Call for Michael Shayne [= Case of the Missing Twelve Days]

Chapter two Fugitive from what?

“Oh.” Satisfaction purred in the short word. “You were so long coming home — I was afraid. Did you get the money, Joey?”

“The money?” he asked stupidly. His head was throbbing again, and every nerve in his body quivered as he tried desperately to figure out what to say. He remembered the sheaf of bills in the silver clip in the dead man’s pocket. With a shudder of revulsion he knew they would have to remain there.

“Joey — are you listening? Tell me — did you get the money?” Her voice was irritated.

“No,” he told her, keeping his voice thick, “he didn’t have any money.”

“Oh, Jo — ey!” Marge wailed. “What did that louse mean—?”

“See here, Marge,” Devlin broke in brusquely. “I can’t stay here all night talking to you. I’m not — I’m not in very good shape, Marge,” he added. In his anxiety and frantic hope for a word, a clue that might give him even a vague idea of what had happened to him, Devlin had forgotten his throbbing temple. Now, the pain came sharply, and he groaned aloud.

“Joey — what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I got — hit on the head,” he told her, his words slurring. He turned his head slowly to the side, hoping to give her the impression of fading strength. “Things are going round and round. I’m dizzy and all mixed up. I can’t — remember — things. I’ve got to get out of here before I pass out again.”

“Joey — don’t. Listen to me, Joey. Come on home — now.”

“Home? Where is — home?” he mumbled. “Forgot — can’t remember — anything. Tell me — tell—” He made a croaking sound in his throat, holding his lips close against the mouthpiece now.

“Damn you!” she said angrily, and then there was silence.

Devlin pressed the receiver against his ear so hard that it hurt. “Marge — Marge—” He was sure she hadn’t hung up. He hadn’t heard a click.

“Who are you?” The words were cold, hard, suspicious. “How do I know you’re Joey? You don’t sound like—”

“I am Joey,” Devlin said, alarmed. “It’s just that I’m sick — I’m hurt—”

“And having this call traced while you keep talking,” she snapped, and there was a harsh click of her receiver.

Devlin slowly lowered the receiver, stared at it for a moment, then placed it on the hook with a shaking hand. Dead — silent — like the body on the floor. Mysterious as his twelve lost days. Sweat was streaming down his face and he was breathing heavily. He had messed that up, too. Now he would never know who Marge was. He didn’t know whether he was Joey or Skid, or, as she had suspicioned, someone else entirely.

Of course she had become suspicious when he didn’t know where home was — Joey’s home. If he had played it smarter he might have found out, but it was too late now. The thread that might have led back into the lost dozen days was severed.

Devlin went over and sat down on the thin mattress. Remembering the agony of getting up from it, he dared not lie down. For the first time in his life he became cagey, wary, cautious and evasive, like an animal seeking to avoid a trap. He, Arthur Devlin, whose life had, heretofore, been an open book.

What had he become in twelve days?

Had he become Joey to a woman named Marge? And what sort of a person was Joey? What horrible identity had he assumed during those twelve days to be called endearing names by a woman who was glad he had murdered a man and angry because he had no money on him?

None of these questions could be answered so long as he cringed in this bleak bare room with the two hats and a corpse. He had to get out, back to the security of his own apartment and his own identity, where he could think things out and decide what to do. Every moment he stayed here was dangerous.

He got up from the bed and tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear against the thin panel. There was deathly silence. Except for the wicker chair, the iron bedstead, and the memory of the automobile horns, he might have been on a desert island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea.

He went back to the lavatory and washed his hands, splashed more water on his face and hair, drank several handfuls of water, then combed his hair with his fingers. The bump on his head was conspicuous, but the pain was easing.

Then he remembered the hats. He turned to look at them. The straw one seemed to fit the ensemble worn by the dead man. As Joey, the gray felt must have been the one he had worn. He abhorred hats, but he needed a hat for concealment, and the soft felt would be kind to his aching lump. He went over and stooped carefully, holding his head up to ward off a throb, and picked it up. He eased it on his head, thankful that the size was too large, pulled the brim low, and turned to the mirror. It hid his face quite well.

He went over and pulled the chain above the lavatory. The room was in utter darkness except for the faint glow around the drawn shade at the lone window. He took a deep breath and went shakily to the door, opened and closed it, and found himself in a narrow corridor lit by a tiny bulb that led past two closed doors on either side to a wooden stairway leading down.

He clung to the railing, stepping cautiously and quietly. He wanted to run, but he remembered that criminals, murderers, were suspected when they ran. From now on he must be wary, slow, keep himself above suspicion.

He still had another flight that led to a tiny foyer and double doors that led outside — and escape. In his agony and suspense he had forgotten the healing balm of fresh air. Slow and easy was his best bet from now on. If he could get outside without attracting attention and back to his apartment he was sure he could throw this horrible nightmare into the rubbish heap. He could probably go to bed and wake up again and remember it only as a dream.

The second step from the bottom creaked loudly, dispelling his hope. He was startled when a door on his left was jerked open. A little man stood in the doorway, bald and wizened and with an ingratiating smile on his face.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I’m sorta jumpy tonight. Just couldn’t get sleepin’ sound.”

“It’s me,” said Arthur Devlin, and started on.

“Found your friend all right, I reckon. In three-oh-four?”

Devlin turned his head and tried to hide his chin against the pinkish tie. “Sure. Thanks.”

The old man said something else, but Devlin reached the front door, opened it, swung it shut behind him, and stepped outside into the cool balmy night. For a moment he leaned against the building and drew fresh air into his lungs, noting that the street was now deserted. His heart stopped its pounding, and he looked at the number above the door. The house was a duplicate of two others pressed close against it on either side, all of them, he guessed, cheap boarding-houses. The number was 819.

He started walking toward a corner where there was a bright street light, hoping against hope that a taxi would come along. He was close enough to see the street sign — Palmleaf Avenue — when he heard a car stop. He turned and saw that it was a taxi. A very drunk man was getting out, and as Devlin tried to make his legs move rapidly, he saw the man swaying and trying to take money from his wallet. He raised his hand and called out, but his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

He went on toward the taxi, trying to impress the number he had seen above the door of the rooming-house and the name of the street upon his foggy memory. 819 Palmleaf Avenue. He could not recall ever having heard of it before, and it was not likely he would ever be allowed to forget it.

The drunk was staggering across the sidewalk toward the door of a rooming-house, leaving the rear door of the taxi open. Devlin got in and closed it.

The driver turned and looked suspiciously at Devlin. “What you want, bud?” he asked scathingly.

“What do you think I want?” said Devlin angrily.

“In a district like this—”

“Get going,” Devlin commanded. The luxury of the wide rear seat and the prospect of getting back to his comfortable apartment brought the first sense of well-being he had felt since returning to consciousness.

“Listen, bud, where you wanta go?” the driver asked insolently.

“To the Clairmount Apartments,” Devlin snapped.

The taxi moved forward. “Only Clairmount I know is on the Beach.” His tone sharply questioned Devlin’s right to be taken to the swanky neighborhood.

“That’s right,” Devlin told him. “Near the Roney Plaza. And get going,” he said again.

Devlin tightened his lips and sank back against the cushion. He had forgotten to be wary. He should never have given his right address. The driver would remember this trip tomorrow when he read about the murdered man lying in the rooming-house only a few doors away from the spot where he picked up his fare. He was aghast at his stupidity, and his joy in the thought of resuming his real identity was short-lived. How long did it take a man to gain the full realization that he was a criminal, a murderer, and learn instinctively to guard his every word and action?

He started to change the address, have the driver let him out somewhere within walking distance of the Clairmount. But that would be an even worse blunder, serving only to further impress the incident on his mind. He closed his aching eyes in an effort to shut out the stark, naked truth: Arthur Devlin was a hunted man.

The driver swung onto the winding County Causeway across dark waters of Biscayne Bay where a myriad of electric bulbs shimmered on the gently lapping waves. Devlin’s body relaxed against the cushions from sheer exhaustion, but his brain cells, so recently benumbed and foggy, were alerted, each with a memory, a dilemma of its own to torture him.

It seemed incredible that only twelve days ago the Belle of the Caribbean sailed without him. It was more like an eternity. How much could happen to a man in so short a time? How could a quiet, unassuming young man, a bachelor with an assured niche in the business world, a host of friends and the best of social connections be transformed into this man who now rode across the familiar causeway toward the familiar apartment hotel on Collins Avenue, and wearing the frayed clothes of a tramp?

Amnesia, of course. That was the only possible answer. But did amnesia do that to a man? What did amnesia do to a man? Was it something like an alcoholic blackout? It had to be much the same thing. He must have slipped directly from an alcoholic stupor the night of the farewell party into a state of amnesia which had lasted until a blow on the head brought him back to his senses.

Say they were practically the same thing, Devlin’s harassed mind decided, except that amnesia was prolonged. He could have fallen and struck his head twelve days ago. That, along with the heavy drinking, could have caused it. Then, last night, another blow, perhaps on the selfsame spot, had, somehow, counteracted the first blow. He had never known anyone who suffered from the strange malady, nor did he know anyone who had actually been personally acquainted with an amnesia victim, but in stories he had read, both newspaper and fiction, both the cause and the cure were blows on the head. No court of justice would prosecute a man for an act, even murder, for which he was neither mentally nor morally responsible.

He was, of course, entirely responsible for allowing himself to get completely drunk at Bert Masters’s party, and he was willing to face that. He had seen other men drink themselves into oblivion, and had been mildly amazed to see meek, good-natured men become unruly and aggressive. He had seen men who were models of respectability become bestial, and weak-muscled men turn into hard-hitting fighters. Under the influence of too much liquor the introvert became an extrovert; the repressed grew hostile.

Devlin didn’t know about himself, he realized miserably. He had always gauged his drinking carefully, keeping it down to the decent limits of sociability, and he had never blacked out before. He did know, however, that in his own set such occasions were subjects of humorous discussions and laughter for a short time, and were forgotten.

These thoughts lulled him into a sense of security, and for a moment he relaxed, breathing deeply of the cool salt-tanged air. Then, as though a demon lurked in his mind, awaiting this chance to torture him anew, he remembered Marge. Marge — who had called him Joey, darling.

The driver was turning into Collins Avenue, racing toward the Clairmount. Devlin pulled himself erect and mechanically reached inside the breast pocket of the shabby checkered suit for his wallet.

The pocket was empty. He leaned forward to look at the meter. It showed $1.30. He began searching frantically through his pockets, cursing himself for his squeamishness in not taking at least one of the bills from the dead man’s pocket. It would be catastrophic if he couldn’t pay the taxi fare when they reached the apartment. That would indelibly imprint him and the details of this trip on the surly driver’s memory.

Devlin’s heart skipped a beat and his throat contracted when he felt a thick roll that felt like bills in the left-hand side pocket of his trousers. His fingers were sticky as he nervously pulled the roll out. Light flickering through as they passed a bright street lamp showed them to be bills, and the top one had 100 in one corner, and it was smeared with blood.

His hands trembled violently as he took the rubber band off, unrolled the bills, hoping to find one of a smaller denomination. Straining his eyes as they passed the light at each intersection, he saw that they were all hundred-dollar denomination, and acute despair wavered through him. To attempt to pay the driver with one of them would further arouse his suspicion. Besides, they were probably all marked, and the burly man would go straight to the police.

Devlin carefully extracted the bill that was in the center of the roll. His right hand was clean and he felt the bill carefully. It was dry, free from any spots of sticky blood. Placing it in his right-hand coat pocket, he fingered through the sheaf and counted ninety-nine remaining.

Replacing the rubber band, he rammed the roll deep in his pocket just as the taxi drew up in front of the canopied entrance of the Clairmount Apartments.