Shayne said, “Don’t forget Mayme Martin.”
Matrix turned his head very slowly, as though he feared it might snap off if he made a sudden movement. His eyes bored into Shayne’s as he repeated in a tone of choked disbelief, “Mayme Martin?”
Shayne’s voice hardened. “Are you sure it’s news to you?”
Matrix continued to stare into his face. Beneath the surface of shocked surprise was a faint stirring of relief, as though some realization was slowly seeping through behind the first quick reaction. “Do you mean she-Mayme is dead?”
“Murdered,” Shayne amended brutally. “In a way to make it look like suicide. Not so different from the way Ben Edwards just cashed in-indicating a killer with a one-track mind.”
“You think she and Ben were both killed by the same person?” Gil Matrix was beginning to tremble. His voice shook with an emotion which Shayne could not quite analyze.
The big detective made a sudden gesture. “Let’s get down to cases. It appears that Mayme was killed to prevent her from telling what she knew about the counterfeiting. She offered to crack the case for me, but was murdered before I took her up on it.
“Now, Ben Edwards gets bumped-before I can talk to him. You were close to both Mayme and Ben. You were in Miami this afternoon. You knew I was waiting at Ben’s house to see him. You weren’t far from this spot when Ben got slugged. You printed a headline story this afternoon that set up a slugging for me that didn’t come off just right.”
Matrix chuckled maliciously. “Trying to hang something on me?”
Shayne hesitated. “I don’t know-yet. You’re in the middle of it. Too many things revolve around you to laugh them off. Hell, it was even your sweetie who tried to trip me up on my visit to the Rendezvous tonight-after you had sent Edwards scooting out there to contact her.”
“Midge Taylor?”
“None other. After her brother and Pug Leroy missed, she took a crack at stopping me.”
Matrix mumbled, “I was afraid-” He stopped, jerking his head toward Shayne. “What happened-to Midge, I mean?”
Shayne put his hand up to three long scratches on his cheek. “This is what happened to me-while she was pulling the hoary old decoy stuff for the benefit of Jake’s camera.”
Matrix’s breath grew jerky. He reached for the door-latch. Shayne put his hand over his wrist and jerked it back. “You’re going to sit here and talk.”
The editor’s eyes glinted crazily in the beams of headlights pointing toward the roadster. He snarled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know any of the inside stuff. I do. By God-”
“That’s the reason you’re going to talk. I’ve gone at this thing blind long enough.” Shayne held the little man’s wrist, forcing him back against the cushion. He growled, “Right now I’m more interested in Ben Edwards’s invention than anything else.”
Matrix sucked in his breath sharply. He said, “Yeh,” in a wondering tone. “I wonder-”
“What about it?” Shayne demanded.
Matrix shrugged his too-big shoulders. “Ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you Ben was just a harmless half-wit.”
“I’m not asking anyone in town. I’m asking you.”
“Ben was a genius,” Matrix, apparently satisfied to settle back and talk, said dreamily. “The most brilliant man I’ve ever met. He could talk fourth dimension while he was completely sober.”
“What was his invention?” Shayne pounded at him.
“A camera,” Matrix said readily. He paused and a sly expression of triumph came to his face. “This changes things-Ben’s death. I’ve got to see how it fits in.”
There was movement all around Shayne’s roadster. People surging back and forth excitedly, talking loudly and asking questions which were not answered.
A man leaned across the door on Shayne’s left. Shayne turned his head and looked into Hymie’s eyes, not six inches from his own. Melvin stood a foot behind his companion. Both the lad’s hands were bunched in his coat pockets. His eyes were sultry and venomous.
Hymie said, “The boss wants to see you. Come on.” He spoke the words so softly that Matrix did not hear them.
The detective looked past Hymie at Melvin. He laughed. “So you’re on the junk again? You’re pretty young to go for that stuff.”
Melvin’s breath hissed out and he said three words which brought Shayne out of the car with his gray eyes blazing and his big fists doubled.
Hymie said, “Shut up, Melvin,” and caught Shayne’s arm with one hand while the other jammed a gun in his ribs. “Melvin gets like that,” he continued mildly. “Let’s go, Shayne.”
Melvin circled Shayne and came up behind him. His hands were still clenched on the guns in his coat pockets. Hymie led Shayne toward a bright blue sedan parked on the east side of the road south of the death scene. The round end of a cigar glowed from the rear seat.
Shayne waited until Hymie leaned forward to open the door. He took a quick backward step, swinging his right arm high in the air and backward while his left arm circled Hymie’s neck.
His right arm settled around Melvin’s neck and he swung the two heads together. They made a loud thud, and Melvin wilted to the ground. Hymie ducked and backed away, but Shayne’s right fist caught the point of his retreating chin. Hymie collapsed against the side of the sedan.
Shayne dropped to his knees as Hymie fell. He unclasped Melvin’s fingers from two heavy-caliber guns with barrels sawed off close to the cylinders, stood up and hurled them over the blue sedan into the thick growth of palmettos beyond the roadside.
He then thrust his head inside the rear door of the car and growled to Max Samuelson, “Next time you want to see me, come yourself,” slamming the door shut as he finished speaking.
When Shayne stalked up to his roadster, Matrix was sitting where he had left him. The editor greeted his return with a surprised smile. “I hadn’t quite made up my mind what I should do. Those fellows appeared quite determined.”
Shayne growled an unintelligible reply as he got into the car and started the motor. He pressed the horn down and held it while he jockeyed right and left through the crowd and passed beyond the scene of the accident.
Hymie was sitting up by the blue sedan rubbing his jaw, but Melvin lay still on the ground when they passed.
Shayne smiled grimly and pressed his big foot on the accelerator, and Matrix asked, “Where are we going now?”
Shayne answered morosely, “To the dogs.”
Matrix subsided against the cushion and didn’t ask any more questions.
Chapter Twelve: A JUMBLE OF SIGNPOSTS
At the Greyhound Track Shayne swung into a floodlighted parking-lot where rows and rows of sleek automobiles were parked in precise ranks. He disregarded the importunate gestures of a uniformed attendant who waved him toward a vacant spot far in the rear of the lot. Instead, he made a circle and parked his roadster near an exit, blocking it so that he couldn’t be blocked from getting out through the gate.
The attendant hurried toward him, exclaiming in a shocked tone, “You can’t park there, sir. It’s against the rules.”
Shayne laughed, took the keys from the ignition and went with Gil Matrix toward the revolving entrance. The girl at the ticket window called Matrix by name, smiled, and waved them in without tickets.
A blast of sound welled up from the high-walled enclosure. It was the interval between the third and fourth races, and a ten-piece band was valiantly striving to make itself heard above the voices of the thousands of spectators who had won or lost on the third race.
The orchestra ceased for a brief interval while bugles sounded sharply, then resumed a swing march as tall young men caparisoned like Mexican generals began parading the entrants for the fourth race past the grandstands.