killer in the gray sedan?”
“Not yet. Nobody seems to have seen him except you, Shayne.”
“If your cops weren’t so busy dragging me into jail, maybe they’d have time for something else.” Shayne dropped his short cigarette butt on the floor and toed it out angrily. “You going to arrest me this time for getting myself shot on your main street?” He stood up as he spoke, and glowered down at the fat chief of police.
“Not this time. But I’m giving you a last warning. Get out of Brockton and stay out.”
Shayne turned away and walked out of the office with a slight limp. Burke was lounging against the wall just outside. He started eagerly erect when Shayne came out and looked hopefully through the open door behind the detective. Shayne grinned at him and said, “Not this time, Burke. Ollie and I are real palsy-walsy and the next time you bother me I’m not going to restrain myself.” He continued down the corridor to the outer room where George Grimes was loitering at the counter talking to the man on his stool behind it.
He joined Shayne eagerly and asked in a low voice as they went out, “What the hell goes on around here?”
Shayne said, “I wish I knew. First time I ever got pulled in for letting myself be shot at.” His voice and manner were grim. “Which way is Union Street from here?”
“Turn to your left two blocks.” Grimes walked beside him, dropping his voice still more. “What you said back there on Main Street. You mean the guy that shot the girl was the one named Gene you mentioned this afternoon?”
“I’m pretty sure it was, George.” Shayne stopped and looked down into the worried red face gravely. “That give you any ideas?”
“No,” Grimes disclaimed hastily. “That is…” He looked around furtively and lowered his voice still more. “I told you this afternoon I’d maybe seen him around. In Ollie’s office, that’s where.”
Shayne nodded slowly. He said, “You better get on back to your car. Don’t forget the last person seen talking to me is dead.”
He went away toward Union Street in long strides, leaving Grimes gaping after him.
17
There wasn’t much business in the Union Cafe when Shayne entered a few minutes later and stopped just inside the front door to look it over. In the lull before dinner, only three of the wooden tables covered with red- and-white checked cloths were occupied.
A young couple sat against the wall near the front, more interested in each other than in the food before them. Halfway down the long room a farmer and his wife and two children sat at a table for four, sipping water from tall glasses while they waited for their meal to be served, and farther on a white-uniformed waitress was standing with her back to Shayne in conversation with a male customer who sat alone at a small table.
The waitress appeared taller than Shayne remembered Jean Henderson to be, but at that distance the soft ringlets at the nape of her neck looked as golden as Jean’s and he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t she without seeing her face.
A tall, white-haired man sat behind a cash register at Shayne’s right as he stood there looking down the room, and when Shayne did not move for a matter of thirty seconds, he asked, “Would you like a table, sir?”
Shayne hesitated, still watching the waitress at the rear, but she showed no inclination to turn so he could see her face. He moved over in front of the cash register and told the proprietor with a worried frown, “I’m really looking for my sister. She had a fight with Mom last night and left in a huff and hasn’t come back. We live in Orlando,” he went on swiftly, “and a friend of mine here in Brockton telephoned me this afternoon that there was a new waitress just started here today that looks like her. I drove right over and I wondered…” Again his speculative gaze went to the rear.
“Your sister, eh?” The white-haired man’s voice was sympathetic. “I did hire a new girl this morning. We’ve been short-handed for a week and I didn’t bother much about references. You know how it is getting help these days. She said her name was Marion Smith. Would that be her?”
“She probably wouldn’t give her right name. Mom’s terribly upset, and if I don’t get her to go home with me…”
Then he saw her. She pushed through swinging doors at the rear carrying a heavily loaded tray held out stiffly in front of her gripped tightly in both hands. She was wearing a white uniform like the other waitress and her head was bent forward, gaze fearfully fixed on the loaded tray as she came with short, mincing steps toward the party of four waiting for their dinner.
“That is Jean,” Shayne said swiftly to the man. “Imagine her coming here and getting a job. I hope you don’t mind if I…”
Jean Henderson lifted her gaze from the tray at that moment and looked directly at Michael Shayne. Her eyes widened and her mouth made a big O, and her hands let go of the tray.
It crashed to the floor with a clatter of broken crockery, and Jean stood stiff and frightened for a moment, then whirled about frantically as though to escape.
But Shayne was striding toward her, and he leaped over the broken food and dishes on the floor to catch hold of her wrist and jerk her back.
A little whimper of anguish broke from her lips as she tried to tug away, but Shayne inexorably drew her close and tucked her arm through his.
“I’ve come to take you home with me, Sis,” he said loudly, and pulled her toward the cash register while getting out his wallet with a free hand.
He grinned with embarrassment at the proprietor and proffered a ten-dollar bill. “I hope that’ll pay for the damage, Mister. And maybe another five for the uniform she’s wearing, huh?” He laid another bill on top of the first one. “Don’t want to let her loose even to change now I’ve found her. Aren’t you ashamed of going off like that and frightening Mom half to death?” he went on severely to Jean. “You come right on home and apologize.”
She stood beside him laxly, staring straight ahead with a blank look on her face and with her lips tightly compressed.
“Well, sir, I guess that’ll cover it all right,” said the proprietor uncertainly, scooping up the bills. “If she’s a minor, I reckon I don’t blame you any, wanting to take her home.”
Shayne said, “Sorry for all the trouble. Come along, Sis.”
She moved beside him through the door like an automaton, as though she had no will of her own, like a small child bewildered and frightened by the inexplicable rage of an adult and timidly afraid to question the cause of it.
Shayne held her arm firmly locked inside his and hurried her toward Main Street. The light changed on the corner as they reached it, and he crossed to the other side where his car was parked in the place he had left it when he had first sighted Flo.
He led her around to the left-hand side, not trusting her to sit quietly while he got in, opened the door and thrust her in under the wheel roughly, maintaining his grip on her wrist.
He said quietly, “Move over so I can get in and don’t try anything, Jean. I’m not in a mood for arguments right now.”
She stiffened and jerked her head around and her eyes were wondering and puzzled as he spoke the name aloud. She said, “Is… that my name? Are you… my brother?”
“Don’t you remember?” Shayne kept his voice casual. He got in beside her and inserted the key with his left hand, started the motor and put the automatic transmission in gear.
She went to pieces then, and sank back against the seat sobbing piteously. “I don’t remember… anything. You’re not my brother, are you? You can’t be. You’re the man that I… that I saw in the bar last night. What are you going to do with me?”
With the car moving in traffic toward the hotel, Shayne let go of her wrist and glanced at her appraisingly. She was as beautiful as he remembered her. And her bewilderment and distress seemed genuine. He said, “We’re going to have a long talk. About lots of things.” He was nearing the hotel and he saw an alleyway running back along the side of it with a sign that said: PARKING FOR HOTEL GUESTS.
