could probably lay a bet there or get propositioned by a pimp if he was so-minded.”
Shayne nodded absently and sipped from his second glass of brandy and soda. “We’ve slid ’way off from my original question about your rate of traffic accidents. You mentioned a hit-run last night. Wasn’t there an other bad accident last week?”
“You mean the Harris boy from Orlando that got burned up in his car?”
“That’s right. District Attorney or something.”
“Yeh. That was a bad one, but nothing we could do anything about. Damn fool tried to take a curve too fast was all. Didn’t find him or his car till next afternoon.”
“Visiting his sister in the hospital, wasn’t he?”
“Naw. That turned out a phony lead. Nobody ever has found out why he was in Brockton that night. Guy in a filling station thought he’d stopped outside town to ask directions for the Sanitarium, but where he got killed was ’way off that route.”
“Maybe he drove to the Sanitarium first and then drove there.”
“No. It was ’way south of town. Not back toward Orlando. And he didn’t go near the Sanitarium. We checked.”
“What kind of Sanitarium is it?” Shayne asked idly.
“Private.” A fleeting expression of distaste screwed up Grimes’ ruddy face. “Dipsos mostly, I guess. Different kinds of nuts, from what you hear. Expensive as hell for city folks that can afford to take the cure. Mostly society dames, I guess, from cities all over like Miami and Jax. Even from as far as Atlanta and Memphis, they say. Stands out to itself and Brockton folks don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Strictly okay? They wouldn’t have any reason for denying a man came to visit his sister if he had?” There was faint hesitation on Grimes’ part, and again Shayne felt he was treading close to a dead-end beyond which he could not go in a seemingly casual conversation.
“Don’t see why they would.” It was almost as though he were arguing with himself. “It is private and exclusive as hell, I guess, and they don’t give out a list of patients to the papers. That’s why people pay their prices. For privacy. But I don’t reckon they’d lie to us. Ollie went out himself and talked to Doc Winestock.”
“That makes two accidents in a week,” said Shayne thoughtfully, deciding not to arouse any suspicion by bringing up the girl amnesia victim. “When was your last one before that?”
“Last what?”
“Traffic accident.”
“Oh. Well I got to admit we have been having more than our share hereabouts lately. That’s the way it goes. Nothing happens in a couple of years, and then you get a batch. Seems like sure-enough maybe there is something in that old saying that things go by threes. Hadn’t thought of it before, but Mule last night did make the third in a month. Funny, ain’t it? There was a young girl about a month ago. First bad accident, I do believe, for three-four years.”
“Happen here in town?”
“No. That was out on the highway, too. Forget her name, but she was a pretty little thing they said. Driving an old Ford coupe that went off the road on a curve, too. Rolled over half a dozen times before it landed.”
“But she didn’t burn up, too?” Shayne asked, masking his alert interest.
“No. Some driver saw it happen and pulled her out. She was banged up bad and died on the emergency operating table at the Sanitarium before recovering consciousness.”
“The Sanitarium?” Shayne couldn’t conceal his interest in this revelation. “The same one outside of town?”
“Yeh. It was the closest place to take her.”
“The man who saw it happen,” Shayne persisted. “What did he say caused the accident?”
“He never did say. Nobody ever did know who he was. He just dropped her at the Sanitarium and drove away in the excitement without ever giving his name. Never did show up to make a report.”
“Like the man who brought the Buttrell girl to your hospital just the other night,” said
Shayne nodded absently and sipped from his second glass of brandy and soda. “We’ve slid ’way off from my original question about your rate of traffic accidents. You mentioned a hit-run last night. Wasn’t there an other bad accident last week?”
“You mean the Harris boy from Orlando that got burned up in his car?”
“That’s right. District Attorney or something.”
“Yeh. That was a bad one, but nothing we could do anything about. Damn fool tried to take a curve too fast was all. Didn’t find him or his car till next afternoon.”
“Visiting his sister in the hospital, wasn’t he?”
“Naw. That turned out a phony lead. Nobody ever has found out why he was in Brockton that night. Guy in a filling station thought he’d stopped outside town to ask directions for the Sanitarium, but where he got killed was ’way off that route.”
“Maybe he drove to the Sanitarium first and then drove there.”
“No. It was ’way south of town. Not back toward Orlando. And he didn’t go near the Sanitarium. We checked.”
“What kind of Sanitarium is it?” Shayne asked idly.
“Private.” A fleeting expression of distaste screwed up Grimes’ ruddy face. “Dipsos mostly, I guess. Different kinds of nuts, from what you hear. Expensive as hell for city folks that can afford to take the cure. Mostly society dames, I guess, from cities all over like Miami and Jax. Even from as far as Atlanta and Memphis, they say. Stands out to itself and Brockton folks don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Strictly okay? They wouldn’t have any reason for denying a man came to visit his sister if he had?” There was faint hesitation on Grimes’ part, and again Shayne felt he was treading close to a dead-end beyond which he could not go in a seemingly casual conversation.
“Don’t see why they would.” It was almost as though he were arguing with himself. “It is private and exclusive as hell, I guess, and they don’t give out a list of patients to the papers. That’s why people pay their prices. For privacy. But I don’t reckon they’d lie to us. Ollie went out himself and talked to Doc Winestock.”
“That makes two accidents in a week,” said Shayne thoughtfully, deciding not to arouse any suspicion by bringing up the girl amnesia victim. “When was your last one before that?”
“Last what?”
“Traffic accident.”
“Oh. Well I got to admit we have been having more than our share hereabouts lately. That’s the way it goes. Nothing happens in a couple of years, and then you get a batch. Seems like sure-enough maybe there is something in that old saying that things go by threes. Hadn’t thought of it before, but Mule last night did make the third in a month. Funny, ain’t it? There was a young girl about a month ago. First bad accident, I do believe, for three-four years.”
“Happen here in town?”
“No. That was out on the highway, too. Forget her name, but she was a pretty little thing they said. Driving an old Ford coupe that went off the road on a curve, too. Rolled over half a dozen times before it landed.”
“But she didn’t burn up, too?” Shayne asked, masking his alert interest.
“No. Some driver saw it happen and pulled her out. She was banged up bad and died on the emergency operating table at the Sanitarium before recovering consciousness.”
“The Sanitarium?” Shayne couldn’t conceal his interest in this revelation. “The same one outside of town?”
“Yeh. It was the closest place to take her.”
“The man who saw it happen,” Shayne persisted. “What did he say caused the accident?”
“He never did say. Nobody ever did know who he was. He just dropped her at the Sanitarium and drove away in the excitement without ever giving his name. Never did show up to make a report.”
“Like the man who brought the Buttrell girl to your hospital just the other night,” said
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