Shayne stared speculatively at the little man, then nodded and allowed Matrix to enter.
Chapter Four: THE PRESSURE IS ON
Phyllis had gone unobtrusively into the bedroom and closed the door when Shayne entered behind Matrix. Hardeman was mopping his brow again. When he saw the editor, he asked his host fretfully:
“Need we make this a public meeting? It seems to me our business could be much better discussed in private.”
Shayne ignored his question and motioned both men to be seated. “I like to get all the angles on a new case. I presume,” he turned to Matrix, “you have some ideas regarding this counterfeiting proposition.”
Matrix laughed harshly and perched himself on the arm of a chair. “Any man with one eye and the brain of a gnat would have an idea. Hell, who do you think turned those two punks on you in Hardeman’s room?”
“I don’t know,” Shayne replied mildly. “My only thought is that your newspaper story set the thing up for them.”
“All right. Maybe it did.” Matrix spread out thin fingers and closed them into a tight fist. “It brought matters to a head. Things that have been simmering and stinking beneath the surface too long. Grant MacFarlane knew the jig was up when I finally prodded Hardeman into calling you in. He knows your reputation and he knew he had to take quick action. That reception in Hardeman’s room was his answer to the threat.”
Shayne asked, “Are you accusing this MacFarlane of doing the counterfeiting?”
The fiery little editor hesitated briefly, then nodded vigorously. “He’s your best bet. His Rendezvous is nothing but a hangout for hoodlums from all the way up and down the coast. It would take quite an organization to cash all the forged tickets that have been going through the payoff windows lately.”
“Is that the only evidence you have against him-the fact that you don’t like him and that he has facilities for running such a deal?”
“Exactly what I’ve said to Matrix time and again,” Hardeman complained. “He keeps insisting that we should force Chief Boyle to take some action against MacFarlane, while I contend that Boyle is a thoroughly honest though somewhat bewildered officer of the law.”
“Boyle is under MacFarlane’s thumb,” Matrix barked. “You can’t laugh that off.”
“I invited you in here to get the news,” Shayne reminded Matrix. “There won’t be any news if you don’t let me find out some things from Hardeman.”
“There never is any news in this damn burg anyway,” Matrix grated viciously. “I have to make a headline if any are printed. Which reminds me”-he jumped to his feet excitedly-“I should be getting some pix of those bodies before Boyle has them removed.” He scurried out unceremoniously and slammed the door.
“You mustn’t mind Matrix too much,” Hardeman said stiffly. “Like all little men, he is ferociously determined to overcome the unfair deal he feels nature gave him when he was created. He’s quite a town character, really. Came here a few years ago a total stranger. He has built up the Voice from a struggling weekly into an aggressive and somewhat progressive daily.”
Shayne nodded. “Let’s get down to cases on this counterfeiting. How long has it been going on?”
“For weeks. Though we didn’t actually know we were cashing counterfeit tickets until a few days ago.”
“So?” Shayne’s right eyebrow arched quizzically.
“We have been noting shortages for some time. Annoying and inexplicable,” Hardeman went on, “but not large enough sums to cause any great concern. We have a totalizer at the track, you understand, and it is exceedingly difficult for a dishonest clerk to get away with any irregularities. We checked and double-checked quietly, and were thoroughly stumped for a time. We even had an expert up from Miami to go over the totalizer and he pronounced it in perfect condition. Yet each night’s play found us actually losing money instead of earning the percentage provided by law.”
John Hardeman paused to mop his forehead. He shook his gray head sadly and winced at the thought of the outrageous state of affairs in which race-track patrons were getting more than an even break. Then he resumed:
“There was only one possible answer. We were cashing more win tickets than we were selling. It was quickly established that this was a fact, but a careful examination of the cashed tickets failed to reveal the counterfeits. The forgeries are so cleverly done as actually to defy detection, even though we know a certain portion of them are counterfeits. You can see how impossible it would be for a paying teller to detect a counterfeit in the confusion of cashing tickets after each race. And there is no way to make a man identify himself as having actually purchased the ticket he presents for payment. If it isn’t stopped at once, Mr. Shayne, the track will have to close down.”
“How much is the take amounting to?”
Hardeman shuddered. “More than three thousand dollars last night. You can see how easily it runs into a stupendous amount when you consider that many of the tickets pay off as much as ten or fifteen to one. It wouldn’t take many persons mixing with the honest patrons to cash in several thousand dollars in forgeries.”
“Who prints the tickets?”
“They are printed right here in Cocopalm at a small shop just down the street. We called for bids at the beginning of the season and the Elite Printing Shop underbid Matrix, who has the only other printing establishment in town. The Elite, by the way, is owned by a reputable citizen, a brother of one of our largest stockholders-a circumstance which Matrix chose to believe had a bearing on the awarding of the contract, but such was not the case.”
Shayne frowned and rubbed his angular chin. “Seems to me you might try making an identifying mark on each genuine ticket as it is sold. In that way you could catch the counterfeit as it is presented.”
“We thought of that almost at once,” Hardeman answered. “The counterfeits came through just the same, marked exactly like the others. We inferred that the crooks were taking the simple precaution of buying a ticket on each race to guard against just such a ruse.”
Shayne nodded glumly. “I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea.”
Conversation languished for a few minutes while both men sat in deep thought, then Shayne said, “It seems to me you could change the design of the tickets from day to day-vary the wording or the type used. Change the shape or color of the tickets.”
The suggestion appeared to bore Mr. Hardeman. He said wearily, “We did not call in an outside detective until we had tried all such obvious remedies and found them worthless, Mr. Shayne. The counterfeiter uses his brains. Though we varied the tickets from one night to the next the forgeries turned up just the same, always exact duplicates of the new set for that night.”
Shayne stood up and took a few paces around the room, tugging at his earlobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a bottle and two glasses. “Have a drink,” he offered.
Hardeman declined with thanks. Shayne poured a water glass half full. “I think better with a drink inside of me.” He sat down, nursing the glass in his big palm. “From what you say,” he resumed, “I judge this is an inside job. Someone who knows what the new design is going to be must tip off the counterfeiters.”
“That deduction is obvious,” John Hardeman agreed dryly. “Though we have taken every precaution to keep each new batch a secret until we begin selling them at the track.”
“There is evidently some precaution which you haven’t taken,” Shayne argued. “Who decides on the new design?”
“I-and I alone. No one else knows what the tickets will look like until I go to the Elite Printing Shop just in time to have them set up and run off before the races. Mr. Payson, one of the largest stockholders and the brother of the printer, accompanies me to the shop and he or I manage to remain constantly on guard while the type is set up and the printing done. As the tickets are finished, Chief Boyle takes charge of them and sees to their delivery at the track just in time for distribution to the selling windows. I tell you, Shayne, it isn’t possible-yet forgeries are ready at the end of the first race.”
“How many employees at the print shop see the tickets?”
“Only two in addition to the proprietor. Both are men above reproach, and they have been kept under close surveillance from the time the tickets are printed until the races start.”
“But someone tips off the counterfeiters in time for them to get their tickets printed,” Shayne argued.
