enough from the death of his youngest daughter. Time enough for him to find out about this elder daughter after the mystery was cleared up. Perhaps she was still suffering from amnesia and didn’t even know what she was doing when she fingered him for the three men. Could be she’d had her attack of amnesia before getting the bus for Apalachicola.
Could be all sorts of implausible things, because there certainly didn’t seem to be any plausible answers at the moment.
The only thing he had to go on was the very tenuous fact that Jeanette had been taken to the Brockton Sanitarium after her accident by a man who had hurried away without identifying himself, and a filling station attendant thought that Randolph Harris had asked directions to the sanitarium the evening before he had his fatal accident-the same night Jean had been brought to the Brockton hospital and left there by another unidentified man after what appeared to be another accident.
None of it seemed to tie together at all. Except that all three of them lived in Orlando.
Shayne turned slowly from the fireplace as Professor Henderson reentered the room carrying in his hand a glossy 5x7 print of Jean’s head and shoulders.
Again, in this picture (a later shot and better likeness than the one on the mantel), Jean was serene and beautiful and unsmiling. There was an unpleasant constriction in Shayne’s chest as the professor handed him the print happily. “This is very good of Jean. Very like her. A lovely girl, Mr. Shayne, and a great comfort to me. If anything should happen to her…”
Michael Shayne said gruffly, “I’ll do my very best to see that nothing does, Professor Henderson. Thank you for helping, and I’ll be in touch with you.”
He stowed the photograph away inside his coat pocket and followed Henderson to the door.
12
Winter Park was a short drive from Orlando. A neat, pleasant village with the unmistakable atmosphere of a college town. Shayne went directly to the registrar’s office where he obtained, without difficulty, directions for finding the dormitory where Lois Dongan roomed. An obliging student assistant also checked Lois’ schedule for him, and he learned that the freshman was at that moment attending her last class of the day which would be over in about fifteen minutes.
He went back to his car and drove the short distance to the dormitory, parked outside in the shade and settled himself comfortably with a cigarette behind the wheel, hoping Lois would appear as soon as her last class ended.
Boys and girls passed on that sidewalk as he waited, some gaily chattering groups of three or four, but mostly in couples. The girls young and buoyant in short skirts and bright scarves on their heads, the boys young and grave in unpressed slacks and T-shirts.
It was the extreme youth of all of them that Shayne noted particularly. They looked like high-school kids to him. Yet he knew they must all be seventeen or older. It seemed to him that these were mere children compared to the seventeen-year-olds of his day. He, for instance, had been on his own for two years at that age, doing a man’s work and drawing a man’s pay. Many of the girls he had gone to school with had been married at eighteen, settled matrons by the time they reached voting age.
It was a distinct pleasure to watch them passing by, and he tried not to think of Jeanette Henderson as having been one of them only a month ago. And Jean, too. She would be a Junior, he assumed. He wondered idly how she had obtained leave from her classes to go on a cruise in the Gulf, and mentally noted that as one more question he should ask.
Twenty minutes had passed and he was working on his third cigarette when a group of eight or ten girls appeared from the direction of the college, and turned opposite his car onto the walk leading into the dormitory. Shayne slid from under the wheel and overtook them in long strides, calling as he approached, “Are any of you girls Lois Dongan?”
They paused in a group and turned to look at him curiously, and one girl detached herself from the others and said, “I’m Lois. Who’re you?”
She smiled as she spoke, which took away any hint of impudence, and Shayne smiled back, liking her at once. She was taller than most of her companions, and had a pleasant, well-tanned face. She was solidly fleshed without any excess fat, and stood flatly on low-heeled shoes with a nice look of candid curiosity in her brown eyes. A sensible girl and a trustworthy one, Shayne decided immediately, recalling Professor Henderson’s statement that she lived on a farm beyond Brockton. She had a self-reliant air of confidence that pleased him. He took off his hat and explained, “My name is Michael Shayne, Miss Dongan. Professor Henderson in Orlando suggested you might be able to answer a few questions for me.”
The professor’s name brought a slight cloud to her sunny features, though her eyes were as candidly curious as before. After lingering glances at the tall, red-headed stranger, the other girls withdrew and went on toward the building.
“What sort of questions?” Lois asked quietly.
“About Jeanette. I understand you were her best friend.”
The girl’s underlip trembled almost imperceptibly. “What… do you want to know about Jeanette?”
“Could we sit in my car while we talk? It won’t be quite so public,” Shayne urged as another group of girls came down the walk toward them.
She compressed her lips and then nodded. They went side by side to his car and Shayne opened the door on the right for her to get in. He went around to the other side, and saw her studying him intently as he got under the wheel.
“Shayne?” There was a question and a slight tremor of fear in her voice. “Michael Shayne. Aren’t you a private detective from Miami? I’m sure I’ve seen your picture in the papers.”
Shayne said, “That’s right, Lois. I’m investigating Jeanette’s… accident.”
She caught her underlip between her teeth and turned to look straight ahead through the windshield. In a moment, she asked in a strained voice, “What is there to investigate?”
“That,” said Shayne, “is what I hoped you’d be able to tell me.”
“She had an accident. She died,” said Lois in the same strained voice. “What else is there?”
“There was another fatal accident near Brockton last week. Perhaps you heard about it. A young lawyer from Orlando named Randolph Harris.”
Watching her profile carefully, Shayne thought he detected a faint expression of relief on her face. She turned to look at him and there was only curiosity on her face now. “I remember reading about it. What has that to do with Jeanette?”
“Weren’t they rather good friends?” Shayne asked bluntly.
Her “No,” was very positive. “I don’t think she even knew him,” Lois amended. “Wasn’t he quite old? A State’s Attorney or something?”
“He was all of twenty-six,” Shayne told her drily. “Did you know all of Jeanette’s friends?”
“I think so. All of her friends anyway.”
“Did she have many?”
“Scads. She was one of the most popular girls in the freshman class.”
“Had you known her long?”
“Ever since first year high-school. We used to live near Orlando until we moved to a farm near Diston two years ago.”
“And she was on her way to visit you there when it happened?”
There was the slightest indication of hesitancy before Lois answer firmly, “Yes. It was mid-term vacation beginning the fifteenth of last month.”
“Did you ever hear of the Brockton Sanitarium, Lois?”
This time there was no hesitancy in her reply. “That’s where they took Jeanette after the accident, wasn’t it? That’s the first I ever heard of it.”
“When did you first learn about Jeanette’s accident?”
