would come home,” she added nervously, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “He could tell you much more about it than I can.”
“Do you suppose I could get him by phoning the newspaper office?”
Mrs. Edwards arose with alacrity and said, “I’ll try. I’m sure he’d come on if he knew you were waiting to see him,” and went into an adjoining room.
Shayne heard a car pass the house slowly, stop, then turn in the center of the block and return, gathering speed as it passed the corner.
Mrs. Edwards came back into the living-room looking frankly worried. “Mr. Matrix says he left half an hour ago. He had a telephone call and went out immediately. I don’t know where on earth he could have gone.”
Shayne sat up alertly. He started to rise, then paused to ask, “Why did you lie to me about Max Samuelson when I first asked? Why did you deny you knew him?”
Mrs. Edwards winced under the blunt accusation. She twined her fingers together in front of her, then faltered, “Well, I—a lot of people here in Cocopalm laugh at Ben about his inventions. They’d laugh still more if they knew he’d called in a famous patent lawyer—and nothing ever came of it.”
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