Tickets for Death by Brett Halliday Page B

husband?”
    Mrs. Edwards jabbed the point of the needle into her thumb. Her hands jerked and spilled the contents of the sewing-basket on to the couch. Her eyes looked at Shayne steadily, veiled now, and secretive.
    “A lawyer? From Miami? Why—no, I certainly don’t know, Mr. Shayne.”
    “Shucks, Ma,” Tommy broke in, “that’s the name of the guy that—”
    She silenced him with a sharp “Tommy!” Her pursed lips rebuked him, then she directed, “Take your things and go to your room. Say good night to Mr. Shayne.”
    “Aw, gee, Ma, I—”
    She said, “Tommy!” again, and he dropped his eyes from hers and nodded. He gathered up his books and papers in silence, then submissively arose and said, “Good night, Mr. Shayne.”
    Shayne sucked on his cigarette and didn’t say anything. Mrs. Edwards gathered her sewing into her lap again and said, “I don’t know what gets into Tommy sometimes. He’s so anxious not be left out of grown-up talk that he makes things up to get attention.”
    “Not at all strange for a bright youngster like Tommy.” Shayne paused, looking away from the woman, then continued: “But he wasn’t making up his story about Mr. Samuelson.”
    Her toil-roughened hands lay still in her lap. When the detective looked at her he saw abject fright and pleading in her eyes. “Is Ben—is he in any trouble, Mr. Shayne?”
    “Not that I know of. Not yet.”
    “But—what did you mean about the lawyer?”
    “I’m trying to get some information,” he told her readily. “Max Samuelson is a bloodsucker. He’s known as the smartest patent attorney in the South, but I pity the unsuspecting inventor who gets in his clutches. If your husband has an invention, tell him to stay away from Samuelson.”
    “My husband hasn’t any invention.” Mrs. Edwards pressed blunt finger tips against her eyes. “I don’t know where—people get that idea.”
    “I got it from Samuelson’s interest in him. Maxie wouldn’t be putting his nose in the picture if he didn’t smell profits.”
    “Do you mean Mr. Samuelson is here—in Cocopalm?”
    Shayne nodded. He leaned back and crossed his legs. “He’s in town right now—guarded by a couple of torpedoes from Miami—gunmen, to you. There’s something up, and I can’t put my finger on it.”
    Mrs. Edwards moved her head slowly from side to side. Her wide, generous mouth was puckered into a tight slit. “I really don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Shayne. It’s true that Ben is—well, he putters in his workshop in the shed outside in his spare time. A month or so ago he got excited when he thought he had made a great discovery—an invention, he called it. Mr. Hardeman suggested that he talk to a lawyer in Miami—about patents and such things.” She spread out her hands and relaxed her lips into a tremulous smile. “That’s all it ever came to. Ben decided not to get a patent, though Mr. Samuelson urged him to do so. He felt that the lawyer was just encouraging him in order to get a big fee.”
    Shayne crushed out his cigarette in the ash tray. “Did Mr. Edwards continue to work on his discovery?”
    “No. He hasn’t been to the workshop for weeks. I do wish he would come home,” she added nervously, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “He could tell you much more about it than I can.”
    “Do you suppose I could get him by phoning the newspaper office?”
    Mrs. Edwards arose with alacrity and said, “I’ll try. I’m sure he’d come on if he knew you were waiting to see him,” and went into an adjoining room.
    Shayne heard a car pass the house slowly, stop, then turn in the center of the block and return, gathering speed as it passed the corner.
    Mrs. Edwards came back into the living-room looking frankly worried. “Mr. Matrix says he left half an hour ago. He had a telephone call and went out immediately. I don’t know where on earth he could have gone.”
    Shayne sat up alertly. He started to rise, then paused to ask,