Stranger in Town

by Brett Halliday

  “Why, I wouldn’t mind, I guess. “Not,” she added sedately, “that I drink with strange men as a rule. But seeing you did make a mistake like you say…”

  Shayne looked up the street and saw a sign, COCKTAIL LOUNGE, a few doors up. His fingers tightened on her arm to turn her toward it and he fell into step beside her. “This place be all right? I’m a stranger in Brockton,” he added.

  “Sure. The Elite’s real nice. I figured you must be new here, on account I never saw you around before.” She rolled her blue eyes up at him from under the drooping brim of her hat. “And you don’t look like Brockton,” she added, “if you know what I mean.”

  He said gallantly, “And you don’t either, if you know what I mean.” He guided her through the door into the dim interior of a cocktail lounge that had red leather benches all around the walls with rows of small tables set close together in front of them.

  “I’m not really,” she said with a toss of her head as they sat down in a corner by themselves. “Kind of nice little one-horse town, though. Quiet and easy-like if you’re tired of cities like I was. I been around plenty. West Coast and all over.” She gestured vaguely, leaning both elbows on the table and pushing her pouting mouth forward to let him insert the end of a cigarette between her lips.

  A waitress came up to their table and Shayne looked at her with ragged red eyebrows lifted enquiringly as he put a lighted match to the other end of her cigarette. She drew in smoke and let it curl languidly from her nostrils and asked, “Could I have a rum Old-Fashioned, Miss? You know, you make it with rum instead of…”

  “One rum Old-Fashioned,” said the waitress.

  “And a double brandy,” said Shayne. “Imported if you have it. Ice water on the side.”

  He looked at the girl with all the approval he could muster and told her, “I knew right away you didn’t belong in Brockton. Just by that dress you’re wearing for one thing. You didn’t buy that in any store here.”

  “N-n-o.” She looked down at the dress with distinct pleasure. “I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my… uh…it sure has got real class, hasn’t it?” she ended complacently.

  “Looks like a million dollars. Mexican, isn’t it?”

  “Uh… oh sure. That’s right it is. What’d you say your name was?”

  “Mike Shayne.” He watched her round face but observed no reaction. “What do I call you?”

  “Flo.” She giggled. “That is, you can if we’re going to get real well acquainted. And I bet most of the girls call you Red.”

  The waitress brought their drinks. When she deposited them and went away, Shayne lifted the brandy glass to his nose and sniffed deeply. It was cognac. Hennessey, he thought, but still cognac.

  “Whereabouts in Mexico?” he pursued. “You ever live there?”

  “Tia Juana, I think it was. I was there to the races once with this actor fellow from Hollywood. Gee, he was a card. Five and ten dollar bets on every race.” Her voice was awed. “But not stuckup a bit. A real good Joe.” She drank half her drink and set the squatty glass down. “What’s your line… Red?”

  He said, “I’m a detective.”

  “You wouldn’t kid me, I bet.” She giggled. “Like the nannygoat said to the Billy.”

  Shayne said flatly, “I wouldn’t kid you, Flo. That’s why the dress you’re wearing interests me so much. You see, it wasn’t you I recognized on the street. It was that dress. I’m working on a case involving the theft of a whole shipment of expensive Mexican hand-embroidered dresses just like that one. You didn’t buy that in Tia Juana.”

  Her expression was first frightened and then outraged. “Who says I didn’t?”

  “I do.”

  “You can’t prove it.” Her voice was shrill. She looked down and gulped the rest of her drink. “Aw, you’re just kidding,” she appealed to him. “You’re no more a detective than I’m the Duchess of Windsor. I don’t like cops and I can spot one a mile off,” she added candidly. “You can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t be sitting here letting you buy me a drink if you was one. I just don’t like cops.”

  Shayne said, “I’m private. Maybe that makes a difference, Flo.”

  Her blue eyes rounded into more perfect circles. “You mean one of them private eyes that goes around slapping dames and tearing their clothes off? Like that Mike Hammer in the movies?”

  Shayne said, “Not exactly like Mike Hammer, Flo. But I still want to know where you got the dress you’re wearing.”

  “I already told you.”

  “A lie.” Shayne held up one finger to the waitress and nodded to the girl on the leather bench beside him. “I don’t accuse you of stealing it, Flo, but there’s a big reward offered if I catch the gang that snatched them. Maybe some boy-friend gave it to you. Tell me the truth and no one will ever know you’re the one that gave me the tip.”

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and stared down at the table as another drink was placed before her.

  “How big a reward is it?”

  “Big enough,” Shayne told her promptly, “that I can spend a piece of cash for information.” He got out his wallet and extracted a twenty. Flo’s eyes glinted as he folded it twice length-wise and held it carelessly on the table between the first two fingers of his left hand.

  “I’m not any stool-pigeon,” she gulped. “I wouldn’t want to get anybody in any trouble.”

  “Likely as not the person you got it from is just as innocent as you are,” Shayne encouraged her. “But it may be the lead I need to get onto the trail of the real crooks. You’d even be doing her a favor, most likely,” he went on persuasively. “Give her a chance to pick up one of these for her information.” He wagged the bill on the table and her eyes settled on it greedily.

  “How do you know it was a her?” she objected. “You said awhile ago maybe my boy-friend gave it to me.”

  “But I didn’t really believe it. You don’t look like the sort of girl to run around with crooks. It was a girl, wasn’t it, Flo? And just today, too?”

  There was distinct fright in her eyes now as she jerked her gaze up to meet his. “How’d you know that?” she gasped.

  “I told you I’m a detective. It’s my business to know things. Look. Why do you think I’m here in Brockton on this case? Because we got a report one of the stolen dresses was seen here yesterday. But the girl who was wearing it doesn’t fit your description. That’s why I was surprised when I nailed you on the street and then saw your face. Don’t you see how it adds up?”

  “Sure. I guess I do now. Maybe you are a detective at that.” She lifted her drink undecidedly and sipped from it. “I thought at first it was just a line. Fellows are always thinking up new ways of picking a girl up on the street.”

  “Can’t blame them when you’re the girl.” Shayne reverted to gallantry again and was rewarded by a pleased smile.

  “You’re just saying that to get me to tell you what you want to find out.”

  “I wouldn’t kid you, Flo… like the billy-goat told the nanny, ha-ha. You give me your address, and when I get this case sewed up, I’ll show you. So, how’s about helping me sew it up fast?”

  “I… just don’t know. I sure wouldn’t want to get her in no trouble by blabbing off to you. She acted real nice, but I knew there was something funny about it when she claimed she liked my dress best and offered to swap hers even. Just a little blue and white print that’s been washed half a dozen times. I told her, I said I betcha your dress cost a lot more’n mine. Twice as much, maybe. And it’s hardly been worn at all.” She looked down at her newly acquired dress again and fingered the material.

  “But she said no she was tired of wearing it and wanted a change and she was broke flat until she collected her first pay and I’d be doing her a real favor if I’d trade right then.” Flo sighed dreamily and gulped down more of her drink. “Would you need this one for evidence, maybe?”

  “No,” Shayne assured her. “All I want to know is where I can find
the girl you got it from.”

  “Well… I don’t know.” She looked at him with underlip quivering. “I wouldn’t want to make trouble for her. I could tell she was frightened and worried sort of when she first showed up and asked for the job.”

  “What job?”

  “At the place where I work.” Flo looked at him calculatingly. “You act like a detective, all right, snapping questions at a person like that. But I don’t know yet whether I ought to tell you. I remember thinking when she was so crazy to trade off dresses with me that maybe she was in trouble and hiding out, and wanted to get rid of it for that reason. I sure wouldn’t want to…”

  “Look,” said Shayne, restraining his impatience as best he could. He reached inside his coat and drew out the photograph of Jean Henderson her father had given him, and pushed it across the table beside Flo’s drink. “That’s the girl, isn’t it?”

  She looked at the picture and wet her lips and nodded. “That’s her, all right.”

  “Her life may be in danger right now,” Shayne told her, making his voice hard. “The gang of dress thieves are trying to find her, too, because she wasn’t supposed to wear that in public where it could be seen. If I don’t get to her before they do. I don’t know what they may do. And it’ll be your fault, Flo. Don’t forget that. It’ll be too late to change your mind then. The best way in the world you can help her now is to tell me where she is.” He moved the folded bill closer to her hand as he spoke, and after another moment of hesitation she reached out and plucked it from between his fingers.

  “Well, all right I guess. She just came to work this morning. There was a card in the window, see? It said ‘Waitress Wanted. Experience Unnecessary.’ So she came in wearing this pretty dress and nervous like she never had a job before. Which I guess she hadn’t maybe. Leastways, not waiting on tables. No make-up at all, and her hair not even brushed. But you could see she’d be real pretty if she was fixed up a little. So Mr. Entwhistle gave her the job and turned her over to me to show her the ropes. She tried hard but, my god, she didn’t know from nothing about waiting tables. But I showed her some of the tricks and by the time the lunch-hour rush was over she’d got the hang of it pretty good. Then when I got out of my uniform and was changing to take my regular time off before supper, she said maybe I’d like to trade dresses with her because she was tired of wearing this one and liked mine a lot better. We’re both fourteens, so hers fit me perfect. You wouldn’t know it wasn’t fitted special for me, would you?”

  Shayne said between tightly set teeth, “No. Where is this place you work, Flo?”

  “On Union Street. Just off Main. It’s not very classy, but they do serve good food. Their Businessman’s Luncheon Plate Special is a real bargain and we have a big rush at noon. Lots of the real important men in Brockton come there to eat. And the tips are pretty good. Hardly ever less than a quarter, and with a table of four they generally leave a dollar.”

  “Will this girl be there now?” Shayne asked when Flo finally ran down.”

  “Yes. She’s working straight through today. There’s four of us girls, see, and we work straight through every other day. Two of us do. We’ve been shorthanded for a week and I’ve got back-time coming, so I don’t have to go back till six-thirty.”

  “You haven’t told me the name of the restaurant, Flo?”

  “That’s right, I haven’t.” She looked at him wisely. “I just don’t know.…”

  Shayne said, “Don’t be silly.” He got out his wallet and beckoned to the waitress for a check. “I already know it’s on Union Street just off Main, and Mr. Entwhistle runs it. How long do you think it will take a detective to find it?”

  He got up leaving some bills on the table, and she slid out hurriedly to stand beside him.

  “I’ll walk along and show you. Then if you’re telling me any lies, I’ll be right there to see for myself. If you aren’t a detective like you say, don’t think I won’t call the cops fast.”

  Shayne said, “Fine. Let’s go.” He took her arm and they went out the door, blinking as they emerged from the dimness into the light of late afternoon.

  The sidewalk was momentarily deserted as Flo turned back in the direction she had been walking from when Shayne first saw her.

  He didn’t notice the light gray sedan parked directly in front of them at the curb until a loud gunshot shattered the afternoon quiet of Brockton’s Main Street. The girl in the white dress and drooping hat sagged against him as two more shots followed swiftly. Pain seared the top of Shayne’s shoulder and stung his thigh, and he flung himself forward instinctively to cover Flo’s body as she crumpled to the sidewalk.

  As he went down he caught a glimpse of a low-pulled snap-brim hat above the steering wheel of the gray sedan not six feet away, and it roared away from the curb before he could see anything else.

  16

  FLO WAS DEAD. The first bullet had struck her at the base of the throat and gone on to smash the spinal column. Blood gushed from the wound and stained the concrete sidewalk beneath Shayne as he crouched on hands and knees over her body.

  An excited group gathered about them swiftly as Shayne slowly pushed himself up and found he could stand erect despite the flesh wound in his thigh. He put his hand up on his left shoulder and it was warm and came away smeared with blood.

  Uniformed men came running up from two directions and pressed the curious crowd back from Shayne and the dead girl. He snapped at them, “It was a man in a light gray sedan. Plymouth, I think. Get it on your radio fast. The girl is dead.”

  One of the officers went to telephone, and a druggist who had emerged from his shop beside the cocktail lounge looked at Shayne’s wounds and volunteered first aid. Shayne limped into the drug-store behind him and he got bandages and sulpha powder and bound both wounds so they stopped bleeding. He didn’t stop talking while he worked:

  “… knew they were pistol shots soon’s I heard them from in the back here. First time anything like that ever happened in Brockton. Broad daylight too. Now hold your arm out steady and this won’t hurt. Just nicked you, by golly. A sixteenth an inch lower would have ripped the muscle. There you are. Now let’s see that hip. I’ll just have 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 watch
ing 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…”