Brett Halliday - Stranger in Town

“You mean it was a mule that was killed?”

Grimes guffawed at that. “Naw. Fellow they call Mule Larsen. Hangs around town doing odd jobs for drinks. And I mean odd more’n one way if you get what I mean.”

“Tough?”

“Plenty tough. Been hauled in three times I know of for beating guys up. One of ’em died, but they couldn’t prove Mule did it.”

“A quiet little place like this,” said Shayne thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t think there’d be any real crime problem. Like anybody to require the services of this Mule you speak of and his ‘odd’ jobs. I suppose you meant rough stuff by that.”

“Yeh.” Grimes turned his glass slowly on the table in front of him. “You get stuff like that anywhere, I guess. No matter how big or little the town. Hell, I started out as constable in Lemon Acres, population four hundred and seventy-two. Had a bootlegging syndicate there, by golly, that had more hoods on the payroll than people in church on Sunday. You just can’t never tell.”

“But bootlegging’s out now. Nothing like that in Brockton.”

“There’s always something undercover for the fast-money boys to shoot at. And where there’s big money involved, you always get your ‘protection’.”

There was a note in George Grimes’ voice that led Shayne to drop that particular subject before the patrolman clammed up on him. Grimes was eager for casual shoptalk with the city detective, but if he got the idea there was a reason behind Shayne’s questions he was unlikely to be so free with his generalities.

Shayne took time to empty his glass and catch Harry’s attention to signal for two more, though Grimes protested weakly that two beers were enough for him.

“This isn’t important and I don’t expect it to be anything official,” Shayne said casually, “but while I’m in Brockton I wonder if you know anything about a hood who’s supposed to headquarter around here. First name of Gene, I think.” He proceeded to describe the leader of the three men who had attacked him the preceding night, watching for Grimes’ reactions carefully as he did so. “I just remember I ran into some dope on him in Miami recently,” he ended. “Not my case, but something the cops were bothered about.”

Grimes recognized Gene’s description. There was no doubt about that in Shayne’s mind as he watched the patrolman’s face. But he wasn’t giving much away either. When Shayne finished, he said, “I think maybe I’ve seen him around, all right, but I don’t believe we’ve got any record on him. Some guys like that keep clean in their hideaways and pull all their jobs outside.”

“Sure, I know. What brought it to my mind was I saw a man in that bar last night. You know, the one where you and your friend Burke tagged me. Reminded me of the fellow I asked about. Just what kind of joint was that anyhow?” he added ingenuously. “I just stopped in for a drink by accident. Got the impression a lot of tough boys hung out there.”

Grimes shrugged broad shoulders, hunched over his third beer. “One of half a dozen places in town we keep an eye on. Jasper Black runs it pretty quiet and we don’t bother him. He’s the bartender. I wouldn’t want to flash a big roll there late at night and take too many drinks. Man could probably lay a bet there or get propositioned by a pimp if he was so-minded.”

Shayne nodded absently and sipped from his second glass of brandy and soda. “We’ve slid ’way off from my original question about your rate of traffic accidents. You mentioned a hit-run last night. Wasn’t there an other bad accident last week?”

“You mean the Harris boy from Orlando that got burned up in his car?”

“That’s right. District Attorney or something.”

“Yeh. That was a bad one, but nothing we could do anything about. Damn fool tried to take a curve too fast was all. Didn’t find him or his car till next afternoon.”

“Visiting his sister in the hospital, wasn’t he?”

“Naw. That turned out a phony lead. Nobody ever has found out why he was in Brockton that night. Guy in a filling station thought he’d stopped outside town to ask directions for the Sanitarium, but where he got killed was ’way off that route.”

“Maybe he drove to the Sanitarium first and then drove there.”

“No. It was ’way south of town. Not back toward Orlando. And he didn’t go near the Sanitarium. We checked.”

“What kind of Sanitarium is it?” Shayne asked idly.

“Private.” A fleeting expression of distaste screwed up Grimes’ ruddy face. “Dipsos mostly, I guess. Different kinds of nuts, from what you hear. Expensive as hell for city folks that can afford to take the cure. Mostly society dames, I guess, from cities all over like Miami and Jax. Even from as far as Atlanta and Memphis, they say. Stands out to itself and Brockton folks don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Strictly okay? They wouldn’t have any reason for denying a man came to visit his sister if he had?” There was faint hesitation on Grimes’ part, and again Shayne felt he was treading close to a dead-end beyond which he could not go in a seemingly casual conversation.

“Don’t see why they would.” It was almost as though he were arguing with himself. “It is private and exclusive as hell, I guess, and they don’t give out a list of patients to the papers. That’s why people pay their prices. For privacy. But I don’t reckon they’d lie to us. Ollie went out himself and talked to Doc Winestock.”

“That makes two accidents in a week,” said Shayne thoughtfully, deciding not to arouse any suspicion by bringing up the girl amnesia victim. “When was your last one before that?”

“Last what?”

“Traffic accident.”

“Oh. Well I got to admit we have been having more than our share hereabouts lately. That’s the way it goes. Nothing happens in a couple of years, and then you get a batch. Seems like sure-enough maybe there is something in that old saying that things go by threes. Hadn’t thought of it before, but Mule last night did make the third in a month. Funny, ain’t it? There was a young girl about a month ago. First bad accident, I do believe, for three-four years.”

“Happen here in town?”

“No. That was out on the highway, too. Forget her name, but she was a pretty little thing they said. Driving an old Ford coupe that went off the road on a curve, too. Rolled over half a dozen times before it landed.”

“But she didn’t burn up, too?” Shayne asked, masking his alert interest.

“No. Some driver saw it happen and pulled her out. She was banged up bad and died on the emergency operating table at the Sanitarium before recovering consciousness.”

“The Sanitarium?” Shayne couldn’t conceal his interest in this revelation. “The same one outside of town?”

“Yeh. It was the closest place to take her.”

“The man who saw it happen,” Shayne persisted. “What did he say caused the accident?”

“He never did say. Nobody ever did know who he was. He just dropped her at the Sanitarium and drove away in the excitement without ever giving his name. Never did show up to make a report.”

“Like the man who brought the Buttrell girl to your hospital just the other night,” said Shayne slowly. “You seem to have a lot of anonymous Good Samaritans operating in Brockton.”

“We do, don’t we for a fact? Well, you know how it is sometimes. A guy is maybe out some place where he ain’t supposed to be that time of night. Maybe he’s playing around with somebody else’s wife. So he does what he can to help out and then beats it without giving his name. Can’t blame him much. Not if he’s married to a battle-axe like I am.” Grimes laughed heartily and applied himself to his beer.