Rourke asked curiously, “Know anything about the thing with Lucy at your office this morning, Mike?”
“What thing?”
“One of the boys just brought in an item from headquarters. Some hoodlum the police pulled in on Lucy’s complaint, seems like. I haven’t had a chance to check with her.”
“Do that right away, Tim. And then get onto Will Gentry and find out everything you can about the man. Particularly, if there’s anything at all to tie him up with Brockton or anybody in Brockton.”
“Brockton? You mean that town up-state?”
“That’s where I’m phoning from. Know anything about it?”
“No. Except there’s a kid reporter on the paper there I used to know. Name of Brown.”
“Hy Brown,” Shayne told him. “He just left here but didn’t say anything about knowing you.”
“It’s been three or four years. What are you doing there?”
“Having fun,” said Shayne grimly. “Here’s what I called about, Tim. Do you recall a local story the last few days about a girl amnesia victim turning up in Brockton and being identified by her father in Miami?”
“Nothing like that in the papers lately, Mike.”
“The name would be Buttrell,” Shayne persisted. “Amos Buttrell and daughter Amy. Spending the winter from New York at the Roney. Ring any bells?”
“Not a tinkle.”
“He was supposed to be registered at the Roney as late as last Friday. I called them long distance but drew a blank. You check at that end to be sure there’s no mistake. And see if there are any other Buttrells in town. Miami or the Beach. And if they’ve got a daughter named Amy who doesn’t remember very well.”
“Will do,” said Rourke. “Where can I reach you in Brockton?”
“At the Manor Hotel.” Shayne looked down and read off the number. “Will you get onto it fast?”
“I’m on it now,” Tim Rourke assured him cheerfully and hung up.
Shayne put the instrument down and got out of his chair to riffle through the Brockton directory. He found Philbrick Jay Dr listed as living at 312 Orange Drive without any additional office number, and called his residence.
A briskly impersonal female voice answered his ring, “Dr. Philbrick. May I help you?”
“You may and I hope you will,” Shayne told her gravely. “Is the doctor in?”
“He’s with a patient just now. Who’s calling?”
“Michael Shayne. I’m from out of town and need to see the doctor as soon as possible on an urgent, private matter. When will he be free?”
“If you could come right along,” she said doubtfully, “I might be able to slip you in between patients. His next appointment isn’t for half an hour.”
Shayne said, “Right away,” and hung up. He got his hat and hurried down stairs to ask directions from the doorman for reaching Orange Drive.
7
FOLLOWING THE DOORMAN’S DIRECTIONS, Michael Shayne discovered that Brockton was essentially a peaceful and pleasant community of home-loving citizens. It was a different picture than he’d got the night before, driving into the business section on the main artery through town, stopping off at the bar and then being escorted to the city jail.
As soon as he left the business section, he entered a series of quiet residential streets lined with well-kept two-story homes with neat green lawns and many shade trees, with clean children playing decorously on the grass, young mothers in fresh print dresses strolling along shaded walks pushing strollers and baby carriages.
There was no hint of beneath-the-surface tensions or violence here. The events of the preceding night took on a completely unreal quality in the bright sunlight and the atmosphere of middle-class gentility that was evident on all sides as he drove along.
But it had happened, despite all the evidence that Brockton just wasn’t the sort of town where such things did happen. Shayne’s bruised face and aching neck muscles kept reminding him of the unpleasant facts of life.
And the three gangsters
“What thing?”
“One of the boys just brought in an item from headquarters. Some hoodlum the police pulled in on Lucy’s complaint, seems like. I haven’t had a chance to check with her.”
“Do that right away, Tim. And then get onto Will Gentry and find out everything you can about the man. Particularly, if there’s anything at all to tie him up with Brockton or anybody in Brockton.”
“Brockton? You mean that town up-state?”
“That’s where I’m phoning from. Know anything about it?”
“No. Except there’s a kid reporter on the paper there I used to know. Name of Brown.”
“Hy Brown,” Shayne told him. “He just left here but didn’t say anything about knowing you.”
“It’s been three or four years. What are you doing there?”
“Having fun,” said Shayne grimly. “Here’s what I called about, Tim. Do you recall a local story the last few days about a girl amnesia victim turning up in Brockton and being identified by her father in Miami?”
“Nothing like that in the papers lately, Mike.”
“The name would be Buttrell,” Shayne persisted. “Amos Buttrell and daughter Amy. Spending the winter from New York at the Roney. Ring any bells?”
“Not a tinkle.”
“He was supposed to be registered at the Roney as late as last Friday. I called them long distance but drew a blank. You check at that end to be sure there’s no mistake. And see if there are any other Buttrells in town. Miami or the Beach. And if they’ve got a daughter named Amy who doesn’t remember very well.”
“Will do,” said Rourke. “Where can I reach you in Brockton?”
“At the Manor Hotel.” Shayne looked down and read off the number. “Will you get onto it fast?”
“I’m on it now,” Tim Rourke assured him cheerfully and hung up.
Shayne put the instrument down and got out of his chair to riffle through the Brockton directory. He found Philbrick Jay Dr listed as living at 312 Orange Drive without any additional office number, and called his residence.
A briskly impersonal female voice answered his ring, “Dr. Philbrick. May I help you?”
“You may and I hope you will,” Shayne told her gravely. “Is the doctor in?”
“He’s with a patient just now. Who’s calling?”
“Michael Shayne. I’m from out of town and need to see the doctor as soon as possible on an urgent, private matter. When will he be free?”
“If you could come right along,” she said doubtfully, “I might be able to slip you in between patients. His next appointment isn’t for half an hour.”
Shayne said, “Right away,” and hung up. He got his hat and hurried down stairs to ask directions from the doorman for reaching Orange Drive.
7
FOLLOWING THE DOORMAN’S DIRECTIONS, Michael Shayne discovered that Brockton was essentially a peaceful and pleasant community of home-loving citizens. It was a different picture than he’d got the night before, driving into the business section on the main artery through town, stopping off at the bar and then being escorted to the city jail.
As soon as he left the business section, he entered a series of quiet residential streets lined with well-kept two-story homes with neat green lawns and many shade trees, with clean children playing decorously on the grass, young mothers in fresh print dresses strolling along shaded walks pushing strollers and baby carriages.
There was no hint of beneath-the-surface tensions or violence here. The events of the preceding night took on a completely unreal quality in the bright sunlight and the atmosphere of middle-class gentility that was evident on all sides as he drove along.
But it had happened, despite all the evidence that Brockton just wasn’t the sort of town where such things did happen. Shayne’s bruised face and aching neck muscles kept reminding him of the unpleasant facts of life.
And the three gangsters
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