Chapter Twenty: TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE
Three other men were seated in the private office with Chief Boyle. At the chief’s right, Will Gentry held a burning stogie six inches from his mouth while he studied Shayne with a look of frank perplexity on his stolid face. Shayne caught his eye and quirked a bushy red brow at his old friend, but Gentry did not respond. Behind the look of perplexity there was a hint of grim resolution that refused to be easily diverted.
Albert Payson was uneasily huddled in a chair directly in front of Boyle’s desk. The village banker appeared shriveled, and his normally ruddy countenance held an expression of shocked horror, of inner disbelief that struggled unsuccessfully against outward acceptance.
Only Grant MacFarlane appeared wholly at ease and happy about the whole thing. He lounged in a chair tilted back against the wall, still wearing his well-cut evening clothes and a look of insolent approval on his finely chiseled features.
Chief Boyle spoke first. He no longer appeared blusteringly aware of his own unimportance and incompetence. Here, in his private office behind his own desk, he was in full command of the situation, and he immediately made it clear that he intended to retain command. He said, “I don’t think we need you any more, Shayne. Everything is cleared up.”
Shayne said, “That’s fine.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Timothy Rourke and that veteran of many such conferences sidled away unobtrusively, settling himself in a corner with copy paper on his knee, where he could listen and not be noticed.
Shayne took the editor’s arm and led him closer to the desk. “I’ve been having a talk with Mr. Matrix,” he explained mildly, “and I think you may be interested in what I’ve learned.”
Chief Boyle cleared his throat and rattled the typewritten sheet in his hands. “I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he said tolerantly. “I don’t know where you’ve been this last half hour, but you evidently don’t know what has happened.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Payson spoke up squeakily. “It looks as though the case has solved itself, Mr. Shayne. I fear you won’t be able to take the credit, and-”
“And won’t be able to collect my fee?” Shayne finished for him sardonically. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you. I figure I’ve got the whole thing in the palm of my hand.” He glanced from Payson to Gentry, met that same disapproving, unyielding glance.
“I doubt it, Shayne.” Chief Boyle was not to be denied. He laid the paper down in front of him and thumped it loudly with his fist. “I guess you don’t know, for instance, that Mr. Hardeman has just committed suicide.”
Shayne echoed, “Suicide?” in a loud unbelieving tone to cover a gasp of astonishment from Matrix by his side. His fingers tightened warningly on the editor’s arm. He frowned and shook his head. “Why, that’s unbelievable. That-changes everything.”
“Exactly.” Chief Boyle’s voice held the exultant ring of triumph.
“Look here,” Shayne growled. “That’s too damn many suicides to swallow in one gulp. Don’t forget that Mayme Martin and Ben Edwards were both murdered and fixed up to look like suicides. How do you know?”
“Hardeman’s death is definitely suicide,” Boyle snapped. “Mr. Gentry and I made a thorough investigation.”
“Is that so?” Shayne glanced at Will Gentry.
The Miami detective chief nodded soberly. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt. Shot with his own gun-and I checked it for prints myself. Hardeman’s are all over it-no one else has handled it.”
“And he left a note,” Boyle put in, tapping the sheet in front of him. “It explains everything.”
Gil Matrix cleared his throat. He moved back a step, his eyes warily darting from one of the group to another.
Shayne shrugged his big shoulders. “All right. If you gentlemen are certain Hardeman committed suicide, that’s enough for me. But it doesn’t change things any. Matrix has a confession to make.”
The little editor drew himself up to his full height as five pairs of eyes turned to him.
Mr. Payson leaned forward in his chair, shaking his head. “A confession?” he breathed. “But I don’t understand. Mr. Hardeman left a full and complete confession.”
“One thing at a time,” Shayne growled. He turned to address Chief Boyle directly. “Florida has a state law providing that any man with a prison record must register with the authorities as an ex-felon when he settles here. Mr. Matrix-or Theodore Ross, to be more exact-neglected that detail when he came to Cocopalm.”
Albert Payson wet his lips and spread his hands out in a distracted gesture. “Ross?” he muttered. “Then, it is true-”
“He’s ready to take his medicine,” Shayne said shortly. “Ben Edwards was guilty of the same mistake, but he’s already paid a heavier penalty than will be assessed against Matrix.”
The thud of Grant MacFarlane’s front chair legs striking the floor was loud in the office. He lounged to his feet and spoke to Boyle: “I don’t know why I have to be here. Everything seems to be all cleared up.”
“Sit down,” Shayne ordered. “You’re not in the clear by a long shot.” He waited while MacFarlane slowly sank back into his chair, then went on harshly: “Don’t bank on that picture Jake Liverdink took of me tonight. There won’t be any prints made of it.” He turned his attention back to Chief Boyle. “You say Hardeman made a confession?”
“He certainly did. Just before he shot himself.” Boyle rustled the sheet of paper. “The damnedest thing you ever read.”
“Wait a minute.” Shayne held up one hand and eased a hip down on the corner of Boyle’s desk so he directly faced Gentry and Payson. “I’m about to be gypped out of my fee,” he protested. “I was hired on a contingent basis to solve this counterfeiting case. Now, you birds are trying to prove it solved itself-just because Hardeman was a weakling who couldn’t stand the gaff when I put the pressure on. That’s not fair to me. Hell, I had it all tied up in a knot before Hardeman killed himself. How about it, Will? Won’t you help me get a square deal?”
Will Gentry sighed through pursed lips. His eyes rested on Shayne’s gaunt face, narrowed and speculative. He nodded slowly in response to his friend’s appeal. “I imagine Mr. Payson will be fair about it. If you can prove you actually had the solution and were ready to crack down, I’d say the track is legally responsible for your fee. Don’t you agree, Payson?”
“Well-er-yes, I would say so. If Mr. Shayne can prove to us that he was in possession of the salient facts.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Shayne boasted. “I’ll undertake to tell you just what was in Hardeman’s confession, though you all know I haven’t read a word of it.”
He lit a cigarette, glancing across at Tim Rourke, who was furiously taking notes. Rourke grinned and nodded encouragement. Shayne glanced from him to Matrix, who still stood aside awkwardly, his shoulders hunched in a defensive attitude, his gaze flickering suspiciously about as though he refused to believe anything he heard. “Take the weight off your feet, Gil,” Shayne advised, “while I try to earn seventeen thousand bucks. That’s the correct amount, isn’t it, Payson?”
“Approximately, yes. Since it appears the track will sustain no further loss after tonight.”
“All right,” Shayne began slowly, “here’s the story. Just for the record, let me say that I first began to suspect Mr. Hardeman at seven o’clock tonight.”
He paused, glancing at MacFarlane with an ironic grin. “Though I did also think you might easily be mixed up in the deal. That’s what you get for harboring crooks out at the Rendezvous.”
“At seven o’clock?” Gentry asked. “You mean that shooting in Hardeman’s hotel room?”
“Yep. It stank,” Shayne asserted cheerily. “In the first place, I don’t believe those birds intended to kill me. They didn’t have their guns out when I barged in-else I wouldn’t have come out of it alive. If they just planned to slug me-what object would be accomplished? No one would be fool enough to think I’d scare off a case that easy.