Brett Halliday - Stranger in Town

Her missing automobile had not been located, and no one had come forward with any information about the girl at all. Not even the man who had picked her up on the highway late at night and then faded away without identifying himself. Locally, the case seemed to be at a dead-end and likely to remain there until the girl recovered her memory and was able to tell her own story.

Shayne was searching through the inner pages of the previous day’s paper for anything further on Amy Buttrell when there was a rap on his door.

He got up to open it and admit a wiry, eager young man who gripped Shayne’s hand enthusiastically in thin fingers and introduced himself as Hy Brown while his excited eyes danced happily as they studied the livid bruises on Shayne’s face.

“Holy cats! They did work you over, huh Mr. Shayne? Resisting arrest it says on the docket. Which one of the bastards you resist? Burke or Grimes?”

Shayne grinned briefly and his hand went up to his face. “Both, I guess. The younger one prodded me into it.”

“Yeh. He would. Grimes isn’t such a bad old guy. But that Burke!” The reporter whistled expressively. “Took both of them to handle you, I bet. From all the stuff we’ve read about you.” Brown perched himself on the edge of a straight chair expectantly and produced a wad of copy paper and pencil. “You here in Brockton on a case, Mr. Shayne?”

“No. Just stopped in unexpectedly on my way to Miami to sample your famous hospitality.” Shayne grinned wryly and went into the bathroom to get another glass. He brought it back and set it beside the pitcher of ice cubes with a wave of his big hand. “Help yourself.” He poured cognac in his own glass, added ice cubes and swished them around thoughtfully while the younger man poured a modest dollop in the bottom of his glass and settled back with a look of disappointment on his face.

He said, “I thought maybe… when I heard you were still here at the hotel and hadn’t gone on this morning… I hoped…”

“As a matter of fact,” said Shayne easily, “I did think that while I was here I’d check into that Buttrell girl’s case just out of curiosity.” He gestured toward the newspapers on the floor. “You folks at this end never did find out what happened to her that night?”

“Not a damned thing. That is a real mystery, Mr. Shayne. You hear about it in Miami?”

“There was something in the papers,” Shayne said cautiously. “You covered the story?”

“That’s right. From the beginning. I took a photographer out to the hospital that night and shot the pic her father later identified her from.”

Shayne shrugged and settled back comfortably with his drink. “What did you make out of the whole screwy deal?”

“What could you make out of it? There she was with a big bruise on the side of her head, scratched up some, and her mind absolutely a blank. Didn’t even know her own name. No identification. Not a damned thing to go on. And a real doll, too. Beautiful, but real class, too, if you know what I mean. You knew right away she wasn’t any tramp.”

“You interview her father when he came to pick her up?”

“Yeh. I had a long talk with him.” Brown subconsciously glanced at the papers. “Read my story?”

Shayne nodded. “What sort of man was Buttrell? What did you make of him?”

Hy Brown shrugged. “About what you’d expect of a yankee geezer with enough rocks to be spending the winter at the Roney. Just ordinary, but a nice enough little guy, I guess. Worried to hell-and-gone about his daughter, and fussing over her like he was a biddy with one chick.”

“You positive you got the name right?” asked Shayne idly. “And that he’s staying at the Roney?”

“Sure, I did. Amos Buttrell. Made him spell it out for me. And we talked about the Roney. I stayed two nights there last year. On expense account,” he added with a grin.

“You haven’t heard anything from him since he took his daughter away?”

“Not a word. The police either. And that’s funny because he promised he’d keep in touch and let us know how she came along. He took my name down and even my telephone number, promising to give it to me exclusive he was that grateful to us for publishing her picture that brought him here. You heard anything in Miami about whether she got back her memory or not?”

Shayne said he hadn’t heard one way or the other. They talked on for a few minutes about the mystery of the girl and her vanished automobile, and then Shayne got rid of the young reporter.

As soon as he was alone, he put in a person-to-person call to Timothy Rourke on the Miami Daily News. The connection was made promptly and as soon as Shayne identified himself, Rourke asked curiously, “Know anything about the thing with Lucy at your office this morning, Mike?”

“What thing?”

“One of the boys just brought in an item from headquarters. Some hoodlum the police pulled in on Lucy’s complaint, seems like. I haven’t had a chance to check with her.”

“Do that right away, Tim. And then get onto Will Gentry and find out everything you can about the man. Particularly, if there’s anything at all to tie him up with Brockton or anybody in Brockton.”

“Brockton? You mean that town up-state?”

“That’s where I’m phoning from. Know anything about it?”

“No. Except there’s a kid reporter on the paper there I used to know. Name of Brown.”

“Hy Brown,” Shayne told him. “He just left here but didn’t say anything about knowing you.”

“It’s been three or four years. What are you doing there?”

“Having fun,” said Shayne grimly. “Here’s what I called about, Tim. Do you recall a local story the last few days about a girl amnesia victim turning up in Brockton and being identified by her father in Miami?”

“Nothing like that in the papers lately, Mike.”

“The name would be Buttrell,” Shayne persisted. “Amos Buttrell and daughter Amy. Spending the winter from New York at the Roney. Ring any bells?”

“Not a tinkle.”

“He was supposed to be registered at the Roney as late as last Friday. I called them long distance but drew a blank. You check at that end to be sure there’s no mistake. And see if there are any other Buttrells in town. Miami or the Beach. And if they’ve got a daughter named Amy who doesn’t remember very well.”

“Will do,” said Rourke. “Where can I reach you in Brockton?”

“At the Manor Hotel.” Shayne looked down and read off the number. “Will you get onto it fast?”

“I’m on it now,” Tim Rourke assured him cheerfully and hung up.

Shayne put the instrument down and got out of his chair to riffle through the Brockton directory. He found Philbrick Jay Dr listed as living at 312 Orange Drive without any additional office number, and called his residence.

A briskly impersonal female voice answered his ring, “Dr. Philbrick. May I help you?”

“You may and I hope you will,” Shayne told her gravely. “Is the doctor in?”

“He’s with a patient just now. Who’s calling?”

“Michael Shayne. I’m from out of town and need to see the doctor as soon as possible on an urgent, private matter. When will he be free?”

“If you could come right along,” she said doubtfully, “I might be able to slip you in between patients. His next appointment isn’t for half an hour.”

Shayne said, “Right away,” and hung up. He got his hat and hurried down stairs to ask directions from the doorman for reaching Orange Drive.

Following the doorman’s directions, Michael Shayne discovered that Brockton was essentially a peaceful and pleasant community of home-loving citizens. It was a different picture than he’d got the night before, driving into the business section on the main artery through town, stopping off at the bar and then being escorted to the city jail.