Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday

she cried. “You couldn’t. They promised me—you know Gil wouldn’t print that picture.”
    “Gil’s hell bent on printing the news,” the man guffawed. “You know that as well as I do. Why shouldn’t he print it?”
    “Oh, God,” moaned the girl. She fell back against the couch, covering her face again, her shoulders quivering.
    Shayne laughed unpleasantly and asked, “Why the hell did you think you were pulling this stunt, sister? The only value of a picture like that is the threat of publicity.”
    “But they told me—they said you—that you wouldn’t—”
    “That,” said Shayne harshly, “is where ‘they’ miscalculated. I’m not afraid of publicity. But when your dad, the deacon, sees it—”
    The gunman snickered and slapped his thigh. “Your dad, the deacon, huh? By God, if you ain’t a card, Midge.”
    She jumped to her feet and went blindly toward the door. Neither of the men made any move to stop her. When she had gone out, Shayne said, “So, MacFarlane is worried about what I’ll pick up on the counterfeiting? Tell him for me that he’d better keep right on worrying. The only way I’ll leave Cocopalm is flat on my back.”
    The gunman’s eyes glistened. “Maybe that’s an idea.”
    Shayne nodded. “Maybe so. But he’d better hire a couple of faster rod flashers than those two he planted in the hotel for me tonight.”
    “That’s a funny thing.” The man screwed his forehead up in a perplexed frown. “I dunno why Leroy and Taylor went gunning for you. I know for a fact Mac didn’t give a damn what you did until you got so set on snooping around out here.”
    “Why?” Shayne shot at him. “Are the counterfeits being printed here at the club?”
    “I don’t know nothing about it,” the man grunted. Shayne glanced at his beer mug and saw a small amount of liquid in the bottom. He emptied it with relish, grinning as he set it down empty. He then took up the check for $23.50 and smoothed it out in his big hands. “I’ve still got to see MacFarlane to tell him where to stick this bill. Where will I find him?”
    “I wouldn’t go looking for Mac if I was you. Listen, why don’t you wise up? If you think that picture’s a bluff, you’re crazy. Want your wife to see it?”
    Shayne’s laugh was genuine. “So, that’s the angle, eh? Too bad you wasted the plate.”
    “You’re talking through your hat, buddy. You know damn well you can’t laugh that picture off.” The man moved uneasily, his ugly little eyes filled with alarm.
    “Don’t call me buddy,” Shayne snapped. “Print your picture and be damned.” He stood up. “I’m going to take a look over this joint before I leave.”
    “You better not,” the man said desperately. “I’m telling you.” He slid his hand into the coat pocket sagging with the weight of his gun.
    Shayne laughed. “MacFarlane wouldn’t want any shooting in here.” He strode toward the door leading into the hall.
    The door opened as he reached for the knob.
    A tall, ascetic man wearing immaculate dinner clothes confronted him. He had a long face and tired gray eyes which glanced past Shayne at the gunman. He said, “Put that gun back in your pocket, Conway, and get out.”
    “Sure, boss. Sure. But this mug, he won’t listen to sense. I was just telling him—”
    “I’ll do the telling,” Grant MacFarlane said. He waited until Conway went past him and out the door, then entered the room and sank down in the club chair.
    Shayne moved back to the couch and sat down on one arm of it, swinging one bony knee over the other. He said, “Don’t put too much faith in that picture Jake just snapped, MacFarlane. My reputation will take a lot of beatings without being injured.”
    “It was an idea,” MacFarlane said pleasantly. He opened a leather cigar case and offered one to the detective. He frowned when Shayne shook his head, and selected one for himself. “I don’t like the way things are going, Shayne. One of us is going to