Brett Halliday - Stranger in Town

“This gets into the realm of the psychological rather than the physiological,” protested Dr. Philbrick. “I have never seen such a case reported, but I daresay it might be a possible result under certain conditions of psychological stress. I cannot venture a categorical answer, though my personal opinion would be in the negative in this particular case at least. During the period I had Miss Buttrell under observation I judged her to possess a quiet, sound temperament, with a high degree of intelligence. Not at all the type to work herself up into hysteria or hallucinations.”

“How did she react to her father’s appearance?”

“Passively. She didn’t recognize him, of course. She was certainly pleased when he announced his identity and that he had come to take her home. It was a terrible strain, you know, to be at the hospital completely unrecognized. With no knowledge of who you are… how you got there… whether you will ever be reunited with your family.”

“There was no question whatsoever about Mr. Buttrell’s identification of her?” asked Shayne casually.

The doctor peered across the desk at him curiously. “None whatever. Her physical appearance was unaltered. She was his own daughter whom he had seen just two days before. How could there be any possible question?”

“I guess there couldn’t,” sighed Shayne. “I was just thinking about the newspaper picture he identified her from. I’ve seen it, and like most photos reproduced in papers, it’s quite blurred and isn’t a terribly good likeness.”

“That’s quite true. In fact, until he arrived and saw the girl in the flesh, Mr. Buttrell confided to me he had not been at all sure it was his daughter. I felt he was to be commended for not hesitating to make the long drive up here to relieve his parental anxiety. A less devoted father might easily have been satisfied with a telephone call which would not, of course, have proved anything since there was no physical mark on her body positively identifying her. As a matter of fact, I believe there were two other such telephone calls from persons in other cities who thought they had recognized the newspaper picture.”

“Is that so? Before or after Mr. Buttrell had identified her?”

“One was before, I believe, and the other came through an hour or so after they had left the hospital for Miami. The first caller was not referred to me because the girl they were looking for had a large birthmark which Miss Buttrell did not have, but the second was so insistent that it must be his daughter that I had to talk to him myself to convince him she could not be a Miss Henderson from Orlando.”

“Orlando? Some girl missing from there?”

“A student at Rollins College in Winter Park. Mr. Henderson is a professor there but lives in Orlando. He was quite relieved when I convinced him it was a case of mistaken identity on his part. Now, Mr. Shayne, if you have any further questions I suggest you make them to the police who have made a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding Miss Buttrell’s injury.” He pushed back his swivel chair and stood up. “Please remember me to Mr. Buttrell when you report back to him, and remind him that I am most interested in hearing the details of his daughter’s ultimate recovery.”

Shayne assured him that the next time he talked with Mr. Buttrell he would deliver Dr. Philbrick’s message, and he let himself out, smiling reassuringly at the nurse who was typing in the outer office as he went through.

At the hotel there was a message for Shayne to call Timothy Rourke in Miami. The detective hurried up to his room to put the call through.

“I don’t know what the deal is with your friend Amos Buttrell,” Rourke told him when he came on. “But he definitely ain’t.”

“Ain’t what?”

“Not registered at the Roney Plaza and hasn’t been. No mistake on that, Mike. I know one of the assistant managers, and that’s straight. What’s more, there’s nobody named Buttrell listed in either the Miami or Miami Beach directories. And I went back through the issues of both papers the last few days on the chance I missed the amnesia story you mentioned. I found two short dispatches from Brockton. Nothing at all locally. The second dispatch mentioned your Mr. Buttrell and his daughter as wintering at the Roney, and I checked here in the office since it would be routine for us to send a man to interview him and get a story. Ned Piper pulled the assignment, and ran into the same dead-end. No Buttrell at the Roney for him to interview. It looked funny but he just figured there’d been a mistake in the name and let it drop. That help you out any, Mike?”

“Damned if I know,” groaned Shayne. “At this point I don’t know what would help out. Did you check with Will Gentry?”

“Oh, yeh. I called Will and went to look over the lug myself. Here’s the story on it. This guy was waiting outside the office when Lucy opened up this morning. Asked for you, and said he’d wait when she said she thought you’d be in later. So he did. He sat and waited. And made Lucy nervous. She’s a smart gal and she sensed something wrong. That he was dangerous. She’s been around you long enough to get a feel for a thing like that, I guess. And she thought a certain bulge under his coat looked suspicious. I guess she gave you this when you phoned her, huh?”

“Some of it. Enough to worry me a little after what happened here last night, and I told her to call Gentry to have a couple of boys look the situation over.”

“Yeh. She did. From the phone in your office, and then went back to her desk and typed until they got there. Well, they frisked this gent, and Lucy was right. A shoulder-holstered gat. But he wasn’t talking. Not a damned word except he was waiting to see Mike Shayne on private business. They took him down to headquarters and shook him down good, but got nothing else. Not a scrap of identification. Clean like any sharp hood gets when he goes out on a job. But there was one funny thing, Mike. It didn’t seem to mean anything until you asked me that question about there being anything to connect him up with Brockton.

“A newspaper clipping folded up neatly inside his inner coat pocket, Mike,” Rourke went on triumphantly. “I got it here in front of me. Want me to read it to you?”

“What is it first?”

“A front-page story clipped from the Brockton Courier. Dated Saturday last. About an assistant State’s Attorney from Orlando whose charred and almost unidentifiable body was discovered inside his wrecked and burned car in the bottom of a ravine near Brockton the preceding afternoon. Name of Randolph Harris. That mean anything to you?”

“Not yet,” said Shayne harshly. “Not one damned thing.”

“Want me to read you the story over the phone?”

“Last Saturday’s Courier? You needn’t bother, Tim. I’ve got a copy of it right here in my hotel room. Gentry’s holding the man, huh?”

“Sure. Concealed weapon. He’ll pull sixty days if they don’t hang anything else on him. What is happening up there, Mike? Ready to give me a lead for a story?”

“Not yet,” said Shayne dismally. “A lead is what I need right now. Just so you won’t think I’ve wasted your time, I damn near got killed last night, and spent the night in jail.”

“Hell, that’s not news when it happens to Michael Shayne,” countered Tim Rourke cynically.

“I know,” Shayne sighed. “So don’t print it. I’ve walked into the middle of something, but I’ll be damned if I know what. I’ll be in touch if anything breaks.”

He hung up and turned eagerly to the back issues of the Courier he had brought from the newspaper office. Saturday’s paper was the one that carried the second story about Amy Buttrell… in which her father had arrived to identify her.