Brett Halliday - Stranger in Town

Shayne kept his back turned. He stopped in front of the desk and leaned forward with the fingertips of his right hand resting lightly on the flat surface. “If you don’t get that punk off my neck, I will.”

Chief Ollie Hanger said, “Beat it, Burke.”

The policeman’s feet shuffled uneasily behind Shayne, and Burke said, “Well, heck, Chief…”

“Beat it.”

Shayne and the chief both maintained their positions until the door of the room was closed and they were alone. Then Hanger’s swivel chair creaked loudly as he ponderously settled back and clasped his hands together in front of his fat belly. “I told you to get out of town while the getting was good.”

Shayne said, “I’m beginning to like it in Brockton.” He turned and pulled a straight chair closer to the desk and lowered his body into it gingerly.

“Who was the woman you just got killed on Main Street?”

“The one that got shot down by one of your local hoods, who then calmly drove away in front of the whole police force?” Shayne asked savagely. “She told me her name was Flo.”

There was a rap on the outer door and Hanger said, “Come.”

A young man in a gray suit and wearing horn-rimmed glasses entered and laid a slip of paper on the desk in front of Hanger. “That’s all they got so far.”

He went out briskly and the chief studied the slip of paper. “Florence Dinwiddy. Waitress at the Union Cafe. Died instantly. Probably a forty-five slug.” He put the paper down and rolled his eyeballs at Shayne. “Why was she bumped, Shayne?”

“Ask the man that triggered her… and me. We had a drink together in the Elite bar and walked out and he started throwing lead. That’s all I know.”

“Nuts,” said Chief Ollie Hanger. “Was she helping you on something?”

“I never saw her before this afternoon.”

“Nuts again. You know, you’re in a real bad spot, shamus. You better come clean fast.”

“In a spot because I can’t buy a waitress a drink without getting myself shot?”

“You might put it that way. We never had any trouble like this in Brockton till you turned up here. That girl would still be alive if you’d got out of town when I ordered you to.”

Shayne said, “Maybe.” He shook out a cigarette and lighted it.

“So now you quit horsing around and give me the story. This is my town, Shayne, and I aim to know what’s going on. If you’ve got legitimate business here that your private license entitles you to have, lay it on the table and we’ll cooperate. What brought you here in the first place?”

“I was driving through last night and stopped off for a drink before going on to Miami. Your boy Burke picked me up on a parking ticket and slugged me with his partner’s help and I spent a pleasant night in your stinking can. So I decided I’d stick around a little and see what makes your town tick.”

“So why’d you tell Dr. Philbrick you were checking on the amnesia case for the girl’s father?”

Shayne shrugged and spread out his hands. “All right. I was trying to keep it quiet while I found out a few things.”

“You claim now you are working for Mr. Buttrell in Miami?” The chief’s voice was hard as flint. Shayne sensed the trap behind the question. If Hanger had done some checking of his own and learned that Amos Buttrell was a phony, he’d know an affirmative answer from Shayne was a lie. And if Shayne denied it, he’d be left without a client to explain his interest in the girl.

He said, “All right. Buttrell isn’t my client. I used that gimmick to get Philbrick to talk. The Miami Daily News is interested in the story and I’m getting together the facts for them. Is that legitimate business that my license entitles me to have in Brockton?”

“If it happens to be the truth.”

“Call the City Desk and check with Timothy Rourke. He’s the one sent me out.”

Chief Ollie Hanger said, “I’ll maybe do that. And if you’re lying I’ll throw your singed butt into the can for more than one night. Even if you’re not, I want to know what your interest was in Florence Dinwiddy that got her killed.”

“I met her on the street and bought her a drink.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you ever have an impulse to buy a pretty girl a drink?”

“Maybe. But I didn’t end up murdering her.”

Shayne said, “That’s your job, for god’s sake. Maybe she’s got a jealous husband. Your men picked up the killer in the gray sedan?”

“Not yet. Nobody seems to have seen him except you, Shayne.”

“If your cops weren’t so busy dragging me into jail, maybe they’d have time for something else.” Shayne dropped his short cigarette butt on the floor and toed it out angrily. “You going to arrest me this time for getting myself shot on your main street?” He stood up as he spoke, and glowered down at the fat chief of police.

“Not this time. But I’m giving you a last warning. Get out of Brockton and stay out.”

Shayne turned away and walked out of the office with a slight limp. Burke was lounging against the wall just outside. He started eagerly erect when Shayne came out and looked hopefully through the open door behind the detective. Shayne grinned at him and said, “Not this time, Burke. Ollie and I are real palsy-walsy and the next time you bother me I’m not going to restrain myself.” He continued down the corridor to the outer room where George Grimes was loitering at the counter talking to the man on his stool behind it.

He joined Shayne eagerly and asked in a low voice as they went out, “What the hell goes on around here?”

Shayne said, “I wish I knew. First time I ever got pulled in for letting myself be shot at.” His voice and manner were grim. “Which way is Union Street from here?”

“Turn to your left two blocks.” Grimes walked beside him, dropping his voice still more. “What you said back there on Main Street. You mean the guy that shot the girl was the one named Gene you mentioned this afternoon?”

“I’m pretty sure it was, George.” Shayne stopped and looked down into the worried red face gravely. “That give you any ideas?”

“No,” Grimes disclaimed hastily. “That is…” He looked around furtively and lowered his voice still more. “I told you this afternoon I’d maybe seen him around. In Ollie’s office, that’s where.”

Shayne nodded slowly. He said, “You better get on back to your car. Don’t forget the last person seen talking to me is dead.”

He went away toward Union Street in long strides, leaving Grimes gaping after him.

There wasn’t much business in the Union Cafe when Shayne entered a few minutes later and stopped just inside the front door to look it over. In the lull before dinner, only three of the wooden tables covered with red-and-white checked cloths were occupied.

A young couple sat against the wall near the front, more interested in each other than in the food before them. Halfway down the long room a farmer and his wife and two children sat at a table for four, sipping water from tall glasses while they waited for their meal to be served, and farther on a white-uniformed waitress was standing with her back to Shayne in conversation with a male customer who sat alone at a small table.

The waitress appeared taller than Shayne remembered Jean Henderson to be, but at that distance the soft ringlets at the nape of her neck looked as golden as Jean’s and he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t she without seeing her face.

A tall, white-haired man sat behind a cash register at Shayne’s right as he stood there looking down the room, and when Shayne did not move for a matter of thirty seconds, he asked, “Would you like a table, sir?”

Shayne hesitated, still watching the waitress at the rear, but she showed no inclination to turn so he could see her face. He moved over in front of the cash register and told the proprietor with a worried frown, “I’m really looking for my sister. She had a fight with Mom last night and left in a huff and hasn’t come back. We live in Orlando,” he went on swiftly, “and a friend of mine here in Brockton telephoned me this afternoon that there was a new waitress just started here today that looks like her. I drove right over and I wondered…” Again his speculative gaze went to the rear.