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alone. No one else knows what the tickets will look like until I go to the Elite Printing Shop just in time to have them set up and run off before the races. Mr. Payson, one of the largest stockholders and the brother of the printer, accompanies me to the shop and he or I manage to remain constantly on guard while the type is set up and the printing done. As the tickets are finished, Chief Boyle takes charge of them and sees to their delivery at the track just in time for distribution to the selling windows. I tell you, Shayne, it isn’t possible—yet forgeries are ready at the end of the first race.”
    “How many employees at the print shop see the tickets?”
    “Only two in addition to the proprietor. Both are men above reproach, and they have been kept under close surveillance from the time the tickets are printed until the races start.”
    “But someone tips off the counterfeiters in time for them to get their tickets printed,” Shayne argued.
    “That’s quite true.” Hardeman made a hopeless gesture. “It is your problem now, Mr. Shayne.”
    “How about my fee?”
    John Hardeman took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Shayne. “At a board meeting last night it was agreed that your fee should be in direct proportion to the time it takes you to produce results. In other words, the sooner the counterfeiters are stopped, the more money the track will save. We agreed to give you a week. Continuing as we are now, the track stands to lose at least twenty thousand dollars during that week. We will pay you whatever portion of that twenty thousand you save us.”
    Shayne read the document and put it in his inside coat pocket. “The agreement seems all right. And—I get nothing if I don’t get results within the week?”
    “That’s right. We plan to close down the track if you fail.”
    Shayne finished off his drink, grinned, and stretching his long legs out in front of him, sat contemplating the toes of his number twelves. “That puts the pressure on me to get started. I like that. Let me check, now. The newspaper office is the only other printing plant in town?”
    “That’s correct. The Voice office is right across the street, on the second floor. There are only three vacant lots between it and the Elite, a job printing plant. There are no intervening buildings.”
    Shayne looked up quickly as a harsh note crept into Hardeman’s voice. “Do you suspect Matrix?” he asked pointedly.
    “Please, Mr. Shayne, I suspect no one in particular. I simply state facts.” Hardeman spoke impatiently.
    Shayne nodded. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture clear in my mind.” He paused to light a cigarette, puffed smoke through his nostrils, and asked, “How well do you know Mayme Martin?”
    Hardeman’s thin smile showed mild surprise. “Not very well. She is a common figure around Cocopalm—turned up here soon after Matrix arrived. Until a few months ago she occupied an adjoining apartment to Matrix’s. It was common gossip that—ah—the connecting door was not always kept locked,” he ended delicately with a glance toward the bedroom door of Shayne’s suite.
    Shayne followed his glance and saw that the door had been opened a crack. He said, “You mean Miss Martin and Matrix were living together?”
    Hardeman lifted his shoulders and spread out his long fingers. “Matrix is a bachelor, or represents himself to be one. I believe he doesn’t deny that he and Miss Martin were acquainted before they came to Cocopalm.”
    “And now they’re busted up?” Shayne persisted.
    “I couldn’t vouch for that. She moved from the apartment a few months ago and hasn’t been seen much with him in public since. Why do you ask?” he ended curiously.
    “I had a talk with the woman in Miami this afternoon.” Shayne paused, rubbed his chin, then stood up. “I think my next move is a talk with Grant MacFarlane.”
    “I’d be careful in approaching him. He has a reputation for ruthlessness.”
    Shayne