“If this keeps up we’ll be lucky to get there by morning,” Shayne answered sharply. “Okay, angel, first stop is Cocopalm.”
“It won’t keep up,” she consoled him. “You know how it rains here. Flooding everything, and then all of a sudden dust is flying in your face.”
Shayne grunted and crept along First Avenue to Flagler, where he turned right and continued on the boulevard. The rain slackened a little, and by the time he reached Grand Concourse there was only a light drizzle. A road sign ahead said: Speed Limit 35 miles per hr, and Shayne stepped up to fifty. A few miles farther on the headlights shone upon a dark straight line separating wet pavement from dry. The road sign read: 50 miles per hr. Shayne pressed on the accelerator and the indicator shot to sixty-five.
Phyllis was strained forward peering through the windshield. She sat back with a sigh and looked at her wrist watch. “It’s six-thirty,” she said, “and it’s twenty-five miles to Cocopalm.”
Shayne grinned. “We’ll make it with a minute or two to spare.”
The broad highway approached the outskirts of Cocopalm along the Atlantic shore, and at the southern edge of town veered off from the north-south highway to strike directly through the business district. To the left of the wide street as they entered the city limits a high board fence enclosed the brilliantly lighted greyhound track. The sport attracted clients from the entire coastal region lying between Palm Beach and Miami.
A band was swinging a march as Shayne drove past. The grandstands were filled with sporting enthusiasts, though the first race of the evening was not scheduled to start for half an hour.
“I’ll bet they’re parading the dogs,” Phyllis cried excitedly, her dark eyes glowing.
Shayne’s face was grim. He slowed to forty. “Counterfeit racing-tickets could be a serious problem here,” he muttered as he left the track’s bright lights behind. “It would be a simple matter to print duplicates for each race and have stooges supplied with them in advance to cash after the race is won. I wonder why someone hasn’t thought of it before.”
“How would they know which dog was going to win?” Phyllis asked. “Doesn’t each ticket have the number of a certain dog printed right on it?”
“Sure. But they could print a whole series of tickets for every race. If each stooge is supplied with all the numbers, all he has to do is wait until the winning number goes up on the board and then discard all his losing tickets and cash the right ones.”
“Oh.” Phyllis nodded. “No wonder Mr. Hardeman sounded so upset about it. I gathered that it has been going on for some time and they’ve kept it quiet, hoping the practice wouldn’t spread to other tracks. But it has finally got so bad they have to take steps or close the track.”
Shayne responded with a glum nod. He was thinking back to Mayme Martin’s words. “It wouldn’t be difficult to clean up two or three thousand a night if it was worked right,” he said, and slowed to thirty as they approached the downtown section of Cocopalm. He stopped for a traffic light, then drove three blocks and pulled up between two rows of gleaming royal palms at the door of the Tropical Hotel.
The place looked like money. A uniformed doorman stared down his nose at the shabby roadster. Shayne snapped, “Get the luggage out of the compartment.” He helped Phyllis to shed her wet raincoat, took her hand as she stepped from the car, and grunted sourly, “This is one of those tourist traps where they charge you for drawing your breath. I hope to God my fee at least covers the bill.”
Phyllis said, “Pooph,” lightly. “You always manage to get along, Detective Shayne, and I adore the service and the luxury of these hotels.”
They went into the lobby with Phyllis clinging happily to his arm. At the desk, the clerk admitted that there was a suite reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Michael Shayne.
“Mr. Hardeman is expecting you, sir,” he told Shayne. “His number is three-twelve, just down the hall from your suite.”
A rack of newspapers caught Shayne’s eye as he turned away from the desk after registering. They were afternoon editions of the Cocopalm Voice, and a black headline announced: Miami Detective Called In.
Shayne paid a nickel for a paper and read it as they went up in the elevator. He swore at a blurred picture of himself, read a sketchy review of the important cases he had broken in past years, and the Voice did not hesitate to predict that the gang of counterfeiters would soon be brought to justice.
Pressing against him, Phyllis read the front page and chuckled with pride and delight. Shayne winced inwardly. When they stepped from the elevator a bellboy darted from a service elevator and preceded them to the door, unlocked it to reveal a magnificent living-room with doors leading into a bedroom. After opening the windows, the boy stood politely waiting further orders. Shayne tossed him a fifty-cent piece and he went out.
Shayne threw the newspaper down angrily and muttered, “I don’t know why they didn’t have the brass band out to meet us. This is a hell of a way to call a private dick in on a job.” He strode to the doorway of a large bedroom overlooking the ocean.
Phyllis was unpacking and exclaiming delightedly over the luxurious appointments of the room.
“To hell with all this, angel.” Shayne was feeling suddenly uncertain; he’d never gone on a case in this holiday mood before. Finally he strode to the night table and picked up the telephone. “Connect me with room three- twelve.”
The phone rang several times at the other end before there was an answer. The voice that came over the wire was thin and harassed. “Yes? Who is it?”
“Mike Shayne-from Miami. I think I have an appointment with you, Mr. Hardeman.”
“Can you come to my room right away?”
“Presently,” Shayne growled. He looked at his watch. It was one minute to seven.
“Knock once and then twice on my door when you come, Mr. Shayne, so I can be certain it is you.”
Shayne said, “Right,” and hung up. He stood staring down at the telephone while his thumb and forefinger massaged the lobe of his ear. A questioning look came into his eyes and one bushy brow twitched upward in a V.
Phyllis asked quickly, “Is everything all right? Isn’t Mr. Hardeman expecting you?”
Shayne turned his face away from her. The lines on his gaunt cheeks and forehead had deepened into trenches. He said, “Sure, angel. Everything’s all right.”
“If everything is all right, why are you pulling at your ear?” She went swiftly to him and put her arms around his neck. “You’ve been acting queer ever since you came home and I told you about this case, Michael. Are you angry because I took it without consulting you?”
He lifted her chin with a broad palm and kissed her lips. “I’ll be all right as soon as I find out what’s going on and what to expect.” He put her gently aside and went into the living-room. He paced the floor for a couple of minutes, then returned to the bedroom, unstrapped his Gladstone, pawed around under the clothes until his hand encountered cold steel. He lifted out a. 45 automatic and stuffed it under his belt in a lightning gesture, buttoned his coat over it just as Phyllis looked up from unpacking a hatbox.
“Are you looking for your cognac bottle?” she asked.
Shayne said, “Yeh. My cognac bottle.” He probed for the bottle and found it, went into the bathroom with it dangling from his fingers.
He set the bottle down and swiftly checked his automatic. It was loaded and the safety catch was on. He thrust it back under his belt, poured a small drink in a water glass, and went back into the room sipping it.
Phyllis smiled at him and said, “You run along and solve the case while I amuse myself in this gorgeous place pretending I’m the mistress of a retired hog raiser from Iowa.”
Shayne set his empty glass down. “Okay. I’ll let you know how things work out, Mrs. Shayne.” He went out the door and closed it firmly behind him and sauntered down the hall to 312.
The door was closed but dim light showed through the transom. Shayne’s eyes were bleak as he stopped in front of the door. He slid his hand down to the butt of his weapon and pushed off the safety. He knocked once and then twice, standing crouched and tense.
The door opened instantly and silently.
Shayne’s lunge smashed the door back against the man who was opening it. His own body force carried him past the descending blackjack in the hand of the other man ambushed against the threshold.
Checking his rush, he whirled, pulling his gun free and dropping to his knees as the man beside the open door dropped his blackjack and cursed gutturally, dragging a pistol from a shoulder holster.
Shayne shot him through his thick neck as the gun came out, then drove another slug into his open-mouthed
