“That’s quite true.” Hardeman made a hopeless gesture. “It is your problem now, Mr. Shayne.”
“How about my fee?”
John Hardeman took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. “At a board meeting last night it was agreed that your fee should be in direct proportion to the time it takes you to produce results. In other words, the sooner the counterfeiters are stopped, the more money the track will save. We agreed to give you a week. Continuing as we are now, the track stands to lose at least twenty thousand dollars during that week. We will pay you whatever portion of that twenty thousand you save us.”
Shayne read the document and put it in his inside coat pocket. “The agreement seems all right. And-I get nothing if I don’t get results within the week?”
“That’s right. We plan to close down the track if you fail.”
Shayne finished off his drink, grinned, and stretching his long legs out in front of him, sat contemplating the toes of his number twelves. “That puts the pressure on me to get started. I like that. Let me check, now. The newspaper office is the only other printing plant in town?”
“That’s correct. The Voice office is right across the street, on the second floor. There are only three vacant lots between it and the Elite, a job printing plant. There are no intervening buildings.”
Shayne looked up quickly as a harsh note crept into Hardeman’s voice. “Do you suspect Matrix?” he asked pointedly.
“Please, Mr. Shayne, I suspect no one in particular. I simply state facts.” Hardeman spoke impatiently.
Shayne nodded. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture clear in my mind.” He paused to light a cigarette, puffed smoke through his nostrils, and asked, “How well do you know Mayme Martin?”
Hardeman’s thin smile showed mild surprise. “Not very well. She is a common figure around Cocopalm-turned up here soon after Matrix arrived. Until a few months ago she occupied an adjoining apartment to Matrix’s. It was common gossip that-ah-the connecting door was not always kept locked,” he ended delicately with a glance toward the bedroom door of Shayne’s suite.
Shayne followed his glance and saw that the door had been opened a crack. He said, “You mean Miss Martin and Matrix were living together?”
Hardeman lifted his shoulders and spread out his long fingers. “Matrix is a bachelor, or represents himself to be one. I believe he doesn’t deny that he and Miss Martin were acquainted before they came to Cocopalm.”
“And now they’re busted up?” Shayne persisted.
“I couldn’t vouch for that. She moved from the apartment a few months ago and hasn’t been seen much with him in public since. Why do you ask?” he ended curiously.
“I had a talk with the woman in Miami this afternoon.” Shayne paused, rubbed his chin, then stood up. “I think my next move is a talk with Grant MacFarlane.”
“I’d be careful in approaching him. He has a reputation for ruthlessness.”
Shayne said, “So have I,” with a wolfish grin. “There’s one other thing,” he continued as Hardeman stood up. “You heard Matrix say tonight that he felt it was necessary to publish that item about me in order to force you to go through with the idea of calling me in. Yet you say the board of directors actually made that decision last night. If that’s true, Matrix must have known no forcing was needed.”
“Certainly he knew it. He simply wanted to create a sensation, and when it backfired into an attempt on your life, he gave the only excuse he could think of.”
Shayne’s eyes glinted. “I see. That’s a point I’ll take up with Matrix direct. Now, I presume I’m keeping you from the track.”
“Yes. I should have been in my office before this.”
Shayne went to the door and opened it. “I’ll get right to work,” he promised. “I’ll let you know as soon as I begin to get results.”
“Don’t hesitate to call on me for any information I can supply,” Hardeman requested as he turned and went down the hall.
Shayne closed the door and turned to see Phyllis flying noiselessly across the deep carpet. “There, now,” she exclaimed ecstatically, “aren’t you glad I’m such an efficient secretary? Twenty thousand dollars!”
“I haven’t earned it yet, angel.”
“But you will. Oh-I almost forgot-how is your side?” She caught his arm and urged him toward the bedroom.
“It’s not bad,” he declared. “A bullet picks on a tough customer when it whizzes in my direction.” He grinned reassuringly. “Of course, a little drink-”
“I know. Your brain cells need stimulating, but you’re not going to have a drop until you change suits.” She got behind him and shoved him into the bedroom. “Blood is all caked on that one.”
When he started undressing she went back to the living-room and picked up his glass, took it to the bathroom for a refill. She returned sober-faced and anxious. “Promise you’ll be more careful, Michael. Everything depends on where a bullet hits.”
Shayne buckled the belt of a fresh pair of trousers and said casually, “There’s no danger now. This case looks too open and shut. I’m afraid of it-but I think the hoodlums will lay off of me from now on.”
“You suspect Mr. Matrix, don’t you? Everybody else does.” Shayne put on his coat and she followed him into the living-room, where he sank into a chair and set his glass on a table near by.
“I always begin a case by suspecting everybody,” he said.
She snuggled down beside him in the big chair. “Don’t you think Mr. Hardeman suspects the editor?” she persisted.
Shayne rumpled up his forehead and answered, “Hardeman hates Matrix,” absently. He took a long sip of cognac and started across the room.
“What did you mean by asking about Mayme Martin?”
“Just wanted to find out. Miss Martin offered to crack the case for a grand, and I put her off. I might have made twenty grand by betting one that she was telling the truth.”
Phyllis caught her lower lip between perfect white teeth, her big dark eyes round and thoughtful. Thinking made her look extremely young-younger than her twenty years. She said, “The chances are Mayme Martin knows a lot if she has been Mr. Matrix’s mistress. If I were anyone’s mistress, I’d not hesitate to listen in at a keyhole.”
Shayne chuckled. His steel-gray eyes softened upon his young wife. “Mayme may be on the level,” he said, then resumed his vacant stare across the room. He cracked his knuckles audibly.
“Every day that passes while you’re solving the case costs you three thousand dollars,” Phyllis reminded him sweetly.
“All women are mercenary,” Shayne grinned. He sobered immediately and added, “A thousand bucks paid to Mayme Martin would net me two if her information would save me a day.” He eased her head from his shoulder and stood up. “Let’s go for a ride, angel.”
“To Miami-to see Miss Martin?”
Shayne nodded. “We can make it there and back in an hour. We won’t be missed from Cocopalm. No one needs to know we’ve gone.”
He waited impatiently while she got a fur chubby from the closet and slipped into it. He jammed a hat down on his head and they went through the hall together.
Chief Boyle stepped from the open door of Hardeman’s room to intercept them.
Shayne’s fingers tightened on his wife’s arm. He stopped in front of the chief and asked curtly, “What’s on your mind now?”
Boyle stood his ground, glowering, a pugnacious jaw outthrust. “Where are you going?”
Shayne said, “Out.”
“I can’t have a man just walk in here and shoot up the town, kill two men, without holding him responsible,” the chief protested. He frowned weightily.
Shayne smiled. “Are you going to arrest me for being an old meanie and not standing around with my hands in my pockets while your brother-in-law’s thugs blast my guts out?”
“I’m not saying the shooting wasn’t justified,” the chief admitted gravely. “But that’s something a coroner’s jury will have to decide. I’ll have to ask you not to leave town until after the inquest tomorrow.”
Shayne said, “All right, you’ve asked me.” He steered Phyllis forward. The chief backed away a step but did not move aside.
