Stranger in Town Page 3

  The other pair were slower-spoken and more guarded in their responses. Though the four were alone in the booth and the jukebox was playing again and the youthful trio in front of them had resumed their pastime of feeding quarters into the slot machine—so there was no chance of being overheard—they kept glancing aside uneasily as Shayne questioned them, and answered in monosyllables.

  Yes, they were regulars here.

  Dropped in every afternoon from work to have a few beers.

  The younger man who had been sitting with them?

  Well, yes, they’d seen him around a lot. He always seemed to have lots of money and was buying drinks for strangers.

  No, they didn’t know what his business was. A bookie? They sure wouldn’t know. They had no money for such-like. No, they didn’t know the man down in the end booth either. He’d come in alone half an hour before Shayne and sat there nursing a drink all that time.

  The other man who’d been at the bar in shirtsleeves was another regular, they admitted. But they didn’t know his name nor nothing about him.

  This had always been a quiet place for a few beers in the evening, they insisted, and nothing like tonight had ever happened before. They thought it was a holdup, sort of. Like a scene out of a movie.

  The girl? Well, that was funny. She’d hung back looking scared to death and not saying a word until the third man came running in the door with his lead pipe when it looked like Shayne was getting the upper hand. Then when he was socking Shayne, she had run out like a frightened deer, and a minute later when things got squared around, the tall man cursed the third one and sent him running out behind her while he and the big one dragged Shayne out unconscious. Right exciting it was, and nobody had talked about much else after it happened until Shayne miraculously reappeared, and not seeming hurt much either.

  “What did the police think about it?” Shayne asked quietly when all his other questions had been answered.

  There was awkward silence in the booth. The two elderly men looked at each other doubtfully, and then across at the shirtsleeved man.

  Hadn’t been no police in on it, the man across from Shayne muttered at last.

  Shayne sat very still, his eyes searching their faces. “You mean it wasn’t even reported to the police? A thing like that?”

  “Oh, the bartender, he reported it all right,” he was told swiftly. “Over the telephone in the back. Not more’n ten minutes after it happened. They just never got around here yet.”

  Shayne finished his brandy and digested this news in silence. He looked up and saw Fatso leaning on the front of the bar regarding them with an anxious expression, his head turned as though he were trying to catch their words.

  Shayne set his glass down and pushed a twenty-dollar bill in front of each man with his forefinger. He said, “Thanks a lot for wasting my time. What’s the best hotel in town?”

  The Manor, he was told. Right down the street. The only good hotel in town.

  “I’ll be there,” he told them. “Michael Shayne. If any of you gentlemen should happen to remember more than you’ve told me you can earn some more just like that one in front of you by getting in touch with me.” He slid out and turned to set his empty glass on the bar in front of Fatso.

  The bartender was rubbing the stained wood vigorously with a dirty rag and he asked Shayne in a conspiratorial whisper, “You get any line on your… uh… friends?”

  Shayne said, “Just enough to make me ask one question, Fatso. What was the name of the officer you spoke to when you reported to the police?”

  The bartender got red in the face and shifted his eyes. “Jeez, I dunno who I talked to at headquarters. You know how it is?” he appealed to Shayne. “I was that worried and mad it’d happened here in my bar. I just rung the cops an’ told ’em. Dunno who I talked to.”

  “But none of them have showed up yet?”

  “Not yet. Busy night, I reckon. ’Scuse me, I got customers waiting.” He waddled away and Shayne turned to go out the door.

  He breathed night air deep into his lungs as he stepped outside, hesitated a moment, then strode across to his car and jerked the door open. He got in on the right side, slid over behind the wheel and reached in his pocket for his keys.

  Blinding rage swept over him as he again noticed the cardboard square of a parking ticket outlined against the windshield in front of him.

  A busy night, sure enough! Cops so busy stopping outside the bar-room to ticket his car that they hadn’t time to investigate assault and attempted murder inside the joint.

  What the hell sort of town was Brockton? What kind of police force was that? He’d met inefficiency in the past, but this!

  The door of the bar opened as Shayne started his motor. The man in shirtsleeves hesitated there, then came swiftly across to lean head and shoulders through the open right window. His receding chin quivered and his mild eyes were more frightened than before as he stammered apologetically:

  “I… uh… didn’t want to say too much back inside there. I was afraid… uh… I don’t know but it seemed like… back there before… it seemed like to me that maybe there was some… uh… that some of them in there weren’t too surprised-like when… uh… you know…”

  “You mean you felt it mightn’t be too healthy to tell me very much inside there?” Shayne helped him.

  “That’s it. I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had. I don’t know whether this is any good, Mr. Shayne, but it might help. I did tell you the truth when I said I’d never seen the girl before. I never did. But I do believe I’ve seen her picture. In the paper. Not more than a few days ago. I don’t know what the story was. I just remember her face-like. In the newspaper. I don’t know if that helps any, but…”

  A car came up from behind them. It paused hesitantly just alongside Shayne, then rolled in smoothly to the curb in front of him, stopping so its rear-end blocked him. It had a tall radio antenna and the letters P.D. above the rear license plate.

  The rabbity man leaning in beside Shayne breathed swiftly, “Jeez, the cops! I don’t want to…” He withdrew and hurried away on the sidewalk in the opposite direction as the right-hand door of the police cruiser opened and a smartly uniformed figure stepped out briskly.

  Shayne set his teeth together hard as the policeman strolled back, cut across in front of his car to come up on his side.

  Instinctively, almost, his hand went down quickly to draw the .45 from beneath his waistband and ram it down behind the seat cushion beside him.

  Sure, it was registered and he had a permit to carry it. That went along with his private detective’s license. But these small-town cops. You never knew. Particularly in a town like Brockton where an armed assault complaint went unanswered for hours.

  The policeman was young and clean-featured, and aggressively hard-jawed. He leaned his elbow on the door beside Shayne and said, “Stranger in town, huh?”

  “Driving through.”

  “Guess you didn’t see that ticket on your windshield, huh?”

  “Just noticed it.”

  “H-m-n. Got your motor running and all. You wouldn’t be planning on slipping away from town without stopping by the station to settle it up, I guess.”

  Shayne said, “No.”

  “Wouldn’t like for you to do that. Been parked here in front of this bar a long time, haven’t you?”

  “You should know.” Despite himself, Shayne’s irritation leaked out into his voice.

  “Had yourself a lot of drinks, huh?”

  “Is that any of your business? Okay, so I over-parked. If you’ll get your wagon out of the way I’ll pull around to the station and settle the ticket.”

  “Maybe it is some of my business.” The young cop’s eyes narrowed importantly. “From that whiff of your breath I just got I’d say that’s quite a load you’re carrying.” His voice changed abruptly to curt command. “Cut off your motor and step out here. You’re not driving anywhere till I decide whether you’re sober enough to be trusted b
ehind the wheel.”

  That did it. Despite all his past experience with arrogant cops, small-town or big-town—despite the fact that all he wanted in the world was to get to a hotel where there was food and drink and a telephone and a soft bed to relax on, Shayne lost control.

  All the frustrated, bottled-up anger of the last two hours came out in his snarl, “Out of my way, punk. I’ve had one damned drink if that’s what…”

  The door came open and an officious hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked hard. Shayne braced himself and chopped the edge of his palm down on the policeman’s forearm muscles, numbing them so the hand fell away.

  “Keep your goddamned hands off me.” Shayne’s voice was throaty and rough.

  The young policeman was well-trained. He stood back, rubbing his forearm, and called out, “Want to come here a minute, George? Got a drunk that thinks he’s tough.”

  Sanity reasserted itself as the other door of the police car opened and a bulky figure stepped out.

  Shayne knew this was no good. Never argue with a strange cop. Who knew that axiom better than he? But here he was—a hundred miles from home—

  He stepped out from behind the wheel as the other patrolman approached and said thickly, “Sorry, Officer. I really didn’t mean…” Pain hit him in the neck as he stood upright and he swayed slightly and put his hand on the open door to steady himself.

  The second cop was burly and red-faced and older. He shoved the first one aside and said happily, “Drunk and resistin’ arrest, huh? Come along with me now.” He caught Shayne’s left wrist in both big hands and moved in behind the detective swiftly but inexpertly to thrust the arm up behind him in a hammerlock.

  Everything went crimson before Michael Shayne’s eyes. Every man is constituted to endure so much before the breaking point is reached. Shayne had endured enough in Brockton that night.

  He eeled out of the hammerlock and drove his right fist into the bulbous red face beside him. The burly cop staggered back with blood spurting from his nose, and the younger man stepped in calmly and sapped Shayne behind the ear with his blackjack.

  For the second time in Brockton that evening, Shayne went out like a candle in a hurricane.

  4

  MICHAEL SHAYNE awoke quite early the next morning. He lay on his back on a rough army blanket folded to cover a built-in bunk of iron lattice-work. His coat was rolled up under his head for a pillow. He was in a small, iron-barred cubicle, dimly lighted by a 25-watt ceiling bulb in the corridor outside.

  Shayne lay as he was without trying to move for several minutes which he devoted to cursing himself and his goddamned crazy temper that had betrayed him into this situation. He clearly recalled all the events leading up to the point where he socked the older policeman in blind rage. After that, there was hazy memory of being pushed and pulled around, of voices questioning him and of somewhat incoherent replies on his part.

  His head ached dully and steadily, and for a long period of minutes he didn’t dare try to lift it for fear neck muscles wouldn’t respond. It was very quiet in this cell of the Brockton jail. He got up strength finally to lift his arm and squint at his wristwatch. 6:30. It would be hours yet before there’d be any chance of talking his way, or paying his way, out of jail.

  “And when that chance comes,” he warned himself grimly, “keep your goddamned big mouth shut, Mike Shayne. Take every insult like a little man, and speak only when you are spoken to. Apologize for living, if necessary, and plead guilty to whatever they throw at you.”

  Much as he hated to admit it even to himself, it was basically his own fault that he was in a cell right now instead of luxuriating in a soft bed in the Manor Hotel. Couldn’t blame the two cops too much, he admitted grudgingly. Sure, they had been over-tough and officious, but most cops are. They get that way after dealing with criminals and drunks night after night. It’s an occupational disease.

  And no one knew that better than Michael Shayne. That’s why it was his fault more than theirs. The pair who had picked him up hadn’t known, of course, about what had happened inside the bar earlier. They didn’t know he was already boiling with anger because no official cognizance had been taken of the unprovoked attack on him.

  So, all right. So, the thing now was to get out of jail. Meek and submissive, that was the ticket. Until he got free. After that—well, he thought maybe he’d be around Brockton for a short time at least, and chances were he might run into the two cops again under more propitious circumstances.

  The thought invigorated him enough that he temporarily lost his caution and sat up suddenly.

  A groan escaped his lips before he could repress it. Sledgehammers began pounding inside his skull, and his neck and shoulder muscles on the right side were a mass of agonizing pain.

  He stayed sitting up, head held askew in the only position that wasn’t sheer torture, gritting his teeth and moving it a tenth of an inch from this side to that to work some of the stiffness out.

  No wonder the guy was called Mule. Probably nicknamed that by some other victim whom he had kicked around.

  Shayne fretfully began wondering what and why again, then sternly stopped that guessing game and concentrated on massaging the soreness out of his neck. Because it couldn’t be anything but a guessing game until he accumulated a few facts to go on.

  He thought about his brown-haired secretary instead. Lucy Hamilton in Miami—expecting his return last night. He remembered the one faintly plausible hypothesis for the affair that he had come up with last night. If it was a new case that someone didn’t want him to work on, he’d been effectively prevented from taking it all right. At least for one night. But he wasn’t lying in the morgue yet, the victim of a hit-run driver. That was one consolation.

  He found a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one. He was smoking his third and had worked the stiffness out to a point where he could turn his head a couple of inches in both directions when a sad-faced turnkey came down the corridor with the breakfast Brockton jail served its guests for free.

  There was an aluminum pie-plate with a thick piece of tough fried ham and a mound of boiled grits with meat fat poured on top. And a slice of bread. And there was a big aluminum mug of muddy coffee so sweet that it set Shayne’s teeth on edge.

  These were slid through a small hole in the bars at floor level by the turnkey and Shayne sat on the edge of his bunk and thanked him as though it were a serving of crisp bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, golden toast and steaming black coffee.

  The turnkey was obviously unused to such fulsome gratitude, and he rocked back on his heels with a snaggle-toothed grin.

  “Ain’t no Waldorf Astoria, but ain’t nobody never starved tuh death here yet. You that tough private shamus they was talkin’ about from Miami?” He regarded Shayne with open-mouth interest.

  “Not so tough,” Shayne told him wryly. “Pass the word along, huh? Maybe I thought I was till I tangled with those two boys of yours last night, but they sure as hell taught me different.”

  Snaggletooth chuckled delightedly. “Brockton ain’t so such-a-much fer a fact, but I reckon our police force does stack up purty good. Burke and Grimes, now, they sure ain’t a pair to take no foolin’ when they goes to make a pinch.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Shayne fervently. He gingerly picked up the aluminum pan and balanced it on his knee after trying a sip of the liquid in the mug. “What’s the routine here in Brockton? How soon can I pay a fine and get out?”

  “City judge sits downstairs at nine. Them that’s got sense and pleads guilty gen’ally gets out fast.”

  “How much,” asked Shayne humbly, “do you think my fine will be?”

  The turnkey considered this judiciously. “Way I heard it, you socked Grimes good. Dependin’ how drunk you was, I reckon. An’ how Judge Grayson’s liver’s actin’ up this mornin’. Fifty an’ costs, maybe, if he feels good. I gotta go now.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Shayne called after him. “Any chance of me ge
tting in first to see his honor I’d appreciate it.”

  He gagged over a spoonful of the lumpy grits as Snaggletooth disappeared. How To Win Over Turnkeys and Influence Judges by Michael Shayne, he thought disgustedly. But right now Snaggletooth would be spreading the news that the tough private eye from Miami had more than met his match in the Brockton police force. That he was penitent and submissive after a night in one of their cells.

  All right, he told himself angrily. Keep it up. Be penitent and submissive if you don’t want to spend thirty days eating hawg and hominy.

  And—it paid off for once. Snaggletooth appeared at his cell-door a few minutes before nine o’clock jingling a huge brass ring with keys strung on it. His features were still sad, but it was a jovial sort of sadness.

  “All out for the honorable butt-kissin’ court. Take yuh down first, huh, tuh see how Hizzoner feels this mornin’.”

  Shayne said, “Fine. Thanks,” with more heartiness than he felt.

  He came out of the small cell with a faint sigh of relief as the door opened, waggled his head cautiously backward and forward as he followed his jailer down a short corridor to stairs leading downward.

  The early morning hearings conducted by Judge Grayson were quite informal. There was a small anteroom at the rear of police headquarters with a desk and a swivel chair behind it, and one straight chair drawn up at one side. The judge sat behind the desk with crossed American flags behind him. A bored clerk sat beside him with pen poised over a large, open ledger. Standing stiffly at attention along one wall, in uniform, were the two traffic officers who had arrested Shayne the night before.

  The judge was a sallow-faced, balding man who was sucking carefully on a long black cigar as Shayne was ushered in. The turnkey spoke Shayne’s name and withdrew.

  The detective glanced anxiously at the two officers as he entered. The younger one, Burke, he assumed, was drawn up very stiffly with folded arms, and he glared at Shayne as though he had never seen him before and hoped never to see him again.