It wasn’t until Mr. and Mrs. Harris arose the next morning that they discovered their son had not come home, and they weren’t unduly alarmed then, thinking he might have decided to spend the night with a friend.
Neither could State’s Attorney Elmer Jacobson throw any light on the mystery when interviewed early today, insisting he was positive it was not official business that had brought his assistant to Brockton Thursday night, though this city does lie within the jurisdiction of the Orlando district.
“We had no cases pending in Brockton,” he stated positively this morning in his courthouse office. “Mr. Harris was engaged in handling only routine cases at this time, none of which could have taken him as far afield as Brockton. Randolph Harris was one of the finest young men I have ever had in my office,” Mr. Jacobson continued with obvious emotion. “A fine young lawyer sincerely interested in abstract justice and with a brilliant future before him. His untimely death will be a great loss to the community and to the entire state of Florida, and my heart goes out to the fine parents of this stalwart young man in their hour of bereavement.”
One false lead which police had hoped might be a vital clue in the mystery petered out this morning when authorities interviewed Dr. Joseph R. Winestock, Superintendent of the Brockton Sanitarium on the outskirts of the city.
Previously, John Agnolo, attendant at the Squaredeal Filling Station situated on the Orlando highway a half mile north of Brockton, had reported to police that he believed Mr. Harris had been the driver of a car answering to the description of the burned vehicle that had stopped for gasoline about nine o’clock Thursday evening, and who had asked Mr. Agnolo for directions to the Brockton Sanitarium.
“He came inside the station to pay me for the gas,” Mr. Agnolo told the police early this morning. “And when he asked how to reach the Sanitarium I drew him a little sketch on a piece of paper. I told him it was easy from my place, and how to avoid city traffic. Just turn left at the first traffic light and follow straight out East Avenue about two miles till the road forks. ‘You take the left fork where you’ll see the sign,’ I told him, ‘and it’s about a quarter mile on and you can’t miss it.’”
Mr. Agnolo also told police he had a vague impression there was another person in the front seat of the car, but he couldn’t be positive and didn’t know whether it was a man or woman. When shown a picture of Mr. Harris at police headquarters, he tentatively identified it as the man he had given the sketch to on Thursday evening, but could not swear to it.
Police now believe it must have been a case of mistaken identity, because when Dr. Winestock was questioned later he denied any knowledge of Mr. Harris. The only visitor to the Sanitarium Thursday evening, he averred, was a young man who arrived shortly after nine o’clock for a short visit with his sister who is a patient there. Since this young man answered in a general way to the description of Randolph Harris, police are satisfied that Mr. Agnolo was mistaken in his identification.
The brilliant young assistant to the State’s Attorney was born in Tallahassee…
Michael Shayne skimmed through the rest of the news story to see that it contained no further information except a laudatory recap of Randy Harris’ scholastic and brief professional career.
Then he laid the paper aside and applied himself with a frown to the cognac remaining in his glass.
Why had a gunman been enough interested in that particular item to clip it out carefully and carry it about with him in his coat pocket?
Thursday night, of course, was the same night Amy Buttrell had mysteriously appeared in front of the local hospital suffering from amnesia.
Amy Buttrell had fingered him for three hoodlums here in Brockton last night after she had supposedly been taken away to Miami by a father who seemed not to exist. By the grace of God, Shayne had escaped their ministrations, whereupon a killer appeared at his office door the next morning armed with a gun and carrying a clipping from the Brockton paper.
Shayne knew it all had to make sense somehow, but at the moment it was all a crazy hodge-podge of impossibilities and improbabilities. He tossed off his brandy and went down to the hotel dining room to see if food would make his thinking any clearer.
9
The food was good. Nicely served by a pleasant-faced waitress in a quiet, uncrowded dining room. Shayne sat alone at a table by a window with sunshine coming in from the street, ate a large amount of food and postponed all thinking until he settled back with a pot of coffee to wash down a large serving of excellent strawberry shortcake.
There wasn’t any discernible pattern yet. He went over and over the small store of facts thus far garnered, and remained as much at sea as ever. Dr. Philbrick, for instance. What had actually been behind his effort to have Shayne turned away from his office without interviewing him? Had it, indeed, been due solely to the fact that he had learned Shayne was a private detective who had been arrested by local police the night before, or had he suspected why the detective wanted to see him… and wished to avoid answering questions about the girl? About Miss Buttrell… if that was her name. There was no proof as yet, Shayne reminded himself, that her name was Buttrell. Her father had said he was Amos Buttrell, but he had also said he was at the Roney Plaza for the season. Since the second statement was false, he might have given a false name as well. No one had bothered to check the man’s identity, of course. There had been no reason why they should. They were pleased enough to have a man of evident wealth turn up to identify the girl and take her away from the hospital. Glad to have her bill paid and to be relieved of the responsibility.
But why would a father lie about his identity under those circumstances? Because he knew his daughter had been engaged in some criminal activities and wanted to cover up for her? Could be. Also, could be a hundred other reasons.
Shayne poured a second cup of coffee and lit his third cigarette, and again carefully went over the information contained in the clipping found in the pocket of a gunman who had been waiting for him to appear at his Miami office that morning.
An assistant State’s Attorney from Orlando who had been burned to death in his wrecked car the same night Amy Buttrell (call her that for want of a better name) had been brought to the hospital by an unidentified motorist in a state of shock.
It was too much to think the possession of the clipping had been mere coincidence. It indicated a definite connection between the girl and Randolph Harris. Both injured near Brockton the same night. Her participation in the attack on Shayne last night, and the hood’s unexplained appearance at his office this morning.
That was at least one coincidence too many to swallow.
Orlando! Randolph Harris lived in Orlando, forty miles north of Brockton. And a Professor Henderson lived in Orlando also. Father of a girl who looked enough like Amy Buttrell that the professor had feared he recognized her from the newspaper picture. Professor Henderson had been greatly relieved, Dr. Philbrick had stated, when he learned that the girl could not possibly be his daughter because she had already been identified by a man who called himself Amos Buttrell and said he lived in Miami.
Obviously, the professor would not have pressed his inquiries beyond that point.
Shayne got up from the dining table hastily when he reached this point in his thinking. His waitress hurried to him with a luncheon check, and Shayne signed it and gave her a dollar bill.