Brett Halliday: Stranger in Town

Everyone craned their heads to look at the tall redhead at the end of the bar, and all conversation ceased.

Shayne was turned half to the front, his right forearm resting negligently on the bar with his hand inches from the butt of his gun. He still held his head slightly askew to relieve the pain of bruised neck muscles, and, although he wasn’t aware of it (not having yet encountered a mirror), a livid bruise showed on the right side of his face where he had taken Mule’s first unannounced blow, and his right eye was puffed and beginning to blacken.

He said bleakly, so that every man in the room heard him: “That’s fine, Fatso. Neither do I want trouble. So bring your hand out from under the bar… empty.”

For the space of ten seconds, Fatso hesitated. This was his bar and these were mostly his regular customers watching him and waiting to see how he would back up his warning. He had a certain reputation to maintain in Brockton and it wouldn’t do that reputation any good to back down before a man who’d been dragged out of the place unconscious an hour before.

But Fatso did back down. Shayne’s negligent attitude didn’t fool him at all. There was something terrifying about that voice, about the faint hollows in the redhead’s cheeks and the quiet set of the jaw that brought the bartender’s hand out empty and put a false joviality on his face and in his voice.

“Hell, Mister. That’s jus’ fine. Thought maybe you come back figgering to blame me for what happened while ago. This here’s a respectable place, see, an’ I don’t want no part of such doings.”

Shayne said, “Now that we understand each other, I could use that drink that got spilled last time.”

“You bet,” Fatso said effusively. “On the house.” He turned and bustled back to lift down the Martel bottle, and this time he selected a six-ounce glass.

In the meantime, a low, disappointed hum of conversation started up again. Men continued to glance furtively at Shayne, though looking away when they caught his eye. Halfway down the bar, Shayne saw the shirtsleeved witness to the encounter whispering excitedly to the men on each side of him.

The bartender waddled up with a full glass and set it before Shayne. “Was that soda or water, Mister?”

Shayne said, “Water,” and lifted the glass to his mouth. He looked over the heads of the seated men and saw the two elderly beer drinkers in the front booth staring at him with avid interest.

Fatso slapped a tumbler of ice water down in front of him and leaned two fat forearms on the bar. “Honest to God, Mister. What was it all about? Happened so fast I never did know how-come you and them tangled.”

Shayne said, “Who was the girl that came in first?”

“Gawd, I dunno.” The voice sounded truthful. “Some looker, huh? Friend of yours, I reckon. Went right to you at the booth.”

Shayne said, “I know. Ever see her in here before?” He took a drink of cognac and lifted the water glass to sip from it.

“Her? Gawd, no. We don’t get dames like that in here.”

“And the three men that followed her in?”

This time there was a hint of evasiveness. “Not them neither. Plumb strangers to me. Like I say, this here’s a respectable place and…”

Shayne said in a low voice, “Don’t lie to me, Fatso.”

“I swear to Gawd, I…”

Shayne shook his head slowly though it pained his neck to do so. “I’m looking for them, Fatso. When I find them… and find out you’ve lied… I’ll be looking for you, too.”

The bartender swallowed hastily and backed away a step. “I swear I dunno nothin’. You can’t blame me none.” He turned gladly to refill a beer mug and Shayne took another slow sip of his drink.

Then, with glass in hand, he moved up to a position behind the man he had seen on first entering the bar, and tapped him on the shoulder.

The shirtsleeved man turned slowly and reluctantly. He had a receding chin, and mild blue, frightened eyes. He said swiftly and virtuously, “I couldn’t do anything to stop them dragging you out that way. The big fellow that kicked you…” He shuddered at the recollection. “And when his buddy pulled a gun…”

Shayne said mildly, “I’m not blaming you for not butting in. Would like to talk to you.”

He took hold of the man’s arm and urged him off the stool, led him to the front booth where the elderly men watched their approach with interest. Shayne waved him into the booth opposite the men and seated himself beside him. The two older men looked like brothers, with lined, leathery faces, silvery hair, and work-roughened hands.

They regarded Shayne gravely as he seated himself, and one of them said, “We saw it happen, Mister, but it wasn’t our place to git killed too, we reckoned.”

Shayne took out his wallet and began selecting bills from it. He placed five twenties in a neat pile in front of him, and said quietly, “I don’t want to make trouble for anybody. It’s worth that much for me to get a line on the girl or the three men all of you saw. I’m a stranger in Brockton,” he added by way of explanation, “and have no idea who they were or why they jumped me.”

They all muttered surprise at this announcement, but whether they believed him or not Shayne could not be sure. There was something guarded about their reactions, though three pairs of eyes rested greedily on the sheaf of bills in front of Shayne.

They all denied having ever seen the girl or either of the men before. The man who had been seated on a stool explained that this was the second time he had ever been in the place, and he had no idea who the man was with whom he’d been talking baseball when it happened. Nor did he know any of the other occupants of the bar either by name or by sight.

The other pair were slower-spoken and more guarded in their responses. Though the four were alone in the booth and the jukebox was playing again and the youthful trio in front of them had resumed their pastime of feeding quarters into the slot machine-so there was no chance of being overheard-they kept glancing aside uneasily as Shayne questioned them, and answered in monosyllables.

Yes, they were regulars here.

Dropped in every afternoon from work to have a few beers.

The younger man who had been sitting with them?

Well, yes, they’d seen him around a lot. He always seemed to have lots of money and was buying drinks for strangers.

No, they didn’t know what his business was. A bookie? They sure wouldn’t know. They had no money for such-like. No, they didn’t know the man down in the end booth either. He’d come in alone half an hour before Shayne and sat there nursing a drink all that time.

The other man who’d been at the bar in shirtsleeves was another regular, they admitted. But they didn’t know his name nor nothing about him.

This had always been a quiet place for a few beers in the evening, they insisted, and nothing like tonight had ever happened before. They thought it was a holdup, sort of. Like a scene out of a movie.

The girl? Well, that was funny. She’d hung back looking scared to death and not saying a word until the third man came running in the door with his lead pipe when it looked like Shayne was getting the upper hand. Then when he was socking Shayne, she had run out like a frightened deer, and a minute later when things got squared around, the tall man cursed the third one and sent him running out behind her while he and the big one dragged Shayne out unconscious. Right exciting it was, and nobody had talked about much else after it happened until Shayne miraculously reappeared, and not seeming hurt much either.

“What did the police think about it?” Shayne asked quietly when all his other questions had been answered.

There was awkward silence in the booth. The two elderly men looked at each other doubtfully, and then across at the shirtsleeved man.