Stranger in Town Read Online Free PDF Page B

for a pillow. He was in a small, iron-barred cubicle, dimly lighted by a 25-watt ceiling bulb in the corridor outside.
    Shayne lay as he was without trying to move for several minutes which he devoted to cursing himself and his goddamned crazy temper that had betrayed him into this situation. He clearly recalled all the events leading up to the point where he socked the older policeman in blind rage. After that, there was hazy memory of being pushed and pulled around, of voices questioning him and of somewhat incoherent replies on his part.
    His head ached dully and steadily, and for a long period of minutes he didn’t dare try to lift it for fear neck muscles wouldn’t respond. It was very quiet in this cell of the Brockton jail. He got up strength finally to lift his arm and squint at his wristwatch. 6:30. It would be hours yet before there’d be any chance of talking his way, or paying his way, out of jail.
    “And when that chance comes,” he warned himself grimly, “keep your goddamned big mouth shut, Mike Shayne. Take every insult like a little man, and speak only when you are spoken to. Apologize for living, if necessary, and plead guilty to whatever they throw at you.”
    Much as he hated to admit it even to himself, it was basically his own fault that he was in a cell right now instead of luxuriating in a soft bed in the Manor Hotel. Couldn’t blame the two cops too much, he admitted grudgingly. Sure, they had been over-tough and officious, but most cops are. They get that way after dealing with criminals and drunks night after night. It’s an occupational disease.
    And no one knew that better than Michael Shayne. That’s why it was his fault more than theirs. The pair who had picked him up hadn’t known, of course, about what had happened inside the bar earlier. They didn’t know he was already boiling with anger because no official cognizance had been taken of the unprovoked attack on him.
    So, all right. So, the thing now was to get out of jail. Meek and submissive, that was the ticket. Until he got free. After that—well, he thought maybe he’d be around Brockton for a short time at least, and chances were he might run into the two cops again under more propitious circumstances.
    The thought invigorated him enough that he temporarily lost his caution and sat up suddenly.
    A groan escaped his lips before he could repress it. Sledgehammers began pounding inside his skull, and his neck and shoulder muscles on the right side were a mass of agonizing pain.
    He stayed sitting up, head held askew in the only position that wasn’t sheer torture, gritting his teeth and moving it a tenth of an inch from this side to that to work some of the stiffness out.
    No wonder the guy was called Mule. Probably nicknamed that by some other victim whom he had kicked around.
    Shayne fretfully began wondering what and why again, then sternly stopped that guessing game and concentrated on massaging the soreness out of his neck. Because it couldn’t be anything but a guessing game until he accumulated a few facts to go on.
    He thought about his brown-haired secretary instead. Lucy Hamilton in Miami—expecting his return last night. He remembered the one faintly plausible hypothesis for the affair that he had come up with last night. If it was a new case that someone didn’t want him to work on, he’d been effectively prevented from taking it all right. At least for one night. But he wasn’t lying in the morgue yet, the victim of a hit-run driver. That was one consolation.
    He found a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one. He was smoking his third and had worked the stiffness out to a point where he could turn his head a couple of inches in both directions when a sad-faced turnkey came down the corridor with the breakfast Brockton jail served its guests for free.
    There was an aluminum pie-plate with a thick piece of tough fried ham and a mound of boiled grits with meat fat poured on top. And a slice of