Brett Halliday - Stranger in Town

Shayne said between tightly set teeth, “No. Where is this place you work, Flo?”

“On Union Street. Just off Main. It’s not very classy, but they do serve good food. Their Businessman’s Luncheon Plate Special is a real bargain and we have a big rush at noon. Lots of the real important men in Brockton come there to eat. And the tips are pretty good. Hardly ever less than a quarter, and with a table of four they generally leave a dollar.”

“Will this girl be there now?” Shayne asked when Flo finally ran down.”

“Yes. She’s working straight through today. There’s four of us girls, see, and we work straight through every other day. Two of us do. We’ve been shorthanded for a week and I’ve got back-time coming, so I don’t have to go back till six-thirty.”

“You haven’t told me the name of the restaurant, Flo?”

“That’s right, I haven’t.” She looked at him wisely. “I just don’t know…”

Shayne said, “Don’t be silly.” He got out his wallet and beckoned to the waitress for a check. “I already know it’s on Union Street just off Main, and Mr. Entwhistle runs it. How long do you think it will take a detective to find it?”

He got up leaving some bills on the table, and she slid out hurriedly to stand beside him.

“I’ll walk along and show you. Then if you’re telling me any lies, I’ll be right there to see for myself. If you aren’t a detective like you say, don’t think I won’t call the cops fast.”

Shayne said, “Fine. Let’s go.” He took her arm and they went out the door, blinking as they emerged from the dimness into the light of late afternoon.

The sidewalk was momentarily deserted as Flo turned back in the direction she had been walking from when Shayne first saw her.

He didn’t notice the light gray sedan parked directly in front of them at the curb until a loud gunshot shattered the afternoon quiet of Brockton’s Main Street. The girl in the white dress and drooping hat sagged against him as two more shots followed swiftly. Pain seared the top of Shayne’s shoulder and stung his thigh, and he flung himself forward instinctively to cover Flo’s body as she crumpled to the sidewalk.

As he went down he caught a glimpse of a low-pulled snap-brim hat above the steering wheel of the gray sedan not six feet away, and it roared away from the curb before he could see anything else.

Flo was dead. The first bullet had struck her at the base of the throat and gone on to smash the spinal column. Blood gushed from the wound and stained the concrete sidewalk beneath Shayne as he crouched on hands and knees over her body.

An excited group gathered about them swiftly as Shayne slowly pushed himself up and found he could stand erect despite the flesh wound in his thigh. He put his hand up on his left shoulder and it was warm and came away smeared with blood.

Uniformed men came running up from two directions and pressed the curious crowd back from Shayne and the dead girl. He snapped at them, “It was a man in a light gray sedan. Plymouth, I think. Get it on your radio fast. The girl is dead.”

One of the officers went to telephone, and a druggist who had emerged from his shop beside the cocktail lounge looked at Shayne’s wounds and volunteered first aid. Shayne limped into the drug-store behind him and he got bandages and sulpha powder and bound both wounds so they stopped bleeding. He didn’t stop talking while he worked:

“… knew they were pistol shots soon’s I heard them from in the back here. First time anything like that ever happened in Brockton. Broad daylight too. Now hold your arm out steady and this won’t hurt. Just nicked you, by golly. A sixteenth an inch lower would have ripped the muscle. There you are. Now let’s see that hip. I’ll just have to make a cut in your pants here. Gangsters, you reckon? Right here in Brockton? Shooting at you, huh? Or the girl? Stranger in town, aren’t you? Didn’t think I’d seen you around before. There we are. This one’s deeper but you got more room here for it to be deeper, ha-ha. Just stand still now.”

Shayne thanked him and offered to pay for the bandages when he was done, but the druggist refused, insisting he was happy to be of service.

Shayne walked to the door, stiff-legged, just in time to see a patrol car pull into the curb in front of the spot where Flo still lay.

George Grimes was at the wheel. His beefy face was grave as Shayne circled the body toward him. Officer Burke stepped out briskly on the other side. He came behind the patrol car and grabbed Shayne officiously by the arm. “What’s going on here? Who’s the girl and what happened?”

Shayne stood very still and disregarded him. He addressed Grimes. “Same guy I asked you about this afternoon. Remember? Driving a light gray sedan. Probably a Plymouth.”

“You come along and tell it to the chief at headquarters,” said the younger officer sternly. “He’s not going to like this big-city shooting stuff in Brockton a-tall. Told you once before to get on out of town, didn’t he?” Shayne stood close beside Burke and looked into his eyes for a long moment with his right fist balled up at his side and his muscles flexing dangerously. Then he made himself relax, and told Burke in a tight voice, “Just the sort of games I do enjoy, of course. Sure. Let’s go tell Ollie all about it.” He jerked his arm loose from the other’s grasp with a sudden turn, stepped sideways and opened the back door of the patrol car.

Burke hesitated a moment, torn between his desire to take Shayne in like a fugitive and his fear of appearing ridiculous before the large group of townspeople who were gathered on the sidewalk watching the scene curiously. He turned away after a moment and circled around the car to the front seat and got in beside Grimes, who had turned to ask Shayne, “Who’s the girl? What in hell happened anyway?”

“Drive on, George,” he said gruffly, before Shayne could reply. “You know Ollie’ll want to handle this himself.”

Grimes grunted something, but turned back to put the car in gear and pull away from the curb just as an ambulance came up behind them.

Shayne sat silent on the back seat while they circled the few blocks to police headquarters. He was out first when Grimes stopped in front of the side door, and he went through swiftly to the rear door through which Grimes had taken him before.

Burke came sprinting across the small room behind him, ordering brusquely, “Hold on there, Shayne. I’m taking you in to the chief.”

Shayne turned in the doorway and showed his teeth in a grin that was more a snarl than a smile. “Lay a hand on me, Burke, and I swear I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

The officer slid to a stop, his face turning a furious crimson. “You see here, Shayne. I don’t take that kind of talk…”

Shayne turned his back contemptuously and strode down the corridor to the room from which Chief Hanger had emerged earlier that afternoon. The door was closed and Shayne went in without knocking, drawing it shut behind him.

It was a large clean office and the chief’s big body was ensconced in a swivel chair behind a flat desk in the center of the room. He had a telephone to his ear and was listening intently, and his only movement as Shayne entered was the shifting of his eyeballs behind the rolls of fat in the detective’s direction.

The door was opened behind Shayne immediately as he stalked toward the desk.

The chief said into the phone, “Okay for now,” and replaced it. Behind Shayne, Burke’s voice came hoarsely and out of breath, “I was bringing this shamus in like you said, Chief, for questioning about the killing on Main Street, but he broke loose and barged right in…”