to make a cut in your pants here. Gangsters, you reckon? Right here in Brockton? Shooting at you, huh? Or the girl? Stranger in town, aren’t you? Didn’t think I’d seen you around before. There we are. This one’s deeper but you got more room here for it to be deeper, ha-ha. Just stand still now.”
Shayne thanked him and offered to pay for the bandages when he was done, but the druggist refused, insisting he was happy to be of service.
Shayne walked to the door, stiff-legged, just in time to see a patrol car pull into the curb in front of the spot where Flo still lay.
George Grimes was at the wheel. His beefy face was grave as Shayne circled the body toward him. Officer Burke stepped out briskly on the other side. He came behind the patrol car and grabbed Shayne officiously by the arm. “What’s going on here? Who’s the girl and what happened?”
Shayne stood very still and disregarded him. He addressed Grimes. “Same guy I asked you about this afternoon. Remember? Driving a light gray sedan. Probably a Plymouth.”
“You come along and tell it to the chief at headquarters,” said the younger officer sternly. “He’s not going to like this big-city shooting stuff in Brockton a-tall. Told you once before to get on out of town, didn’t he?” Shayne stood close beside Burke and looked into his eyes for a long moment with his right fist balled up at his side and his muscles flexing dangerously. Then he made himself relax, and told Burke in a tight voice, “Just the sort of games I do enjoy, of course. Sure. Let’s go tell Ollie all about it.” He jerked his arm loose from the other’s grasp with a sudden turn, stepped sideways and opened the back door of the patrol car.
Burke hesitated a moment, torn between his desire to take Shayne in like a fugitive and his fear of appearing ridiculous before the large group of townspeople who were gathered on the sidewalk watching the scene curiously. He turned away after a moment and circled around the car to the front seat and got in beside Grimes, who had turned to ask Shayne, “Who’s the girl? What in hell happened anyway?”
“Drive on, George,” he said gruffly, before Shayne could reply. “You know Ollie’ll want to handle this himself.”
Grimes grunted something, but turned back to put the car in gear and pull away from the curb just as an ambulance came up behind them.
Shayne sat silent on the back seat while they circled the few blocks to police headquarters. He was out first when Grimes stopped in front of the side door, and he went through swiftly to the rear door through which Grimes had taken him before.
Burke came sprinting across the small room behind him, ordering brusquely, “Hold on there, Shayne. I’m taking you in to the chief.”
Shayne turned in the doorway and showed his teeth in a grin that was more a snarl than a smile. “Lay a hand on me, Burke, and I swear I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
The officer slid to a stop, his face turning a furious crimson. “You see here, Shayne. I don’t take that kind of talk…”
Shayne turned his back contemptuously and strode down the corridor to the room from which Chief Hanger had emerged earlier that afternoon. The door was closed and Shayne went in without knocking, drawing it shut behind him.
It was a large clean office and the chief’s big body was ensconced in a swivel chair behind a flat desk in the center of the room. He had a telephone to his ear and was listening intently, and his only movement as Shayne entered was the shifting of his eyeballs behind the rolls of fat in the detective’s direction.
The door was opened behind Shayne immediately as he stalked toward the desk.
The chief said into the phone, “Okay for now,” and replaced it. Behind Shayne, Burke’s voice came hoarsely and out of breath, “I was bringing this shamus in like you said, Chief, for questioning about the killing on Main Street, but he broke loose and barged right in…”
Shayne kept his back turned. He stopped in front of the desk and leaned forward with the fingertips of his right hand resting lightly on the flat surface. “If you don’t get that punk off my neck, I will.”
Chief Ollie Hanger said, “Beat it, Burke.”
The policeman’s feet shuffled uneasily behind Shayne, and Burke said, “Well, heck, Chief…”
“Beat it.”
Shayne and the chief both maintained their positions until the door of the room was closed and they were alone. Then Hanger’s swivel chair creaked loudly as he ponderously settled back and clasped his hands together in front of his fat belly. “I told you to get out of town while the getting was good.”
Shayne said, “I’m beginning to like it in Brockton.” He turned and pulled a straight chair closer to the desk and lowered his body into it gingerly.
“Who was the woman you just got killed on Main Street?”
“The one that got shot down by one of your local hoods, who then calmly drove away in front of the whole police force?” Shayne asked savagely. “She told me her name was Flo.”
There was a rap on the outer door and Hanger said, “Come.”
A young man in a gray suit and wearing horn-rimmed glasses entered and laid a slip of paper on the desk in front of Hanger. “That’s all they got so far.”
He went out briskly and the chief studied the slip of paper. “Florence Dinwiddy. Waitress at the Union Cafe. Died instantly. Probably a forty-five slug.” He put the paper down and rolled his eyeballs at Shayne. “Why was she bumped, Shayne?”
“Ask the man that triggered her… and me. We had a drink together in the Elite bar and walked out and he started throwing lead. That’s all I know.”
“Nuts,” said Chief Ollie Hanger. “Was she helping you on something?”
“I never saw her before this afternoon.”
“Nuts again. You know, you’re in a real bad spot, shamus. You better come clean fast.”
“In a spot because I can’t buy a waitress a drink without getting myself shot?”
“You might put it that way. We never had any trouble like this in Brockton till you turned up here. That girl would still be alive if you’d got out of town when I ordered you to.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He shook out a cigarette and lighted it.
“So now you quit horsing around and give me the story. This is my town, Shayne, and I aim to know what’s going on. If you’ve got legitimate business here that your private license entitles you to have, lay it on the table and we’ll cooperate. What brought you here in the first place?”
“I was driving through last night and stopped off for a drink before going on to Miami. Your boy Burke picked me up on a parking ticket and slugged me with his partner’s help and I spent a pleasant night in your stinking can. So I decided I’d stick around a little and see what makes your town tick.”
“So why’d you tell Dr. Philbrick you were checking on the amnesia case for the girl’s father?”
Shayne shrugged and spread out his hands. “All right. I was trying to keep it quiet while I found out a few things.”
“You claim now you are working for Mr. Buttrell in Miami?” The chief’s voice was hard as flint. Shayne sensed the trap behind the question. If Hanger had done some checking of his own and learned that Amos Buttrell was a phony, he’d know an affirmative answer from Shayne was a lie. And if Shayne denied it, he’d be left without a client to explain his interest in the girl.
He said, “All right. Buttrell isn’t my client. I used that gimmick to get Philbrick to talk. The Miami Daily News is interested in the story and I’m getting together the facts for them. Is that legitimate business that my license entitles me to have in Brockton?”
“If it happens to be the truth.”
“Call the City Desk and check with Timothy Rourke. He’s the one sent me out.”
Chief Ollie Hanger said, “I’ll maybe do that. And if you’re lying I’ll throw your singed butt into the can for more than one night. Even if you’re not, I want to know what your interest was in Florence Dinwiddy that got her killed.”
“I met her on the street and bought her a drink.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you ever have an impulse to buy a pretty girl a drink?”
“Maybe. But I didn’t end up murdering her.”
Shayne said, “That’s your job, for god’s sake. Maybe she’s got a jealous husband. Your men picked up the
