Brett Halliday: Stranger in Town

The judge was a sallow-faced, balding man who was sucking carefully on a long black cigar as Shayne was ushered in. The turnkey spoke Shayne’s name and withdrew.

The detective glanced anxiously at the two officers as he entered. The younger one, Burke, he assumed, was drawn up very stiffly with folded arms, and he glared at Shayne as though he had never seen him before and hoped never to see him again.

His red-faced companion was not quite so obviously at attention. He had a bulbous nose, and a network of tiny red veins showed in his cheeks, and Shayne was happy to detect the trace of a human twinkle in his eyes. There was a slight swelling on his upper lip which Shayne supposed had resulted from contact with his fist the night before, and he played it by ear by nodding solemnly to the judge and then turning impulsively aside to Officer Grimes and saying:

“I must have been crocked last night, Sergeant. Buy you a drink to make up for it if I get out of here with the price of one.”

Grimes grinned momentarily, but the clerk was reading the charges against Shayne aloud in a sing-song voice, and the detective swung back to listen to them solemnly.

“Over-time parking… Drunk and Disorderly on a public street… resisting arrest… How say you, Michael Shayne?”

Shayne looked down at the judge and said, “I plead guilty, your Honor.”

Judge Grayson leaned back in his swivel chair and judicially placed the tips of five fingers against the tips of five other fingers beneath his chin. “Any extenuating circumstances?”

Shayne hesitated and gulped once. He lowered his eyelids and said humbly, “I’m afraid I had one too many to drink, your Honor.”

“I see. I understand you are a licensed private detective in the State of Florida.”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Is it your habitual custom to drive your automobile while under the influence?”

“No, sir.”

“Yet you were attempting to do so last night when Officer Burke intercepted you.”

Michael Shayne drew in a deep breath and lifted his eyelids to look squarely at the judge. “I will always be thankful that he did, your Honor. I congratulate Brockton on their diligent and alert police officers.”

“Very well.” The judge’s voice was peremptory, but Shayne felt he had scored a point. “Brockton is a community of children and of homes. We like to think of ourselves as a friendly community, but we do love our children. Ninety-five dollars and costs,” he told the clerk. He looked past Shayne to the doorway where the next offender was being ushered in. “Next case.”

Grimes and Burke disappeared while Shayne was paying his fine and receiving his wallet and other possessions back from another uniformed man who took him in tow.

It was almost ten o’clock before he sat in his car again, parked in the rear of the police station, and was free to drive away, to put the smell of Brockton and their efficient police force behind him.

Instead, he had gotten directions to the Manor Hotel, and he drove directly there. It was a large, six-story modern building on Main Street, and his spirits rose when he saw a liquor store with its doors open for business directly beside it. He maneuvered the Hudson into a small parking lot in front of the hotel, got out and handed his keys over to an impressively uniformed doorman.

“Two bags in the back seat,” he told him. “I’ll be right in to register.”

He found a bottle of Monnet in the liquor store, returned to enter the cool, modernistic lobby with it tucked securely under his arm. His head had almost stopped aching, and he had learned to turn his head slowly and gingerly so it didn’t feel that it would fall off each time he did so. The world was distinctly a better place to live in than it had been two hours ago.

The room clerk had a sandy mustache and a deferential manner. His manner became almost effusive as he studied the registration card Shayne filled out and the detective asked him for a suite.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Shayne. From Miami, eh? In our little town on business?”

“Certainly not for pleasure.”

“Indeed… yes.” His toothsome smile stayed in place, though very slightly awry. “I can give you a lovely suite, Mr. Shayne. Double bedroom and a lovely sitting room. Will you be with us long?”

Shayne shrugged. “No longer than it takes me to clear up a few things.”

“A pity, Mr. Shayne. We in Brockton pride ourselves on our hospitality to strangers within our gates. We are a small community of home-lovers, but friendly we like to think. Front!” He struck a bell on the desk sharply.

A neatly uniformed young bellboy took Shayne’s bags up to the fourth floor. Shayne took the bottle out of its paper wrapping as the boy bustled about opening windows and checking towels. He gave him a dollar and said, “Bring up a pitcher of ice, please. I’ll leave the door unlocked because I may be in the shower.”

As the boy nodded and started to leave the room, Shayne stopped him with another dollar bill in his outstretched hand. “This is for not explaining how friendly Brockton is to strangers.” He turned away and started shucking off the clothes he had slept in the night before.

The pitcher of ice cubes waited for Shayne when he emerged naked from the bathroom ten minutes later. He padded across to the cognac bottle, opened it and poured a water glass half full. With two ice cubes tinkling in the glass, he lit a cigarette and sat down beside the telephone. He gave the hotel operator the number of his Miami office, and drank half the contents of the glass while he waited to hear Lucy’s voice lilting over the wire.

But Lucy’s voice sounded unlilting and strained when it finally came over the wire: “Michael Shayne. Private investigations.”

He said, “You sound queer, angel. Could it be you’re worried about me?”

In a very brief silence he heard her swiftly indrawn breath at the other end of the wire. Then, “I’m not just sure about that, Mr. Johnson. Will you hold on please while I go into Mr. Shayne’s private office and see if I can find the memo?”

Shayne said, “Sure,” and the knuckles of his left hand became white as he gripped the receiver hard. Sweat started creeping down the trenches in his cheeks as he waited. In about thirty seconds, Lucy’s cautiously lowered voice came over the line again:

“Michael! Where are you? I expected you back last night and I waited up late at my place with a bottle of cognac expecting you to call me, and…”

“What’s all the hush-hush about?” he interrupted harshly.

“There’s a man in the outer office, Michael. He was waiting in front of the door when I came in this morning. He… gives me the creeps. Won’t give any name or say what he wants, except to see you. I told him I expected you back any moment, and he just settled down in one of the chairs and there he sits. Smoking cigarettes and watching every move I make from under the brim of his hat. Do you know…?”

“Describe him,” Shayne interrupted.

“He’s just sort of medium. Honestly, Michael, he looks like a fugitive from a private eye program on television. Like he’d modeled himself after one of those gunmen they’re always showing. And Michael… I’m sure he does have a gun. Once or twice when he twisted in his chair I’m positive I saw a bulge inside his coat like a gun. Where are you? At home? I just thought I’d slip in here where it’s private to warn you so you wouldn’t walk in the door and be caught unawares.”

“I’m in a town called Brockton, Lucy. In the middle of the state.” Michael Shayne’s tone was peremptory. “I may be stuck here for a day or so… so listen to me carefully.”

“Brockton? What on earth…?”