Brett Halliday: Call for Michael Shayne

Thompson said, “Damn it, Art, you’ve been drinking.”

“No — I only had one small drink to steady me. Do you mean — I look just the same as ever?”

“Except for that nasty bump on your head — and — well, you look pale and all in.” A deep frown came between his eyes. “I’m afraid the sea voyage didn’t do you much good,” he continued. “Were you seasick? And how the devil did you get in ahead of the ship?”

“Sit down,” said Devlin, indicating a chair beside the coffee table, and dropping into one close by.

“I’ll take a good look at that bump first,” said the doctor. His finger tips moved over the area around the bruised center and behind the ear. “Not so good,” he mumbled.

“It’s nothing,” said Devlin quickly. “That is — it’s nothing but a bump.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. A blow like this with a little more weight behind it could bash a man’s brains out.”

“Or — bash them back in again?” Devlin looked up and met Thompson’s eyes. “Couldn’t it?” he asked gravely.

Thompson stepped back, shaking his head soberly. “What is all this, Art? You’re acting queerly. A blow like that — you never can tell about a concussion.” He sat down, folded his arms, and waited.

Devlin said, “Before I begin, I’ve got to know one thing. Do you believe in amnesia?”

“Do I believe in amnesia?” Doctor Thompson exclaimed. “You might as well ask if I believe in measles or taxes. If you mean of—”

“I actually want a medical opinion, Tommy. That’s what I mean. You read so much stuff in the papers about faked amnesia cases that I wondered if there really is such a thing.”

“There is,” Thompson assured him.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Devlin paused, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The glitter of hysteria had gone from his eyes, leaving them veiled and brooding. “I want you to think back to the night of the party at Masters’s house. Tell me what happened.”

“You got gloriously drunk. Passed out cold about eleven o’clock.”

“I inferred as much,” said Devlin. “But what happened after I passed out?”

“I don’t recall anything in particular.” Thompson spoke slowly, rumpling his forehead in thought. “The party broke up when the guest of honor passed out. We poured you into a taxi and shipped you off on your vacation cruise.”

“Who shipped me off? Who went to the dock with me?”

“I don’t remember. I’m not sure any of us did. We were all pretty high by that time,” Thompson admitted.

Devlin took a cigarette from a fresh pack lying on the coffee table, offered one to Thompson, struck a match to light them both. He remembered suddenly that he had not wanted a cigarette since returning to consciousness. He took a long puff on the one he lit, gagged and made a wry face, crushed it out in a brass tray.

“Tastes foul,” he muttered.

“Look, Art. Why did you call me over here? What’s on your mind?” Thompson spoke impatiently.

“I didn’t go on that cruise, Tommy.”

“You didn’t — what?”

“I didn’t go on the cruise. That is — well, I couldn’t have gone. The boat isn’t due back here until tomorrow. Yet ipso facto — here I am. It would appear that I didn’t go aboard the Belle of the Caribbean that night.” Devlin tried to achieve a note of flippancy, but his effort failed.

Thompson leaned forward, his eyes incredulous behind his glasses. “What are you getting at, Art? That blow on the head must be worse than it appears from a superficial examination. And this talk about amnesia? You talk as though you don’t know whether you sailed or not.”

“That’s just it. I don’t. You’ve got to believe me, Tommy,” he went on, his voice rising in shrill panic. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything that happened after I passed out that night. It’s a complete blackout. Nearly two weeks — a total blank.” He was tensely erect and trembling, and the glitter was in his eyes again. “I don’t know where I’ve been — who I’ve been — what I’ve been — until tonight.” His voice broke and he caught his throbbing head between his palms.

“Good God, Art. This is serious. Think, man. You must remember something. Tell me—”

“I’m telling you the facts,” said Devlin. “I expect you to tell me what they mean. I came to something over an hour ago and thought I’d missed my boat because I passed out from too many drinks at Masters’s party. Then I found out — I’d lost twelve days — nearly two weeks — instead of just a few hours. Could that be amnesia?”

“That blow on the head,” Thompson muttered, “you mean it brought you back?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” moaned Devlin. “Good Lord, man, you know about these things. Could it have?”

Thompson nodded slowly and soberly. “Yes. If a similar blow had been the original cause of amnesia. Do you have any recollection of being struck that night?”

“No. I don’t remember anything, I tell you. But if there had been an accident — if I was hit on the head while I was passed out from too much liquor — wouldn’t that cause an immediate condition of amnesia — a complete blackout of memory?”

“I presume it would. I don’t recall any similar authenticated case.”

Devlin slumped wearily back in the deep chair. He said, quietly, “You may have to swear to that on the witness stand, Tommy.”

“Why?”

“Because I killed a man tonight. I came to lying on a bed in a furnished room and he was lying on the floor. I never saw the man before. I don’t know whether it was self-defense or not. I don’t know how either of us got into that room. I don’t know whether I’m a murderer or not,” he droned on in slow and measured tones, as though fascinated by the mystery of it all. “We’ve got to go back somehow. Tear away the black curtain from those missing days. Is there any way you can help me? Any drug you can give me?”

“Snap out of it, Art,” said Thompson gruffly, but his eyes were bright with compassion behind the heavy lenses. “What we both need is a drink. No — you sit there — I’ll get it,” he said when Devlin started to get up.

“In the bedroom. There’s a decanter with some bourbon. And glasses.”

Thompson went briskly into the room, came back with the decanter and glasses, poured the drinks, and sat down again. Devlin took a couple of sips, expelled a long shuddering sigh. “I guess I did need a drink,” he said.

“Take it easy now and tell me everything — every single thing that happened tonight after you came out of this mental blackout.”

Devlin began his recital in a rapid monotone. Ten minutes later he ended wearily, “… and I telephoned you as soon as I got here. I couldn’t think of another person in the world I could trust. You can look in the bathroom if you doubt what I’ve been telling you. The clothes are there — with blood on them.”

Doctor Thompson nodded and got up. He went into the bathroom while Devlin sat slumped in his chair. He had told his friend everything except about the call from a girl named Marge — and the roll of bloody hundred-dollar bills. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mention those, even to Tommy.

There was grave concern on the doctor’s face when he returned. He tossed off the rest of his drink before sitting down again. He said, “You don’t remember anything at all about the fight?”

“Nothing at all,” said Devlin tonelessly.

“You say there was a bloody blackjack on the floor. Yours or his?”

“My God, man, you know I never carried a thing like that,” Devlin flared angrily. “It had to be his. You’ve got to believe me.”