Brett Halliday: Stranger in Town

The voice was coming closer as it spoke, and a little sallow-faced man pushed the door open and came out, followed by a tall, solid-bodied man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy beaming face who was still talking as he entered the room and saw the nurse and Michael Shayne.

“… but it is doctor’s orders, old man, and I’d be the last one in the world to…”

Dr. Jay Philbrick’s booming voice stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. He glanced uncertainly from Shayne to the nurse, and then back to the patient whom he was just ushering out, and ended in a quieter, more professional voice, “Slow down a little, Ed, and don’t worry. Call me in a day or so after I’ve had a chance to go over the results of the test.”

He turned about abruptly and pulled the door of the reception room shut behind him.

Shayne moved forward in a long, unhurried stride, and reached the closed door just as the nurse stepped in front of it and faced him with an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks.

“I’m sorry but the doctor can’t see you now.”

Shayne looked down at her quizzically. “I told you it was extremely urgent and I’ll be only a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, but he told me…”

“To explain that he was too busy to see anyone?” The quizzical smile stayed on Shayne’s face and he kept his voice deceptively gentle. “Although he has got time on his hands for a Mint Julep.”

Shayne put a big hand on the nurse’s shoulder and firmly moved her aside. “How does he know I’m not a salesman for bonded Old Racehorse?” He opened the door and strode into a small room outfitted as an office with typewriter desk and filing cases.

The redheaded nurse followed him protesting weakly as he crossed to another closed door marked PRIVATE. He opened it without knocking into another small room that contained a bare mahogany desk, a thick rug on the floor, three deep comfortable chairs, and a swivel chair behind the desk.

Dr. Philbrick stood with his back to him, leaning over the desk with a telephone to his ear. He turned his head to look at Shayne, and his ruddy face was no longer beaming. He replaced the telephone slowly and straightened to face the detective. “This is a private office, sir, and you are intruding.”

Shayne said, “I think there’s some mistake. I telephoned and your nurse made an appointment for me to see you. The name is Shayne.”

“I judged it was,” said the doctor coldly, “when I saw you in the outer office. My nurse had been instructed not to admit you.”

“Why, doctor? You don’t even know what I want.”

“I saw this morning’s Courier. You’re a private detective from Miami who was arrested last night for common drunkenness and disorderly conduct. I can’t conceive what you have to say that could possibly interest me.”

Shayne grinned and said lightly, “I see. I didn’t realize that little affair had made the front pages. I want to ask you some questions about Miss Buttrell, doctor. I represent her father who has asked me to investigate.” He uttered the lie coolly, turning as he did so to an upholstered chair directly in front of the desk.

A change of expression came over the doctor’s face the moment he mentioned Miss Buttrell’s name. It was a curious look, and one that Shayne could not interpret. He couldn’t tell whether it was fear or relief.

Dr. Philbrick hesitated a moment, then seated himself stiffly in the swivel chair. His ruddy face was bland again, though no longer beaming. “Miss Buttrell?” he repeated. “The young girl who lost her memory. Why didn’t you tell my nurse you were an authorized representative of her father?”

Shayne shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me it was necessary to spread the news around that I’m in Brockton investigating the affair. One of the jobs of a private detective is to keep his business as private as possible.”

“Ah… I see.” The doctor’s smile was frosty. “Now that you are here, Mr. Shayne, how can I help you? And how is the child, by the way? Did she respond to treatment and familiar surroundings?”

“Not too well. Not to the extent of recovering her memory. What, in your professional opinion, caused her condition?”

Dr. Philbrick frowned and carefully placed the tips of five fingers against the tips of five others before replying. “Do you mean the precise cause of amnesia, or my opinion as to how she suffered the injury?”

“Both. You see we have absolutely nothing to go on, doctor. Her car has not been recovered. We have a gap of several hours between the time she might have passed through Brockton on her trip and the moment when she appeared at the local hospital suffering from shock and loss of memory. First, let me get this absolutely clear. Is there any possibility, doctor, even the slightest possibility, that the girl was faking amnesia?”

The doctor leaned back, more at ease now, and professionally sure of himself. “Not the slightest, Mr. Shayne. Amnesia is exceedingly difficult to fake successfully, notwithstanding many fiction stories and newspaper articles to the contrary, and medical evidence in this case proved conclusively that the type of concussion she suffered would necessarily produce some degree of retrograde amnesia. Are you intimating that her own physician questions my diagnosis?”

“I haven’t discussed it with him,” said Shayne truthfully. “I wanted your assurance first. I understand it was a blow on the head that caused concussion. What sort of blow?”

“Do you want me to describe it in medical terms?”

“No,” said Shayne hastily. “What I mean is… how, in your opinion was it administered? I understand you examined her immediately afterward. Do you think it was the result of an automobile accident… or had she been attacked?”

“Not immediately afterward, Mr. Shayne. I was called to the hospital immediately after she arrived there, but it had obviously been some hours since the injury was sustained. There were certain minor bruises on her body that might well fit the theory of an auto accident, but they were not conclusive. As to the girl having been attacked… there was no evidence of sexual attack if that is what you infer. The blow could easily have been administered by a blunt instrument, or it could have come from being thrown clear of a speeding car and striking her head on a smooth rock, let us say. There was really nothing conclusive from the external evidence.”

“She is the first amnesia victim I ever met,” Shayne said frankly. “I was amazed that there were no outward signals to a layman indicating her condition. Is that normal? What I mean is,” he went on hastily, “I guess I expected to find her confused and dazed. Sort of vague and dull-eyed, maybe. But there were none of those physical indications when I saw her.”

“Of course not.” The doctor’s manner was properly condescending. “This was a clear-cut case of retrograde amnesia, you must understand. The concussive shock was confined to certain nerve centers of the brain which automatically block out past memories. Nothing else. Her brain functions perfectly normally otherwise. Your mistake is a common one, I might add, and if she did display those symptoms it would be more than likely that she was faking loss of memory.”

Shayne said slowly, “I see. One other thing, doctor. By the way, do you consider yourself an expert on amnesia?”

Dr. Philbrick flushed slightly and his voice was testy. “I consider myself competent to diagnose and treat such a case. No physician, Mr. Shayne, would consider himself an expert on amnesia. It is a relatively rare occurrence in real life, but I am thoroughly familiar with the literature on the subject.”

“Good,” said Shayne heartily. “Then you can tell me this. In a case like Miss Buttrell’s… where she doesn’t remember anything prior to receiving the blow on her head… is it possible that in striving to remember, the patient may be subject to hallucinations? That is, think she remembers things that aren’t true at all? Might she honestly think she recognizes someone whom she has never actually seen before at all?”