Shayne shouldered his way through the milling crowds about the jinny pit, his eyes darting over the throng, muttering to his companion, “My wife is supposed to be here somewhere.”
“Is that why you dragged me out here?” Matrix protested. “I thought you were on the trail of counterfeits.”
Shayne gestured impatiently toward the long lines of lucky bettors edging up to the pay-off windows. “A man would have one hell of a time picking a counterfeit ticket out of that mob. No,” he went on briskly, “I brought you along to stay out here and watch for my wife while I see Hardeman. After I see him I’ll have some more questions for you.”
“Go ahead,” Matrix agreed willingly. “I’ll nab on to your wife if she shows up. H-m-m, let me think, now. She was wearing a white sports dress with a flamingo scarf-unless she changed.”
“And a white fur jacket.” He nodded and left Matrix standing on tiptoe searching the sea of faces around him.
He shouldered through the lines at the pay-off windows and past lines already beginning to form at the selling-windows. A hectic and jovial informality characterized the night crowd as distinguished from the air of hauteur which pervades the scene at the horse races, for greyhound racing is truly a sport for the masses.
An arrow said Offices and pointed underneath the grandstand. Shayne followed the arrow and opened a door onto a narrow hall with offices on each side. He stuck his head into the first office and asked, “Where is the manager?”
A blond young man stopped rattling a calculating machine long enough to say, “Third door on your left.”
Shayne went to the third door on his left and knocked, then turned the knob and walked in. John Hardeman swung about in a swivel chair and looked at Shayne across a littered flat-topped desk. The track manager had been typing with one rubber-covered forefinger at a typewriter stand behind him. He slowly peeled the rubber tip from his finger and said, “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Shayne,” in a tone of fretful annoyance.
Shayne pulled a straight chair close to the desk. It was comparatively quiet in Hardeman’s office, though a dull and unceasing rumble of sound rolled in through an open window behind the desk.
“What progress are you making?” Hardeman leaned back in his swivel chair, putting his palms flat on the desk. “I hope you have something to report.”
Shayne shook his head. “I’m not ready to make a report yet.” He lit a cigarette and spun the match away. “Did Max Samuelson find you?”
“Yes, he-What’s that? Mr. Samuelson? Why, yes. He was in to see me a short time ago. I thought at first I hadn’t understood you. I didn’t think of you two being acquainted.”
“Oh, yes. Maxie and I are old enemies. What did he want?”
“Well, really, Mr. Shayne-” John Hardeman pursed his lips. “I don’t see how that can possibly have any connection with your work up here.”
“Maybe it hasn’t,” Shayne growled, “but I’m playing a hunch.”
“Of course, I don’t mind telling you. It’s an open secret that Mr. Samuelson is much interested in the camera invention Ben Edwards has perfected. I happened to be the means of introducing them some weeks ago, and Mr. Samuelson came to confer with me before seeing Edwards again tonight.”
“What sort of an invention is it?”
“It’s quite complicated. I don’t profess to understand the details. An instrument for long-range work with a new type of telescopic lens developed by Edwards over many years of research. I believe there are also many other novel features of automatic precision focusing.”
“Does Edwards hold any patents on it?”
“None whatever. That is the utterly incomprehensible situation. Though he has been assured by Attorney Samuelson that it might well be worth millions, he refuses to apply for a patent. None of us can understand his attitude. When I first suggested Samuelson as a patent lawyer, Edwards seemed eager enough to secure patents, but after a couple of conferences he decided, for no reason at all, to drop the entire matter. He now declares the idea unworkable, though that is absurd because he showed me a model in Matrix’s office one day-showed me, also, pictures taken automatically of interiors of hotel rooms across the street which brought every tiny detail out with sharp clarity. I was so impressed by those samples of its work that I advised him to get in touch with Mr. Samuelson at once.”
“And that was several weeks ago,” Shayne mused. “Before the counterfeiting began?”
“Yes. Since then I’ve been so worried-my time has been so taken up with more important matters that I really haven’t had the time or the energy to worry about the affairs of a half-baked inventive genius.”
“What did Samuelson want tonight?”
“He wanted my advice on a new plan of attack. Since Edwards refuses to secure patents in his own name, Samuelson is prepared to make him a cash offer for the entire idea. The-ah-working model and plans. He admits it is a highly speculative venture, though it might well prove profitable if the machine is all it has been represented to be.”
“What did you advise him?”
“I refused to commit myself. After all, I have no ulterior interest in the device one way or another.”
Hardeman rose and glanced at his watch. He frowned and rubbed an exasperated hand over his high forehead, then began pacing up and down the room.
Shayne leaned back and watched him, his brow furrowed with thought. “Tell me if I’m in the way here,” he suggested casually.
“Not at all. I have an appointment with Mr. Payson-an appointment already fifteen minutes past due,” the track manager ended severely.
Shayne asked, “Does Payson take an active interest in the business affairs of the track?”
“Not normally. I have always handled things to the board’s satisfaction until this counterfeiting situation arose.” Hardeman sighed deeply, pacing back and forth. “Since then Mr. Payson has been working with me closely. I’m anxious now to learn from him why the ticket design wasn’t changed this afternoon. I had to be out of town and trusted him to see to it.”
“He was out of town also.” Shayne chuckled. “Though I believe he would prefer the fact not made public.”
Hardeman said, “Ah,” as though he understood. A sudden, full-throated roar came through the open window, the immemorial cry of racing enthusiasts at the start of each race.
“The fourth race-on schedule,” Hardeman murmured, glancing at his watch.
Shayne got up from his chair. “I wouldn’t wear myself out pacing up and down waiting for Mr. Payson. He’s likely to be detained for some time.”
“Is that so? Did he send me some message by you?”
“No,” Shayne said grimly. “He should be making bond right now if Chief Boyle is on the job.”
“Boyle? What-?”
“Payson is involved in-an accident. He calls it an accident. I’m not so sure. At any rate, Ben Edwards is dead and Payson’s car ran over his body.”
“Ben Edwards-dead?” Hardeman’s voice cracked on a high note. He appeared thoroughly shaken. He stared at Shayne for a long moment, then demanded hoarsely, “Why do you sit around and let people be killed in wholesale lots? Good Lord, man, why don’t you do something? Make an arrest-anything to stop this carnival of crime.”
“Whom shall I arrest?” Shayne asked him quietly.
Hardeman stopped in front of the desk and rested trembling hands on it. He stared at the detective in disbelief. “Do you mean to say you haven’t guessed yet? Are you completely deaf and blind?”
“What the hell do you mean?” Shayne snarled. “I’ve been on the job a couple of hours, and every time I get the glimmer of an idea it goes to hell the next minute.”
“But don’t you know? Can’t you see how everything points to just one man?”
“I can’t. Thus far I’ve met signposts pointing in every direction.”
Hardeman’s jaw sagged. “But I had hoped-when you said you talked to Mayme Martin in Miami this afternoon-I had an idea you got important information from her.”