there last year. On expense account,” he added with a grin.
“You haven’t heard anything from him since he took his daughter away?”
“Not a word. The police either. And that’s funny because he promised he’d keep in touch and let us know how she came along. He took my name down and even my telephone number, promising to give it to me exclusive he was that grateful to us for publishing her picture that brought him here. You heard anything in Miami about whether she got back her memory or not?”
Shayne said he hadn’t heard one way or the other. They talked on for a few minutes about the mystery of the girl and her vanished automobile, and then Shayne got rid of the young reporter.
As soon as he was alone, he put in a person-to-person call to Timothy Rourke on the Miami Daily News. The connection was made promptly and as soon as Shayne identified himself, Rourke asked curiously, “Know anything about the thing with Lucy at your office this morning, Mike?”
“What thing?”
“One of the boys just brought in an item from headquarters. Some hoodlum the police pulled in on Lucy’s complaint, seems like. I haven’t had a chance to check with her.”
“Do that right away, Tim. And then get onto Will Gentry and find out everything you can about the man. Particularly, if there’s anything at all to tie him up with Brockton or anybody in Brockton.”
“Brockton? You mean that town up-state?”
“That’s where I’m phoning from. Know anything about it?”
“No. Except there’s a kid reporter on the paper there I used to know. Name of Brown.”
“Hy Brown,” Shayne told him. “He just left here but didn’t say anything about knowing you.”
“It’s been three or four years. What are you doing there?”
“Having fun,” said Shayne grimly. “Here’s what I called about, Tim. Do you recall a local story the last few days about a girl amnesia victim turning up in Brockton and being identified by her father in Miami?”
“Nothing like that in the papers lately, Mike.”
“The name would be Buttrell,” Shayne persisted. “Amos Buttrell and daughter Amy. Spending the winter from New York at the Roney. Ring any bells?”
“Not a tinkle.”
“He was supposed to be registered at the Roney as late as last Friday. I called them long distance but drew a blank. You check at that end to be sure there’s no mistake. And see if there are any other Buttrells in town. Miami or the Beach. And if they’ve got a daughter named Amy who doesn’t remember very well.”
“Will do,” said Rourke. “Where can I reach you in Brockton?”
“At the Manor Hotel.” Shayne looked down and read off the number. “Will you get onto it fast?”
“I’m on it now,” Tim Rourke assured him cheerfully and hung up.
Shayne put the instrument down and got out of his chair to riffle through the Brockton directory. He found Philbrick Jay Dr listed as living at 312 Orange Drive without any additional office number, and called his residence.
A briskly impersonal female voice answered his ring, “Dr. Philbrick. May I help you?”
“You may and I hope you will,” Shayne told her gravely. “Is the doctor in?”
“He’s with a patient just now. Who’s calling?”
“Michael Shayne. I’m from out of town and need to see the doctor as soon as possible on an urgent, private matter. When will he be free?”
“If you could come right along,” she said doubtfully, “I might be able to slip you in between patients. His next appointment isn’t for half an hour.”
Shayne said, “Right away,” and hung up. He got his hat and hurried down stairs to ask directions from the doorman for reaching Orange Drive.
7
Following the doorman’s directions, Michael Shayne discovered that Brockton was essentially a peaceful and pleasant community of home-loving citizens. It was a different picture than he’d got the night before, driving into the business section on the main artery through town, stopping off at the bar and then being escorted to the city jail.
As soon as he left the business section, he entered a series of quiet residential streets lined with well-kept two-story homes with neat green lawns and many shade trees, with clean children playing decorously on the grass, young mothers in fresh print dresses strolling along shaded walks pushing strollers and baby carriages.
There was no hint of beneath-the-surface tensions or violence here. The events of the preceding night took on a completely unreal quality in the bright sunlight and the atmosphere of middle-class gentility that was evident on all sides as he drove along.
But it had happened, despite all the evidence that Brockton just wasn’t the sort of town where such things did happen. Shayne’s bruised face and aching neck muscles kept reminding him of the unpleasant facts of life.
And the three gangsters who entered the bar behind the girl cold-bloodedly intent on killing him hadn’t been out-of-towners imported just for that job. Somehow, Shayne was sure of that. They were indigenous to Brockton despite all the peaceful evidence to the contrary. Call it intuition or hunch, or the result of long experience in such matters, Shayne was positive the men were local products and had been recognized by at least some of the habitues of the bar-room.
There was the matter of the phone call to the police, for instance. The phone call that had not brought a policeman to investigate a clear case of armed assault and kidnapping. That was a matter to be checked later, Shayne reminded himself grimly. It would be interesting to know who had received the call and when. Who was responsible for the fact that no official action had been taken.
There had been something about the feel of the place when Shayne walked back through the door half an hour after he’d been dragged out unconscious that told him they feared and resented his return to the place alive. It wasn’t exactly that he suspected any of the bystanders of actual complicity in what had happened, or even that they particularly approved. It was more a feeling that he was an outsider and therefore probably deserved whatever had happened to him. An apathetic acceptance of the situation more than anything else. Yet out here on the peaceful outskirts of the town, it seemed inconceivable that Brockton could be under the domination of any sort of criminal element.
Again and again as he drove along slowly watching for Orange Drive, Shayne ransacked his brain for any conceivable answer to why?
Conceding that he had been recognized somehow, why had Gene and his two thugs been sent to the bar to wipe him out? No one in Brockton, so far as he was aware, had any earthly reason to fear Michael Shayne or even to hate him.
Had the girl made a mistake in identity when she came directly to his booth to finger him for the men who entered behind her?
Shayne didn’t think so. There had been no hesitancy in her manner. He distinctly recalled the look of recognition on her face, his definite impression before she ever took a step toward him that he was the reason she had entered the room. That she had come in looking for him and expecting to find him there.
Maybe that was an after-result of amnesia. A sort of hallucination that took the place of memory. That was one possibility he wanted to check with Dr. Philbrick. But there hadn’t been a single thing about the girl to give the impression that she was anything but completely normal. Shayne didn’t know much about amnesia cases, but he had a vague idea that such a person would be outwardly different from one in full possession of her faculties. That there would be something about the look in her eyes or in her bearing that would indicate loss of memory. That was something else to ask the doctor.
He passed a neat, stuccoed church on the right which was the last landmark the doorman had mentioned, and slowed for the next corner. A neat street sign told him that it was Orange Drive, and he made a right turn into it as directed. The address was well out from the center of town, and the houses here were generally larger, the grounds of each place more spacious than closer to the hotel.
Number 342 was one of only two houses in an entire block. A large, three-story white house with round
