Shoot the Works

Chapter twelve

At Miami’s bustling seaplane terminal where huge winged ships arrived and departed every hour of the day and night from and to every part of the globe, Michael Shayne stopped at the Pan-American ticket counter where an efficient young lady was eager to help him.

Shayne got the tickets to Rio out of his pocket and spread them out on the counter. He said, “These are for Flight Seventeen that took off this morning. I’d like to know…”

She said briskly, “Refund department. Ask for Mr. Collier. You go to your left…”

Shayne said, “I’m not worried about a refund at the moment. I wonder if you could tell me who sold these particular tickets… when, and so forth.”

She frowned slightly, putting the tip of her right forefinger dubiously on the tickets. “Why… that would be a matter of record, of course. If there’s anything wrong…”

Shayne said, “Nothing wrong. Who would have the records on the sale?”

“Why… I think you’d better talk to an Assistant Manager. Try Mr. Hitchcock. Go down that aisle and it’s the third office on your left. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.” She smiled sweetly but vaguely at Shayne and said briskly to an impatient fat man behind him, “Yes, sir? May I help you?”

Shayne went down the indicated aisle to the third office on the left. The door was closed and the lettering on opaque glass said only, “PRIVATE.”

Shayne knocked and then tried the knob. The door opened on a neat ten-by-twelve office with a littered desk squarely in the center of it. A thin-faced man in his shirt-sleeves sat behind the desk facing Shayne, and he was making harried computations on a pad in front of him. He paused and looked up with a frown when Shayne stepped in, and nodded impatiently when the detective asked, “Mr. Hitchcock?”

“What can I do for you?”

“The girl at the ticket desk said you might give me some information.” Shayne spread the two tickets out in front of the assistant manager. “About these tickets that weren’t used on Flight Seventeen this morning.” Mr. Hitchcock automatically began, “The Refund Department is…” but Shayne cut him off. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Hitchcock. The man who had these tickets in his possession was killed last night. I understand that a Mr. and Mrs. James Richards failed to show up to claim their seats on Flight Seventeen this morning. I’d like to talk to the person who sold these tickets if possible.”

Mr. Hitchcock said, “Murder?” disbelievingly. “And you’re…?”

“A private detective investigating the case. It’s very important to learn when the tickets were bought, and by whom.”

“I… see.” Mr. Hitchcock’s tone indicated that he didn’t see at all. He drew the tickets toward him gingerly and studied them. “You say they were issued to Mr. and Mrs. James Richards?”

“That’s one of the things I hope you can tell me. I know, only, that the two vacancies on Flight Seventeen this morning were the Richards. I assume these were their tickets.”

Mr. Hitchcock said, “I… see,” again, in a tone of slightly increased bewilderment. He hesitated, then got up with the tickets in his hand, “Wait here a moment, please. I’ll see what I can do, Mr.… ah…?”

“Shayne,” the detective supplied.

“Yes. I’ll be just a moment.”

The assistant manager scurried out a rear door, closing it carefully behind him. Shayne sat down in a chair against the wall and lit a cigarette and waited.

Mr. Hitchcock returned before he finished his first cigarette. He still carried the tickets and he regarded them distastefully. “There does seem to be some mystery about these. They were purchased at the ticket counter here yesterday afternoon for cash. The purchaser gave his name as Mr. James Richards and his local address as the Biltmore Hotel… which we require as a matter of policy in case notification of delay or postponement of a flight is necessary. When Mr. and Mrs. Richards failed to report an hour before flight time this morning, a routine call was made to the Biltmore. The hotel had no one of that name registered and could give us no information whatever about Mr. or Mrs. Richards. There was nothing further we could do, and the flight took off on schedule with two vacant seats.”

He reseated himself in his swivel chair and made a tent out of his two hands, peering at Shayne over the top of it. “Most extraordinary. You say Mr. Richards was murdered?”

“A man named James Wallace was murdered. And he had these two tickets in his possession at the time. He was not at the Biltmore, by the way. What about the ticket-seller?”

“Oh yes. Mr. Jeffer. He will be along presently. As soon as he is disengaged. Though I seriously doubt he will be much help, Mr. Shayne. It appears to have been a routine purchase, one of hundreds he handled during the course of the day, and, unless there was some reason, I doubt if he will recall any particulars of the sale.”

“One thing you can tell me while we wait. On a flight like this to South America, what about passports? Does the buyer have to show his?”

“Not at the time of purchase, no, Mr. Shayne. He is instructed, however, that a valid passport and a correct visa will be required by Customs before departure else he will not be allowed aboard.”

Shayne got up and went to the desk to mash out his cigarette in a clean ashtray, tugging at his ear thoughtfully. “Suppose a ticket-holder turned up with a valid passport made out in a name different from the one he had given when he bought the tickets. Would he be allowed to leave?”

“I really can’t say. It would be most irregular. I don’t know if there’s any precedent for such a situation. If he could prove his actual identity as matching the passport, I see no reason why he would be held up. It would cause some confusion and the manifest would have to be corrected. However, if he presented valid tickets for the flight and a valid passport I should think the legal requirements would be fulfilled.”

There was a light knock on the rear door, and he swiveled in his chair to call, “Yes? Come.”

The door opened and a blond, college-type youngster sauntered in. He wore a blue, pin-stripe suit and a bow tie and his manner was very respectful. “You wanted me, Mr. Hitchcock?”

“Yes, Jeffer. It’s about a pair of tickets you sold yesterday on our Flight Seventeen to Rio this morning.” Mr. Hitchcock held up the two tickets and waved them in the air as though they offended him. “This is a private detective who wants to question you about the purchaser.”

Jeffer looked at Shayne curiously and said, “I’ll do my best.” He took the tickets and looked down at them helplessly. “What about them?”

“I’ll jog your memory a bit. I’ve ascertained they were sold the middle of yesterday afternoon for cash by a buyer who gave you the name of James Richards and his address as the Biltmore Hotel. Just the fact they were paid for in cash might jog your memory, Jeffer. You don’t sell too many tickets to South America for cash, certainly.”

The young man shrugged. “At least half my sales are for cash, I’d say. James Richards?” He repeated the name thoughtfully, closing his eyes as though he savored it, then shaking his crew-cut head. “It doesn’t ring any bell, Mr. Hitchcock. Gosh, the way people are crowding in all day… I suppose I sold fifty tickets to South America yesterday.”

Shayne sighed and asked, “I suppose there’s no possibility you didn’t explain carefully that a properly visaed passport would be required before he enplaned?”

“Oh, no. That’s part of our routine. We have a little printed folder giving all the necessary information on flights to various parts of the world.”

“And you couldn’t say whether the buyer was fat or thin, young or old, male or female?” Shayne pursued.

“I’m afraid I can’t. If there had been anything to draw my attention to these particular tickets…” The young man paused helplessly.

Shayne shrugged and stood up and leaned forward to twitch the tickets from his hand. “I imagine the person who bought them took particular care not to draw attention to himself… or herself.” He hesitated as a further thought struck him. “You wouldn’t have thought it peculiar if a woman had bought the tickets… instead of a man?”

“Why… no. Women often come in to buy tickets for their husbands and themselves.”

Shayne nodded in defeat and repocketed the tickets. “Thank you both, and I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

Mr. Hitchcock followed him to the door and effusively assured him that was perfectly all right and he was delighted to have been of any assistance whatever in serving any segment of Pan-American’s vast clientele, and if he could be of any further service…

Outside the office, Shayne made his way out of the bustling terminal and to his car in the parking lot with a dissatisfied frown on his face. In one sense, this had been a complete waste of time. All he knew was that someone who had given the name of James Richards and a fake address had bought a pair of tickets to Rio the preceding afternoon for cash… a pair of tickets that had subsequently turned up in the wallet of a murdered man who had apparently been packing a bag for such a trip when he was murdered. Whether Wallace, himself, had bought the tickets and given a false name, or whether someone else had bought them for him, was still shrouded in mystery. Twenty minutes remained before his appointment with Martin and Tompkins when he pulled away from the seaplane base.