Stranger in Town Read Online Free PDF

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.
    All the frustrated, bottled-up anger of the last two hours came out in his snarl, “Out of my way, punk. I’ve had one damned drink if that’s what…”
    The door came open and an officious hand grabbed his shoulder and jerked hard. Shayne braced himself and chopped the edge of his palm down on the policeman’s forearm muscles, numbing them so the hand fell away.
    “Keep your goddamned hands off me.” Shayne’s voice was throaty and rough.
    The young policeman was well-trained. He stood back, rubbing his forearm, and called out, “Want to come here a minute, George? Got a drunk that thinks he’s tough.”
    Sanity reasserted itself as the other door of the police car opened and a bulky figure stepped out.
    Shayne knew this was no good. Never argue with a strange cop. Who knew that axiom better than he? But here he was—a hundred miles from home—
    He stepped out from behind the wheel as the other patrolman approached and said thickly, “Sorry, Officer. I really didn’t mean…” Pain hit him in the neck as he stood upright and he swayed slightly and put his hand on the open door to steady himself.
    The second cop was burly and red-faced and older. He shoved the first one aside and said happily, “Drunk and resistin’ arrest, huh? Come along with me now.” He caught Shayne’s left wrist in both big hands and moved in behind the detective swiftly but inexpertly to thrust the arm up behind him in a hammerlock.
    Everything went crimson before Michael Shayne’s eyes. Every man is constituted to endure so much before the breaking point is reached. Shayne had endured enough in Brockton that night.
    He eeled out of the hammerlock and drove his right fist into the bulbous red face beside him. The burly cop staggered back with blood spurting from his nose, and the younger man stepped in calmly and sapped Shayne behind the ear with his blackjack.
    For the second time in Brockton that evening, Shayne went out like a candle in a hurricane.

 
4
     
    MICHAEL SHAYNE awoke quite early the next morning. He lay on his back on a rough army blanket folded to cover a built-in bunk of iron lattice-work. His coat was rolled up under his head