Shayne grinned disarmingly and shrugged toward the diploma he had been reading, “Just checking up on the doc’s credentials,” he confided. “Make sure he isn’t a quack.”
Her left cheek dimpled and her eyes danced with merriment, but she said gravely, “Did you wish to see the doctor?”
“I’m Shayne. I phoned you a few minutes ago…”
“Oh yes.” The dimple vanished and the merriment went out of her eyes to be replaced by what appeared to be anxiety. “Exactly what was it you wished to see Dr. Philbrick about?”
“It’s an urgent, personal matter. I’ll take only a few minutes of his time. You promised to try and slip me in between patients.”
“I know. But I should have checked with the doctor before suggesting you come out. He’s much busier than I thought and won’t be able to see you until much later. If you’d give me some idea of what you want, I might be able to help you.”
Shayne kept his irritation from showing. He said, “I don’t mind waiting,” and sat down in a comfortable chair.
The nurse frowned nervously and wet her lips. Shayne had a distinct impression she had been bawled out for asking him to come, and had been commissioned to get rid of him fast. She said, “It may be late in the afternoon until he’s free to see you. He’s terribly rushed this morning…”
Just then a resonantly mellow voice came through the half-open doorway behind her. “Not at all, Ed. You know I want you to drop in any time you feel the ticker needs a check-up. As a matter of fact, Ed, I had time on my hands this morning. If there weren’t strict doctor’s orders against it, ha-ha, I’d be tempted to suggest that my julep bed is just begging to have a few sprigs plucked and I know where my wife has got a bottle of real bonded Old Racehorse hidden away, and we might adjourn to my den and see if maybe the twain would meet…”
The voice was coming closer as it spoke, and a little sallow-faced man pushed the door open and came out, followed by a tall, solid-bodied man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy beaming face who was still talking as he entered the room and saw the nurse and Michael Shayne.
“… but it is doctor’s orders, old man, and I’d be the last one in the world to…”
Dr. Jay Philbrick’s booming voice stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. He glanced uncertainly from Shayne to the nurse, and then back to the patient whom he was just ushering out, and ended in a quieter, more professional voice, “Slow down a little, Ed, and don’t worry. Call me in a day or so after I’ve had a chance to go over the results of the test.”
He turned about abruptly and pulled the door of the reception room shut behind him.
Shayne moved forward in a long, unhurried stride, and reached the closed door just as the nurse stepped in front of it and faced him with an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks.
“I’m sorry but the doctor can’t see you now.”
Shayne looked down at her quizzically. “I told you it was extremely urgent and I’ll be only a few minutes.”
“I’m sorry, but he told me…”
“To explain that he was too busy to see anyone?” The quizzical smile stayed on Shayne’s face and he kept his voice deceptively gentle. “Although he has got time on his hands for a Mint Julep.”
Shayne put a big hand on the nurse’s shoulder and firmly moved her aside. “How does he know I’m not a salesman for bonded Old Racehorse?” He opened the door and strode into a small room outfitted as an office with typewriter desk and filing cases.
The redheaded nurse followed him protesting weakly as he crossed to another closed door marked PRIVATE. He opened it without knocking into another small room that contained a bare mahogany desk, a thick rug on the floor, three deep comfortable chairs, and a swivel chair behind the desk.
Dr. Philbrick stood with his back to him, leaning over the desk with a telephone to his ear. He turned his head to look at Shayne, and his ruddy face was no longer beaming. He replaced the telephone slowly and straightened to face the detective. “This is a private office, sir, and you are intruding.”
Shayne said, “I think there’s some mistake. I telephoned and your nurse made an appointment for me to see you. The name is Shayne.”
“I judged it was,” said the doctor coldly, “when I saw you in the outer office. My nurse had been instructed not to admit you.”
“Why, doctor? You don’t even know what I want.”
“I saw this morning’s Courier. You’re a private detective from Miami who was arrested last night for common drunkenness and disorderly conduct. I can’t conceive what you have to say that could possibly interest me.”
Shayne grinned and said lightly, “I see. I didn’t realize that little affair had made the front pages. I want to ask you some questions about Miss Buttrell, doctor. I represent her father who has asked me to investigate.” He uttered the lie coolly, turning as he did so to an upholstered chair directly in front of the desk.
A change of expression came over the doctor’s face the moment he mentioned Miss Buttrell’s name. It was a curious look, and one that Shayne could not interpret. He couldn’t tell whether it was fear or relief.
Dr. Philbrick hesitated a moment, then seated himself stiffly in the swivel chair. His ruddy face was bland again, though no longer beaming. “Miss Buttrell?” he repeated. “The young girl who lost her memory. Why didn’t you tell my nurse you were an authorized representative of her father?”
Shayne shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me it was necessary to spread the news around that I’m in Brockton investigating the affair. One of the jobs of a private detective is to keep his business as private as possible.”
“Ah… I see.” The doctor’s smile was frosty. “Now that you are here, Mr. Shayne, how can I help you? And how is the child, by the way? Did she respond to treatment and familiar surroundings?”
“Not too well. Not to the extent of recovering her memory. What, in your professional opinion, caused her condition?”
Dr. Philbrick frowned and carefully placed the tips of five fingers against the tips of five others before replying. “Do you mean the precise cause of amnesia, or my opinion as to how she suffered the injury?”
“Both. You see we have absolutely nothing to go on, doctor. Her car has not been recovered. We have a gap of several hours between the time she might have passed through Brockton on her trip and the moment when she appeared at the local hospital suffering from shock and loss of memory. First, let me get this absolutely clear. Is there any possibility, doctor, even the slightest possibility, that the girl was faking amnesia?”
The doctor leaned back, more at ease now, and professionally sure of himself. “Not the slightest, Mr. Shayne. Amnesia is exceedingly difficult to fake successfully, notwithstanding many fiction stories and newspaper articles to the contrary, and medical evidence in this case proved conclusively that the type of concussion she suffered would necessarily produce some degree of retrograde amnesia. Are you intimating that her own physician questions my diagnosis?”
“I haven’t discussed it with him,” said Shayne truthfully. “I wanted your assurance first. I understand it was a blow on the head that caused concussion. What sort of blow?”
“Do you want me to describe it in medical terms?”
“No,” said Shayne hastily. “What I mean is… how, in your opinion was it administered? I understand you examined her immediately afterward. Do you think it was the result of an automobile accident… or had she been attacked?”
“Not immediately afterward, Mr. Shayne. I was called to the hospital immediately after she arrived there, but it had obviously been some hours since the injury was sustained. There were certain minor bruises on her body that might well fit the theory of an auto accident, but they were not conclusive. As to the girl having been attacked… there was no evidence of sexual attack if that is what you infer. The blow could easily have been administered by a blunt instrument, or it could have come from being thrown clear of a speeding car and striking her head on a smooth rock, let us say
. There was really nothing conclusive from the external evidence.”
“She is the first amnesia victim I ever met,” Shayne said frankly. “I was amazed that there were no outward signals to a layman indicating her condition. Is that normal? What I mean is,” he went on hastily, “I guess I expected to find her confused and dazed. Sort of vague and dull-eyed, maybe. But there were none of those physical indications when I saw her.”
“Of course not.” The doctor’s manner was properly condescending. “This was a clear-cut case of retrograde amnesia, you must understand. The concussive shock was confined to certain nerve centers of the brain which automatically block out past memories. Nothing else. Her brain functions perfectly normally otherwise. Your mistake is a common one, I might add, and if she did display those symptoms it would be more than likely that she was faking loss of memory.”
Shayne said slowly, “I see. One other thing, doctor. By the way, do you consider yourself an expert on amnesia?”
Dr. Philbrick flushed slightly and his voice was testy. “I consider myself competent to diagnose and treat such a case. No physician, Mr. Shayne, would consider himself an expert on amnesia. It is a relatively rare occurrence in real life, but I am thoroughly familiar with the literature on the subject.”
“Good,” said Shayne heartily. “Then you can tell me this. In a case like Miss Buttrell’s… where she doesn’t remember anything prior to receiving the blow on her head… is it possible that in striving to remember, the patient may be subject to hallucinations? That is, think she remembers things that aren’t true at all? Might she honestly think she recognizes someone whom she has never actually seen before at all?”
“This gets into the realm of the psychological rather than the physiological,” protested Dr. Philbrick. “I have never seen such a case reported, but I daresay it might be a possible result under certain conditions of psychological stress. I cannot venture a categorical answer, though my personal opinion would be in the negative in this particular case at least. During the period I had Miss Buttrell under observation I judged her to possess a quiet, sound temperament, with a high degree of intelligence. Not at all the type to work herself up into hysteria or hallucinations.”
“How did she react to her father’s appearance?”
“Passively. She didn’t recognize him, of course. She was certainly pleased when he announced his identity and that he had come to take her home. It was a terrible strain, you know, to be at the hospital completely unrecognized. With no knowledge of who you are… how you got there… whether you will ever be reunited with your family.”
“There was no question whatsoever about Mr. Buttrell’s identification of her?” asked Shayne casually.
The doctor peered across the desk at him curiously. “None whatever. Her physical appearance was unaltered. She was his own daughter whom he had seen just two days before. How could there be any possible question?”
“I guess there couldn’t,” sighed Shayne. “I was just thinking about the newspaper picture he identified her from. I’ve seen it, and like most photos reproduced in papers, it’s quite blurred and isn’t a terribly good likeness.”
“That’s quite true. In fact, until he arrived and saw the girl in the flesh, Mr. Buttrell confided to me he had not been at all sure it was his daughter. I felt he was to be commended for not hesitating to make the long drive up here to relieve his parental anxiety. A less devoted father might easily have been satisfied with a telephone call which would not, of course, have proved anything since there was no physical mark on her body positively identifying her. As a matter of fact, I believe there were two other such telephone calls from persons in other cities who thought they had recognized the newspaper picture.”
“Is that so? Before or after Mr. Buttrell had identified her?”
“One was before, I believe, and the other came through an hour or so after they had left the hospital for Miami. The first caller was not referred to me because the girl they were looking for had a large birthmark which Miss Buttrell did not have, but the second was so insistent that it must be his daughter that I had to talk to him myself to convince him she could not be a Miss Henderson from Orlando.”
“Orlando? Some girl missing from there?”
“A student at Rollins College in Winter Park. Mr. Henderson is a professor there but lives in Orlando. He was quite relieved when I convinced him it was a case of mistaken identity on his part. Now, Mr. Shayne, if you have any further questions I suggest you make them to the police who have made a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding Miss Buttrell’s injury.” He pushed back his swivel chair and stood up. “Please remember me to Mr. Buttrell when you report back to him, and remind him that I am most interested in hearing the details of his daughter’s ultimate recovery.”
Shayne assured him that the next time he talked with Mr. Buttrell he would deliver Dr. Philbrick’s message, and he let himself out, smiling reassuringly at the nurse who was typing in the outer office as he went through.
8
At the hotel there was a message for Shayne to call Timothy Rourke in Miami. The detective hurried up to his room to put the call through.
“I don’t know what the deal is with your friend Amos Buttrell,” Rourke told him when he came on. “But he definitely ain’t.”
“Ain’t what?”
“Not registered at the Roney Plaza and hasn’t been. No mistake on that, Mike. I know one of the assistant managers, and that’s straight. What’s more, there’s nobody named Buttrell listed in either the Miami or Miami Beach directories. And I went back through the issues of both papers the last few days on the chance I missed the amnesia story you mentioned. I found two short dispatches from Brockton. Nothing at all locally. The second dispatch mentioned your Mr. Buttrell and his daughter as wintering at the Roney, and I checked here in the office since it would be routine for us to send a man to interview him and get a story. Ned Piper pulled the assignment, and ran into the same dead-end. No Buttrell at the Roney for him to interview. It looked funny but he just figured there’d been a mistake in the name and let it drop. That help you out any, Mike?”
“Damned if I know,” groaned Shayne. “At this point I don’t know what would help out. Did you check with Will Gentry?”
“Oh, yeh. I called Will and went to look over the lug myself. Here’s the story on it. This guy was waiting outside the office when Lucy opened up this morning. Asked for you, and said he’d wait when she said she thought you’d be in later. So he did. He sat and waited. And made Lucy nervous. She’s a smart gal and she sensed something wrong. That he was dangerous. She’s been around you long enough to get a feel for a thing like that, I guess. And she thought a certain bulge under his coat looked suspicious. I guess she gave you this when you phoned her, huh?”
“Some of it. Enough to worry me a little after what happened here last night, and I told her to call Gentry to have a couple of boys look the situation over.”
“Yeh. She did. From the phone in your office, and then went back to her desk and typed until they got there. Well, they frisked this gent, and Lucy was right. A shoulder-holstered gat. But he wasn’t talking. Not a damned word except he was waiting to see Mike Shayne on private business. They took him down to headquarters and shook him down good, but got nothing else. Not a scrap of identification. Clean like any sharp hood gets when he goes out on a job. But there was one funny thing, Mike. It didn’t seem to mean anything until you asked me that question about there being anything to connect him up with Brockton.
“A newspaper clipping folded up neatly inside his inner coat pocket, Mike,” Rourke went on triumphantly. “I got it here in front of me. Want me to read it to you?”
“What is it first?”
“A front-page story clipped from the Brockton Courier. Dated Saturday last. About an assistant State’s Attorney from Orlando whose charred and almost unidentifiable body was discovered inside his wrecked and burned car in the bottom of a ravine near Brockton the
preceding afternoon. Name of Randolph Harris. That mean anything to you?”
“Not yet,” said Shayne harshly. “Not one damned thing.”
“Want me to read you the story over the phone?”
“Last Saturday’s Courier? You needn’t bother, Tim. I’ve got a copy of it right here in my hotel room. Gentry’s holding the man, huh?”
“Sure. Concealed weapon. He’ll pull sixty days if they don’t hang anything else on him. What is happening up there, Mike? Ready to give me a lead for a story?”
“Not yet,” said Shayne dismally. “A lead is what I need right now. Just so you won’t think I’ve wasted your time, I damn near got killed last night, and spent the night in jail.”
“Hell, that’s not news when it happens to Michael Shayne,” countered Tim Rourke cynically.
“I know,” Shayne sighed. “So don’t print it. I’ve walked into the middle of something, but I’ll be damned if I know what. I’ll be in touch if anything breaks.”
He hung up and turned eagerly to the back issues of the Courier he had brought from the newspaper office. Saturday’s paper was the one that carried the second story about Amy Buttrell… in which her father had arrived to identify her.
Shayne spread out the front-page and found the story Rourke had described in the center column. It was past noon and he hadn’t had anything to eat since the garbage offered him at the jail that morning, so he poured an inch of brandy in a water glass to assuage his stomach while he settled back to read the story that had been found in the pocket of a gunman waiting for him in his Miami office.
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