He hesitated a moment, and then explained, “You’ll have to try and help me find it, I guess. I drove in this afternoon from Tallahassee … on the main highway.”
The driver said, “Yeh?”
“I don’t know the town at all,” Shayne told him. “I hit pretty heavy traffic and one or two stop-lights. I was looking for a bar to stop for a drink, and came to one on the right-hand side where I parked and went in. My car is still there … I hope.”
The driver chuckled and said, “With a parking ticket if it’s been standing more’n an hour.” But he didn’t ask any questions except, “You want I should hit the highway about the center of town and take it slow till you see the place? Lotsa bars along there. Think you’ll know the one?”
“I’ll know my car at least. A black Hudson sedan. Miami license plates.”
He settled back and made his aching head as comfortable as possible until they reached the center of town and the cab swung into the highway leading through from Tallahassee.
“I remember passing here,” Shayne told him. “Eight or ten blocks ahead, I guess.”
The taxi driver spotted the sedan with Miami license plates first. “That it, Mister?”
Shayne peered out as he slowed and saw his familiar tag on the rear. “That’s it.”
The driver chuckled as he pulled in to the curb in front. “Got you a ticket under the windshield wiper awright. If there ain’t no cops hangin’ around, whyn’t you pull on out to Miami and forget it?”
Shayne said, “Maybe I will.” He got out stiffly and gave the man a generous tip. Then he walked back to his car, unable to repress a wry grin at sight of the big, square parking summons under the wiper.
Cops! he thought disgustedly. Right around on the dot to check up on overtime parkers, but let a man get slugged in a public place and dragged out on a murder ride, and where in hell are they?
He stopped beside his car and opened the right-hand door. The flat .45 automatic was where he had placed it that morning. He lifted it out and slid it inside his waistband and belt, snugly against his inner right thigh, then slammed the door shut and strode across the sidewalk to open the door of the bar-room he didn’t remember leaving more than an hour before.
3
Michael Shayne stopped just inside the door to look the joint over exactly as the girl had done when she entered. Business had picked up considerably since he had been kicked into unconsciousness and dragged out. It was now crowded with fifteen or twenty customers. A jukebox in the rear was grinding out dance music, and a two-bit slot machine just to the right of the door, which Shayne hadn’t noticed before, was getting heavy play from three juvenile delinquents clustered in front of it.
The two elderly men in leather jackets were still seated in the first booth, with beer mugs in front of them, but the bookie they’d been talking to was no longer there.
Among the half dozen or more men seated at the bar, Shayne recognized one of the pair who had been there previously and witnessed the assault on him. He stood unmoving just inside the door for a long moment, studying all the faces he could see, then strolled back to the rear to get a close look at all those seated in the booths.
When he moved back to the bar again, he was positive that only three customers and the bartender remained out of the seven who had seen the thing happen.
Shayne pushed up to the rear end of the bar, and the fat man behind the mahogany recognized him as he came back to get his order.
He stopped dead still with his mouth sagging open in the same ludicrous astonishment he had manifested on first sight of the girl in the doorway. His eyes narrowed and a distinct quiver of fear rippled over the folds of fat that made up his face.
Then he stepped a pace forward and his right hand groped underneath the bar while slitted eyes remained fixed on Shayne’s face.
He said hoarsely, “Better go on quiet, Mister. We don’t want no trouble here.”
As though on signal, the jukebox chose to stop at the precise moment that the bartender began speaking. He had pitched his voice loud to carry over the noise, and consequently his words rang out clearly above the hum of talk.
Everyone craned their heads to look at the tall red-head at the end of the bar, and all conversation ceased.
Shayne was turned half to the front, his right forearm resting negligently on the bar with his hand inches from the butt of his gun. He still held his head slightly askew to relieve the pain of bruised neck muscles, and, although he wasn’t aware of it (not having yet encountered a mirror), a livid bruise showed on the right side of his face where he had taken Mule’s first unannounced blow, and his right eye was puffed and beginning to blacken.
He said bleakly, so that every man in the room heard him: “That’s fine, Fatso. Neither do I want trouble. So bring your hand out from under the bar … empty.”
For the space of ten seconds, Fatso hesitated. This was his bar and these were mostly his regular customers watching him and waiting to see how he would back up his warning. He had a certain reputation to maintain in Brockton and it wouldn’t do that reputation any good to back down before a man who’d been dragged out of the place unconscious an hour before.
But Fatso did back down. Shayne’s negligent attitude didn’t fool him at all. There was something terrifying about that voice, about the faint hollows in the redhead’s cheeks and the quiet set of the jaw that brought the bartender’s hand out empty and put a false joviality on his face and in his voice.
“Hell, Mister. That’s jus’ fine. Thought maybe you come back figgering to blame me for what happened while ago. This here’s a respectable place, see, an’ I don’t want no part of such doing’s.”
Shayne said, “Now that we understand each other, I could use that drink that got spilled last time.”
“You bet,” Fatso said effusively. “On the house.” He turned and bustled back to lift down the Martel bottle, and this time he selected a six-ounce glass.
In the meantime, a low, disappointed hum of conversation started up again. Men continued to glance furtively at Shayne, though looking away when they caught his eye. Halfway down the bar, Shayne saw the shirtsleeved witness to the encounter whispering excitedly to the men on each side of him.
The bartender waddled up with a full glass and set it before Shayne. “Was that soda or water, Mister?”
Shayne said, “Water,” and lifted the glass to his mouth. He looked over the heads of the seated men and saw the two elderly beer drinkers in the front booth staring at him with avid interest.
Fatso slapped a tumbler of ice water down in front of him and leaned two fat forearms on the bar. “Honest to God, Mister. What was it all about? Happened so fast I never did know how-come you and them tangled.”
Shayne said, “Who was the girl that came in first?”
“Gawd, I dunno.” The voice sounded truthful. “Some looker, huh? Friend of yours, I reckon. Went right to you at the booth.”
Shayne said, “I know. Ever see her in here before?” He took a drink of cognac and lifted the water glass to sip from it.
“Her? Gawd, no. We don’t get dames like that in here.”
“And the three men that followed her in?”
This time there was a hint of evasiveness. “Not them neither. Plumb strangers to me. Like I say, this here’s a respectable place and.…”
Shayne said in a low voice, “Don’t lie to me, Fatso.”
“I swear to Gawd, I.…”
Shayne shook his head slowly though it pained his neck to do so. “I’m looking for them, Fatso. When I find them … and find out you’ve lied … I’ll be looking for you, too.”
The bartender swallowed hastily and backed away a step. “I swear I dunno nothin’. You can’t blame me none.” He turned gladly to refill a beer mug and Shayne took another slow sip of his drink.
Then, with glass in hand, he moved up to a position behind the man he had seen on first entering the bar, and tapped him on the shoulder.
The shirtsl
eeved man turned slowly and reluctantly. He had a receding chin, and mild blue, frightened eyes. He said swiftly and virtuously, “I couldn’t do anything to stop them dragging you out that way. The big fellow that kicked you.…” He shuddered at the recollection. “And when his buddy pulled a gun.…”
Shayne said mildly, “I’m not blaming you for not butting in. Would like to talk to you.”
He took hold of the man’s arm and urged him off the stool, led him to the front booth where the elderly men watched their approach with interest. Shayne waved him into the booth opposite the men and seated himself beside him. The two older men looked like brothers, with lined, leathery faces, silvery hair, and work-roughened hands.
They regarded Shayne gravely as he seated himself, and one of them said, “We saw it happen, Mister, but it wasn’t our place to git killed too, we reckoned.”
Shayne took out his wallet and began selecting bills from it. He placed five twenties in a neat pile in front of him, and said quietly, “I don’t want to make trouble for anybody. It’s worth that much for me to get a line on the girl or the three men all of you saw. I’m a stranger in Brockton,” he added by way of explanation, “and have no idea who they were or why they jumped me.”
They all muttered surprise at this announcement, but whether they believed him or not Shayne could not be sure. There was something guarded about their reactions, though three pairs of eyes rested greedily on the sheaf of bills in front of Shayne.
They all denied having ever seen the girl or either of the men before. The man who had been seated on a stool explained that this was the second time he had ever been in the place, and he had no idea who the man was with whom he’d been talking baseball when it happened. Nor did he know any of the other occupants of the bar either by name or by sight.
The other pair were slower-spoken and more guarded in their responses. Though the four were alone in the booth and the jukebox was playing again and the youthful trio in front of them had resumed their pastime of feeding quarters into the slot machine—so there was no chance of being overheard—they kept glancing aside uneasily as Shayne questioned them, and answered in monosyllables.
Yes, they were regulars here.
Dropped in every afternoon from work to have a few beers.
The younger man who had been sitting with them? Well, yes, they’d seen him around a lot. He always seemed to have lots of money and was buying drinks for strangers.
No, they didn’t know what his business was. A bookie? They sure wouldn’t know. They had no money for such-like. No, they didn’t know the man down in the end booth either. He’d come in alone half an hour before Shayne and sat there nursing a drink all that time.
The other man who’d been at the bar in shirtsleeves was another regular, they admitted. But they didn’t know his name nor nothing about him.
This had always been a quiet place for a few beers in the evening, they insisted, and nothing like tonight had ever happened before. They thought it was a holdup, sort of. Like a scene out of a movie.
The girl? Well, that was funny. She’d hung back looking scared to death and not saying a word until the third man came running in the door with his lead pipe when it looked like Shayne was getting the upper hand. Then when he was socking Shayne, she had run out like a frightened deer, and a minute later when things got squared around, the tall man cursed the third one and sent him running out behind her while he and the big one dragged Shayne out unconscious. Right exciting it was, and nobody had talked about much else after it happened until Shayne miraculously reappeared, and not seeming hurt much either.
“What did the police think about it?” Shayne asked quietly when all his other questions had been answered.
There was awkward silence in the booth. The two elderly men looked at each other doubtfully, and then across at the shirtsleeved man.
Hadn’t been no police in on it, the man across from Shayne muttered at last.
Shayne sat very still, his eyes searching their faces. “You mean it wasn’t even reported to the police? A thing like that?”
“Oh, the bartender, he reported it all right,” he was told swiftly. “Over the telephone in the back. Not more’n ten minutes after it happened. They just never got around here yet.”
Shayne finished his brandy and digested this news in silence. He looked up and saw Fatso leaning on the front of the bar regarding them with an anxious expression, his head turned as though he were trying to catch their words.
Shayne set his glass down and pushed a twenty-dollar bill in front of each man with his forefinger. He said, “Thanks a lot for wasting my time. What’s the best hotel in town?”
The Manor, he was told. Right down the street. The only good hotel in town.
“I’ll be there,” he told them. “Michael Shayne. If any of you gentlemen should happen to remember more than you’ve told me you can earn some more just like that one in front of you by getting in touch with me.”
He slid out and turned to set his empty glass on the bar in front of Fatso.
The bartender was rubbing the stained wood vigorously with a dirty rag and he asked Shayne in a conspiratorial whisper, “You get any line on your … uh … friends?”
Shayne said, “Just enough to make me ask one question, Fatso. What was the name of the officer you spoke to when you reported to the police?”
The bartender got red in the face and shifted his eyes. “Jeez, I dunno who I talked to at headquarters. You know how it is?” he appealed to Shayne. “I was that worried and mad it’d happened here in my bar. I just rung the cops an’ told ’em. Dunno who I talked to.”
“But none of them have showed up yet?”
“Not yet. Busy night, I reckon. ’Scuse me, I got customers waiting.” He waddled away and Shayne turned to go out the door.
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 sma
rtly 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.
Death Has Three Lives Page 18
