“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 dubiously. “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
