He breathed night air deep into his lungs as he stepped outside, hesitated a moment, then strode across to his car and jerked the door open. He got in on the right side, slid over behind the wheel and reached in his pocket for his keys.
Blinding rage swept over him as he again noticed the cardboard square of a parking ticket outlined against the windshield in front of him.
A busy night, sure enough! Cops so busy stopping outside the bar-room to ticket his car that they hadn’t time to investigate assault and attempted murder inside the joint.
What the hell sort of town was Brockton? What kind of police force was that? He’d met inefficiency in the past, but this!
The door of the bar opened as Shayne started his motor. The man in shirtsleeves hesitated there, then came swiftly across to lean head and shoulders through the open right window. His receding chin quivered and his mild eyes were more frightened than before as he stammered apologetically:
“I… uh… didn’t want to say too much back inside there. I was afraid… uh… I don’t know but it seemed like… back there before… it seemed like to me that maybe there was some… uh… that some of them in there weren’t too surprised-like when… uh… you know…”
“You mean you felt it mightn’t be too healthy to tell me very much inside there?” Shayne helped him.
“That’s it. I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had. I don’t know whether this is any good, Mr. Shayne, but it might help. I did tell you the truth when I said I’d never seen the girl before. I never did. But I do believe I’ve seen her picture. In the paper. Not more than a few days ago. I don’t know what the story was. I just remember her face-like. In the newspaper. I don’t know if that helps any, but…”
A car came up from behind them. It paused hesitantly just alongside Shayne, then rolled in smoothly to the curb in front of him, stopping so its rear-end blocked him. It had a tall radio antenna and the letters P.D. above the rear license plate.
The rabbity man leaning in beside Shayne breathed swiftly, “Jeez, the cops! I don’t want to…” He withdrew and hurried away on the sidewalk in the opposite direction as the right-hand door of the police cruiser opened and a smartly uniformed figure stepped out briskly.
Shayne set his teeth together hard as the policeman strolled back, cut across in front of his car to come up on his side.
Instinctively, almost, his hand went down quickly to draw the. 45 from beneath his waistband and ram it down behind the seat cushion beside him.
Sure, it was registered and he had a permit to carry it. That went along with his private detective’s license. But these small-town cops. You never knew. Particularly in a town like Brockton where an armed assault complaint went unanswered for hours.
The policeman was young and clean-featured, and aggressively hard-jawed. He leaned his elbow on the door beside Shayne and said, “Stranger in town, huh?”
“Driving through.”
“Guess you didn’t see that ticket on your windshield, huh?”
“Just noticed it.”
“H-m-n. Got your motor running and all. You wouldn’t be planning on slipping away from town without stopping by the station to settle it up, I guess.”
Shayne said, “No.”
“Wouldn’t like for you to do that. Been parked here in front of this bar a long time, haven’t you?”
“You should know.” Despite himself, Shayne’s irritation leaked out into his voice.
“Had yourself a lot of drinks, huh?”
“Is that any of your business? Okay, so I over-parked. If you’ll get your wagon out of the way I’ll pull around to the station and settle the ticket.”
“Maybe it is some of my business.” The young cop’s eyes narrowed importantly. “From that whiff of your breath I just got I’d say that’s quite a load you’re carrying.” His voice changed abruptly to curt command. “Cut off your motor and step out here. You’re not driving anywhere till I decide whether you’re sober enough to be trusted behind the wheel.”
That did it. Despite all his past experience with arrogant cops, small-town or big-town-despite the fact that all he wanted in the world was to get to a hotel where there was food and drink and a telephone and a soft bed to relax on, Shayne lost control.
All the frustrated, bottled-up anger of the last two hours came out in his snarl, “Out of my way, punk. I’ve had one damned drink if that’s what…”
The door came open and an officious hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked hard. Shayne braced himself and chopped the edge of his palm down on the policeman’s forearm muscles, numbing them so the hand fell away.
“Keep your goddamned hands off me.” Shayne’s voice was throaty and rough.
The young policeman was well-trained. He stood back, rubbing his forearm, and called out, “Want to come here a minute, George? Got a drunk that thinks he’s tough.”
Sanity reasserted itself as the other door of the police car opened and a bulky figure stepped out.
Shayne knew this was no good. Never argue with a strange cop. Who knew that axiom better than he? But here he was-a hundred miles from home-
He stepped out from behind the wheel as the other patrolman approached and said thickly, “Sorry, Officer. I really didn’t mean…” Pain hit him in the neck as he stood upright and he swayed slightly and put his hand on the open door to steady himself.
The second cop was burly and red-faced and older. He shoved the first one aside and said happily, “Drunk and resistin’ arrest, huh? Come along with me now.” He caught Shayne’s left wrist in both big hands and moved in behind the detective swiftly but inexpertly to thrust the arm up behind him in a hammerlock.
Everything went crimson before Michael Shayne’s eyes. Every man is constituted to endure so much before the breaking point is reached. Shayne had endured enough in Brockton that night.
He eeled out of the hammerlock and drove his right fist into the bulbous red face beside him. The burly cop staggered back with blood spurting from his nose, and the younger man stepped in calmly and sapped Shayne behind the ear with his blackjack.
For the second time in Brockton that evening, Shayne went out like a candle in a hurricane.
4
Michael Shayne awoke quite early the next morning. He lay on his back on a rough army blanket folded to cover a built-in bunk of iron lattice-work. His coat was rolled up under his head for a pillow. He was in a small, iron-barred cubicle, dimly lighted by a 25-watt ceiling bulb in the corridor outside.
Shayne lay as he was without trying to move for several minutes which he devoted to cursing himself and his goddamned crazy temper that had betrayed him into this situation. He clearly recalled all the events leading up to the point where he socked the older policeman in blind rage. After that, there was hazy memory of being pushed and pulled around, of voices questioning him and of somewhat incoherent replies on his part.
His head ached dully and steadily, and for a long period of minutes he didn’t dare try to lift it for fear neck muscles wouldn’t respond. It was very quiet in this cell of the Brockton jail. He got up strength finally to lift his arm and squint at his wristwatch. 6:30. It would be hours yet before there’d be any chance of talking his way, or paying his way, out of jail.
“And when that chance comes,” he warned himself grimly, “keep your goddamned big mouth shut, Mike Shayne. Take every insult like a little man, and speak only when you are spoken to. Apologize for living, if necessary, and plead guilty to whatever they throw at you.”
Much as he hated to admit it even to himself, it was basically his own fault that he was in a cell right now instead of luxuriating in a soft bed in the Manor Hotel. Couldn’t blame the two cops too much, he admitted grudgingly. Sure, they had been over-tough and officious, but most cops are. They get that way after dealing with criminals and drunks night after night. It’s an occupational disease.
And no one knew that better than Michael Shayne. That’s why it was his fault more than theirs. The pair who
