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Authors: Brett Halliday
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voice, but could distinguish no words.
At length Matrix said sharply and disagreeably, “All right, Payson, but it’s against the principle that has made the Voice what it is. You know our slogan—all the news without fear or favor.”
Payson’s voice droned again placatingly, until Matrix interrupted, “I told you I would—let it go at that,” and jerked the door open.
Payson came back into the office smiling in some constraint. He mumbled something to Shayne and went out the front door, closing it firmly behind him.
“The old goat,” said Matrix viciously. “A pillar of the church, by God, and he practically controls the bank that holds my mortgage.”
Shayne grinned at the dynamic little editor’s vitriolic emphasis. “Suppressing a juicy bit of scandal?”
“Exactly. The old so-and-so has a good wife and two fine kids here in town, but he has evidently got himself tangled up with a wench in Miami. I was in Miami on business this afternoon and saw him on the street. Now he’s in an uproar because I was going to print the news as a local item. Seems he told his wife he was making a business trip up the coast. If I had that mortgage paid off I’d print it whether or not. That’s the sort of small-town stuff I’m running up against all the time here.”
Shayne said, “This Payson—is he the brother of the proprietor of the other print shop in town?”
Matrix nodded and dropped into the chair before the desk. Shayne resumed his position, one hip on the corner of the littered desk.
“That relationship,” Matrix continued, “cost me a nice juicy contract for printing the dog-track tickets last fall. I’m morally certain they opened my bid first, then arranged that the Elite bid a few dollars under my price.”
Shayne said, “Hardeman told me that Payson and he divide the responsibility of getting the genuine tickets printed without a leak.”
“That’s right. If the old goat didn’t own stock at the track I’d suspect him of having counterfeits printed.”
“As it is,” said Shayne casually, “how do you think the counterfeiters get hold of the new design each day in time to get their forgeries out? Hardeman claims that Boyle guards the printed tickets personally until they’re delivered at the track.”
“Humph. Who guards Boyle?” Matrix asked cynically. “That’s the crux of the whole affair. Hardeman is just a trusting fool. He refuses to recognize the obvious fact that Boyle is only a tool for Grant MacFarlane.”
“You hate MacFarlane?” Shayne asked softly.
“I don’t deny it.” Matrix glared at him, his thin face working. “I hate what MacFarlane stands for—the rottenness and filth our youth are taught to take for granted when they frequent a cesspool like the Rendezvous. Any man who preys on adolescents makes a business of warping immature minds and is the greatest menace in modern society.”
Shayne nodded, swung himself to a standing position and said, “It’s time I took a look-see at MacFarlane’s sink of iniquity.” He paused with his hand on the knob, half turned back into the room.
“You don’t happen to know the name of Payson’s light-of-love in Miami? Did you see him with her?”
“No, and he naturally didn’t divulge any details.”
Shayne said, “Naturally not. But if you have any way of finding out I’d like very much to know the lady’s name.”
He went through the door as Matrix stared after him in open-mouthed amazement.
Chapter Seven: SHE FORGOT HER ROLLER SKATES
SHAYNE CROSSED THE STREET TO HIS ROADSTER, still parked in front of the hotel. With his hand on the doorlatch, he hesitated and turned to look toward the entrance into the lobby where he had left Phyllis. Then he frowned, took a step forward, and stopped. Equally unaccountably, he grinned, turned back to the car, got in, backed away from the curb, and drove north through the business district of Cocopalm. Tall, clean-trunked royal palms lined the highway, their
At length Matrix said sharply and disagreeably, “All right, Payson, but it’s against the principle that has made the Voice what it is. You know our slogan—all the news without fear or favor.”
Payson’s voice droned again placatingly, until Matrix interrupted, “I told you I would—let it go at that,” and jerked the door open.
Payson came back into the office smiling in some constraint. He mumbled something to Shayne and went out the front door, closing it firmly behind him.
“The old goat,” said Matrix viciously. “A pillar of the church, by God, and he practically controls the bank that holds my mortgage.”
Shayne grinned at the dynamic little editor’s vitriolic emphasis. “Suppressing a juicy bit of scandal?”
“Exactly. The old so-and-so has a good wife and two fine kids here in town, but he has evidently got himself tangled up with a wench in Miami. I was in Miami on business this afternoon and saw him on the street. Now he’s in an uproar because I was going to print the news as a local item. Seems he told his wife he was making a business trip up the coast. If I had that mortgage paid off I’d print it whether or not. That’s the sort of small-town stuff I’m running up against all the time here.”
Shayne said, “This Payson—is he the brother of the proprietor of the other print shop in town?”
Matrix nodded and dropped into the chair before the desk. Shayne resumed his position, one hip on the corner of the littered desk.
“That relationship,” Matrix continued, “cost me a nice juicy contract for printing the dog-track tickets last fall. I’m morally certain they opened my bid first, then arranged that the Elite bid a few dollars under my price.”
Shayne said, “Hardeman told me that Payson and he divide the responsibility of getting the genuine tickets printed without a leak.”
“That’s right. If the old goat didn’t own stock at the track I’d suspect him of having counterfeits printed.”
“As it is,” said Shayne casually, “how do you think the counterfeiters get hold of the new design each day in time to get their forgeries out? Hardeman claims that Boyle guards the printed tickets personally until they’re delivered at the track.”
“Humph. Who guards Boyle?” Matrix asked cynically. “That’s the crux of the whole affair. Hardeman is just a trusting fool. He refuses to recognize the obvious fact that Boyle is only a tool for Grant MacFarlane.”
“You hate MacFarlane?” Shayne asked softly.
“I don’t deny it.” Matrix glared at him, his thin face working. “I hate what MacFarlane stands for—the rottenness and filth our youth are taught to take for granted when they frequent a cesspool like the Rendezvous. Any man who preys on adolescents makes a business of warping immature minds and is the greatest menace in modern society.”
Shayne nodded, swung himself to a standing position and said, “It’s time I took a look-see at MacFarlane’s sink of iniquity.” He paused with his hand on the knob, half turned back into the room.
“You don’t happen to know the name of Payson’s light-of-love in Miami? Did you see him with her?”
“No, and he naturally didn’t divulge any details.”
Shayne said, “Naturally not. But if you have any way of finding out I’d like very much to know the lady’s name.”
He went through the door as Matrix stared after him in open-mouthed amazement.
Chapter Seven: SHE FORGOT HER ROLLER SKATES
SHAYNE CROSSED THE STREET TO HIS ROADSTER, still parked in front of the hotel. With his hand on the doorlatch, he hesitated and turned to look toward the entrance into the lobby where he had left Phyllis. Then he frowned, took a step forward, and stopped. Equally unaccountably, he grinned, turned back to the car, got in, backed away from the curb, and drove north through the business district of Cocopalm. Tall, clean-trunked royal palms lined the highway, their
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