“Naturally not.”
“What collateral did Matrix put up to secure the loan?” Shayne tapped the end of a cigarette on the arm of his chair, glancing up at Payson as he reached for a match. The trend of the conversation toward banking matters appeared to ease his physical and mental tension.
“As I recall, the transaction went through on a deed to a printing plant in Illinois. In-ah-” Mr. Payson paused thoughtfully-“Fountain, Illinois, if my memory serves.”
Shayne leaned back and closed his eyes, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “I want to get this perfectly straight,” he said musingly. “Matrix put up another printing plant in the town of Fountain, Illinois, as security for a loan to buy out the local newspaper?”
“That is correct, and not at all surprising. A good many people have mortgaged their property in other parts of the country in order to re-establish themselves here on the southern tip of Florida. The deal with Matrix was legitimate in every respect. We took the precaution to investigate the Illinois property, naturally. It was appraised at more than twice the amount of our loan and was under capable management at the time. Our investment was safe in every respect.” Mr. Payson hesitated, then added, “In our investigation I recall that the previous owner, from whom Matrix had purchased the Fountain, Illinois, plant, was in prison at the time, though the details of the crime are somewhat hazy to me.”
Shayne glanced around the room at the tiers of bookshelves and asked suddenly, “Have you an atlas in your collection?”
Mr. Payson got up and went directly to a section, returning with the leather-bound atlas. Shayne turned to a map of Illinois and with a pencil located the towns of Urban and Fountain. They were very close together on the small-scale map.
Observing him impatiently, Mr. Payson kept murmuring, “I don’t understand. I don’t see what possible bearing this can have on either the murders or the counterfeiting.”
Shayne straightened up from his inspection of the map. He asked sharply, “Do you recall the name of the man who deeded the Illinois plant to Matrix?”
“No. I can’t say offhand.”
“I suppose the deed is at the bank?”
“Naturally. In the vault.”
Shayne said, “Get a coat and come with me. I’ve got to see that deed.”
“But, Mr. Shayne, at this hour?” Mr. Payson was outraged. “Really, this is going too far.”
“Hell, it isn’t eleven o’clock,” Shayne growled. “Come on, for God’s sake, man. There isn’t any time to waste.”
Mr. Payson became alarmed. “But why is it important to learn the name of an Illinois felon who previously owned a piece of property now held in Mr. Matrix’s name?”
Shayne growled, “Cut out your stalling,” and seized the chunky man firmly by the arm.
The banker subsided into frightened silence before the implacable look on the detective’s face. He let himself be pushed into the hall, where he drew away from Shayne’s grasp and went to the foot of the stairs, calling up in a quavering voice:
“Oh-Sarah! I am going out, my dear. On a matter of serious import which will brook no delay.”
Sarah called back some reply which sounded very much as if she refused him permission to go out, but Payson hurried toward Shayne, who waited with the front door open. Payson shucked off his robe and put on a coat which he secured from a small closet in the hallway. He buttoned the coat up tightly about his throat, then turned the collar up to hide his lack of a tie.
Shayne chuckled. Mr. Payson’s whole appearance was one of a man bent upon the commission of a crime against God and man.
“I dislike being rushed off in this manner,” Payson protested, but Shayne offered no comment. He hurried Payson to the front gate, waited impatiently while it was being unlocked, then rushed him to the roadster.
The banker sat huddled beside him while he backed away and turned to head south.
“The bank is on the corner this side of the hotel,” Payson told him after they had driven a block. “I’ll have to get the attention of the night watchman. This is most irregular, you understand. Strictly against the insurance regulations.”
Shayne drove silently. He pulled up in front of the brick corner structure and Payson got out. Plate-glass windows fronting on the street glowed with lights from within. When they peered in the window they saw an old man indolently swishing a mop back and forth on the tiled floor of the bank’s foyer.
Mr. Payson tapped on the window with a key and the old man jerked erect, peering out with disbelieving eyes. Payson held up a key and made motions that were supposed to indicate he desired admission, then walked to the heavy doors and turned the key in the lock.
The door opened at once and the aged night watchman stood in the middle of the floor leaning on his mop and watching them with wary, watery eyes.
“It’s all right, Jensen,” Payson assured him. “Perfectly in order. This man is with me. This isn’t a holdup or anything of the sort.”
Payson led Shayne behind the partition, explaining nervously, “The cash and negotiable securities are protected by an inner vault with a time lock, of course. We couldn’t enter there if we tried. Not possible. Not even I.”
“Hell, I don’t want to rob your bank.” Shayne’s grin wasn’t pleasant. “But I’ve got to see that mortgage in a hurry.” He stood back and watched the banker manipulate the silvered cylinders of the locking device. He sighed heavily when Payson finally grasped a lever and pressed it and the door came open.
A dome light came on automatically, showing the interior to be higher than a man’s head, lined on both sides with filing-drawers from floor to ceiling.
Payson stepped inside and paced along the floor, scanning the typed legend on the front of each door, pinching his plump cheek and mumbling to himself. He stopped and pulled one out on ball-bearing rollers, searched through the tabs on heavy Manila envelopes, then lifted an envelope with a triumphant flourish.
“There you are,” he said, “though I still consider this a needless imposition. Totally needless.” His confidence and poise were restored to a degree of hauteur here in his own vast vaults.
Shayne said, “You hired me to do a job,” and backed out of the stone enclosure with the bulging envelope. He laid it on a desk and untied the cord holding it securely, drew out a sheaf of papers. “You can find it quicker than I can,” he advised Payson, shoving the documents in front of him.
Mr. Payson shuffled through them and almost instantly selected the one which Shayne had asked to see, a legal document stating with a great deal of detail and legal verbiage that the title to property therein described had changed hands on October 15, 1936, from the former owner, one Theodore Ross, to Gilbert Matrix, for the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations.
Shayne’s keen gray eyes stopped on the name Theodore Ross. He hastily scribbled the name in his notebook while Payson dug out another document which he smoothed out for Shayne’s inspection.
“Here” said Payson, “is the mortgage on that plant as executed by Mr. Matrix when the loan was granted. All perfectly in order as you can readily see.”
Shayne stood for a moment with his face like granite, switching his cold gaze from one document to the other. His thumb and forefinger tugged at the lobe of his ear, then he asked, “Who passes on a loan such as this, Payson? Do you yourself have the full authority to act for the bank?”
“No, indeed,” he answered with quiet dignity. “I wouldn’t care to assume such a responsibility even if I were authorized to do so by the board. Any transaction of this nature is discussed and passed on by the entire board of directors sitting in executive session. Here, as you can see, each of them placed his initials on the margin indicating approval.” He pointed out initials scrawled in ink on the margin.
Shayne studied the inked initials for a moment. “I suppose each one of them inspects the collateral offered and passes on its value?”
“Certainly. The care exercised in making such loans is the foundation on which the reliability of any banking institution must be based. You should realize-”
“Who makes up your board of directors?” Shayne interrupted.
“Mr. Newson, the realtor, Dr. Fairbanks, Mr. Hardeman, and Dr. Haynes, a dentist, Mr. MacFarlane-”
“I see.” Shayne smiled grimly. “Practically a roster of Cocopalm’s most civic-minded citizens?”
