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 stay 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.
