“What progress are you making?” Hardeman leaned back in his swivel chair, putting his palms flat on the desk. “I hope you have something to report.”
Shayne shook his head. “I’m not ready to make a report yet.” He lit a cigarette and spun the match away. “Did Max Samuelson find you?”
“Yes, he—What’s that? Mr. Samuelson? Why, yes. He was in to see me a short time ago. I thought at first I hadn’t understood you. I didn’t think of you two being acquainted.”
“Oh, yes. Maxie and I are old enemies. What did he want?”
“Well, really, Mr. Shayne—” John Hardeman pursed his lips. “I don’t see how that can possibly have any connection with your work up here.”
“Maybe it hasn’t,” Shayne growled, “but I’m playing a hunch.”
“Of course, I don’t mind telling you. It’s an open secret that Mr. Samuelson is much interested in the camera invention Ben Edwards has perfected. I happened to be the means of introducing them some weeks ago, and Mr. Samuelson came to confer with me before seeing Edwards again tonight.”
“What sort of an invention is it?”
“It’s quite complicated. I don’t profess to understand the details. An instrument for long-range work with a new type of telescopic lens developed by Edwards over many years of research. I believe there are also many other novel features of automatic precision focusing.”
“Does Edwards hold any patents on it?”
“None whatever. That is the utterly incomprehensible situation. Though he has been assured by Attorney Samuelson that it might well be worth millions, he refuses to apply for a patent. None of us can understand his attitude. When I first suggested Samuelson as a patent lawyer, Edwards seemed eager enough to secure patents, but after a couple of conferences he decided, for no reason at all, to drop the entire matter. He now declares the idea unworkable, though that is absurd because he showed me a model in Matrix’s office one day—showed me, also, pictures taken automatically of interiors of hotel rooms across the street which brought every tiny detail out with sharp clarity. I was so impressed by those samples of its work that I advised him to get in touch with Mr. Samuelson at once.”
“And that was several weeks ago,” Shayne mused. “Before the counterfeiting began?”
“Yes. Since then I’ve been so worried—my time has been so taken up with more important matters that I really haven’t had the time or the energy to worry about the affairs of a half-baked inventive genius.”
“What did Samuelson want tonight?”
“He wanted my advice on a new plan of attack. Since Edwards refuses to secure patents in his own name, Samuelson is prepared to make him a cash offer for the entire idea. The—ah—working model and plans. He admits it is a highly speculative venture, though it might well prove profitable if the machine is all it has been represented to be.”
“What did you advise him?”
“I refused to commit myself. After all, I have no ulterior interest in the device one way or another.”
Hardeman rose and glanced at his watch. He frowned and rubbed an exasperated hand over his high forehead, then began pacing up and down the room.
Shayne leaned back and watched him, his brow furrowed with thought. “Tell me if I’m in the way here,” he suggested casually.
“Not at all. I have an appointment with Mr. Payson—an appointment already fifteen minutes past due,” the track manager ended severely.
Shayne asked, “Does Payson take an active interest in the business affairs of the track?”
“Not normally. I have always handled things to the board’s satisfaction until this counterfeiting situation arose.” Hardeman sighed deeply, pacing back and forth. “Since then Mr. Payson has been working with me closely. I’m anxious now to learn from him why the ticket design wasn’t changed this afternoon. I had to be out of town and trusted him to see to it.”
“He was out of town also.” Shayne chuckled. “Though I believe he would prefer the fact not made public.”
Hardeman said, “Ah,” as though he understood. A sudden, full-throated roar came through the open window, the immemorial cry of racing enthusiasts at the start of each race.
“The fourth race—on schedule,” Hardeman murmured, glancing at his watch.
Shayne got up from his chair. “I wouldn’t wear myself out pacing up and down waiting for Mr. Payson. He’s likely to be detained for some time.”
“Is that so? Did he send me some message by you?”
“No,” Shayne said grimly. “He should be making bond right now if Chief Boyle is on the job.”
“Boyle? What—?”
“Payson is involved in—an accident. He calls it an accident. I’m not so sure. At any rate, Ben Edwards is dead and Payson’s car ran over his body.”
“Ben Edwards—dead?” Hardeman’s voice cracked on a high note. He appeared thoroughly shaken. He stared at Shayne for a long moment, then demanded hoarsely, “Why do you sit around and let people be killed in wholesale lots? Good Lord, man, why don’t you do something? Make an arrest—anything to stop this carnival of crime.”
“Whom shall I arrest?” Shayne asked him quietly.
Hardeman stopped in front of the desk and rested trembling hands on it. He stared at the detective in disbelief. “Do you mean to say you haven’t guessed yet? Are you completely deaf and blind?”
“What the hell do you mean?” Shayne snarled. “I’ve been on the job a couple of hours, and every time I get the glimmer of an idea it goes to hell the next minute.”
“But don’t you know? Can’t you see how everything points to just one man?”
“I can’t. Thus far I’ve met signposts pointing in every direction.”
Hardeman’s jaw sagged. “But I had hoped—when you said you talked to Mayme Martin in Miami this afternoon—I had an idea you got important information from her.”
“Who gave you that idea?”
“I didn’t know Miss Martin intimately,” Hardeman told him with sudden dignity. “But I chanced to pick her up on the road one night last week when she was more or less intoxicated. She persisted in assuring me that she knew the counterfeiter, knew some fact that would point him out incontrovertibly. She refused, however, to elucidate further, though I confess I received the impression that she knew what she was talking about and might be able to make important revelations if she could be persuaded to talk.”
“I agree with you,” Shayne answered. “The trouble was, she wanted a thousand bucks for her information. I didn’t know anything about the case, and I refused.”
“She demanded a thousand dollars?”
“That’s right. Before she’d spill a word.” Shayne shrugged. “Somebody shut her mouth for good before I changed my mind.”
John Hardeman shook his head sadly. “I’m inclined to believe you were overcautious, Mr. Shayne. I feel sure she possessed some secret information of genuine value.”
“All right,” Shayne snapped, “maybe I pulled a boner. If so, it wouldn’t be the first one. No use crying about it. Mayme’s information will be buried with her.”
Hardeman appeared deeply shaken by this turn of affairs. He said, “Yes, after I talked with you I heard about Miss Martin’s death, though I understood it was suicide. I didn’t realize at the time how really unfortunate it was, since you had given me to believe you had discussed the case with her before coming up. At that time I believed you were merely checking her information for correctness and would be ready to take some positive action almost at once.”
“How does Edwards’s death fit in?” Shayne demanded. “What possible tie-up did he have with the counterfeiting?”
Hardeman heaved a deep sigh as he resumed his seat in the swivel chair. He appeared to have aged years in a few minutes.
“I hardly know,” he muttered. “I suppose you know he’s on the Voice staff. His work and his invention were the poor fellow’s only vices.”
“He’s a printer, of course,” Shayne suggested dubiousl
y. “The forgeries are printed—somewhere.”
“Quite true. But, Mr. Shayne, it seems to me that the crux of the affair is the manner in which our counterfeiter learns of the changes to be made in the tickets each day. It is positively incredible how that information leaks out.”
Shayne said, “Matrix suspects Boyle of passing on the dope to his brother-in-law, MacFarlane.”
Hardeman scowled and said, “Matrix!” in a tone of harsh contempt. “The man simply has a phobia about MacFarlane. He’s been crusading editorially against the Rendezvous for a year. He will be particularly bitter now that young Taylor came to such an end tonight, for Matrix is said to be in love with Taylor’s sister.”
Shayne said, “Yeah. I’ve met Midge Taylor.” He went toward the door. “I’ve got to find my wife and get her away from here before she loses all of that fee I haven’t earned yet.”
He nodded to the race-track manager and went out.
Chapter Thirteen: THE TIDE ROLLS IN
APPROACHING THE JINNY PIT, Shayne caught a glimpse of Phyllis’s shining, ecstatic face framed by an absurd little white hat that gave her the youthful appearance of a high-school girl at a football game. Her white fur chubby hung open, revealing the scarlet scarf which vied with her cheeks for color. He wondered, fleetingly, whether she had been questioned at the betting windows regarding her age, in keeping with the state law against selling tickets to minors. She was clinging to Gil Matrix’s arm, her head level in height with his, though Shayne suspected she stood on tiptoe as she peered anxiously in all directions. When she saw him towering above the throng, she dragged the editor toward him. She laughed triumphantly up into his face and showed him a sheaf of bills in her purse, cajoling:
“Don’t take me away now, Michael. I’m having a wonderful time. I’m winning! Honestly!”
Shayne looked steadily at her, his eyes roving from the top of her little hat to the tips of her white sports shoes. His gaunt face softened and a smile quirked his wide mouth. He said, with excessive gravity, to Matrix, “We’d better turn her over to the police for investigation. The only way she could possibly win would be to get hold of a batch of counterfeit tickets.”
“Don’t you believe it, Mr. Matrix.” Her dark eyes danced merrily. “I met the most fascinating tipster—just a kid, and he looked like a jockey. He gave me a winner in every race, and he gets his dope right from the dogs.”
“So-o-o.” Shayne grinned. “He reads their mail, eh? Knows what their instructions are.” He circled the fur jacket sleeve with one of his big hands and led her toward an exit. “For once in your life you’re going to quit a winner.”
“But, Michael,” she wailed, then stole a look at his face. His features had hardened into set lines again. She made no other protest but went submissively with him.
“You look as though you’re on a hot scent,” Matrix suggested, stretching out his short legs to keep up with Shayne’s long strides.
Shayne grunted, “It’s getting warm,” and jerked open the door of his roadster. He helped Phyllis in, then went around and got under the wheel. Matrix got in on the other side beside Phyllis.
“I’ve got to see a lot of people in a hurry,” Shayne announced as he surged the roadster forward onto the highway.
“You should have to,” Matrix said shortly, “if you haven’t picked up any suspect besides me.”
“I was coming back to you.” Shayne’s voice crackled. “I want the lowdown on Edwards’s invention. The long-range camera that automatically shoots the interior of hotel rooms across the street. Is it a phony or on the level?”
“You’ve been listening to Mr. Hardeman,” Matrix shot back.
“By God, it was a relief to visit somebody who didn’t hedge. I want to know why Edwards refused to patent his invention.”
“What difference does it make now? After he’s dead?”
“It makes a hell of a lot of difference. He left a wife and kid, didn’t he? And it’s the key to four killings.”
“I don’t see how it can be. Just because Ben was a little cracked—shy of publicity—”
Shayne swore fervently, interrupting him. “I’ve been out to the Edwards house. I met Mrs. Edwards. She’s not cracked. They don’t live too well on the salary you paid Ben. There has to be a potent reason behind Ben’s refusal to commercialize his patent.”
They were approaching the spot where Ben Edwards’s body had lain. The road for blocks around was deserted except for one Ford which stood empty by the side of the road.
Matrix pulled himself up from the cushion and caught the doorlatch. “Let me out here,” he said hastily. “That’s my car.”
Shayne jammed on the brakes and the roadster slithered to a stop. “All right,” he said with deadly emphasis, “you know and you’re not telling. But the tide’s rolling in, Matrix. You can’t stop it. The undertow is going to suck somebody under and I don’t give a damn who it is.”
He waited until Matrix got out and slammed the door with unnecessary force and turned swiftly away toward his car, then Shayne gunned the roadster forward.
Phyllis started to speak but he silenced her. “Watch Matrix’s Ford in that rear-view mirror. I’m going to slow up. Tell me as soon as his lights come on and he turns around.”
She reached up quickly and turned the tiny mirror lower, watched tensely for a moment, then said, “His lights are on. Now, he’s backing around to head in this direction. He—he’s coming awfully fast.”
Shayne switched off the lights before she finished speaking. Light from the quarter moon sinking low in the west showed a side road shaded with a thick growth of Australian pines. He drove past it, then backed in to the thickest shadow, cut off his motor, and waited, signaling for complete silence to Phyllis.
The Ford whizzed by. Shayne waited a moment, then turned on his lights and drove out onto the highway. The taillight of the Ford showed faintly red a quarter of a mile closer to town.
Shayne put on enough speed to draw up within two blocks of the editor’s car and maintained that distance through the business section of Cocopalm.
Matrix swerved to the right on a residential street. Shayne followed, recognizing it as the street on which the Ben Edwards home was located.
The corner cottage was brilliantly lighted and there were three cars parked outside. Matrix sped by without slowing, drove on to a narrow paved road which paralleled the ocean shore, where he swung sharply to the left again.
Shayne slowed between rows of small beach cottages lining both sides of the road, with the surf rolling within a few feet of the foundations of the row to the east. He allowed Matrix to gain two more blocks while a deep frown of perplexity creased his forehead. The cottages became more straggling, and the pounding of surf on the shore was a low continuous rumble.
“Now, where would he be going?” Phyllis asked anxiously.
“I don’t know, but it’s important, angel.”
The Ford slowed, then stopped in front of a beach cottage where a porch light was burning. The light went off when the car stopped.
Shayne cut off his motor and his lights. He relaxed behind the wheel and crushed out his cigarette.
“So what?” Phyllis demanded in a taut voice. “Have you forgotten what to do when you park with me on the beach on a moonlight night?”
Shayne put his right arm around her and she relaxed with a brief sigh. While he continued to watch the cottage and the Ford, he muttered, “I don’t understand any of this any more than you do, angel.”
She shivered inside the circle of his arm. “Do you think Mr. Matrix is guilty?”
“Your guess is as good as mine right now,” he told her. “I’ll know more about that when I find out who lives in that cottage. I’ll give him a little more time—”
He swore softly when the lights of the editor’s Ford blinked on suddenly. Without turning on his own lights he stepped on the starter and pulled forward slowly. When the Ford’s taillight whisked around the first corner, back toward Coc
opalm, Shayne stepped on the accelerator, then came to an abrupt stop in front of the cottage before which the Ford had been parked.
Phyllis put her hand on Shayne’s arm. “There’s a woman in that cottage,” she whispered. “I just saw her go past the window.”
“I suppose that means I’ll have to be chaperoned if I go in,” he said lightly. He opened the door and got out. Phyllis sat back against the seat pouting prettily.
“I mean it,” he urged. “I may need chaperoning if it’s who I think it is.”
Phyllis scrambled out and joined him on the shell walk leading up to the front door. “I’m so used to being left behind I didn’t suppose you’d want me along. I thought you were kidding me.” She gripped his arm with suppressed excitement as they stepped onto the porch. Shayne knocked when he couldn’t find an electric button to push.
Swift footsteps sounded inside. The door opened a crack and Shayne pushed it on open against Midge Taylor’s slight weight.
She exclaimed, “Oh! It’s you,” and stepped back, her wide blue eyes burning into his.
Shayne’s arm, to which Phyllis held tightly, pulled her forward. “I brought along my wife as a referee if you attack me again.” He laughed down into Phyllis’s surprised face. “This is Miss Taylor, Mrs. Shayne. Miss Taylor is responsible for these scratches on my cheek. She’ll tell you all about it.”
Midge stepped backward along the wall, groping with one hand like a drunkard searching for something to hold to. Her honey-colored hair was again coiled smoothly around her head in big braids. She was deathly pale. She had changed from the torn white silk dress to a clean wash frock with white ruffles on the sleeves and it made her look smaller and younger. The simple dress rid her of every hint of sophisticated poise and gave her an ingenuously domestic appearance.
Shayne tossed his hat on a chair and ruffled his red hair irritably. “Stop backing away as though you expect me to pounce on you.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Phyllis reprimanded. She went to the girl’s side and took her unresisting arm. “Sit down here.” She drew Midge down beside her on an old rattan couch which was damp and sticky with salt air, demanding of her husband in an undertone, “Can’t you see you frightened her to death barging in like that? She’s about to faint.”
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