chief.”
“This is the chief talking,” the midwestern twang assured him.
“This is Will Gentry, chief of detectives from Miami, Florida,” Shayne lied briskly. “I’m calling from Cocopalm, Florida, where I’m working on a double murder. I need your co-operation.”
“Why, sure, sure. You bet, Gentry.” The chief of police in Illinois sounded suitably impressed. “What can I do for you?”
“Rout your county clerk or recorder out of bed and have him look up the marriage records for 1931. I’m interested in a marriage on January 14, 1931. Got that?”
“You bet. Got it written down. I’ll call Alonzo Twiggs right away and check up for you in a jiffy.”
“Wire me at the Tropical Hotel in Cocopalm, Florida. Give me the names of bride and groom in any marriage on that date-all of them if there was more than one.”
“’Tain’t likely there’ll be more’n one,” the Urban chief said. “It’s a red-letter day in Urban when there’s more than-”
“That’s fine,” Shayne cut in heartily. “I’m depending on you, chief, and I’ll see that you get full credit when I crack the case.”
He hung up and strolled out to the fuming Miami detective chief. “I just used your name and influence on a long-distance call, Will. You should be getting a wire from Urban, Illinois, before very long. If it comes collect, I’ll pay the bill.”
“Now look here, Mike,” Gentry exploded, “what the devil do you-?”
Shayne held up a big hand and backed away. “I don’t know-yet. I’ve got to see Mr. Albert Payson first. After that I hope I’ll know what I’m doing.”
“I hope to God you do,” Gentry said irritably. “I’ve got a job to do too.” He went back and sat down in a deep chair, an expression of morose resignation on his broad, beefy face.
Chapter Fifteen: OUTSIDE OF BANKING HOURS
Shayne went over to the desk and asked the hotel clerk whether Phyllis had left his car keys there. The young man obligingly produced them, and Shayne then inquired about directions for reaching the Albert Payson residence.
“The Paysons live two blocks north of here, on Main Street. You can’t miss the house. It’s twice the size of any other house on the block.”
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and long-legged it out to his car. He drove north two blocks and slowed in front of an impressive two-story residence, swung into a concrete driveway. He was halted by a seven-foot iron gate swung onto a concrete and native rock wall. He got out to open the gate and found it padlocked.
Leaving his roadster with the bumper against the gate, he strode to a slightly lower iron gate which opened onto the wall leading to the main entrance. This, too, was padlocked.
Gripping the bars firmly, he vaulted over it and went up the walk. There were lights in the front upstairs windows, but the lower portion of the mansion was dark. He pressed the button and waited.
He heard a window open above his head and Mr. Payson called down fretfully, “Who’s there?”
“The law,” Shayne called back cheerfully.
“But that’s absurd,” Payson protested. “Chief Boyle released me on my own recognizance after assuring himself I was in no way culpable.”
“This isn’t Chief Boyle.”
There was a brief pause. Through the open upstairs window Shayne could hear a woman’s voice, subdued and tearful. Then Payson demanded, “Are you the detective from Miami?”
“Yes. I want to talk to you about that news story Matrix killed for you this afternoon.”
A briefer pause this time, and in a changed tone Payson said, “Very well. Though you’ll have to wait a few minutes.” His voice no longer came through the window, but Shayne could hear him saying to his wife, “I haven’t the slightest idea, Sarah, but I presume it’s something about that race-track business.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and waited. The few minutes lengthened into five. Then a light came on inside the door and presently a key turned in the lock.
Albert Payson wore an elaborate black silk dressing-gown belted around his rotund figure with pants showing beneath it and a tieless shirt showing between the lapels. He looked worried and distracted. He held up his hand and glanced behind him uneasily, whispering:
“Please, Mr. Shayne, keep your voice down. Mrs. Payson will doubtless be listening at the head of the stairs.”
Shayne grinned at the elderly Lothario’s discomfiture. He asked, sotto voce, “Is there some place we can talk without being overheard?”
Payson cleared his throat gratefully. “Of course-in the library.” He scuttled before the rangy detective down a wide hall to French doors opening into a small room with uncomfortable-looking leather chairs and cases of books. He stood aside for Shayne to pass in, then closed the doors tightly. “After all, Mr. Shayne, one’s private affairs-it does seem to me-” He waved both plump hands to express disapproval, then lowered himself into a leather chair.
Shayne remained standing. He arched bushy red brows at the local banker. “That’s the trouble with a murder investigation. It doesn’t respect the privacy of individuals involved. You have no idea what stenches we unearth before we finally crack a case sometimes.”
Mr. Payson sat very still for a moment. He appeared thoroughly subdued and unhappy. “It will be terrible if Sarah learns of my-er-indiscretion, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne said mildly “You middle-aged Don Juans ought to think about that and keep your mind above your waistline. But I’ll do what I can — if you’ll give me the name of the woman you visited in Miami this afternoon.”
Mr. Payson’s blobby nose quivered. “I see no necessity for that. None whatsoever.”
“Look,” said Shayne patiently, “you’re square in the middle of a counterfeiting mess and a couple of murders. A key witness was murdered in Miami this afternoon. You were in Miami at the time. You begged the man who saw you there not to make that fact public, professing your reason is to keep a moral indiscretion from your wife. Hell, I’m not interested in your morals. I am interested in checking your alibi for the time of Mayme Martin’s death.”
Mr. Payson stared at him in shocked amazement. “Surely you don’t suspect me?”
“I suspect everybody,” Shayne growled. “The more I can eliminate, the easier my job is. Do I get the woman’s name and address?”
The round-bellied little man squirmed and perspired under Shayne’s stalking gaze. Finally he recovered his poise and said with dignity, “It can’t possibly make any difference.” He gave Shayne a name and a hotel room number. Shayne wrote them down in a small notebook and nodded affably.
“All right,” he said. “That’s attended to. If you’ve given me a phony I’ll know it pretty quick, and it won’t help your case any.”
Albert Payson stood up.
Shayne sat down in one of the stiff leather chairs. “Our conference has only begun. Sit down, Mr. Payson. Getting the name and address was a sort of gesture-tying up a loose end. What do you know about Gil Matrix?”
“Mr. Matrix? Why-that his credit is above reproach. He meets his payments at the bank promptly.”
“What do you know about the man himself?” Shayne quizzed. “His background-his life before he came to Cocopalm and purchased the Voice?”
“Very little. He came to the bank with a business proposition. He had an opportunity to snap up the Voice at a low figure. He appeared an enterprising sort of man who would give our city the kind of newspaper it needed.”
“The bank lent him the money to buy the Voice?”
“Yes. We are always delighted to be of service to the community by advancing money to establish-”
“Sure. I know how banks are that way,” Shayne cut him off. “But what did he put up for collateral? In being of service to the community you’re not likely to overlook a little item like security.”
