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

Chapter three No memory of murder

The driver threw his right arm over the back of the front seat, turned his head slightly, and said, “Here y’are, bud.”

Devlin made no move to get out. He had the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, trying to decide whether it would be less suspicious to offer the bill in payment or have the driver wait while he went inside for money. The man’s contemptuous appellation “bud” convinced him that the second course would be safer. There was no doubt that the driver was suspicious, and the large bill would surely send him straight to the police — that, and the other circumstances combined.

“Dollar sixty on the meter,” said the driver sharply. “This here’s the Clairmount — like you said.”

“I know,” said Devlin weakly. He was surreptitiously trying to rub the blood from the finger tips of his left hand on the inner lining of the coat. “I — ah — haven’t any change with me.”

“Nothin’ but big bills, huh?” sneered the driver. “Reckon I can break anything you’re carryin’, Mister.” Devlin achieved an outward nonchalance he was far from feeling as he stepped from the car. He said, “Wait here a moment. I’ll have to go inside for some money.”

“Wait a minute, bud.” The driver swung into step beside him. “Next thing you’ll be tellin’ me you live in this swanky place. I’ll just come along with you.”

“I’ll get your fare from the night clerk if you’ll just wait,” Devlin said irritably.

The man chuckled insolently. “Yeah?” His cold gaze raked over the shabby clothes. “Maybe you was just slummin’ down on Palmleaf Avenue. Maybe. But I don’t fall for that stuff easy.”

“Just as you please,” Devlin said wearily. It was too late to try to throw the man off by claiming to be the garbage collector or some menial worker around the apartment. He went up the steps and into the foyer where he pushed a button above Night bell. A buzzer sounded and he opened the door into the office.

A young man sat at the switchboard reading a magazine. He looked up, dropped the magazine, and his jaw fell lax. “Mr. Devlin! Is it really you?”

“Believe it or not,” said Devlin. “Do me a favor, Jack. I need a couple of dollars for taxi fare.”

“Sure, Mr. Devlin. Sure.” The clerk got up and went to the cash drawer, speaking rapidly over his shoulder. “But I thought — we all thought you weren’t due back yet. June twenty-second was the date we had down. Are you sure two dollars is enough, sir?” He held out the two bills.

Devlin took them and handed them to the driver. “Keep the change,” he said.

The driver pocketed the bills, gave Devlin a last, long, suspicious look, shrugged and grunted something that sounded like “thanks,” and went out.

“The ship isn’t due until day after tomorrow — or tomorrow, now, I guess. This is the twenty-first, isn’t it?” Devlin strove for a light tone but it was lost on the clerk, who was staring queerly at the checkered suit and the hat that covered the lump on his head. “That’s right, Mr. Devlin. This is the twenty-first. Were you in some kind of accident? You look sorta sick.”

Devlin did his best with a smile. “It’s a long story, Jack. I had to hurry back on business, so I caught a plane and flew in tonight. There was a crack-up.” He pushed the felt hat back and touched the lump on his head tenderly.

“That looks bad.” There was instant concern in Jack’s voice. “Flew up from Key West, huh? I’ve been kind of keeping track on a map where you were on the cruise so I could send you wires or anything important, like you said.”

“Thanks,” said Devlin. “Do I have any mail?”

The clerk turned to the cubbyhole behind him, took out a small packet of letters, and handed them to Devlin. “This is all that’s come. Do you have any luggage?”

Devlin took the letters and said, “My luggage will be in tomorrow. And that reminds me — I don’t have a key to my apartment with me. Do you have an extra one?”

“Sure.” He opened a drawer and took out a key, pushed it toward Devlin.

“Thanks, Jack. And good night. I’m really all in.” He turned away with a wan smile and went toward the self-service elevator. He did not look back to see the anxious, puzzled eyes of the clerk following him.

As though he had drawn upon the last of his strength to stay on his feet, to maintain some semblance of his normal self, and to exert every mental effort to think things through, Arthur Devlin’s teeth were chattering and he shivered in the grip of near-hysteria when he finally reached the door of his apartment. He stabbed at the keyhole until the key fitted in, turned it, opened the door, and went inside. He closed it by pushing slowly backward and when the lock clicked he stood leaning against it. He gritted his teeth to stop their chattering, doubled and undoubled his fists until he was steady again.

Two steps took him to the archway leading into the living-room. He reached inside and snapped on a switch that lighted the huge white frosted globe of a table lamp and the reading bulb above it. An enormous parchment shade diffused the light softly over the room. He stood there for a full minute, hungrily drinking in the sight of his spacious, comfortable surroundings. The air was hot and musty, but he was home. Safe at home again, and he gloated over every chair and table and small knickknack within his vision.

He dropped the packet of letters on the low coffee table and went on to open the windows. He took the felt hat off and let cool wind blow through his hair. The pain in his temple was reduced to a slow, irritating throbbing, and the nausea was only a threat in his throat. The odd, nervous chill in his body persisted. He went into the bedroom and poured a small glass of bourbon from a cut-glass decanter, sank down on the clean, comfortable bed, and sipped it. Warmth filtered slowly through his veins and he stopped shivering.

But the nervousness, the urgency to do something, to begin finding out what he could brought him to his feet. After one glimpse of himself in his own clear mirror he peeled off the filthy coat, took the roll of bills from the trousers pocket before taking them off. He was appalled at the flimsy underwear, but before removing it, he sat down on the bed again and took the rubber band from the bills.

There were fresh bloodstains on the outer ones, and he stared at them somberly. Death-money! This was the money Marge had wanted to know about — the money he had killed a man for — ten thousand dollars. Ten grand, he presumed a guy like Joey would call it.

After counting it again, carefully, he rolled the bills in a tight ball and thrust it under one of the pillows, then went into the bathroom, unbuttoning the ludicrous shirt as he went.

After testing the water, he left it running in the tub and returned to the living-room, where he picked up the phone, gave Jack a number, and waited impatiently while the instrument at the other end of the wire rang repeatedly. He counted the rings, heard the receiver lifted on the tenth one. A sleepy voice drawled a negligent hello and Arthur Devlin’s depressed spirits responded with an upsurge of hope.

“Tommy!” he exclaimed. “Is that you?”

“This is Doctor Thompson speaking. Who is—?”

“Devlin — Art Devlin, Tommy.”

“Art? I thought you were sailing the seven seas.”

“I’m not. I’ve got to see you, Tommy.”

“Sure — sure. I want to hear all about your trip, but not at this unearthly hour. What the devil—?”

“I’ve got to see you now. At once. How fast can you get here?”

“But Art — it’s two o’clock in the morning. Are you—?”

“Listen to me, Tommy. This is a matter of life and death. Get here as fast as you can.”

Some of the urgency in Devlin’s tone carried over the wire to his friend. “Sure, Art — right away. But if this is some kind of a drunken joke—”

“I’m not drunk and it’s not a joke. Hurry.”

Devlin wiped sweat from his face as he cradled the telephone. He went to the bathroom, stripped off the rest of the soiled clothing, and crawled into a tub of steaming water. Five minutes later, clad in clean pajamas and a light cotton robe, he sank into his favorite chair with a deep sigh of relief. He was trying to frame in his mind a credible story of the incredible thing that had happened to him — some way to begin it that would drive the truth home to his old friend.

He jumped when his door buzzer sounded and the lump on his head throbbed. He got up slowly and went to the door, opened it, and held out both his hands to Doctor Thompson. “Thank God, Tommy,” he said. “Thank God you’re here.”

Doctor Ronald Thompson dropped his small emergency bag and caught Devlin’s hands in a solid grip. He was slightly shorter than average height, a well-fleshed man in his mid-thirties with a look of competent intelligence in the quizzical brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“You don’t look like a dying man,” he said, a mixture of mystification and concern in his tone.

Devlin drew him inside and closed the door. Thompson picked up his bag and carried it into the living-room, set it on the center table, and turned to face Devlin. “What’s this all about, Art? I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t. That is — I guess the Belle of the Caribbean won’t touch here until then.” Devlin moved a step closer and said, “Look at me, Tommy. Look at me close. Am — I different?”

Thompson said, “Damn it, Art, you’ve been drinking.”

“No — I only had one small drink to steady me. Do you mean — I look just the same as ever?”

“Except for that nasty bump on your head — and — well, you look pale and all in.” A deep frown came between his eyes. “I’m afraid the sea voyage didn’t do you much good,” he continued. “Were you seasick? And how the devil did you get in ahead of the ship?”

“Sit down,” said Devlin, indicating a chair beside the coffee table, and dropping into one close by.

“I’ll take a good look at that bump first,” said the doctor. His finger tips moved over the area around the bruised center and behind the ear. “Not so good,” he mumbled.

“It’s nothing,” said Devlin quickly. “That is — it’s nothing but a bump.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. A blow like this with a little more weight behind it could bash a man’s brains out.”

“Or — bash them back in again?” Devlin looked up and met Thompson’s eyes. “Couldn’t it?” he asked gravely.

Thompson stepped back, shaking his head soberly. “What is all this, Art? You’re acting queerly. A blow like that — you never can tell about a concussion.” He sat down, folded his arms, and waited.

Devlin said, “Before I begin, I’ve got to know one thing. Do you believe in amnesia?”

“Do I believe in amnesia?” Doctor Thompson exclaimed. “You might as well ask if I believe in measles or taxes. If you mean of—”

“I actually want a medical opinion, Tommy. That’s what I mean. You read so much stuff in the papers about faked amnesia cases that I wondered if there really is such a thing.”

“There is,” Thompson assured him.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Devlin paused, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The glitter of hysteria had gone from his eyes, leaving them veiled and brooding. “I want you to think back to the night of the party at Masters’s house. Tell me what happened.”

“You got gloriously drunk. Passed out cold about eleven o’clock.”

“I inferred as much,” said Devlin. “But what happened after I passed out?”

“I don’t recall anything in particular.” Thompson spoke slowly, rumpling his forehead in thought. “The party broke up when the guest of honor passed out. We poured you into a taxi and shipped you off on your vacation cruise.”

“Who shipped me off? Who went to the dock with me?”

“I don’t remember. I’m not sure any of us did. We were all pretty high by that time,” Thompson admitted.

Devlin took a cigarette from a fresh pack lying on the coffee table, offered one to Thompson, struck a match to light them both. He remembered suddenly that he had not wanted a cigarette since returning to consciousness. He took a long puff on the one he lit, gagged and made a wry face, crushed it out in a brass tray.

“Tastes foul,” he muttered.

“Look, Art. Why did you call me over here? What’s on your mind?” Thompson spoke impatiently.

“I didn’t go on that cruise, Tommy.”

“You didn’t — what?”

“I didn’t go on the cruise. That is — well, I couldn’t have gone. The boat isn’t due back here until tomorrow. Yet ipso facto — here I am. It would appear that I didn’t go aboard the Belle of the Caribbean that night.” Devlin tried to achieve a note of flippancy, but his effort failed.

Thompson leaned forward, his eyes incredulous behind his glasses. “What are you getting at, Art? That blow on the head must be worse than it appears from a superficial examination. And this talk about amnesia? You talk as though you don’t know whether you sailed or not.”

“That’s just it. I don’t. You’ve got to believe me, Tommy,” he went on, his voice rising in shrill panic. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything that happened after I passed out that night. It’s a complete blackout. Nearly two weeks — a total blank.” He was tensely erect and trembling, and the glitter was in his eyes again. “I don’t know where I’ve been — who I’ve been — what I’ve been — until tonight.” His voice broke and he caught his throbbing head between his palms.

“Good God, Art. This is serious. Think, man. You must remember something. Tell me—”

“I’m telling you the facts,” said Devlin. “I expect you to tell me what they mean. I came to something over an hour ago and thought I’d missed my boat because I passed out from too many drinks at Masters’s party. Then I found out — I’d lost twelve days — nearly two weeks — instead of just a few hours. Could that be amnesia?”

“That blow on the head,” Thompson muttered, “you mean it brought you back?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” moaned Devlin. “Good Lord, man, you know about these things. Could it have?”

Thompson nodded slowly and soberly. “Yes. If a similar blow had been the original cause of amnesia. Do you have any recollection of being struck that night?”

“No. I don’t remember anything, I tell you. But if there had been an accident — if I was hit on the head while I was passed out from too much liquor — wouldn’t that cause an immediate condition of amnesia — a complete blackout of memory?”

“I presume it would. I don’t recall any similar authenticated case.”

Devlin slumped wearily back in the deep chair. He said, quietly, “You may have to swear to that on the witness stand, Tommy.”

“Why?”

“Because I killed a man tonight. I came to lying on a bed in a furnished room and he was lying on the floor. I never saw the man before. I don’t know whether it was self-defense or not. I don’t know how either of us got into that room. I don’t know whether I’m a murderer or not,” he droned on in slow and measured tones, as though fascinated by the mystery of it all. “We’ve got to go back somehow. Tear away the black curtain from those missing days. Is there any way you can help me? Any drug you can give me?”

“Snap out of it, Art,” said Thompson gruffly, but his eyes were bright with compassion behind the heavy lenses. “What we both need is a drink. No — you sit there — I’ll get it,” he said when Devlin started to get up.

“In the bedroom. There’s a decanter with some bourbon. And glasses.”

Thompson went briskly into the room, came back with the decanter and glasses, poured the drinks, and sat down again. Devlin took a couple of sips, expelled a long shuddering sigh. “I guess I did need a drink,” he said.

“Take it easy now and tell me everything — every single thing that happened tonight after you came out of this mental blackout.”

Devlin began his recital in a rapid monotone. Ten minutes later he ended wearily, “… and I telephoned you as soon as I got here. I couldn’t think of another person in the world I could trust. You can look in the bathroom if you doubt what I’ve been telling you. The clothes are there — with blood on them.”

Doctor Thompson nodded and got up. He went into the bathroom while Devlin sat slumped in his chair. He had told his friend everything except about the call from a girl named Marge — and the roll of bloody hundred-dollar bills. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to mention those, even to Tommy.

There was grave concern on the doctor’s face when he returned. He tossed off the rest of his drink before sitting down again. He said, “You don’t remember anything at all about the fight?”

“Nothing at all,” said Devlin tonelessly.

“You say there was a bloody blackjack on the floor. Yours or his?”

“My God, man, you know I never carried a thing like that,” Devlin flared angrily. “It had to be his. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Don’t excite yourself, Art,” Thompson said quietly. “Of course I believe everything you’ve told me. I know perfectly well you’ve never gone around beating people’s brains out with a blackjack.”

“So it stands to reason that he attacked me,” Devlin said eagerly, “and somehow — maybe I got the blackjack away from him and struck him in self-defense.”

“I also know that you never went around wearing the sort of clothes I saw in the bathroom, or frequented the kind of rooming-house you’ve described,” Thompson said slowly and thoughtfully.

“Of course not. But while suffering from amnesia—”

“That’s the point I’m trying to bring out, Art. The sort of man who selected clothes like those is also the sort who might consider a blackjack exactly the thing a well-dressed man should carry in his pocket.”

There was a long silence between them. “I — see what you mean,” Devlin said. “I have no way of knowing what kind of man I became during that period. That proves I was a victim of amnesia. You can swear to it in court, can’t you?”

“I can, and I will if it’s necessary,” Thompson agreed after sober meditation. “But — I’m not sure that will help you any.”

“What do you mean by that?” faltered Devlin. “A man can’t be held accountable for something he does without conscious knowledge he is doing it.”

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid that won’t stand up as a legal defense for murder. You see, Art,” the doctor attempted to explain as kindly as he could, “amnesia isn’t even remotely any form of insanity. We might call it suspension of the function of the nerve center that gives us memory.” He paused a moment to grope for the proper words. “To say it another way: You were still you, though you may not have been conscious of your own identity. Nevertheless, you were still Arthur Devlin, moving in another world — living in another consciousness, and I’m afraid the law will consider such a person legally responsible for his actions.”

Devlin shuddered. “It’s a horrible thought. And it’s not fair. I, Arthur Devlin, can’t help what my body did while my mind had no control over it. You have to grant that.”

“I grant it, certainly, in your case, Art. But if the law granted it we’d have a great deal more pleas of not guilty by reason of amnesia. It’s such an easy thing to fake.”

“But in my case there’s bound to be plenty of proof,” Devlin said passionately. “There must have been an accident that night — on my way to the dock. We can look up the records, find the taxi driver. When the Belle of the Caribbean docks tomorrow we can get definite proof I didn’t board her. All my friends know how I looked forward to the trip — that I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. As it is, I’ve probably been going around in a daze right here in Miami all this time,” he finished slowly, silenced by the strange expression on the doctor’s face. Doctor Thompson cleared his throat slightly and looked away.

“Isn’t that true?” Devlin asked uncertainly. “You know how much I anticipated that trip.”

“Yes, I know.” He spoke in a dry tone that warned Devlin something else was coming.

“Well — why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m sorry, Art. You see, I know you did sail at midnight on the Belle of the Caribbean.”

“I did — sail?” gasped Devlin.

“Yes.” Thompson averted his eyes from his friend’s imploring gaze. “You see — you sent me a radiogram the next day — from aboard the Belle.”