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for a time. We even had an expert up from Miami to go over the totalizer and he pronounced it in perfect condition. Yet each night’s play found us actually losing money instead of earning the percentage provided by law.”
    John Hardeman paused to mop his forehead. He shook his gray head sadly and winced at the thought of the outrageous state of affairs in which race-track patrons were getting more than an even break. Then he resumed:
    “There was only one possible answer. We were cashing more win tickets than we were selling. It was quickly established that this was a fact, but a careful examination of the cashed tickets failed to reveal the counterfeits. The forgeries are so cleverly done as actually to defy detection, even though we know a certain portion of them are counterfeits. You can see how impossible it would be for a paying teller to detect a counterfeit in the confusion of cashing tickets after each race. And there is no way to make a man identify himself as having actually purchased the ticket he presents for payment. If it isn’t stopped at once, Mr. Shayne, the track will have to close down.”
    “How much is the take amounting to?”
    Hardeman shuddered. “More than three thousand dollars last night. You can see how easily it runs into a stupendous amount when you consider that many of the tickets pay off as much as ten or fifteen to one. It wouldn’t take many persons mixing with the honest patrons to cash in several thousand dollars in forgeries.”
    “Who prints the tickets?”
    “They are printed right here in Cocopalm at a small shop just down the street. We called for bids at the beginning of the season and the Elite Printing Shop underbid Matrix, who has the only other printing establishment in town. The Elite, by the way, is owned by a reputable citizen, a brother of one of our largest stockholders—a circumstance which Matrix chose to believe had a bearing on the awarding of the contract, but such was not the case.”
    Shayne frowned and rubbed his angular chin. “Seems to me you might try making an identifying mark on each genuine ticket as it is sold. In that way you could catch the counterfeit as it is presented.”
    “We thought of that almost at once,” Hardeman answered. “The counterfeits came through just the same, marked exactly like the others. We inferred that the crooks were taking the simple precaution of buying a ticket on each race to guard against just such a ruse.”
    Shayne nodded glumly. “I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea.”
    Conversation languished for a few minutes while both men sat in deep thought, then Shayne said, “It seems to me you could change the design of the tickets from day to day—vary the wording or the type used. Change the shape or color of the tickets.”
    The suggestion appeared to bore Mr. Hardeman. He said wearily, “We did not call in an outside detective until we had tried all such obvious remedies and found them worthless, Mr. Shayne. The counterfeiter uses his brains. Though we varied the tickets from one night to the next the forgeries turned up just the same, always exact duplicates of the new set for that night.”
    Shayne stood up and took a few paces around the room, tugging at his earlobe, then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back with a bottle and two glasses. “Have a drink,” he offered.
    Hardeman declined with thanks. Shayne poured a water glass half full. “I think better with a drink inside of me.” He sat down, nursing the glass in his big palm. “From what you say,” he resumed, “I judge this is an inside job. Someone who knows what the new design is going to be must tip off the counterfeiters.”
    “That deduction is obvious,” John Hardeman agreed dryly. “Though we have taken every precaution to keep each new batch a secret until we begin selling them at the track.”
    “There is evidently some precaution which you haven’t taken,” Shayne argued. “Who decides on the new design?”
    “I—and I