who entered the bar behind the girl cold-bloodedly intent on killing him hadn’t been out-of-towners imported just for that job. Somehow, Shayne was sure of that. They were indigenous to Brockton despite all the peaceful evidence to the contrary. Call it intuition or hunch, or the result of long experience in such matters, Shayne was positive the men were local products and had been recognized by at least some of the habitués of the bar-room.
There was the matter of the phone call to the police, for instance. The phone call that had not brought a policeman to investigate a clear case of armed assault and kidnapping. That was a matter to be checked later, Shayne reminded himself grimly. It would be interesting to know who had received the call and when. Who was responsible for the fact that no official action had been taken.
There had been something about the feel of the place when Shayne walked back through the door half an hour after he’d been dragged out unconscious that told him they feared and resented his return to the place alive. It wasn’t exactly that he suspected any of the bystanders of actual complicity in what had happened, or even that they particularly approved. It was more a feeling that he was an outsider and therefore probably deserved whatever had happened to him. An apathetic acceptance of the situation more than anything else. Yet out here on the peaceful outskirts of the town, it seemed inconceivable that Brockton could be under the domination of any sort of criminal element.
Again and again as he drove along slowly watching for Orange Drive, Shayne ransacked his brain for any conceivable answer to why?
Conceding that he had been recognized somehow, why had Gene and his two thugs been sent to the bar to wipe him out? No one in Brockton, so far as he was aware, had any earthly reason to fear Michael Shayne or even to hate him.
Had the girl made a mistake in identity when she came directly to his booth to finger him for the men who entered behind her?
Shayne didn’t think so. There had been no hesitancy in her manner. He distinctly recalled the look of recognition on her face, his definite impression before she ever took a step toward him that he was the reason she had entered the room. That she had come in looking for him and expecting to find him there.
Maybe that was an after-result of amnesia. A sort of hallucination that took the place of memory. That was one possibility he wanted to check with Dr. Philbrick. But there hadn’t been a single thing about the girl to give the impression that she was anything but completely normal. Shayne didn’t know much about amnesia cases, but he had a vague idea that such a person would be outwardly different from one in full possession of her faculties. That there would be something about the look in her eyes or in her bearing that would indicate loss of memory. That was something else to ask the doctor.
He passed a neat, stuccoed church on the right which was the last landmark the doorman had mentioned, and slowed for the next corner. A neat street sign told him that it was Orange Drive, and he made a right turn into it as directed. The address was well out from the center of town, and the houses here were generally larger, the grounds of each place more spacious than closer to the hotel.
Number 342 was one of only two houses in an entire block. A large, three-story white house with round columns guarding the front veranda and a cupola on top. It sat well back from the street shaded by magnolias and ancient oak trees, with a graveled drive leading up between a double row of neatly clipped hibiscus shrubs.
There was a double garage to the right at the rear, and the drive circled in front underneath a porte-cochere where wide wooden steps led up to the veranda.
Another car was parked directly in front of the steps, and Shayne pulled in behind it. It was a shabby Ford sedan.
Shayne cut off his ignition and got out to circle around in front of the
There was the matter of the phone call to the police, for instance. The phone call that had not brought a policeman to investigate a clear case of armed assault and kidnapping. That was a matter to be checked later, Shayne reminded himself grimly. It would be interesting to know who had received the call and when. Who was responsible for the fact that no official action had been taken.
There had been something about the feel of the place when Shayne walked back through the door half an hour after he’d been dragged out unconscious that told him they feared and resented his return to the place alive. It wasn’t exactly that he suspected any of the bystanders of actual complicity in what had happened, or even that they particularly approved. It was more a feeling that he was an outsider and therefore probably deserved whatever had happened to him. An apathetic acceptance of the situation more than anything else. Yet out here on the peaceful outskirts of the town, it seemed inconceivable that Brockton could be under the domination of any sort of criminal element.
Again and again as he drove along slowly watching for Orange Drive, Shayne ransacked his brain for any conceivable answer to why?
Conceding that he had been recognized somehow, why had Gene and his two thugs been sent to the bar to wipe him out? No one in Brockton, so far as he was aware, had any earthly reason to fear Michael Shayne or even to hate him.
Had the girl made a mistake in identity when she came directly to his booth to finger him for the men who entered behind her?
Shayne didn’t think so. There had been no hesitancy in her manner. He distinctly recalled the look of recognition on her face, his definite impression before she ever took a step toward him that he was the reason she had entered the room. That she had come in looking for him and expecting to find him there.
Maybe that was an after-result of amnesia. A sort of hallucination that took the place of memory. That was one possibility he wanted to check with Dr. Philbrick. But there hadn’t been a single thing about the girl to give the impression that she was anything but completely normal. Shayne didn’t know much about amnesia cases, but he had a vague idea that such a person would be outwardly different from one in full possession of her faculties. That there would be something about the look in her eyes or in her bearing that would indicate loss of memory. That was something else to ask the doctor.
He passed a neat, stuccoed church on the right which was the last landmark the doorman had mentioned, and slowed for the next corner. A neat street sign told him that it was Orange Drive, and he made a right turn into it as directed. The address was well out from the center of town, and the houses here were generally larger, the grounds of each place more spacious than closer to the hotel.
Number 342 was one of only two houses in an entire block. A large, three-story white house with round columns guarding the front veranda and a cupola on top. It sat well back from the street shaded by magnolias and ancient oak trees, with a graveled drive leading up between a double row of neatly clipped hibiscus shrubs.
There was a double garage to the right at the rear, and the drive circled in front underneath a porte-cochere where wide wooden steps led up to the veranda.
Another car was parked directly in front of the steps, and Shayne pulled in behind it. It was a shabby Ford sedan.
Shayne cut off his ignition and got out to circle around in front of the
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