Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday Page A

shrubbery, the net effect giving an atmosphere of quiet dignity to the small house.
    Stepping onto the wooden porch, he rang the bell and dragged off his hat when the door opened. He faced a motherly woman who studied him with still, gray eyes, then smiled and said, “Yes?”
    Shayne asked, “Is Mr. Edwards in?” and she shook her graying head. Folding plump hands over her neat tan house dress, she said, “But I’m expecting him any minute. He’s generally through at the office before this.” Her manner and voice were patiently cordial, carrying a half-voiced invitation for the stranger to come in and wait.
    Shayne promptly accepted by saying, “Do you mind if I wait a few minutes? It’s important.”
    “Of course not.” She pushed the screen open and Shayne went past her into a small, well-lighted living-room. A Scottie romped toward him over the clean, worn rug, his tail erect and courteously wagging. He sniffed the cuffs of Shayne’s trousers, then allowed the detective to scratch the back of his neck. He retired with dignity after this amenity was concluded. Raising his head, Shayne saw a bright-faced boy of eight or ten who was curled up in a deep chair with schoolbooks and papers. He said, “Hello.”
    The boy observed the newcomer with questioning eyes and replied, “Good evening,” in a disinterested tone.
    “You’ll have to excuse Tommy’s manners,” his mother apologized. “He’s always too buried under books and papers to stand up.”
    Tommy then added his own apology, which was a big grin that spread over his freckled face, and resumed his schoolwork.
    Shayne turned to the woman and said, “I presume you’re Mrs. Edwards.” She nodded, and he introduced himself.
    “I knew you the instant I saw you at the door, Mr. Shayne. I recognized you from that picture in the afternoon paper.”
    An animated, “Gee!” came from Tommy. “The detective, huh?”
    “Now, Tommy,” his mother admonished.
    Shayne chuckled. “Do I add up to your idea of a private dick, Tommy?”
    “You look plenty tough, all right. Boy! the way you mowed ’em down at the hotel! The Green Hornet couldn’t of done no better.”
    “Couldn’t have done any better, Tommy,” his mother corrected patiently. “Won’t you take this rocker, Mr. Shayne?”
    Shayne said he would. He sat down just back from the circle of light provided by one floor lamp between Tommy’s chair and a faded couch. Mrs. Edwards sat on the end of the couch nearest the lamp and picked up a sewing-basket, carefully arranged her glasses which had been laid aside when she answered the door, snipped a thread with her teeth, and said, “I suppose it’s something about the counterfeiting you’ve come to see Ben about, but I don’t know what he could tell you.”
    “Dad hadda go down to take pictures of the gangsters you killed,” Tommy put in importantly. “Maybe you’ve killed some more gangsters since then, huh? Maybe that’s why he ain’t home yet.”
    His mother corrected his grammar again and admonished him to get his homework finished. Tommy said, “Isn’t,” his eyes bright and questioning on Shayne.
    Shayne shook his head. “I haven’t bumped into any more of them, Tommy.” He turned his body in the rocking chair to face Mrs. Edwards. “Is your husband a professional photographer?”
    “He takes all the pictures for the Voice, along with setting type and a dozen other things.” Mrs. Edwards bent her head and began sewing up a split in a boy’s shirt. The lamp-glow turned her hair to dark silver, giving the illusion of a bright halo over her head where the new hairs curled up.
    Tommy fidgeted in his chair and regarded Shayne with awed eyes, but said nothing more. A smoking-stand by Shayne’s elbow held an ash tray. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, let smoke trail lazily from his nostrils. Casually, he asked, “Do you know any reason why a lawyer from Miami—Mr. Samuelson—would be coming up here to see your