Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

lights from within.
    Shayne stopped in front of the door and got out. “I’ll only be a minute,” he promised, striding around the car and up flagstone steps.
    He put his finger on the electric button and held it down. After a few seconds a bulb glowed above his head and a panel in the door slid back. A pair of black eyes set in white orbs rolled at him through the slit, then the latch clicked and the door came open.
    Shayne said, “Hello, Foots,” to a fat Negro and received a nod and a white-toothed grin.
    “You-all’s moughty early tonight, Mistah Shayne. Ain’t hahdly got the tables unkivered.”
    “Is Chips in his office?”
    “Yassuh, he sho is. Mistah O’Neil am busy right now layin’ out de money fo’ tonight’s play.”
    Shayne went down a carpeted hall past an archway opening into a huge square room where men were taking covers from roulette tables, crap layouts, and curved blackjack set-ups. He went through an open door and at the end of the hall said, “Hi, Chips,” to a tall black-haired man who squatted on the floor in front of a large safe.
    Chips O’Neil turned his head and said, “Hello there, shamus.” He stood up with neat bundles of bills in his hands, arching iron-gray eyebrows ironically. He complained, “Don’t tell me I’ve got to start paying off the private dicks along with the regulars.”
    Shayne grinned. “This isn’t a jerkdown—unless my check bounces.” He took a checkbook from his pocket and sat down at a desk. “Can you let me have a grand?”
    “Sure. How do you want it?”
    “Make it twenties.” He made out a check to Cash and signed it.
    “A ransom payoff?” O’Neil asked curiously as he counted out a stack of twenties.
    Shayne smoothed the bills and folded them into a wallet. “Nothing like that. Just a little matter of business. Thanks, Chips.”
    Chips O’Neil said, “That’s okay, shamus,” and Shayne went out to his car. He nodded to Phyllis as he stepped on the starter. “I got the money. When I spread this stuff out in front of Mayme Martin she’ll tell me everything she knows.”
    He drove on down Second Avenue and parked opposite the Red Rose Apartments. When Phyllis started to unlatch the door on her side, he said, “Better stay in the car, angel.”
    “But I want to come in,” she protested. “Why are you always trying to make me stay back or get out of the room when something interesting is about to happen?”
    “In this case, because I’d hate to have anyone see me taking you in there. They might get the wrong idea. This dump,” he went on, jerking his head toward the flashy front lights of the building, “is what the Herald would chastely describe as a house of ill fame. After all, Phyl—unless you want to lose your reputation—”
    “Oh!” Phyllis sank back against the cushion. “Why don’t people tell me these things?”
    “Because you’re so sweet and innocent.” Shayne pinched her cheek and got out. “Mayme may still be so polluted she won’t be able to talk coherently. In that case I’ll be right back.”
    He went across the street and into the entrance hall. Curtains were drawn across the brightly lighted lounging-room and loud voices and laughter followed him up the stairs to No. 14. The door was closed and no light showed through the transom.
    He hesitated a moment with his knuckles doubled to knock, then tried the knob instead. The door opened easily.
    A musty odor, part gin and part human, struck him in the face. Mingled with it was a stale smell of indefinable sweetishness which caused the hairs at the back of his neck to prickle. He fumbled for the light switch, found it, but stepped back to close the door before turning on the lights.
    Light flooded a disordered room which was occupied only by himself. He stood back against the door while his eyes searched every nook and corner for the thing he expected to see.
    It wasn’t there. He went forward warily, glanced into the empty kitchenette, then went to