“Exactly. And I assume, of course, that she is on the cruise with them now. Certainly, they would have informed me before this had she not arrived safely.”
“But you’ve had no definite word from her since Thursday?”
“N-n-no. That’s quite true.”
“Do you know the names of her friends in Apalachicola?”
“Oh, yes. Certainly. Mr. and Mrs. Larch. Old family friends. I assure you, Mr. Shayne…”
“I think you’d better try to telephone them,” interrupted Shayne. “If we can just be certain your daughter is safely on a cruise, it will simplify our investigation here.”
“But they are somewhere in the Gulf on a sailboat,” protested Henderson. “Don’t you see? I did attempt to telephone Mr. Larch Friday after I had seen the picture I thought might be Jean. They had left early in the morning to be gone a week.”
“And there’s no possibility of contacting them now?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Do you know your daughter took the bus to Apalachicola?”
“If by that, you mean did I actually see her board the bus… the answer is no. She had planned to take the six o’clock bus, and so far as I know, she did so. For the love of heaven, Mr. Shayne, tell me what you do suspect. You say there may have been an error. Does this mean you suspect the amnesia victim may have been Jean after all?”
“We don’t want to worry you unduly,” said Shayne. “Probably not. But please answer a couple more questions. Was your daughter acquainted with Randolph Harris?”
“Harris? Randolph Harris?” The professor’s voice held no note of recognition. “Who may he be?”
“A young attorney who lives in Orlando. Previously connected with the State’s Attorney’s office there. I wondered if your daughter knew him.”
“I’m certain she doesn’t. Jean is only nineteen, and since her mother died three years ago we have been very close. I think I can say I have her complete confidence and know all of her friends. I have never heard her mention the name of Randolph Harris among them.”
“One more thing. You spoke twice about an accident to a younger daughter. Something about the coincidence that led you to wonder if the other girl could be Jean even though you were quite positive she was on a bus to Apalachicola at the time.”
“Yes. Jeanette. If you are a detective in Brockton, you certainly must recall the tragic details. Less than a month ago, it was. A terrible shock. Jeanette was such a gay and fun-loving girl. Quite unlike her older sister, Jean, who inherited my traits, I fear, rather than those of her mother. With the grief of Jeanette’s loss so fresh in my mind, you can understand why I felt impelled to investigate the remote possibility that the girl whose picture I saw in the paper might be Jean.”
“Of course,” said Shayne heartily, deciding it would be best not to admit that he wasn’t on the Brockton force and knew nothing about the prior accident. “Thank you every much indeed for your splendid cooperation,” he went on. “It may be that I’ll want to run up there a little later on just to confirm a few minor details. Will you give me your address and tell me what time you’ll be at home?”
Professor Henderson gave him a street address in Orlando, and said he’d be at home all afternoon. He was pathetically anxious to ask more questions about the new development in the case, but Shayne cut him off as gently as he could and hung up with a promise to let Henderson know the first moment they had any definite news.
Beads of sweat stood on Shayne’s corrugated forehead, and his angular jaw was set hard as he slowly stood up. His gray eyes were blank and unseeing as he mechanically groped for the cognac bottle and poured out a small drink. He stood with it gripped tightly in his hand, looking across the room and out the windows to the bright sunlight lying peacefully on the small city of Brockton, but his gaze was focussed inward.
Another fatal accident in Brockton a month ago. Too many accidents. The three words kept pounding through his mind. Altogether too many accidents in a short space of time for such a small place.
A young girl from Orlando named Jeanette Henderson a month ago. A young attorney from Orlando last Thursday night. A girl who looked enough like Jeanette’s sister to be her double also last Thursday night. And last night a pair of cold-blooded killers named Gene and Mule assaulting Michael Shayne in a bar where no one could possibly have known he would be, dragging him out to their car and driving out onto a deserted country road to stage another “accident.” But for the grace of God and by virtue of an exceedingly hard head, he would have been the fourth “accident” victim within a month in Brockton.
Entirely too damned many accidents!
On an impulse, Shayne downed his drink and turned to the telephone book again. Luckily, he found only one Grimes listed, and he asked the switchboard for his number.
While he waited, he thought back to the scene of his arrest last night, and to the mock trial before Judge Grayson that morning. Grimes was the older cop who had stayed in the patrol car until his younger partner had succeeded in badgering Shayne into protesting his arrest. Not until Burke had called for help, had Grimes inserted himself into the situation.
And in court the older policeman had grinned at him with a twinkle in his eye when Shayne apologized for the trouble he had made. There were several things Shayne needed from the official police records, and if Grimes could be a pipeline…
A woman’s cheerful voice came over the line, “Hello?”
“Is Mr. Grimes there?”
“He is that. Hold on while I call him.” He heard her voice raised loudly. “George! Somebody wants you on the telephone.”
There was a brief wait and then a thick voice, “Yeh? Whosit calling?”
“A guy who promised to buy you a drink this morning.”
“Yeh?” Grimes’ voice was incredulous. “I don’t get it. Who’d you say?”
“In police court this morning. Mike Shayne from Miami.”
“Oh, hey! Sure.” Grimes chuckled deeply. “You still around? I made sure you’d had plenty of Brockton law.”
“I’m still around. And I did get away with the price of a drink. Wondered if you could join me for a couple?”
“Well, say, sure.” Grimes sounded pleased and he lowered his voice. “I don’t go on duty till four. Whereabouts?”
“You name it. I’m a stranger here myself.”
“Where you now?”
“The Manor Hotel.”
“There’s a little place down the street toward the station. Harry’s Hangout. Meet you there in twenty minutes?”
Shayne said, “It’s a date,” and hung up. He rubbed his jaw and decided he had lime to shave before meeting Grimes, and went swiftly into the bathroom.
10
Michael Shayne was seated in the front booth at Harry’s Hideout nursing a slug of domestic brandy in a tall glass, diluted with ice cubes and soda, when George Grimes came in the front door. The patrolman was in uniform, but his blue coat was unbuttoned, shirt open at the throat, and he was unarmed.
He paused inside the door and grinned quizzically at the redhead, pushed his peaked cap back on a broad, perspiring forehead and sat down opposite him. He said, “So it’s sure-enough true, huh?” wrinkling his wide nose at Shayne’s glass. “Just like you see it on TV. You private eyes do slobber up that stuff all hours of the day.”
Shayne grinned and said. “Not a damned thing you see on TV is true. You’re not working either, so how about you slobbering up some?”
Grimes shook his head as the small, dapper proprietor approached their booth. “Nothing stronger’n beer for me. Got to go on the four o’clock shift. Suds, Harry.”
