Shayne frowned and rubbed his angular chin. “Seems to me you might try making an identifying mark on each genuine ticket as it is sold. In that way you could catch the counterfeit as it is presented.”
“We thought of that almost at once,” Hardeman answered. “The counterfeits came through just the same, marked exactly like the others. We inferred that the crooks were taking the simple precaution of buying a ticket on each race to guard against just such a ruse.”
Shayne nodded glumly. “I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea.”
Conversation languished for a few minutes while both men sat in deep thought, then Shayne said, “It seems to me you could change the design of the tickets from day to day-vary the wording or the type used. Change the shape or color of the tickets.”
The suggestion appeared to bore Mr. Hardeman. He said wearily, “We did not call in an outside detective until we had tried all such obvious remedies and found them worthless, Mr. Shayne. The counterfeiter uses his brains. Though we varied the tickets from one night to the next the forgeries turned up just the same, always exact duplicates of the new set for that night.”
Shayne stood up and took a few paces around the room, tugging at his earlobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a bottle and two glasses. “Have a drink,” he offered.
Hardeman declined with thanks. Shayne poured a water glass half full. “I think better with a drink inside of me.” He sat down, nursing the glass in his big palm. “From what you say,” he resumed, “I judge this is an inside job. Someone who knows what the new design is going to be must tip off the counterfeiters.”
“That deduction is obvious,” John Hardeman agreed dryly. “Though we have taken every precaution to keep each new batch a secret until we begin selling them at the track.”
“There is evidently some precaution which you haven’t taken,” Shayne argued. “Who decides on the new design?”
“I-and I alone. No one else knows what the tickets will look like until I go to the Elite Printing Shop just in time to have them set up and run off before the races. Mr. Payson, one of the largest stockholders and the brother of the printer, accompanies me to the shop and he or I manage to remain constantly on guard while the type is set up and the printing done. As the tickets are finished, Chief Boyle takes charge of them and sees to their delivery at the track just in time for distribution to the selling windows. I tell you, Shayne, it isn’t possible-yet forgeries are ready at the end of the first race.”
“How many employees at the print shop see the tickets?”
“Only two in addition to the proprietor. Both are men above reproach, and they have been kept under close surveillance from the time the tickets are printed until the races start.”
“But someone tips off the counterfeiters in time for them to get their tickets printed,” Shayne argued.
“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.”