Brett Halliday: Call for Michael Shayne

“Listen, bud, where you wanta go?” the driver asked insolently.

“To the Clairmount Apartments,” Devlin snapped.

The taxi moved forward. “Only Clairmount I know is on the Beach.” His tone sharply questioned Devlin’s right to be taken to the swanky neighborhood.

“That’s right,” Devlin told him. “Near the Roney Plaza. And get going,” he said again.

Devlin tightened his lips and sank back against the cushion. He had forgotten to be wary. He should never have given his right address. The driver would remember this trip tomorrow when he read about the murdered man lying in the rooming-house only a few doors away from the spot where he picked up his fare. He was aghast at his stupidity, and his joy in the thought of resuming his real identity was short-lived. How long did it take a man to gain the full realization that he was a criminal, a murderer, and learn instinctively to guard his every word and action?

He started to change the address, have the driver let him out somewhere within walking distance of the Clairmount. But that would be an even worse blunder, serving only to further impress the incident on his mind. He closed his aching eyes in an effort to shut out the stark, naked truth: Arthur Devlin was a hunted man.

The driver swung onto the winding County Causeway across dark waters of Biscayne Bay where a myriad of electric bulbs shimmered on the gently lapping waves. Devlin’s body relaxed against the cushions from sheer exhaustion, but his brain cells, so recently benumbed and foggy, were alerted, each with a memory, a dilemma of its own to torture him.

It seemed incredible that only twelve days ago the Belle of the Caribbean sailed without him. It was more like an eternity. How much could happen to a man in so short a time? How could a quiet, unassuming young man, a bachelor with an assured niche in the business world, a host of friends and the best of social connections be transformed into this man who now rode across the familiar causeway toward the familiar apartment hotel on Collins Avenue, and wearing the frayed clothes of a tramp?

Amnesia, of course. That was the only possible answer. But did amnesia do that to a man? What did amnesia do to a man? Was it something like an alcoholic blackout? It had to be much the same thing. He must have slipped directly from an alcoholic stupor the night of the farewell party into a state of amnesia which had lasted until a blow on the head brought him back to his senses.

Say they were practically the same thing, Devlin’s harassed mind decided, except that amnesia was prolonged. He could have fallen and struck his head twelve days ago. That, along with the heavy drinking, could have caused it. Then, last night, another blow, perhaps on the selfsame spot, had, somehow, counteracted the first blow. He had never known anyone who suffered from the strange malady, nor did he know anyone who had actually been personally acquainted with an amnesia victim, but in stories he had read, both newspaper and fiction, both the cause and the cure were blows on the head. No court of justice would prosecute a man for an act, even murder, for which he was neither mentally nor morally responsible.

He was, of course, entirely responsible for allowing himself to get completely drunk at Bert Masters’s party, and he was willing to face that. He had seen other men drink themselves into oblivion, and had been mildly amazed to see meek, good-natured men become unruly and aggressive. He had seen men who were models of respectability become bestial, and weak-muscled men turn into hard-hitting fighters. Under the influence of too much liquor the introvert became an extrovert; the repressed grew hostile.

Devlin didn’t know about himself, he realized miserably. He had always gauged his drinking carefully, keeping it down to the decent limits of sociability, and he had never blacked out before. He did know, however, that in his own set such occasions were subjects of humorous discussions and laughter for a short time, and were forgotten.

These thoughts lulled him into a sense of security, and for a moment he relaxed, breathing deeply of the cool salt-tanged air. Then, as though a demon lurked in his mind, awaiting this chance to torture him anew, he remembered Marge. Marge — who had called him Joey, darling.

The driver was turning into Collins Avenue, racing toward the Clairmount. Devlin pulled himself erect and mechanically reached inside the breast pocket of the shabby checkered suit for his wallet.

The pocket was empty. He leaned forward to look at the meter. It showed $1.30. He began searching frantically through his pockets, cursing himself for his squeamishness in not taking at least one of the bills from the dead man’s pocket. It would be catastrophic if he couldn’t pay the taxi fare when they reached the apartment. That would indelibly imprint him and the details of this trip on the surly driver’s memory.

Devlin’s heart skipped a beat and his throat contracted when he felt a thick roll that felt like bills in the left-hand side pocket of his trousers. His fingers were sticky as he nervously pulled the roll out. Light flickering through as they passed a bright street lamp showed them to be bills, and the top one had 100 in one corner, and it was smeared with blood.

His hands trembled violently as he took the rubber band off, unrolled the bills, hoping to find one of a smaller denomination. Straining his eyes as they passed the light at each intersection, he saw that they were all hundred-dollar denomination, and acute despair wavered through him. To attempt to pay the driver with one of them would further arouse his suspicion. Besides, they were probably all marked, and the burly man would go straight to the police.

Devlin carefully extracted the bill that was in the center of the roll. His right hand was clean and he felt the bill carefully. It was dry, free from any spots of sticky blood. Placing it in his right-hand coat pocket, he fingered through the sheaf and counted ninety-nine remaining.

Replacing the rubber band, he rammed the roll deep in his pocket just as the taxi drew up in front of the canopied entrance of the Clairmount Apartments.

The driver threw his right arm over the back of the front seat, turned his head slightly, and said, “Here y’are, bud.”

Devlin made no move to get out. He had the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, trying to decide whether it would be less suspicious to offer the bill in payment or have the driver wait while he went inside for money. The man’s contemptuous appellation “bud” convinced him that the second course would be safer. There was no doubt that the driver was suspicious, and the large bill would surely send him straight to the police — that, and the other circumstances combined.

“Dollar sixty on the meter,” said the driver sharply. “This here’s the Clairmount — like you said.”

“I know,” said Devlin weakly. He was surreptitiously trying to rub the blood from the finger tips of his left hand on the inner lining of the coat. “I — ah — haven’t any change with me.”

“Nothin’ but big bills, huh?” sneered the driver. “Reckon I can break anything you’re carryin’, Mister.” Devlin achieved an outward nonchalance he was far from feeling as he stepped from the car. He said, “Wait here a moment. I’ll have to go inside for some money.”

“Wait a minute, bud.” The driver swung into step beside him. “Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me you live in this swanky place. I’ll just come along with you.”

“I’ll get your fare from the night clerk if you’ll just wait,” Devlin said irritably.

The man chuckled insolently. “Yeah?” His cold gaze raked over the shabby clothes. “Maybe you was just slummin’ down on Palmleaf Avenue. Maybe. But I don’t fall for that stuff easy.”