Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday

face. The lines deepened on his gaunt jaw and his eyes were bleak when he turned back into the lobby. He walked to the desk and beckoned the clerk with a jerk of his head. “Have you a Mr. Samuelson registered from Miami?”
    “Mr. M. Samuelson and party. Yes, sir. They arrived less than half an hour ago.”
    Shayne said, “Thanks,” and turned away. A reckless light glinted in his gray eyes. He strode toward two men sitting close together on a padded bench where they could watch people get on and off the elevators.
    He stopped directly in front of them on widespread feet. One of them pretended to be reading a newspaper while the other was busy cleaning his finger nails with a steel file.
    Shayne addressed the newspaper reader coldly. “You boys are off your beat tonight.”
    The man lifted glacially blue eyes at Shayne over the rim of his paper. He was about thirty with an athletic, well-knit body. He wore a sober brown suit with somber shirt and four-in-hand. His face was without expression, as inhumanly cold as his eyes. He said, “Scram,” and dropped his gaze again to the newspaper.
    Shayne did not move except to thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and teeter forward. The younger man glanced up quickly to meet the detective’s eyes. He had sulky lips and his plump cheeks were covered with a soft down. Long, dark lashes added to an effeminate appearance. He wore a wasp-waisted sports coat of expensive material with square padded shoulders. A faint flush crept into his cheeks as Shayne’s lips upquirked in harsh amusement. He glanced quickly aside at his older companion and then began carefully inspecting his nails.
    In a tone of gentle derision, Shayne said, “I’m surprised Maxie lets you associate with a tough baboon like this one, Melvin. Isn’t he afraid Hymie might rub off some of the bloom?”
    Melvin squirmed. He glanced at his companion again, entreating him to do something.
    Hymie lowered his newspaper. He fixed his glacial eyes on the bottom button of Shayne’s coat and advised dispassionately, “Go on back to your knitting, shamus. You’re out of your territory too.”
    “Maybe,” said Shayne, “this is some of my knitting.”
    Hymie shook his head slowly. “Don’t push us around. We got as much right here as you have.”
    Shayne’s smile was bland. “Why, sure. You’ll like it here in Cocopalm, Hymie. Only I thought maybe you didn’t know I was cleaning up the town. If they start running in gorillas from Miami I’m going to get sore.”
    Hymie grunted and put his newspaper up in front of his face again. Shayne transferred his attention to the younger man. “When you see Maxie again, tell him I was in Mayme Martin’s room this afternoon when she phoned him.” He turned and went to the elevator.
    The door of his suite was standing open. He walked in and nodded casually to Will Gentry and Chief Boyle. The Miami detective chief was a big thick-shouldered man with a pleasant, beefy face. He and Boyle were both working on fat cigars and the room was foul with smoke.
    Shayne asked, “Why haven’t you birds taken advantage of my hospitality to order a drink—or hadn’t you got round to that yet?”
    “We just hadn’t got round to it, Mike,” Gentry rumbled. “Make mine Scotch and soda.”
    Shayne turned to the Cocopalm chief, and Boyle nodded with some constraint. “The same for me.”
    Shayne went into the bedroom and crossed to the night table. He ordered two highballs sent up. When he re-entered the living-room, Gentry said placidly, “That wife of yours puts on a slick disappearing act, Mike. She answered the phone but ducked out before I could get up on the elevator.”
    “She’s determined to be helpful.” Shayne grinned widely. “She waylaid me down in the lobby to warn me that a couple of hounds of the law were lying in wait for me up here.”
    “And you came up anyway?” Gentry squinted at him through a screen of thick blue smoke. “That means you’re