Mr. Payson tapped on the window with a key and the old man jerked erect, peering out with disbelieving eyes. Payson held up a key and made motions that were supposed to indicate he desired admission, then walked to the heavy doors and turned the key in the lock.
The door opened at once and the aged night watchman stood in the middle of the floor leaning on his mop and watching them with wary, watery eyes.
“It’s all right, Jensen,” Payson assured him. “Perfectly in order. This man is with me. This isn’t a holdup or anything of the sort.”
Payson led Shayne behind the partition, explaining nervously, “The cash and negotiable securities are protected by an inner vault with a time lock, of course. We couldn’t enter there if we tried. Not possible. Not even I.”
“Hell, I don’t want to rob your bank.” Shayne’s grin wasn’t pleasant. “But I’ve got to see that mortgage in a hurry.” He stood back and watched the banker manipulate the silvered cylinders of the locking device. He sighed heavily when Payson finally grasped a lever and pressed it and the door came open.
A dome light came on automatically, showing the interior to be higher than a man’s head, lined on both sides with filing-drawers from floor to ceiling.
Payson stepped inside and paced along the floor, scanning the typed legend on the front of each door, pinching his plump cheek and mumbling to himself. He stopped and pulled one out on ball-bearing rollers, searched through the tabs on heavy Manila envelopes, then lifted an envelope with a triumphant flourish.
“There you are,” he said, “though I still consider this a needless imposition. Totally needless.” His confidence and poise were restored to a degree of hauteur here in his own vast vaults.
Shayne said, “You hired me to do a job,” and backed out of the stone enclosure with the bulging envelope. He laid it on a desk and untied the cord holding it securely, drew out a sheaf of papers. “You can find it quicker than I can,” he advised Payson, shoving the documents in front of him.
Mr. Payson shuffled through them and almost instantly selected the one which Shayne had asked to see, a legal document stating with a great deal of detail and legal verbiage that the title to property therein described had changed hands on October 15, 1936, from the former owner, one Theodore Ross, to Gilbert Matrix, for the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations.
Shayne’s keen gray eyes stopped on the name Theodore Ross. He hastily scribbled the name in his notebook while Payson dug out another document which he smoothed out for Shayne’s inspection.
“Here” said Payson, “is the mortgage on that plant as executed by Mr. Matrix when the loan was granted. All perfectly in order as you can readily see.”
Shayne stood for a moment with his face like granite, switching his cold gaze from one document to the other. His thumb and forefinger tugged at the lobe of his ear, then he asked, “Who passes on a loan such as this, Payson? Do you yourself have the full authority to act for the bank?”
“No, indeed,” he answered with quiet dignity. “I wouldn’t care to assume such a responsibility even if I were authorized to do so by the board. Any transaction of this nature is discussed and passed on by the entire board of directors sitting in executive session. Here, as you can see, each of them placed his initials on the margin indicating approval.” He pointed out initials scrawled in ink on the margin.
Shayne studied the inked initials for a moment. “I suppose each one of them inspects the collateral offered and passes on its value?”
“Certainly. The care exercised in making such loans is the foundation on which the reliability of any banking institution must be based. You should realize-”
“Who makes up your board of directors?” Shayne interrupted.
“Mr. Newson, the realtor, Dr. Fairbanks, Mr. Hardeman, and Dr. Haynes, a dentist, Mr. MacFarlane-”
“I see.” Shayne smiled grimly. “Practically a roster of Cocopalm’s most civic-minded citizens?”
Mr. Payson drew himself up frigidly. “I had not completed the list. There is also-”
“I heard you the first time,” Shayne said roughly and hastily. He began stuffing the papers back into the envelope, but Mr. Payson rescued them from him and retied the envelope in an orderly fashion. Shayne was waiting at the door for him when he emerged from the vault, locked it, and said good night to Jensen, whose eyes were inscrutable above his mop handle.
“I trust you are entirely satisfied,” Mr. Payson said as he hurried to keep pace with Shayne’s long strides.
Shayne didn’t reply until he was under the steering-wheel and had the roadster headed back toward the Payson mansion.
“I’m entirely satisfied,” he said. “Far beyond my expectations, Payson.” He had the accelerator on the floorboard.
Pulling up at the banker’s front gate, he waited for Payson to get out, then said, “Don’t worry about anything if your lady of light virtue in Miami alibis you.” He waved his hand and drove away while the banker scurried into the sanctity of his front yard and locked the gate securely behind him.
A satanic grin spread over Shayne’s gaunt face. The grin was brief, resolving into a scowl which set itself upon his features.
Chapter Sixteen: MIKE LOSES A ROUND
Heading back on Main street, Shayne’s attention was caught by a flicker of light from a rear window of the Voice office. He came to an abrupt stop and stared upward, but the beam of light had vanished. All the windows were dark.
He continued to sit immobile behind the wheel with his gaze slanted upward, fixed on that rear window. It had not been imagination. There had been a faint beam of light up there.
It came again. A sliver of light glancing momentarily against the dark windowpane.
He turned off his car lights and slithered to the curb, slid out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the southeast corner of the two-story building, hesitated only a moment looking upward, then walked silently back along the side of the building. A gaunt shadow in the illusive starlight and reflected lights from the illumined district around him, Shayne circled the rear and the north side to assure himself there was no exit from the upstairs office except the front steps. No rear stairs or fire escape led downward. He stationed himself in the deep shadow of a doorway which was across the street from the Tropical Hotel, and waited.
Only a few cars were parked in front of the hotel at this hour in the evening before the races were over. He could see into the hotel lobby between looped-back silken draperies.
Chief Gentry and Chief Boyle were standing near the doorway. Boyle was talking excitedly, waving his arms. Will Gentry was listening with a dour expression, nodding now and then and rubbing his blunt chin.
Max Samuelson’s blue sedan, Shayne noticed, was nowhere in sight. He would have given a lot to know where it was-where Max and his two bodyguards were. The model camera and the plans were upstairs in the Voice safe. If Maxie was trying to play smart-
Shayne tensed as his quickened perceptions caught the sound of light footsteps stealing down from the newspaper office. He pressed his body back against the closed doors so that his rangy body blended completely with the shadow. He pulled the brim of his hat low over his face and turned his head slowly.
The door at the foot of the stairway squeaked as a hand pressed on it gently from the other side. It came open cautiously, inch by inch, not more than five feet from where Shayne stood, and his fingernails dug into calloused palms while he waited.
He almost jerked into betraying motion when the door came wide open suddenly. He held himself quiet when he saw Gil Matrix step out jauntily onto the sidewalk, letting the door go shut behind him with a little slam.