assistant manager, and finally stopping when they rested upon Phyllis, who shrank deeper into her chair. The doctor, whose back was turned, silently closed his medical bag and stole from the room.
“Bud Taylor,” Gil Matrix repeated, “one of those unfortunate weaklings easily led astray-a product of his environment, let us say. A youth who could have taken the right turn, but was induced to take the wrong one. We are all responsible for the Bud Taylors of this world,” he went on fiercely. “Every one of us ensconced in our citadels of smugness who tolerate a festering growth in our community that sucks in a lad like Bud Taylor with the glamour of easy money. Easy money,” he repeated in a strange whisper. “We shall all be judged,” he jerked out, “I say-”
“Cut out the oration, Gil.” Chief Boyle produced a handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. “This ain’t the time or the place for a sermon.”
“There’ll be no better time or place,” Matrix told him wrathily. “You ought to be down on your knees asking God to pity the citizens of Cocopalm who entrust their security to your supine hands-”
“Maybe the parson’ll let you preach the funeral sermon,” Chief Boyle snapped angrily.
The interruption left Matrix undismayed. His round eyes were bleak as he waved a hand and continued: “So long as you allow the Rendezvous to flourish under police protection on the outskirts of Cocopalm, just so long will we have the spectacle of our youth turning into gangsters and gunmen-and worse.”
“Now see here, Gil,” Boyle roared, “you know damn well the Rendezvous is out of the city limits and out of my jurisdiction.”
“Yes, and I also know that Grant MacFarlane is your brother-in-law,” Matrix lashed back. “You can’t deny that Bud Taylor has been hanging around out there getting himself inoculated with the idea that the law is something to beat, to be scoffed at-which, by God, it is here in Cocopalm-and that he-”
“Shut up, Gil.” Chief Boyle’s voice was loud with authority. His face was the color of raw beef.
Shayne’s amusement at the scene was wearing thin. He came impatiently to his feet and said, “I’m inclined to agree with the chief. I’d like to get your ideas later, Matrix, but right now I’m wondering why Mr. Hardeman wasn’t here in this room to keep his appointment with me. While you fellows are throwing the gab around he might be heeding help.”
The assistant manager came to life, shook his head vigorously, and deftly caught his big-rimmed Oxford glasses as they flew from his nose. He readjusted them and glanced around the room with officious, but nevertheless nervous eyes. “Mr. Hardeman doesn’t seem to be here at all. I happen to know that his engagement with Mr. Shayne was important. He gave orders that the detective was to be shown up immediately, and I’m quite positive he hasn’t gone out since dinner.”
Shayne’s keen gray eyes traveled around the room to notice that three doors led away from the large bedroom. One, in a corner behind the bed, stood slightly ajar, while another, across the room, was tightly closed as was the one leading to the hall. He saw, also, that Phyllis sat drawn back in her chair, her big dark eyes filled with questioning and wonderment. He shook his head at her and motioned toward the front door. Phyllis moved her own dark head slightly and negatively. Her soft round chin was set.
Shayne frowned and turned his attention to the two other doors. He strode to the closed one and jerked it open. It led into an empty tiled bathroom. His brows came down in a puzzled frown. Then he whirled about and went to the other door in the corner.
Jerking it open, he peered inside, then stepped back with a wide gesture. He said calmly:
“Come and see if this is Hardeman.”
Matrix’s nose quivered. He was the first to reach Shayne’s side while the others crowded up. “That’s John Hardeman, all right,” he chortled, “neatly done up in a knot.”
Shayne looked steadily down at Hardeman for a moment and then stepped back, drawing the editor with him. Chief Boyle and Gleason dragged the bound and gagged race-track manager out of the spacious closet.
His body was long, big boned and heavy shouldered, but not fleshy. His forehead was of the high sort that is popularly supposed to be intellectual. His face was deeply suntanned, and his hair and eyes were gray. At the moment, indeed, his eyes rolled upward and around the room wildly. Gleason bent over him and struggled with the knot of the handkerchief at the back of his head; Chief Boyle took out his knife and cut the cords binding his arms.
Hardeman came slowly to his feet, sputtering incoherently and spitting a wad of cotton from his mouth. “This is ghastly,” he complained, “a ghastly experience, to lie helpless in the closet and hear two assailants cold- bloodedly plan Shayne’s murder. I must say you handled the situation masterfully.”
He seized Shayne’s hand in a bone-numbing grip and shook it. “I was terrified when I heard the telephone ring and one of them answer it. Pug Leroy it was. He simulated my voice almost perfectly. Those were moments of sheer agony when I listened to them take their places beside the door and wait to hear you knock.” He paused to pluck a small piece of cotton from his tongue. Shayne wondered if that accounted for the high-flown manner in which he spoke and concluded that it didn’t. “When the shooting began I couldn’t conceive how you might escape with your life. If they had succeeded in killing you, I would certainly have been next.”
“It’s lucky for you they left the door open a crack so you wouldn’t smother,” Shayne interposed gravely when the man stopped for a long-drawn breath.
“You can’t imagine my relief,” Hardeman continued, “when I heard the others enter the room and I gathered that you had actually turned the tables on those murderous rogues. I must confess, though, no one seemed unduly curious as to my whereabouts,” he ended with a reproachful glance at the men standing around the room.
“Did the thugs do any talking that made sense?” Shayne demanded. “Could you gather who or what was behind the attack on me?”
“Very little.” Hardeman pursed his lips, spat out another small piece of cotton, then shook his head. He whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “They assured me that I would not be harmed if they succeeded in their designs on you. I didn’t put any trust in their promise. The motivation behind the attack was evidently your appearance here in Cocopalm to investigate the counterfeit racing-tickets.”
“It seems a reasonable assumption,” Shayne conceded dryly. “And I think I can thank our crusader editor for arranging things so neatly in my behalf. His front-page story was an invitation for something like this.”
“Don’t thank me,” Matrix protested with a thin smile. “It was printed as a public service. Hardeman has been reluctant to take the bull by the horns and call in outside help, and I forced his hand by making you front-page news after he agreed to ask for your help.”
“And making it impossible for me to get any line on who was behind the attack,” Shayne pointed out harshly. “Instead of having those directly interested know I was coming, you made it common knowledge.”
“I certainly had no intention of broadcasting it,” Hardeman avowed. He shot a malevolent glance at the editor. “I might even suggest that Matrix hoped for some such result when he printed the story.”
“You’ve got to admit it worked, if that was what I wanted,” Matrix chortled. “This little affair is going to sell a lot of papers tomorrow.”
Shayne turned away from him with a grunt of disgust. “Let’s go to my room for our conference, Mr. Hardeman.” He stooped to pick up his automatic, which still lay on the floor, but Chief Boyle stopped him.
“Better let me have that gun. I’m not rightly sure but what I ought to lock you up to boot.”
Shayne straightened up with the weapon dangling from his fingers. “I told you I had a permit to carry it.”
“There’s been killing done,” the chief persisted doggedly. “Don’t you go trying to push me around like you push the cops in Miami. Inciting trouble, that’s what you’re doing, coming in here and stirring things up.”
Shayne snorted and thrust the gun in his belt. He turned to Hardeman and asked curtly, “Are you coming?”
“See here, now,” the chief began, but Shayne strode past him to Phyllis, who held out both her hands as if she doubted her strength to stand alone. He lifted her from the chair and held her firmly by the arm, steering her from the room.
Hardeman followed after a moment’s hesitation, and Matrix edged past Boyle, chuckling maliciously. “You’d better call up Grant MacFarlane for further orders. He’s likely to be very unhappy about all this.”
At the door of their suite Shayne stood aside while Phyllis and Hardeman passed through. Gil Matrix came up behind them and aggressively caught the door knob as Shayne started to close the door.
“You’d better let me sit in on this conference, Shayne,” he warned. “The Voice prints all the news and we have to guess at what we don’t know. If you want factual reporting, don’t shut me out.”
