Brett Halliday

In a Deadly Vein

Chapter one

MICHAEL SHAYNE said, “So this is what we’ve waited a week to see.” He stood in the doorway of the historic Teller House in Central City, and let his eyes roam pleasurably over the scene.

“I told you it would be worth coming all the way to Colorado to see.” Phyllis stood on tiptoe trying to see over the heads of the crowd swarming over walks and street.

By mid-afternoon of opening day of the annual Play Festival, Central City was beginning to look like the hell-roaring town it would become by nightfall. Since early morning tourists and natives and first-nighters from Denver had been streaming into the ancient mining village wedged between the steep walls of a gulch high in the Rockies — a town built more than sixty years before by rugged pioneers in a ravine so narrow that the creek flowing along the bottom had to be flumed over with stout boards to make space for the business district.

For a pleasant, dreamy week Michael and Phyllis had watched the old town slowly stretch itself and come to life again. Vacationing in the high country had been perfect, with July nights icy, and long, lazy, sunny days for hiking into the mountains pockmarked with tunnels and scarred with placer mines which had produced tons of gold in the Sixties.

A rising tide of excitation was rushing toward a climax of frenzied activity today. Ghost stores were refurbished and opened; small shops that barely eked out an existence eleven months of the year glistened with fresh paint, and counters were replenished with merchandise. All week, miners had been drifting in from the hills, getting their whiskers trimmed and donning new overalls for the Festival. Two deserted buildings on Main Street were transformed into gambling casinos to re-create the spirit of the Sixties and to raise money for charity.

Up and down the steep walls of Eureka Gulch the shuttered homes built by pioneers were opened by new owners who would keep open house during the three weeks of the Festival, and since early morning progressive cocktail parties were the order of the day.

Shayne nodded to his eager young wife. “I’m beginning to believe you, Phyl. Your idea for a vacation in the Rockies wasn’t bad.” He caught her arm and they moved into the gay throng drifting down Eureka Street. Crossing at the corner, they passed old structures which had once been important business buildings, but were now in ill repair and vacant.

Heavy black clouds hung above jagged western peaks, blotting out the sun, but failing to dampen the holiday spirit of the throng. Streaks of lightning forked through the lowering clouds, and the roar of thunder was added to the noise of feet tramping on boardwalks, and the hubbub of talk and laughter. A stiff breeze swept through the narrow canyon, bending the boughs of stately spruce and quaking aspens on the canyon walls.

“Oh, I hope it won’t rain and spoil everything,” Phyllis cried. She clung to her hat with one hand and to Shayne’s arm with the other.

Shayne chuckled. “It would take more than rain to spoil their fun. If it rains everybody out of the streets there’s enough room to open up in some of these old buildings.”

“But the streets would be all muddy — and slippery,” she protested. “I think it would be a shame.”

“We can’t complain, angel,” he answered. “We’ve had a good week up here. It has to rain sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, it has been fun! I was thrilled to meet some of the actors and actresses. Why, they’re just like other people. I’d always imagined they would be snooty.” She laughed gaily as the wind whipped her short skirt.

Shayne pulled his hat tighter on his red head and looked up at the darkened sky. An ominous black cloud appeared to hang lower than the gray film. It moved in the high wind, growing larger momently.

“Looks like we’re going to get it,” he said, “and quick.”

“There’s no use trying to hurry,” Phyllis laughed. “That is, unless everybody hurries.”

Raindrops suddenly spattered in the street, a forerunner of the deluge that sent the crowd scurrying for shelter. Michael and Phyllis were swept along by mass movement into a huge and well-stocked general store, the largest and only modern establishment in the town.

Pushing their way through the double doors, Phyllis shivered from the icy wetness of her suit, but her dark eyes sparkled as they flashed around the walls and occasionally glimpsed a gaily bedecked counter through an opening between the throng of shelter seekers.

“I’ve been planning to lure you in here,” she said, “ever since I saw the marvelous display of Indian blankets in the window.”

Shayne took out his wallet and handed her a sheaf of bills. “Here, go pick out a blanket and wrap it around you. You’re all wet.”

“But — I want you to help me select one, Michael,” she urged.

“Not me,” he said emphatically. “I wouldn’t tackle that mob for forty Indian blankets.”

He grinned and watched her eel her way through, murmuring apologies, then turned to stare through the plate-glass window. Rain fell in wind-driven sheets. The steep street and gutters were a rushing torrent. People were still pushing through the doors, and on the boardwalk women laughed and squealed and shivered as male escorts urged them along.

While the last of them were pressing into the store, Shayne stood on feet planted wide apart, knobby hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, his coarse red brows drawn down in a straight line over slitted gray eyes. Something within him responded to the elemental fury of the mountain storm. He felt alive and vibrant. A week in the high country had dispelled the lethargy which had slowly crept over him at sea-level Florida.

A sardonic smile twitched his wide mouth. His big hands drew up into fists in his pockets. He felt a strong urge to get back into harness — to drive himself hard, as the wind drove the sheets of rain from a cloudburst.

Even as he watched, the wind appeared to swoop low and pick up the rain-sheet to pour it back into the clouds to be dropped somewhere else. Only a misty spray was left and bright sunlight filtered through. The torrent in street and gutters slowly subsided.

As he turned from the window, his gaze brushed the face of a man standing alone in the angle of the walls. He was watching eager buyers at the counters, and there was a caustic smile on his thin lips.

Something told Shayne he should recognize that smile. The man was of medium height, solidly built. A quiet gray business suit was tailored to emphasize his height. His eyes were very blue and still, with a hard opacity. He was not more than fifty, but his hair was a clean, glistening white, cut rather long and parted in the middle. His features were finely sculptured, almost ascetic.

Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear, his gray eyes brooding across the room for a long moment. Abruptly, he strode over to the man and said, “Hello, Two-Deck. You want to be careful of this clean air. Your lungs aren’t used to it.”

Two-Deck Bryant turned his head slowly. His cold eyes studied the tall redhead without a flicker of recognition. He said, “You’re one up on me,” in a mellow, reflective voice.

Shayne grinned. “Last time we met you were dealing seconds in Harry’s Casino at Atlantic Beach.”

A frown ruffled the gambler’s smooth brow. He mused, “That would be eight years ago.”

Shayne nodded. “I was with World-Wide.”

Bryant said, negligently, “Don’t expect me to remember every two-bit dick I run across.”

The hollows in Shayne’s cheeks deepened. “What are you doing out here?”

“Lucius Beebe and me, we’re hell on drama,” Bryant replied.

“No hard feelings.” Shayne shrugged. “I’m not working.”

Bryant’s brow smoothed. “Not that I’m hot, Shamus.”

“Glad to hear it,” Shayne told him. “I was afraid my vacation was going to be spoiled.” He turned to look for Phyllis.

“Nice graft these yokels have here,” Bryant murmured confidentially. He moved a step closer to Shayne. “Three ninety-five blankets from Brooklyn marked twenty bucks and stamped genuine Navajo. Maybe you and me could take some lessons.”

Shayne’s nostrils flared. “Is this stuff junk?”

“Nothing but. I saw them unpacking it yesterday out of boxes shipped from New York.”

Shayne saw Phyllis fingering a rug with a garish Indian design. Anger burned in his eyes. He asked, “Any of those packing boxes still around?”

“Sure. In the back.”

Shayne stalked toward his wife. A large man had come up to wait on her and was pointing out the fine workmanship of the blankets. Hulking shoulders dwarfed a lean waist and thin legs. His eyes were black beneath black brows that met across the bridge of his nose. High cheek bones, a beaked nose, and blunt chin looked as though they might have been rudely chiseled with a miner’s drill and single-jack. His shirt sleeves were rolled above the elbows, revealing hairy forearms. There was a dominant air of uncouth strength about him that was out of place behind a store counter.

“Yes, ma’am,” he was assuring Phyllis. “Right off the Navajo Reservation. I make a trip through New Mexico every summer and buy direct from the Indians.” Phyllis’s face glowed with enthusiasm when she looked up at her husband. “Only eighteen dollars, Michael. It’d make a grand lap robe for the car, and I’ve always wanted a real Indian blanket.”

Shayne said, “Nix.”

The big man insisted, “That’s dirt cheap, Mister. I reckon you don’t know anything about Indian stuff.”

Shayne snorted, “An Indian named Moe Ginsberg in the Bronx?”

The man’s heavy brows came down threateningly over his eyes. “Don’t say anything like that in here.”

Phyllis was staring at her husband in hurt astonishment when, behind them, a soft western drawl inquired, “Trouble, Jasper?”

Customers were edging closer, attracted by the scene. The storekeeper spoke in a harsh tone, “This man’s a trouble-maker, Sheriff. Claiming my rugs aren’t real Indian stuff.”

Shayne turned his head and looked into a pair of steady gray eyes level with his own. The sheriff wore a broad-brimmed hat and there was a lean, tough look about him. His face was burned the color of old leather by the Colorado sun, and laugh crinkles radiated from the corners of eyes which had the far-seeing expression of one accustomed to the vast distances of the west.

He studied the detective soberly for a moment, then said, “There’s no call to make a fuss, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Windrow don’t want to sell you something you won’t be satisfied with.”

Shayne was on the verge of arguing with the sheriff when a large woman who had detached herself from the crowd walked up and said, “I’ve been waiting until you were free, Mr. Windrow. I’m determined to take several of your lovely Indian things back to New York with me. I’ll be the envy of everyone when they find out I picked them up for a song.”

Her voice was a pleasant contralto, and her figure was corseted and gowned to deceptive trimness. Turning away, Shayne glanced at her suspiciously. Although middle-aged, her smile and voice had effervescent charm.

Sheriff Fleming was urging Shayne toward the door. He said, “That was Miss Moore, one of the actresses come out from New York for the Festival.”

Phyllis clung to Shayne’s arm, her faced clouded with dismay. Shayne growled, “She acted like a shill to me.”

The sheriff stopped when they reached the door and said firmly, “Now, I want you to get this straight, Mr. Shayne. No hard feelings, but you were wrong about Jasper’s Indian stuff.”

“You mean they aren’t cheap imitations shipped from factories in the East?”

“No, sirree. I’ll take my oath on it. Jasper is tight-fisted and he drives a hard bargain, but nothing crooked.”

Shayne asked, “How about those packing cases in the back from New York?”

“Jasper made a trip back east and bought a lot of stuff to sell during the Festival, all right, but none of it was Indian stuff. He gets that off the Reservation, like he said.”

Shayne’s face was a mask of disgust at himself, and anger at Two-Deck Bryant for roping him in like that. He stepped inside the store again and looked around, but Bryant had disappeared.

He said, angrily. “So, I’m dumb enough to fall for a plant, and I can’t open my big mouth without putting my foot in it.” He started back to the blanket counter.

Phyllis caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “What are you going to do, Michael?” she asked in alarm.

Shayne laughed shortly. “Apologize to Mr. Windrow. Then I’m going to start looking for a gentleman known in all the best gutters as Two-Deck Bryant.”

Chapter two

AT 7:30 THE SUN had sunk far below the mountain ramparts westward and the soft haze of twilight cloaked the rugged contours with illusive beauty. Eureka Street was barricaded to vehicular traffic in front of the hotel and the opera house, and the area was jammed with first-nighters in full evening attire — among them celebrities from every state in the nation — and with gay spectators. There was a generous background of natives in old-fashioned garb, the clanking of spurs on heavy boots, cowboys in full regalia, and miners in clean blue jeans.

The Teller House dining-room and the bar were filled to capacity and the din of merriment rose by the moment.

Somewhat uncomfortable in his dinner jacket, Shayne mopped his brow as he worked his way to the bar with Phyllis clinging close beside him. Over the heads of other bar pressers, he caught the eye of a perspiring waiter and held up two fingers, which, after a week at the hotel, sufficed as an order for straight cognac. There was constant good-natured jostling in the barroom, famous for its legendary “Face on the Barroom Floor,” and no one minded when Shayne reached out a long arm to take a tray from the bartender.

As he turned away, a voice exploded beside him: “Mike Shayne! All dressed up like an undertaker.” Holding the tray high, Shayne ducked his head down and saw a ruddy face near his shoulder. Blue eyes twinkled up at him and a wide smile showed two gold front teeth. His snub nose was generously freckled and a straw hat was tipped back on his bullet-like head.

Shayne said, “By God, if it isn’t Pat Casey. How’d you leave Broadway?”

“Still kicking when I left but I doubt it’ll survive my absence,” Casey told him.

Carefully lowering the tray, Shayne handed Phyllis a glass of cognac and placed the second in Casey’s outstretched hand. He signaled for a third, then explained, “My wife dragged me out here for a vacation. Phyl, Pat’s an old sidekick of mine. A blooming Dutchman by the name of him.”

Casey’s round blue eyes grew rounder. He held out his hand to the slender, smiling girl with lustrous dark hair framing an oval face, who looked not a day over sixteen in her white fur jacket and flowing evening gown.

Casey dragged his gaze away from Phyllis’s loveliness and glared up into Shayne’s amused eyes. “’Tis not true,” he vowed. “By the Saints, Mike, if she can stand your ugly mug, think what’s waiting for a handsome lad like myself.”

“It’s the glamour of being a private op,” Shayne chuckled. “You still on the force in the big town?”

“I’m on special assignment.” Casey lowered his voice to a hoarse rumble though he could not have been overheard had he shouted. “An old pal of yours.” He jerked his head toward the crowded room and complained, “I need a megaphone to tell my secrets in here.”

The bartender shouted, “Hey, redhead!”

Shayne reached for his glass and said, “Let’s find a place to sit down.”

Casey let Shayne’s big frame force a path into the lobby and to a room in the rear. He took Phyllis’s arm and said, “I’m not believing it yet.”

Her eyes were level with his. She smiled into them and murmured, “Confidentially, Pat Casey, I married Michael because he has such interesting friends.” They followed Shayne into a small room with tables. The windows overlooked a patio. Few of the tables were occupied at this late hour and it was comparatively quiet. Shayne drew out a chair for Phyllis and said to Casey, “So, they’re trying to make a detective out of you. I read about New York’s crime wave. Now I know the reason.”

Phyllis intervened before Casey could think of a sufficiently scathing reply. She leaned forward and whispered, “Isn’t that Nora Carson sitting alone near the window? One of the actresses, Mike. We met her a couple of days ago.”

Shayne turned to look at a girl in an orchid evening gown with a black velvet cape partly covering her bare shoulders. She was eating an ice, glancing anxiously at her wrist-watch.

He nodded affirmatively. As he turned back, he stopped to stare at an aged, whiskered face pressed against the window pane and peering into the diningroom with intent absorption.

“Get a load of that,” he muttered. “Looks like the Spirit of ’49. They certainly go in for background at these Festivals.”

A canvas coat was buttoned tightly about the old man’s neck, and a sheepskin-lined collar was turned up to frame his head. He wore a floppy felt hat, and sharp black eyes contrasted strangely with the white stubble on his face.

“Poor old man,” Phyllis whispered. “Do you suppose he’s hungry? The way he’s staring in—”

A scream knifed through the small room. The face at the window disappeared. Nora Carson sprang to her feet. The table overturned, crashing dishes and cutlery to the floor.

She ran to the window and tried frantically to open it, crying, “Father! Don’t go away. Father — please!” The window was stuck tight. Hysterically she pounded on the pane with a small fist, but the old man did not reappear.

Shayne’s face was bleak as he strode toward the girl, but before he reached her she ran past him into the crowded lobby, holding up her long skirt and pleading, “Let me through. Please let me through.” Her slender body pressed futilely at the packed crowd.

Muttering an oath, Shayne lunged after her. He barked, “Come on,” dropped his left shoulder like a battering ram and drove forward, clearing a path to the door. Sobbing wildly, Nora Carson caught hold of his coat and was carried along.

Outside, he stopped and grasped the actress’s arm. She was trembling and sobs welled up from her smooth throat. Her eyes were glazed and vacant when he shook her.

“The man at the window — is he the one you’re trying to catch?”

“Yes — oh, yes! That was my father. Did you see him?”

“I saw him,” Shayne answered. He strode toward the side of the hotel, asking none of the questions that came to his mind. “If he wants to avoid you, he’s had plenty of time to get lost in this crowd while we were getting through the lobby.”

“He wouldn’t — oh, I don’t know!” Her voice fell despondently. They reached the west side of the hotel and looked back toward the patio outside the window, but there was no one there. “I must have sounded insane,” Nora Carson moaned. “But it was my father. I haven’t seen him for ten years, but I know. And he recognized me, too. I could tell.”

Shayne indicated the crowded street hopelessly. “There’s not much you can do right now to find him if he’s trying to avoid you.”

Her eyes were blue, wide-spaced and candid. They met his without faltering. Her chin was softly firm, but her lips trembled uncontrollably. A mass of bright blond hair had tumbled into loose curls about her face and neck.

In a low voice, she said, “I don’t know why Dad would run away from me like that. I know it was he,” she reiterated with conviction. “He has hardly changed at all in ten years.”

Shayne cupped his hand under her elbow to steady her. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions when you say he recognized you? He might not have changed much, but you were just a little girl ten years ago.”

“But he did recognize me,” she cried. “I could see it in his eyes. And my picture was in the local paper two weeks ago,” she went on. “There was a story about him and how I’ve been looking for him everywhere. He must have seen the picture and read about me.”

“Why hasn’t he looked you up sooner — and why come peering in the window at you?”

She shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know,” she faltered. “Any more than I can understand why he ran away when he saw me.” She drew in a deep breath and really looked at Shayne for the first time. “I remember you now. You’re Michael Shayne, a detective, aren’t you?”

Shayne nodded.

“Won’t you help me find him? He’s a miner, you see. That’s the reason I let them print that story in the paper. We used to live in Telluride. He ran away from — Mother and me in nineteen thirty-two. We never heard a word from him, and when Mother died I advertised in newspapers in all the mining towns.”

“Why did he leave home?”

“He couldn’t find work, and — well, Mother nagged at him all the time. Oh, I didn’t blame him for going off, but if I could find him now — help him—”

Shayne said, “I’ll be glad to do what I can. Suppose we get together after the play.”

For several minutes he had been conscious of a flow of movement across the street and up a steep, unused road separating the Masonic Hall from an old livery stable. A large and excited group was gathering near the top of the blind street where it ended abruptly against another building.

He saw Nora Carson staring up at the gathering, her face drained of color, and he caught a snatch of conversation from a man hurrying past, “… some old miner, they say.”

Nora Carson drew her arm from Shayne’s hand and started across the street. Shayne followed and again took her arm to help her climb the rocky slope in her dainty, high-heeled slippers.

When they reached the circle of curiously silent people at the end of the narrow passage between the buildings, Shayne stopped and stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd.

He said quietly, “You’d better go back, Miss Carson.”

Her agonized eyes studied his face. “Is it—?”

Shayne nodded. “It looks as though there has been an accident, and I’m afraid it’s the man who peered through the window.”

The young actress said steadily, “Help me to get to him.”

Shayne spoke to those in front of him and they parted. A single dim light from the street below threw faint illumination on two men kneeling beside a still body. One of the men stood up as Shayne and Nora Carson reached the inner edge of the circle.

“This is bad business,” the man muttered. “Murder.”

Nora Carson swayed to her knees beside the murdered man. Between sobs she spoke close to his battered ear. Her words were unintelligible, soft, crooning sounds, like a mother comforting an injured child.

Chapter three

TWO MEMBERS of the Colorado Courtesy Patrol reached the scene. They were young men, in neat blue uniforms with polished boots and Sam Browne belts. In the absence of local authority they assumed charge, ordering the crowd back and questioning those nearest the body.

Shayne briefly explained his and Nora’s presence. No one had seen the actual attack. One of the men who had been kneeling over the body was a dentist from Denver. He introduced himself to the young officers:

“I’m Doctor Adams. My wife and I were on our way to the opera after changing to evening clothes at a friend’s home. We were starting down those steps from above,” he pointed to a flight of wooden steps leading down from the next street level, “when we heard a loud thud and a groan down here. We saw a man running off to the right into the darkness.” He indicated the rear of the Masonic Temple. “I can’t describe him very well, but I think my wife saw him better.” He turned to a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a black lace gown.

She nodded emphatically, keeping her eyes averted from the kneeling figure of Nora Carson and the dead man. “He was roughly dressed and he looked old,” Mrs. Adams told them. “I have an indistinct impression of a black hat and whiskers, but—” she shuddered and forced herself to glance hastily at the corpse, “it might have been this poor man I saw, just the instant before he was struck. It all happened so suddenly.”

Sheriff Fleming arrived as she finished her halting statement. He slowly lifted his broad-brimmed hat, staring down at the face of the dead man. In the faint light his face was stern, touched with pity.

“It’s old Pete,” Sheriff Fleming said in his soft western drawl. “Screwloose Pete. Poor old fellow. Who do you reckon would of done this? Just when he’d made his ten-strike, too, after prospecting for years.”

Nora Carson lifted her tear-streaked face. Her blue eyes were softly luminous. “This man’s name is Peter Dalcor,” she corrected the sheriff. She lifted her chin. “He’s my father. He disappeared from Telluride ten years ago and we were never able to trace him.”

There were murmurings of pity from the onlookers when Nora revealed the identity of the murdered man. Sheriff Fleming rubbed his chin reflectively. “Yes, Ma’am. I wouldn’t know about that. He’s been hanging around Central for eight or ten years. Nobody ever knew any name for him but Pete. We called him Screwloose, begging your pardon, Ma’am, because he was sort of strange-like. Stayed out in the hills by himself and didn’t ever talk much. Never said where he hailed from, nor anything about his past.”

Nora cried, “I’m certainly not going to believe he was insane, if that’s what you’re hinting. He was always quiet. Perhaps,” she faltered, “he had an attack or amnesia and didn’t know who he was. That would explain everything.”

A bareheaded young man came charging through the circle of spectators. He dropped to his knees beside the girl and said hoarsely, “Nora! My God, Nora! What is this?”

He wore a neat blue suit, and his glossy black hair was disheveled. His dark, clean-cut features had a cameo-like beauty, but there was, oddly, nothing foppish about him.

Nora shivered when his arm went around her. She looked down at the blood-smeared old man and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She sobbed, “It’s Father. After all these years, Frank, I’ve found him.” She buried her face against the young man’s chest.

He glanced up angrily at the silent officer and demanded, “Why in the name of God don’t you do something? Can’t you cover him up — take him away?” His arm tightened protectively around Nora. “This is awful, darling. You mustn’t — please, dear, you can’t sit here like this. The play — good Lord! you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

Nora Carson let her husband draw her away from the dead man. One of the patrolmen turned the sheepskin collar up to hide the ghastly sight from view.

“Yes, Frank — the play,” Nora said. “I suppose I’ll have to go on.”

“Of course you must.” Frank Carson spoke with firm authority.

He lifted his wife and drew her back a few steps, his fine features strained and tight. He spoke to her in a soft, persuasive voice:

“Are you sure the man is your father, dear? Sure you haven’t let your long search and your desire to find him influence your recognition? After all, he’s not — well, it’s rather difficult to tell much about how he looks now.”

“It is Father,” Nora insisted fiercely. “You see, I saw him, Frank — before he was like this. Just a few minutes ago. Through the window at the Teller House. And he recognized me, too. But he ran away.” A convulsive tremor shook her body. “He ran away before I could reach him. Oh, why did he have to die just when I’d found him again!”

While her passionate words lingered in the air, the clangor of a bell from Eureka Street came up through the night stillness to the group gathered in the presence of death on the steep hillside. An eerie sound, echoing upward from the stone walls of buildings housing a thousand ghostly memories of the past.

Below, in the glare of street lights, a tall man dressed in somber black, with a batwing collar and stiff shirt, was moving solemnly down the center of the crowded street ringing the old bell that had announced the opening of the opera house since the days when Modjeska and Edwin Booth had trod that historic stage.

The doors were flung open as the bell clanged, and those fortunate enough to hold first-night tickets began to file inside while thousands stood outside watching the colorful spectacle. There was the glare of spotlights, the blare of the radio announcer’s voice through the loudspeaker, and laughter and gay voices from those below, unconscious of the tragedy a hundred feet away.

Slowly and silently the group around the body dissolved downward, drawn by the warning bell. As Shayne dragged his gaze and his thoughts back to the reality of the murder, he heard Frank Carson urging his wife:

“We must hurry, dear. The curtain goes up in fifteen minutes. You have to change — and make up…” He was gently drawing her away, but Nora hung back, her sorrow-haunted eyes clinging to the crumpled figure on the ground.

“We’ve got to do something,” she cried. “We just can’t leave him lying there.”

“The police will take care of everything,” Frank reminded her. “You have to think of the play — the rest of the cast. All the important Eastern critics are here.” His voice was soft and persuasive.

Nora shuddered and lifted her chin valiantly. “Of course, Frank. The play must go on.” She turned to Shayne who was standing a little aside, and said impulsively:

“You’ve been awfully kind. Will you — they’ll make an investigation, won’t they? They won’t let the murderer get away?”

Carson turned searching black eyes on the tall redhead, and Nora explained, “This is Mr. Shayne, the detective from Florida. He helped me find Father.”

Frank Carson nodded. “I remember seeing your picture in the local paper. We appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Shayne. Now, Nora, please.” His fingers tightened on her arm. She resisted him, and said hurriedly to Shayne:

“Would you consider taking charge here? Helping the officers? I’d feel so much better if you would.” Shayne hesitated, and Frank joined Nora in the request:

“If it wouldn’t be too great an imposition. Nora has to get backstage immediately.”

Shayne nodded abruptly. “I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

“Fine — and thanks.” Carson spoke crisply. “Come, Nora darling, there’s nothing further to keep you here.”

Shayne stood solidly on wide-spread feet and watched them hurry down the slope to keep one of the oldest traditions of the theater. He sighed and turned to the sheriff and the two patrolmen. “Who assumes jurisdiction here?”

One of the young men said, “I’m Stout, of the State Courtesy Patrol, Mr. Shayne. We try to be exactly what our name implies. It’s our duty to co-operate with local authority, not usurp it. This is Sheriff Fleming’s baby.”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “This is mighty bad business. First killing in town since I’ve been sheriff. I declare I don’t know who around here would be mean enough to smash Pete’s head. Harmless old codger, and friendly as a speckled pup.”

Shayne said, “From the description given by the dentist and his wife it sounded like local talent. Another old miner. Do you know anyone who had a grudge against him?”

The sheriff considered for a moment, his face troubled. Then he shook his head. “Not right off,” he said lamely. “No one that would of done a thing like this. Of course, these old-timers have their squabbles.”

“When you’re investigating murder,” Shayne warned him, “you can’t let personalities interfere.” He dropped to his knees beside the dead man and turned the sheepskin collar down. He muttered, “Looks like a single crushing blow did the job. A brick or a large flat rock.”

Sheriff Fleming squatted beside him. “I heard what the young lady said to you, Mr. Shayne. I’d be mighty glad to have your help finding the killer.”

“I don’t mean to horn in, but I’ll do what I can,” Shayne promised. “Get the routine over with, and start checking the alibis of Pete’s cronies, particularly any who have quarreled with him. You’ll be doing innocent men a favor by checking their alibis and removing them from suspicion promptly.”

“That’s a fact.” Sheriff Fleming was relieved. “I’ll start right in.”

Shayne stood up. “I can’t do much until after the play. My wife is waiting for me.” He looked at his watch as he started down the steep slope. It was 8:22.

Chapter four

KNOWING PATRICK CASEY OF OLD, Shayne looked for him and Phyllis in the barroom. It was less crowded now, some of the crowd having drifted to other places of amusement. He found them at a small table in the rear.

“Well, if it isn’t that man again,” Phyllis murmured as he pulled up a chair and signaled for a drink. “Of course, we did have a date to see a play. Have you forgot that, along with the fact that you have a wife?” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“’Tis a betrayed lass you are,” mourned Casey. “To shackle a rounder like Mike Shayne to matrimony is like harnessing a Derby winner to a junk wagon.”

Shayne said, “Very funny.” He glowered at them. “Do we go to the opera or do we stay here and think up gags?”

Phyllis smiled prettily. “That scene you and the Carson girl put on was as good as anything we’ll see in the opera house. Did she find the old man she was running after?”

“She found her father.”

The waiter brought his drink and he drank half of it.

“I suppose you don’t care what happened a hundred yards from where you and Pat sat drinking liquor.” Shayne’s face was glum.

Phyllis’s dark eyes glowed with concern and curiosity. “What happened, Michael?”

“Murder.”

“Michael! You’re not mixed up in it?” she cried.

“I’m not a suspect this time, if that’s what you mean. But I was with Nora Carson when she found her father’s body, and I intend to find out who did it.”

“You see, darlin’,” Pat Casey said, “murderers follow Mike around so’s to keep him in practice.”

“Even on our vacation,” Phyllis said bitterly. “You’d dig up a case if we took a rocket to Mars.”

Shayne grinned at her and finished his drink. “We’ve got about two minutes before the curtain goes up.” He turned to Casey. “You’re not going to the play?”

Casey’s bullet head waggled negatively. “’Tis a tough gate to crash, I hear. And me without a monkey suit or a messy jacket.”

Shayne stood up and drew Phyllis from her chair. “Do this for me, Pat. The sheriff and a couple of boys from the State Patrol are on the job. I wish you’d wander up there and keep an eye on things. They’re all right, but none of them are homicide men.”

“I’ll do it, Mike, but I’ve got a job of my own I haven’t finished telling you about.”

“It’ll have to wait. Maybe I can help you on it.”

“Sure,” Phyllis said as Shayne hurried her through the room. “Why not? One case is hardly enough to keep you busy while we’re on a vacation. Take on a couple more so you won’t have any time for me. I can always amuse myself.”

Shayne chuckled. “You forget you married a working man, angel. When a murder case slaps me in the face I can’t run from it.”

The curtain was a few minutes late going up. The huge central chandelier which had originally held many kerosene lamps, and which had been the pride of mining pioneers, was lighted with myriads of electric bulbs, but the footlights began to glow as they found their seats, the last two vacant chairs in the building that had once been the most pretentious playhouse between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean.

In keeping with the fine traditions of the Opera Association, the French tragedy A Bras Ouverts had been chosen as the vehicle for a distinguished company of Broadway artists.

The chandelier lights dimmed as Shayne ran a finger down the names of the cast listed in the order of their appearance on stage. Playing the juvenile lead, Frank Carson was among those opening the play. He pointed the name out to Phyllis, whispering:

“He is Nora Carson’s husband. He’ll be a trouper if he makes his appearance. Not more than fifteen minutes ago he was standing over the murdered body of his father-in-law.”

The house darkened and the curtain went up. For a moment, Shayne didn’t recognize the young actor in his costume and make-up, but when he spoke his first lines, the strong timbre of his voice was unmistakable. As the first act continued, Shayne admitted that his dramatic artistry was undeniably perfect.

Nora Carson did not appear immediately, and his impatience grew as he waited for her to come on. He knew that it would be vastly more difficult for her, but Shayne had faith in his snap judgment of her character as observed under trying conditions, and he waited eagerly for her to justify that faith.

The first scene ended and she did not appear. The lights came on for a brief interval while the scenery was shifted, and Shayne studied his program again. He discovered that Nora was not due on stage until the middle of the second scene and he settled himself to wait.

The two minutes apportioned to the change of scene stretched to ten before the second curtain went up. Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead as the time for Nora’s first cue neared. For some obscure reason it was important to him that she appear and play her part well. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t matter a tinker’s damn to him, but it did matter terribly.

Something was wrong on-stage. A cue line was spoken and there was no response. The line was repeated.

A slender girl came on hurriedly and the voice Shayne heard was not Nora Carson’s. She wore a blond wig, but her eyes were dark, and her heart-shaped face and pointed chin in no way resembled Nora’s features.

A white-haired patroness of the theater sitting next to Shayne gasped, “That’s not Nora Carson. It’s Christine Forbes, Nora’s understudy. I wonder what has happened to Nora.”

Christine Forbes was adequate in her role. She gave her lines with assurance and with fire. She was graceful and poised throughout a difficult emotional scene. There was thunderous applause when the act was over; Nora’s understudy had captured the audience. They called for her again and again and she took her bows with grace and modesty.

Shayne did not applaud. He got up and made his way down the aisle with a grim look on his angular face. He strode through the foyer and outside. He lit a cigarette and went around the west side of the building toward the stage entrance, passing over the wooden flume that carried the water of Clear Creek directly under the village.

He was halted by a closed gate in a high wooden wall bearing the painted sign, NO ADMITTANCE.

Shayne rattled the gate savagely. It was locked from the inside.

From Eureka Street came the sound of shrill laughter and the wail of square-dance music, and from the flume just behind him was the rushing sound of flood waters, just now reaching town from an evening cloudburst high in the mountains.

His eyes were bleak as he stalked back to the front door and regained his seat in time for the next curtain.

He was silent and morose through the rest of the performance while Christine Forbes turned her opportunity into a personal triumph, and when the final curtain came down, he again strode out while the ancient playhouse echoed with applause.

Phyllis clung to his arm and was silent until they were on the sidewalk. Then she spoke sharply:

“I can’t see that Nora Carson was particularly missed tonight. The other girl was marvelous.”

Shayne grunted. “Yeh. That’s one of the things that tastes bad to me. The Forbes girl is so damned good that I’m willing to bet Nora Carson has lost her part altogether. First, her father whom she has just found after ten years, then an important role that she’s rehearsed for weeks — all in the space of three hours.”

“But you can’t blame yourself, Michael,” Phyllis wailed.

He looked down at her and some of the grimness went out of his face. “You’re not a cop, angel. You don’t know the feeling of being just too late to prevent murder.”

The vanguard of first-nighters was filing from the opera house. Shayne turned toward the side of the building again. He said, “I’m going to see her if I have to break that damned gate down.”

As they crossed over the flume he noticed that the tremendous rushing sound of water had receded. The wooden gate leading backstage was standing open.

They found a door leading into the shadowy region of props and sliding scenery behind the lowered curtain. The stage was a riot of confusion, with members of the cast receiving congratulations from those of the audience who were fortunate enough to find standing room.

Shayne and Phyllis wormed their way through to find Frank Carson in the midst of a bevy of bare backs and flowing skirts. The young actor saw the detective and signaled to him urgently, thrusting aside feminine admirers to make his way to Shayne.

When they met, Shayne said, “I was worried about your wife. How is she holding up?”

Carson’s face darkened under his heavy make-up. “Isn’t Nora with you? You promised to look after things.”

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why should your wife be with me?”

“I thought she’d gone back — up there.”

“Do you mean she isn’t in the theater?”

“Hell, no, she isn’t here. Why would I be asking you? She must have gone out right after the play started. I left her in her dressing-room when I went on. She swore she’d be all right. Then she slipped out without telling anyone.”

“No one?”

“No one knew she was gone until just in time for Christine to get in costume. I thought she’d gone back to find you.” Frank Carson took a backward step. Horror and fear were accentuated by heavy mascara and greasepaint, and his fine features were distorted. He said in a low, furious voice, “You didn’t stay? You don’t know what has become of Nora? You let her go out alone — with a mad killer roaming this damned town? What sort of a detective are you?”

“Sometimes I ask myself that same question,” Shayne said grimly, “and don’t receive a very satisfactory reply.”

Chapter five

PHYLLIS SHAYNE was not one to stand idly by and hear her husband aspersed. She stepped between Shayne and Frank with dark eyes blazing. “You’re a fine one to accuse Michael of letting your wife wander off. Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I didn’t know she was going.” He arched his perfect brows in surprise and modulated his voice. “I had to rush like the devil to get ready for my cue.”

“Well, neither did Michael know she was going,” Phyllis countered angrily.

Shayne chuckled and put Phyllis gently aside. “This little hell-cat is my wife,” he explained. “She only gets belligerent when I’m attacked. If your wife went back up the hill, she’s all right. There were officers up there to take care of her. But if she went wandering off on some tangent of her own, we’d better try to find her. Are you sure she didn’t tell anybody where she was going?”

“I don’t think so,” Carson told him, “else they would have had Christine ready when Nora’s cue came. But I haven’t had time to make any inquiries. I’ll see if Celia Moore knows anything. She shares Nora’s dressing-room. She was with Nora when I saw her last.” He turned away alertly and surveyed the backstage turmoil, then began working his way toward a group near the electrician’s booth.

Shayne followed him, holding Phyllis’s arm. “Be easy on Carson, angel. He has taken a stiff jolt tonight and you can’t blame him for being edgy.”

“That doesn’t justify his ugly insinuations against you. He talked as if you’d been hired as his wife’s bodyguard.”

Shayne laughed easily. “I’ve got a tough hide.”

He saw Carson drawing a middle-aged woman aside and recognized her as the woman they had encountered in Jasper Windrow’s store that afternoon. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back smoothly in a knot at the nape of her neck. Pressing through the crowd, Shayne heard her say:

“No, Frank. Nora didn’t say a word to me.” There was a look of deep concern in her eyes and her rich voice throbbed with pity. “Poor kid. I didn’t even know anything about her father until the end of the first act.”

“Did she seem terribly upset?” Shayne asked as he reached them.

Celia Moore turned brilliant hazel eyes on him, shaking her head. “Not that I noticed. But Nora is a trouper. God knows she must have been hit hard to let Christine horn in — the way they hated each other’s guts.” Her last words were spoken absently. Her eyes had narrowed upon Shayne’s angular face. “Sa-ay, you’re the lug who almost mixed in with my boy friend this afternoon. I thought Jasper was going to take a swing at you.” She chuckled in a delightful baritone.

Shayne nodded impatiently. “The name is Shayne. Now, about Nora — didn’t she give you any intimation that she might not go on?”

“Not a single damn’ intimation. She was putting on her make-up when I left her in the dressing-room.” Celia Moore pursed her lips and glanced speculatively at Frank Carson. “I don’t know a thing about it,” she ended briskly, and laid an apologetic and slightly damp palm on Shayne’s coat sleeve. She looked at him coyly and said, “You’ll have to excuse me now. There’s a gentleman out there somewhere who’s wondering what the hell’s become of me.”

She glided away. Shayne watched her go, and saw Jasper Windrow waiting for her at the rear of the stage. Windrow wore the conventional dress suit required of first-nighters, and a white tie was tilted rakishly beneath his blunt chin.

“Well, what do you think?” Carson demanded. “Mightn’t Nora have left a note for you? Have you looked for one in her dressing-room?”

“I haven’t had time to do anything,” Carson snapped, but the suggestion appeared to relieve his anguished face, “She does, sometimes. I’ll see.”

He plunged toward the wooden stairs leading down to rows of small dressing-rooms in the basement.

Shayne plunged after him, with Phyllis clinging to his arm. It was cold and damp in the room just off the corridor from the stairs. They saw Carson searching frantically through a disarray of jars and tubes of cosmetics on a small table.

Carson shook his head, his mouth grim. “Nothing here. Looks as if she started to make up, though.”

Shayne said, “It looks as if Nora was putting up a front while Miss Moore was in the room. When she left, Nora realized she couldn’t go on. So, she probably went to the hotel to be alone.”

“It isn’t that simple.” Carson ran long, slender fingers through his black hair. “Nora would never leave us in the lurch. She would have told Christine so she could be getting ready.”

“Maybe not.” Shayne frowned. “Miss Moore spoke of them hating each other.”

Carson didn’t reply immediately. He appeared more relieved than at any time since Shayne approached him. He faced Shayne squarely and said, “That’s not the way we do things in the theatrical world. There is plenty of professional jealousy everywhere. Nora suspected Christine of plotting to supplant her, but Nora wouldn’t let that cut any ice if it came to a showdown.”

Shayne caught the lobe of his left ear and worried it between right thumb and forefinger. After a brief silence, he said:

“After seeing Nora’s understudy handle the part, I don’t blame her for feeling a trifle insecure. That means she felt a terrific compulsion to go on, no matter how distasteful it was to her. I would guess that when she left the theater she intended to return in time to catch her cue.”

“I agree,” Carson said hesitantly, “but why the devil did she go out at all? She knew there wasn’t much time.”

Shayne released his earlobe and massaged his chin. “Something came up,” he speculated. “Or, she thought of something in connection with her father’s death. She might have dashed out to find me, expecting to hurry back.”

Frank Carson threw his arms out dramatically, his fingers clenched. “I don’t know — I just don’t know,” he raved. “I’ll see you outside as soon as I get this damned grease off and get on some decent clothes.”

Outside, Shayne and Phyllis simultaneously drew in deep breaths of the clean, cold air. Phyllis looked up at the star-studded sky and breathed, “It’s hard to believe anything can be wrong on a night like this. Don’t you think you’re worrying a lot about nothing, Michael?”

Shayne said, “No.”

She lengthened her step to keep pace with his swift stride. “But, Michael, it was perfectly natural for Nora not to feel up to facing an audience after what happened, and she knew Christine Forbes was competent to take her place.”

“You don’t know much about actors, angel. They give up a part about as easily as you’d give up your life.” He led her out into the street to avoid plowing through the crowd still lingering in front of the opera house. “It had to be something damned important to keep her off the stage tonight.”

Eureka Street was again jammed with celebrants intent upon a long night of revelry, now that the play was ended. They sauntered on boardwalk and street, drifting from the square dance to the casinos, from fortune-telling booths to the tintype photograph booths where old-fashioned costumes were miraculously revived for personal adornment. They swarmed before the Teller House, trying to get through to the night club where the midnight floor show was getting under way.

Shayne hesitated on the fringe of the throng in front of the hotel and was hailed by Patrick Casey from the boardwalk which rose high above the street level. Shayne beckoned and Casey came down, using the shoulder of a convenient spectator to steady his jump, and sauntered toward Shayne with half of an unlit cigar protruding from his mouth.

Shayne asked, “Have you been up to see the body?”

“I hung around until they carted him off to the undertaker’s ten minutes ago. We turned up a big rock smeared with blood, but nothing else.”

“Did you see the girl up there?”

“Nary a girl,” he said sadly, “blast it.”

“And you went right after we left?”

“Sure. ’Twas the favor you asked of me.”

Shayne said, “I’m going into the hotel.”

He used his right shoulder to force a path to the lobby. Phyllis and Casey were engulfed behind him, reaching him as he turned away from the desk to ascend the winding mahogany stairs.

“Any luck?” Phyllis panted.

“The clerk hasn’t seen Nora go up or down since dinner. But that doesn’t mean a damned thing in this madhouse. She could have gone in and out a dozen times without being noticed. The room key is out,” he added as the trio gained the first landing.

They turned into a dark-paneled corridor, and after a quick look at room numbers, Shayne muttered, “One-twenty-three should be down this way.”

He stalked ahead of them, stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. The sound was echoed back from dead silence inside the room. No light showed around the door or through the keyhole. The muted infusion of merriment drifting up from revelers in the night club below was irritating.

Shayne frowned and knocked again, loudly. Phyllis shivered. The high corridor reeked with the musty smell of disuse during most of the year. Until now the smell had been ghostly and alluring, a part of choosing Central City for a vacation spot. But now it chilled her as ominous, portentous, when Shayne’s knock was unanswered.

Sweat formed little rivulets on Shayne’s gaunt cheeks when he fumbled for his key-ring. He dropped to his knees and went to work on the lock with a sliver of tempered steel.

Casey stood aside and chewed on his cigar butt, his eyes round and owlish. Phyllis held her breath when Shayne finally opened the door and switched on a light to reveal an enormous, high-ceilinged room with antique furnishings.

Shayne made a quick circuit of the room, looking in the closet and under the four-poster walnut bed. He came to an abrupt stop in front of a marble-topped walnut chest of drawers in the far corner. Planting his hands on his hips, he stared somberly at a note.

Phyllis hurried to him, her heart panting violently again after recovering from the expectancy of seeing Nora Carson’s body in the room. She pressed against her husband and read the note in a small, awed voice: “Frank darling, I must find the sheriff at once. I’m writing this so you won’t worry if I should have to miss tonight’s performance. Nothing matters now but Father. Lovingly, Nora.”

Brooding silence held the trio. There was stark, uncompromising bitterness in Shayne’s gray eyes.

“Mike — don’t look like that,” Phyllis cried. “Nora wasn’t looking for you. She went to find the sheriff.”

Shayne’s head nodded almost imperceptibly. He muttered, “She intended to return to the theater in time for her cue — but she didn’t.”

Chapter six

PATRICK CASEY had been pacing back and forth, his short legs taking slow, measured steps. He came back to the high chest of drawers where Shayne and Phyllis stood. He said, “I don’t get any of this. An old man looks in a window and a girl screams. You go tearing after her through the lobby. You come back and say the guy is her father. Now, you can’t find the girl. What about her?”

“You should learn the formula for how much liquor you can carry to the square inch,” Shayne told him.

Phyllis intervened hastily. “It’s this way, Pat. Nora Carson slipped away from the opera house as soon as the play started. This note indicates she had an urgent reason for contacting the sheriff. I think Mike’s afraid that — well, that maybe the person who killed her father knew she had an important clue.” She turned breathlessly to Shayne and asked, “Isn’t that it, Michael?”

Shayne nodded indulgently. “Something prevented Nora Carson from getting back to the theater,” he said, not looking at either of them. He clawed bony fingers through his coarse red hair, then broke out angrily:

“She was a walking invitation to death if she had information pointing to the killer, and if that information was even hinted to anyone she was doomed. Murder breeding murder. I’ve seen it happen so damned often. The fact that she hasn’t shown up yet—” He broke off abruptly at the sound of movement in the doorway.

Two men stood in the opening of the hotel room They were enough alike to be twins, dressed exactly alike in belted sports coats, blue slacks and tan and white shoes. They were of the same slimness and height with snap-brim fedoras tilted to the right and downward over hatchet faces indelibly stamped with the pastiness of city night life. Faces that seldom felt the sun. Their eyes were pale and furtive with an alert wariness characteristic of men who live in the shadow world of lawlessness; their stance held the distinctive swagger of defiance, an attribute of men who have successfully challenged the law for a long time.

Patrick Casey turned to look at them. His exhaled breath made a faint whistling sound through his lips. He tilted his straw hat far back on his bullet head and asked, “You boys looking for somebody?”

“For you, Casey.” The man on the left spoke in a hushed, rasping tone. His face was blank of expression, stony calm, as was that of his twin.

His companion amplified. “You was told to keep your nose clean, Casey,” in a flat monotone.

Phyllis Shayne drew closer to her husband, appealing to him with dark, frightened eyes.

Shayne’s gaze was negligently fixed on the two men. His rangy body was relaxed. He struck a light to a cigarette.

Casey smiled blandly at the two gunsels and tilted his straw hat to a cockier angle. He said, “All right, boys. You caught up with me.”

“Bryant’s got a bug to put in your ear,” the rasping voice told him, jerking his head toward the corridor.

They touched shoulders and moved into the room, separating when they reached Casey to allow him to pass out between them.

Casey said, “Maybe I got a bug to put in Bryant’s ear. A hornet, maybe.” He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered through the doorway, a gunman on either side.

Shayne said to Phyllis, “Casey knows the angles. Don’t worry about him.”

Casey’s voice boomed into the room from the hallway, hard and demanding: “Hello, Two-Deck. What have you got for me?”

Shayne heard Bryant’s voice but couldn’t distinguish the words. He stalked to the door with smoke rolling through his nostrils.

Phyllis caught his arm and pleaded, “Don’t, Mike, please.”

He did not look at her terrified eyes. His face was flinty. He put her restraining hand from his arm and kept moving toward the door.

In the corridor, the two gunsels intercepted him with snarling faces. “Watch your step, lug,” they said in unison.

Phyllis edged toward the doorway, gripping it with white knuckles.

Casey was saying, “You’re a card, Bryant. By God, if you ain’t. I’m out here to soak up some scenery and get some culture — just like you are. Think I’d follow a cheap chiseler around the country?”

Shayne said to the gunsels, “I’m going out,” in a placid voice. His big hands dropped and swung loosely from his shoulders.

“Says who?” one of the punks asked. He put the palm of his hand on Shayne’s chest and pushed.

Shayne’s right looped to the point of his sharp chin in a long uppercut. The back of the gunsel’s head thumped against the wall. He wavered there for an instant, then slid to the floor.

His twin ripped out an oath and clawed under his coat for a shoulder holster, backing away.

Shayne moved swiftly on the balls of his feet, his gray eyes points of steel. He said, “Don’t try it.” He lunged, caught the gun and the man’s hand in a crushing grip, and laughed as an ejaculation of pain dribbled from thin lips. With his right palm up, Shayne caught the automatic as it fell from nerveless fingers. He pocketed the weapon and said, “You need more practice on the draw.”

“You said you weren’t working, Shamus.”

Shayne whirled to face Two-Deck Bryant’s cold blue eyes glaring at him.

Shayne said, “I knew, by God, you were going to spoil my vacation.”

Casey chuckled, standing behind Bryant. “Nice layout you’ve got here, Mike.”

One of Bryant’s bodyguards was slumped against the wall with the knuckles of his injured hand pressed against his mouth. The other was out cold.

Shayne’s eyes bored into Bryant’s. He said, “I’ve been looking for you all day. What angle are you playing — trying to get me in Dutch by saying those Indian blankets were phony?”

Bryant laughed uproariously and unpleasantly. “You were made for a fall guy, Shamus. I figured the big yokel would smear you up good, especially when the sheriff was standing right behind you.”

Shayne slapped Bryant a backhanded blow that brought a trickle of blood from the gambler’s upper lip.

Bryant wiped the blood away with a white linen handkerchief. In a low, furious voice, he warned, “You’re going to swing on the wrong guy one of these days.”

“Not as long as you set up tenpins in my alley.” Shayne turned to Casey and asked, “Are you having trouble with Bryant?”

“Oh, he thinks every dick in the country is after him. Just a bad conscience, Mike.”

“You’ve been told,” Bryant said thickly, “and it goes for Shayne, too. Keep out of my way.”

“Or you’ll sick a couple of panty-waists on us?” Shayne grinned. “That just scares hell out of us, Bryant.” He caught sight of Phyllis’s terrified eyes over the balustrade and hurried to her, tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and said, “Scared, angel?”

“That Bryant man — he looks like a murderer, Michael. The way he looked at you,” she whispered frantically.

“He looked more like a little boy who’s had his candy taken away after we handled his gunmen.”

Casey chuckled behind them. “You went and spoiled my set-up, Mike,” he said when they were halfway down the stairs.

“What’s Two-Deck’s lay now?” Shayne asked.

“Running a wired clip joint out on the Hudson Parkway. Lots of floss outside and the same old jipperoo when you lay money on the line.”

“Running his own place?” Shayne mused. “That’s a forward step for him. How does that tie with the two of you popping up here in Central City?”

Casey stopped at the top of the stairs. A welter of sound blasted upward from the merrymakers in the lobby below.

“That’s the job I started to tell you about. We got a tip that Two-Deck was heading west to put the clamps on some bird that fed his joint a handful of rubber markers.” He paused to mop his forehead. “Happens there’s a couple of unsolved murders on the books. Both of them were suckers that bet over their heads in Two-Deck’s place before they ate lead. Well, we figure maybe those killings wouldn’t be unsolved if Bryant didn’t have so many connections in the city where he can buy alibis a dime a dozen. So, the Chief hopes he’ll maybe get careless out here and not waste money on an alibi, so I tag along just for a look-see.”

Phyllis was amazed to see her husband nod his head, indicating that he understood Casey’s gibberish perfectly. He muttered, “Too bad he pegged you for a tail. He’ll wipe his chin every time he spits from now on.”

They went down the stairs. Upon reaching the crowded lobby, Shayne tucked Phyllis’s arm into Casey’s. “Make her buy the drinks this time,” he suggested. “I’ve got to nose around and see if Nora Carson has turned up.”

He went outside and glanced speculatively over the heads of the milling throng and spotted the uniform of a courtesy patrolman. It was Stout, one of the officers who had been with Pete’s body when he left.

Stout nodded affably when Shayne approached. “I’ve always wondered how a private detective works. Got that murder solved?”

“Not quite. Seen anything of the girl who identified the old man as her father?”

“The actress? Not since she started for the opera house with her husband.”

“She’s not in circulation. I wish you would pass the word around quietly among the other officers. No use starting a panic.”

“Sure thing — right away,” Stout said.

Shayne saw Sheriff Fleming’s broad hat down the street and moved in that direction. He caught the sheriff’s eye and beckoned to him. When they met, Shayne inquired about Nora.

“I sure haven’t seen her,” the sheriff said. “Not since she was up the hill there.”

“Have you been around all the time?”

“You bet. Right up and down the street, sort of keeping an eye out to see no trouble comes of all this drinking and whoopee. We want folks to cut loose and have a good time, but we got to be careful.”

“Of course. But, damn it, that girl started out to find you three hours ago. If you were around all the time, how did she miss you?”

“By golly, I don’t know. Mighty big crowd out here, but she could of asked anybody.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is just what I’m afraid she did — asked the wrong person.” He shrugged and rubbed his lean jaw. “Any leads on Pete’s death?”

“Haven’t had time to do much work on that.” Fleming was apologetic. “Been asking questions around. Screwloose has been in town a couple of weeks celebrating his new prospect up on Arrow Mountain. Poor old devil. First time in ten years he’s hit pay-rock, and all he gets is a smashed head.”

“Do you mean to tell me he has recently located a rich mine?”

“Plenty rich, I reckon. I heard Pete had turned down a cold hundred thousand for his third share just on the first assays. With that kind of money offered for a prospect, you can bet your boots it’ll pan out near a million.”

Shayne whistled softly. “I thought all the gold was taken out of the hills forty years ago.”

“All the gold in them mountains? Look at ’em.” The sheriff waved his hand toward the peaks rising black and ominously against the sky. “The surface hasn’t hardly been scratched yet. Why, there’s a dozen mines producing gold the year ’round in a mile of here.”

“A million dollars,” Shayne mused, “is motive enough for a dozen murders. You said he had a third share. Who are his partners?”

“Well, sir, there was another old-timer in with him by the name of Cal Strenk. And Jasper Windrow grubstaked them both. So it’s got to be split three ways.”

A muscle twitched in Shayne’s cheek. “The storekeeper?”

“That’s right.” Fleming cleared his throat elaborately. “Fellow you had a run-in with this afternoon. He’s been grubstaking Pete and Cal for years, and now he’s due to clean up.”

“Then Strenk and Windrow will profit by Pete’s death,” Shayne mused aloud.

“I don’t rightly see how,” the sheriff said. “I reckon Pete’s girl will get his third.”

“But, if the daughter hadn’t shown up?” Shayne said harshly. “No one knew who Pete was until tonight. Suppose he had died without an heir? Wouldn’t his share revert to his partners?”

“I don’t know what the law’d be on that. But I don’t see how it matters. His own girl identified him. You saw her do it. She’ll come into his share, all right.”

“It does matter,” Shayne grated. “Whoever killed him didn’t know he was Nora Carson’s father — that by a strange coincidence she was going to see and recognize him a few minutes before he was murdered. That was pure chance. Something the killer hadn’t reckoned on. Looking for a motive, we can leave the girl’s identification of Pete out of it. See what I mean?”

“I reckon maybe I do,” Fleming said dubiously, “but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Nobody hereabout would of killed Pete. I’m betting it was one of these city dudes the town’s got more of than a hound dog has fleas.”

Shayne said, “Maybe. But Westerners aren’t immune to gold-fever any more than they were sixty years ago. They’ve murdered each other for gold plenty of times.”

“That’s just fool talk,” the sheriff said angrily. “Central City has been a gold town sixty years and nothing like that ever happened here. But when you start bringing in Easterners, look out. Liquor does funny things to a man when he’s a mile and a half up.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll wander into the bar and investigate that angle.”

Shayne was half a dozen long strides away when an excited man ran past him shouting, “Sheriff! Sheriff Fleming! Come here quick!”

Shayne stopped to listen.

“There’s a man in the bar threatening to kill one of the actors — fellow named Carson. You better get hold of him before there’s trouble. He’s shooting drunk.” The sheriff bolted through the crowd, his bronzed face perplexed and angry.

Chapter seven

SHAYNE FOLLOWED FLEMING into the barroom. Circled by a group of men and women spectators, a big, ruddy-faced man was pounding the mahogany and proclaiming loudly:

“You bet I’m not taking it lying down. Not John Mattson.” His pudgy hand caressed the butt of a long-barreled, single-action.45 thrust into the waistband of his gray business suit. His voice was thick with liquor and rage; bloodshot eyes peered around defiantly at the circle of amused faces. He should have been a ludicrous spectacle of middle-aged drunkenness, but he wasn’t even slightly funny to Shayne, who stopped in the doorway while Fleming pushed his way forward.

John Mattson was dangerously in earnest. Drunkenness removed the normal inhibitions that govern civilized man. He thumped an empty glass on the bar and straightened his bulky body, folded his arms across his chest in a posture of dignified solemnity, and delivered a speech which brought nods of approval from the crowd:

“This is still a free country where a man can fight for his rights and his home. Trying to steal my wife, by God. Thinks he’s back in N’York where people trade wives like we trade horses out here. Sneaking behind my back and making up to her with his slick talk. That’s what he did. Where is he? That’s all I wanta know. Where is he?”

He took a step forward, but swayed back against the bar. His right hand dropped to the butt of his frontier weapon again.

“Somebody bring him here,” he shouted. “Tell him we still shoot coyotes when they sneak into our back yards.”

Sheriff Fleming was efficiently working his way toward Mattson, moving slowly, his rugged face now retaining its good humor as he spoke quietly to open a passage through the circle. He stopped in front of the drunken man and laid a sinewy hand on his broad shoulder. In the silence his slow drawl was clearly heard throughout the barroom:

“Better take a walk in the cold air with me, Mister. Seems sort of stuffy in here.”

Mattson’s bloodshot eyes glowered at Fleming, then wavered away. Behind the sheriff’s drawl was the cold ring of authority, and Shayne began to understand why Gilpin County had remained crimeless with Sheriff Fleming in office.

“Best to come on along with me,” Fleming urged. “Cold air is mighty fine medicine for what ails you.”

Mattson squinted between puffy lids at the sheriff’s badge. He squared his shoulders and thrust out a blunt jaw and shouted, “I’m taking the law in m’own hands. I’ll handle things in my own way.”

“Why, no. I reckon we can’t have anything like that. You’re disturbing the folks that came up here to have fun.” The sheriff’s big hand tightened on Mattson’s shoulder and drew him forward, though Mattson hung back like a balky mule.

From his position of vantage on the threshold, Shayne’s attention was attracted by a gasp from a tall, willowy woman standing in the doorway leading to the lobby. Her brown eyes were riveted in terror upon the sheriff and his unwilling companion, and there was a shocked look of comprehension upon her white face. She was quite tall, sheathed in a trailing gown of ice-blue. Diamonds glittered on her fingers and pearls circled her thin neck. Shayne guessed she would be on the short side of forty.

Shayne’s gaze moved to the right. Standing a few feet back of the woman, he saw Two-Deck Bryant’s saturnine features. He, too, watched the sheriff and Mattson with more than a normal spectator’s interest.

A grin twitched Shayne’s wide mouth. Bryant was getting an eyeful of how the law worked Out West.

Shayne turned his attention to the woman again. Some of the terror had gone from her eyes, leaving a sickly and desolated apprehension. Her thin lips were tight. She turned and went slowly into the hotel lobby.

Shayne followed Fleming and Mattson outside. The sheriff suggested, persuasively, “Better give me your shooting iron until you cool off.”

Mattson started to be damned if he would, but his voice trailed off to a mumble. He surrendered the frontier relic to the sheriff who let it dangle on his forefinger by the trigger guard.

Fleming said, “We’ll take a little walk up the street and let some of the liquor in you cool off.”

The disarmed man wet his thick lips. “Guess I’ve been a fool,” he admitted humbly. “I’m — look here, sheriff — I’m John Mattson, from Denver. You won’t have to — this won’t have to go any further, will it? The publicity—”

“Reckon I won’t lock you up. Hate to spoil my record.” He chuckled. “I just want to make sure you don’t stumble into more trouble.” He urged the big man up the street with a hand on his elbow.

Before they had gone ten feet, the tall, glittering woman slid out of the shadows and confronted them. She sobbed, “John! Oh, John, what made you do that awful thing!” and flung bare arms around her husband’s thick neck.

The sheriff stepped back and almost bumped into Shayne.

Mattson said, “Olivia!” and the word was smothered by her teary voice:

“Oh, John! How could you ever have been so silly! I didn’t know you cared that way. As if I’d ever leave you. You know I love you, John. You know I do.”

Mattson took her arms from around his neck and demanded harshly, “What about Carson? You were drooling about him this afternoon.”

She sobbed, “That was nothing, John. Honestly it wasn’t. If I’d thought for a moment you’d take me seriously—”

“Seriously? Good God ’lmighty. You were demanding a divorce this afternoon so you could marry Carson. Yes, and by God, you wanted half my money to turn over to him. Now you say you weren’t serious.”

Olivia Mattson laughed scornfully. “Marry that youngster? I guess I was just a silly old woman wanting some flattery, John. But it’s all over now. I wouldn’t trade you for a hundred Frank Carsons.”

Sheriff Fleming touched Shayne’s arm and they withdrew. The sheriff muttered, “Frank Carson,” in a troubled voice. “Would he be the husband of Pete’s girl?”

Shayne said, “He would. See you later.” He retraced his steps and shouldered his way inside the barroom.

Frank Carson grabbed his arm and pulled him aside before he could look around for Phyllis and Casey. Carson asked in a desperate voice, “Have you found Nora yet?” His face was drawn and white, and his left eyelid jerked nervously.

“Not yet. Have you been up to your room?”

“I just came from the theater. Got tied up in that mob backstage. You know what a madhouse it was.”

“Nora left a note for you in her room,” Shayne told him gruffly. “Said she was going to look for the sheriff and might not be back in time to play her part.”

“The sheriff? Maybe she found him, then. Maybe everything is all right.” Carson gripped his arm with surprising strength.

Shayne shook his head. “Fleming hasn’t seen her, and he has been right around all the time where she could have located him easily.” He paused, then added drily, “The sheriff was in here a moment ago disarming a drunk named John Mattson who wanted to use a baby cannon on you.”

Frank Carson’s eyelid fluttered uncontrollably. His gaze met Shayne’s brooding eyes and flickered away. He wet his lips and muttered, “We’ve got to find Nora. Nothing else matters.”

Shayne asked, “When did you last see Olivia Mattson?”

A shudder left Carson’s wide shoulders drooping. He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly grin. “You know about that, eh?” With sudden fierceness, he said, “That fool woman! You don’t know how to figure them out here. Kid around a little and they take you seriously. That’s what held me up at the theater,” he confessed. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “God! what a filthy scene. I had to tell her off in front of a lot of people. Imagine her coming around with crazy talk about divorcing her husband. She knows I’m married to Nora. I had to tell her off,” he repeated dismally.

“You shouldn’t lead a lady on,” Shayne grinned. “If you’d met her husband before the sheriff got hold of him you might have carried off a lead souvenir.”

The actor’s sensitive features registered deep disgust. “I didn’t lead her on. She entertained the cast at her home a couple of times. You know how a thing like that gets started.”

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

“Why do we stand here talking when Nora may be in danger?”

Shayne stopped grinning. “The clerk didn’t notice her going in or out. I suppose you both had keys to your room?”

Carson nodded. “Maybe that note is a plant,” he hazarded. His dark eyes were excited. “Suppose she didn’t come to the hotel at all.”

Shayne said, “Could be, though I don’t see why anyone would go to that trouble. We’ll go up and have a look at the note. You should know her handwriting.” Carson plunged ahead impatiently. Shayne followed him through the lobby and up the stairs. Carson sprinted ahead to the door of 123 which was standing open as Shayne had left it. When Shayne reached the door he stopped and leaned against the casing, lit a cigarette, and watched Carson read the note.

Carson turned, crumpling the paper in his hand. He said, “It’s Nora’s handwriting. No question about that.”

Shayne let his cigarette dangle from his lips as he massaged his left ear. “Why do you suppose she came up here if she was in such a hurry to find the sheriff and get back to the performance? Why didn’t she leave the note in her dressing-room?”

Carson furrowed his high smooth brow and reasoned slowly, “Perhaps she dashed out of the opera house on a sudden impulse — then decided she needed something warmer than her evening cape. She thought of leaving the note while she was up here getting a coat.” He hurried across to the closet and looked through the hanging garments. He came out nodding. “That must have been it. A woolen coat is missing.”

Shayne stopped punishing his earlobe. “That gives us a starting point, but that’s all we do have. Where did she go after coming up here and leaving the note? The sheriff was on the job all evening, yet she didn’t contact him. Damn it, Carson, I’m beginning to get worried.”

“You’re beginning to get worried?” He laughed harshly, put biting emphasis into his words. “You’re beginning to get worried. I told you something awful had happened. I knew it as soon as she didn’t answer her cue. Why don’t you do something!”

“What, for instance?” Shayne growled. “I don’t know the Rocky Mountains like I do Flagler Street and Biscayne Boulevard.” He stepped backward into the hall and said, “If you expect me to start crawling on my belly through Cousin-Jack mine tunnels hunting for her, you’re nuts. All we can do is keep asking questions until we get a lead.”

Carson shuddered beside him as they started down the corridor. Suddenly he dropped to his knees and exclaimed:

“Look here! Do you see what I see — not more than ten feet from our room door?” He pointed a shaking finger to a damp spot on the floor. “It’s blood! Fresh blood!”

Shayne stopped and looked, nodded casually and said, “When I was up here before I had to remonstrate with a pansy who should have known better. One of Two-Deck Bryant’s hoods.”

He watched Carson closely, but the name didn’t appear to register. The actor shuddered weakly and stood up. “When I saw that blood — my God!”

They descended the stairs and Shayne left him in the lobby and went to the night club in the rear. A name orchestra was cluttering up the acoustics with the latest hit tune and the dance floor was so packed that couples could do little more than sway together with the rhythm.

As he searched from the doorway for Phyllis and Casey, he suddenly recalled that evening attire was required for both the opera and the night club on opening night. This ruled out Casey with his rumpled blue suit and straw hat, and Shayne was reasonably certain that Phyllis would not have deserted the Irishman.

He caught a waiter’s eye and beckoned. “Where besides the bar could a man buy a drink without a tux or tails?”

“There’s a garden terrace,” the waiter suggested. “You can go through the rear door there and down the hallway.”

Shayne found a small terrace roofed by stars and dimly lit by a few bulbs strung on wires. It was comparatively quiet in contrast to the din in the night club and barroom, with a dozen or more couples in informal dress seated at the small tables.

He caught the familiar sound of lilting laughter across the patio and strode toward it. Phyllis turned a flushed face and sparkling eyes toward him when he stopped beside her chair. Her dark, head was snuggled against the turned-up collar of her white fur chubby and she was disconcertingly lovely in the dim light.

“Pat has been entertaining me with some of the adventures you and he had together while you were with the World-Wide Agency in New York. You’re interrupting the one about the nude corpse in the penthouse bathtub.” She reached up and caught his knobby fingers before they hopelessly mussed her hair.

“That story,” said Shayne severely, “can stand a lot of interrupting.” He sighed and dropped into a chair, crooked his finger at a hurrying waiter. “A double Martel Cognac.”

Phyllis put a cool hand on his wrist. “Have you found Nora Carson?”

“No. She must have ridden a broomstick out the hotel window. I can’t find a trace of her since she was in her room.”

“Maybe she disguised herself to hide from you,” Casey suggested, his round eyes owlish.

Phyllis laughed and wrinkled her nose at Casey, then asked, “Hasn’t anybody seen her? Can’t you find out anything, Mike?”

Shayne’s drink came and he downed half of it. “I’m at a dead end,” he confessed. “I’m off my beat in this country. Hell, she may be on the other side of the Continental Divide by now.” He settled back and morosely sipped his cognac.

Phyllis patted his arm. “You’ll find her. You always do.” Then, she giggled. “There comes that Moore woman again with the man whose Indian blankets you insulted this afternoon. I believe she has made a conquest.”

“Or he has,” Shayne amended drily. He told Casey, “That’s the fellow Bryant got me in trouble with today. Jasper Windrow. Two-Deck tried to fix it so the two of us would tangle — and I fell for it.”

Pat Casey craned his short neck around to look at Celia Moore’s escort. He pursed his lips into an appreciative whistle. “’Twould have been some tangle, I’m thinking, if yon piano mover had tied into you. By the looks of him he was nurtured on the milk of a wild ass and cut his teeth on a manhole cover.”

Shayne shrugged and rumpled his red hair irritably. “Yet he clerks behind a ribbon counter,” he burst out. “I’m a total loss out here. Now, take Two-Deck Bryant—”

“You take him,” Casey muttered.

“I know what makes a guy like Bryant tick,” Shayne went on. “And the members of the opera cast — they’re human beings, too. You can figure how one of them will react, but these Westerners are a different breed. Take an old guy who is half nuts. He goes out and locates a million dollar mine. Windrow looks as though he could tear a mountain apart with his bare hands, and he’s a storekeeper. You’d take the sheriff for a retired minister, and I just saw him take a gun from a burly drunk as easily as you or I would take candy from a baby’s hands. These people don’t make sense. You don’t know where you stand.”

“It’s such an isolated community,” Phyllis argued.

“By God, the city people aren’t much different here than in any other city,” Shayne snorted. “Look at Mrs. Mattson. She’s a cultured dame with all the earmarks of respectability. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a primitive female.”

“Who on earth is Mrs. Mattson?” Phyllis demanded.

“She’s an old gal well past her prime, but men still fight over her. Carson did a little civilized flirting with her, and she immediately decides to divorce her husband. So, what does he do? He buckles on his trusty hog-leg and goes gunning for Carson. Mattson is a wealthy Denver businessman, but he’s a Westerner and believes in settling things man to man. Maybe that makes sense — I wouldn’t know.” Shayne slumped down in his chair and stared at the edge of the table.

Phyllis’s roving dark eyes were full of laughter. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she was perfectly familiar with the play Celia Moore was making. She gurgled, “As far as I can see, Jasper Windrow isn’t any puzzle to Miss Moore. She knows what makes him tick, and she’s got just what it takes to make him do it.”

Shayne glanced at their table with a sour expression. “Back at the theater I had a hunch she was holding out something about Nora Carson.” His gray eyes narrowed as Celia leaned close to Windrow and laughed coyly. “She’s another one who’s past her prime but still has something men will fight over.”

Phyllis tensed and whispered, “There comes the girl who took Nora Carson’s part in the play. Christine Forbes.”

Shayne asked, “Where?” without turning his head.

“They’re trying to find a table. There’s one right by the door, but they don’t seem to care for it,” Phyllis reported. “She’s got a handsome guy in tow. They’re having the waiter move the table over to that shadowy spot by the stone wall.” She lowered her voice and added, “I’ll bet it’s an assignation.”

“You would think of that,” Shayne said.

“You taught me to think of things like that.”

Casey chuckled and thumped the table with his fist “Faith, Mike, you’ve met your match and more.”

Shayne grunted and twisted his head to watch the slender young understudy being seated at the secluded table by a young man who was built like an All-American fullback. His hair was tawny with a crinkly wave. He had blunt, resolute features, and heavy black brows, a startling contrast to his fair hair.

With her blond wig and make-up removed, Christine had become a vivacious brunette. The young man drew his chair up close to hers, and when he sat down he covered her hand with his, leaned close to her in an intimate, almost conspiratorial pose.

Shayne studied the couple for a moment, then said, “There should be some way to slip around the other side of that wall and not be seen.”

“Michael! You’ll be peeking through keyholes next.”

He got up, his expression hardening. “I’ve been getting the run-around too much.” He stalked to a path leading down along the side of the hotel to the street, followed the boardwalk a short distance, then came back unobtrusively to a position on the outside of the stone wall, near the point where it ended against the creek flume, and close to where, on the inside, stood the table of the couple.

He sank back on his haunches and heard Christine Forbes’s voice full of pride and happiness:

“Let’s drink to the Central City Festival, darling.”

“No,” her escort said emphatically. “To you, Christine. To your career — gloriously launched tonight.”

Their glasses clinked and there was a pause. Then Christine teased, “You sound so solemn, Joe — as if it was all over but the shouting.”

“It is. You’re off to the races, sweet.” Joe’s voice was low and emphatic. “Everything dates from tonight, and don’t you forget it. You know how good you were in that role.”

“Tonight was a miracle,” Christine said dreamily. She sighed deeply, but her tone hardened as she went on, “But it doesn’t mean anything, Joe. It was just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be Nora’s understudy again.”

“After the performance you turned in tonight?”

“Let’s not kid ourselves. Tonight was a lucky break. I’m still an unknown actress with talent. Nora has the connections and the name.”

Shayne discerned a sneer in Joe’s voice when he said, “That shows how much you know about what’s going on. Think I was going to wait forever to get you a lucky break? I’ve told you before — in this business you’ve got to make your own luck.” His voice roughened. “It’s a tough racket, but I promised you we would go up together. You climbed the first rungs tonight, and don’t forget who held the ladder for you.”

There was another, longer pause.

“But — when Nora comes back—” Christine’s voice was edged with doubt.

“Don’t you worry about Nora Carson coming back,” Joe told her confidently. “You’re in — and don’t ever forget who put you in.”

Chapter eight

PROLONGED SILENCE followed Joe’s flat statement Crouching against the other side of the stone wall, Shayne held his leaping imagination in leash.

Christine’s voice reached him, incredulous and frightened: “What do you mean, Joe Meade? What do you know about Nora not showing up tonight?”

“Never mind. The less talking I do, the less you’ll have to worry about. You got your big chance tonight. All right. Let it go at that Where’s our waiter? We’ve got celebrating to do.”

“But, Joe! You sound as though you know where Nora is. As though you’d planned it.”

“Do I?” Joe sounded surly, and smug. He snapped his fingers, and Shayne heard him order two more drinks.

“You frighten me,” Christine said in a low, tense tone. “I’ve always known there was a ruthless streak behind your driving determination to get ahead, but—”

“Sure. And don’t tell me you don’t like it. You’ve got to be hardboiled and take what you want in this world. Nobody’s going to hand it to you on a silver platter.”

Shayne decided that Joe was a bit sophomoric in his assumption of toughness. Neither his appearance nor his cultured voice quite fitted the role.

“But I wouldn’t want anything to happen to Nora.” Christine’s voice throbbed with distress. “I wouldn’t want success to come that way. I’ve always played fair.”

“Sure. We both have. And see what it’s got us. You’re understudying Nora Carson who can’t match the talent in your little finger. And me? I’m juggling props backstage while a drip like Saroyan is hailed as the white-haired boy of the American theater. Nuts! I can write rings around Saroyan and all the rest of them. But, can I get my stuff produced? You know the answer.”

“It takes time, Joe. We’re both young. We can afford to wait.”

“Forever? No. Another year of failure will embitter us. We’ll begin to think, by God, that we are failures. Then we’ll be whipped. But it’s not going to be that way, sweet. You’re headed for the top. Producers will listen to you when you bring them a script. A year from now you’ll be playing the lead on Broadway in a Joe Meade play.”

Joe had become savagely exultant. Behind his words Shayne sensed the bitter frustration of talented youth; the concentrated venom engendered by the failure of others to recognize self-appraised genius. Such a man, Shayne realized, was fully capable of almost any action to attain his end; yet nothing that Meade intimated seemed to tie up with Screwloose Pete’s murder or the note in Nora’s room. He held his impatience in check, hoping the young man would become more explicit.

When Christine spoke again, her tone was cool and brittle. “I don’t think I like what you’re telling me. I haven’t ever taken an unfair advantage of anyone.”

“Sure you haven’t. You’re straight. You don’t go to bed with your stockings on. Not yet, you haven’t. But you’ve been waking up — noticing how the others get ahead. And I couldn’t stand that, honey. Honest to God, I’d take a nose-dive to hell if you turned into a floozie like some others I’ve seen. But you won’t have to now. You’re set.” Ice tinkled in a glass. “Come on. Let’s drink up and order another one.”

“But, Joe,” Christine pleaded, “tell me what you mean. I’ve got to know.”

“You don’t have to know anything,” he said with rough tenderness. “I’m not saying another word.”

“Well, all right. I won’t ask you anything else.” The girl laughed briefly and recklessly, and their glasses clinked once more.

Shayne stood up and moved around the end of the wall, stopping two feet from the table where the couple were toasting Christine’s career. He looked down on them soberly. The girl’s dark head lay on Joe’s broad shoulder.

He said, “I’m sorry, Meade, but I’ll have to ask you to be a little more explicit about Nora Carson.”

The couple separated quickly. Christine looked up into Shayne’s gaunt face and gasped, dropping her glass to the stone flagging where it shattered loudly.

Joe Meade drew his big frame slowly from the chair. He scowled and asked, “Who the devil are you?”

“The name is Shayne. I’ve been eavesdropping behind the stone wall. I want to know where Nora Carson is.”

Meade snarled, “The hell you do.”

The patio was suddenly quiet as people began to notice the two men standing in the shadow.

Shayne nodded. “Why not step around here where we can be alone and talk it over? No use creating a scene that will involve Miss Forbes.”

“That’d be swell,” he said thickly.

Christine’s dilated eyes followed Shayne as he stepped back toward the end of the wall. She was still in her chair. Meade hunched his shoulders and followed the detective.

When they were out of sight, Shayne stopped and said, “All I want to know is what—”

Joe Meade swung on him without warning. He had the stance and swiftness of a trained boxer. Shayne was going away with the blow, but the fist glanced off his bony jaw with enough force to swing him sideways.

He laughed and caught Joe’s wrist with both hands, levering it down hard. Meade dropped to his knees, cursing with pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne caught a glimpse of Christine coming around the wall with a bottle of club soda swinging from her right hand.

Patrick Casey’s moonlike face showed behind her. He caught her arms from behind and pinioned them close to her body.

Shayne nodded his thanks and released Meade’s wrist The young man floundered to his feet and rushed him, his boxing science forgotten in his rage.

Shayne coolly sidestepped and tripped him as he went by. Meade went down heavily, but bounced up again. His eyes were crazed.

Held tightly by Casey, Christine Forbes pleaded, “Joe — don’t. Please don’t”

Joe disregarded her, came forward again, but more cautiously. The rangy redhead waited for him with doubled fists, breathing lightly.

Just in time, he saw that Joe’s right hand held a heavy rock which he had picked up on his last trip to the ground. He waited for Joe’s lunge, ducked a vicious swing of the rock, then buried his fist in Meade’s midsection. Joe doubled forward with the breath driven from him. He went to his knees, hugging his solar plexus.

From behind Shayne, Casey asked interestedly, “What’ll I do with this she-wildcat? She still thinks it would be fun to christen you queen of the festival.”

With his eyes on Meade, Shayne said, “Take the bottle away from her and let her go.”

Joe was getting his breath back. He crouched forward on hands and knees like an animal.

Christine rushed to him and dropped to her knees beside him, begging, “Tell them, Joe. You haven’t anything to hide.”

Meade snarled an oath and flung her aside. Shayne saw his hand groping for another rock. He stepped forward and put his foot on Meade’s wrist and ground hard. Joe yelped with pain and sank back on his haunches. The madness went out of his eyes, but his face remained surly.

He muttered thickly, “What’s this all about, anyhow?”

“It’s about Nora Carson.” Shayne towered above him on widespread legs. “Where is she?”

“How do I know? I’m not Nora Carson’s guardian.”

Shayne said, “But I am. Start spilling what you know.”

“You can’t do this to me,” Meade complained. “There must be some law around here.”

Shayne laughed shortly. “I’m beginning to get the western viewpoint. I might do all right out here after I get the hang of things. I heard you tell Miss Forbes that you were responsible for Nora Carson’s absence from the theater tonight. I don’t give a damn about that angle, but I want to know where she is.”

“I didn’t say anything like that. I just said—”

“I heard every word of it. You said that Miss Forbes needn’t worry about Nora coming back. That she was in for good. That you’d fixed it that way.”

“I didn’t,” Meade repeated sullenly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve got a bad memory.” Shayne scowled and doubled his right fist. “Maybe I can repair it for you.”

Christine flung a protective arm around Joe’s neck. She flared, “You can’t hit a man when he’s down.”

Shayne’s upper lip came back from his teeth. “I can kick his face to a pulp if he doesn’t start talking.”

“Don’t you dare, you big bully,” the girl screamed. She laid her cheek against Joe’s and begged, “Tell him, Joe. It doesn’t matter. Tell him where Nora is.”

Meade averted his face and muttered, “Can’t you get it, Christine? I don’t know anything about Nora. I was just — well, I just wanted you to think I’d fixed it to put you over. I was crazy for fear you’d forget me after you became successful. I’m nuts about you, honey. I couldn’t stand that. I thought if I could make you believe I’d arranged for Nora to miss her cue you’d be grateful to me and — oh, hell, I was just putting up a front. See?”

She sobbed, “Oh, Joe. I’m so glad.” Her arms tightened around his neck. “I’d have hated you forever if you’d done a thing like that.”

“You would?” He sounded incredulous. “I’m damned if I don’t believe you mean it.” He turned his head and kissed her.

“That’s a pretty fair sneak-out,” Shayne observed sourly. “But it doesn’t prove a thing to me. You’ll get something else on the kisser if you don’t come across with the truth. You sounded mighty sure that Nora Carson wouldn’t be back to take the role away from your girl. How could you know that if you don’t know what became of her?”

“You misconstrued what you overheard,” Meade declared. “I meant that Christine didn’t have to worry about Nora any more. If you saw her tonight you’d know what I meant. She was so damned good she put Nora in the shade.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. The hell of it was, Joe Meade sounded convincing. He might be telling the truth — and he might not. Shayne snorted and turned away, stalking ahead of Casey around the end of the wall.

Phyllis was waiting at the table, and when he flung himself into his chair she asked acidly, “What were you two bullies doing behind the wall with that nice young couple? It sounded like a riot from here.”

Casey said, “Mike was promoting a little game of post office, but the other guy got the wink.”

“Do you have to brawl, Michael — and on our vacation?” Phyllis wailed. “Couldn’t you ever, just once, solve a case with your brains instead of your fists?”

Shayne regarded her intently, then said in a sour tone, “I’ll always wonder whether that guy would have come clean if I had kicked him in the face. That’s your doing, Phyl. Marriage has softened me. Next thing I know, I’ll be starting, by God, to raise a fund for indigent murderers.”

Casey nodded happily. “’Tis a regular cream-puff you’ve turned into, Mike. I’ve seen the day when you’d have strung that bucko up by the thumbs and put lighted matches between his toes.”

“Michael! Did you ever do that!” Phyllis cried, horrified.

Shayne shrugged and moodily ordered another drink. While he waited for the drink, he repeated the conversation he had overheard between Joe Meade and Christine Forbes, with Phyllis prompting him and dragging it out of him.

“Which gives us just one more headache,” he ended in disgust. “I gather that Joe is a frustrated playwright who might well think up a plot like that to give Christine her chance. On the other hand, he may be an opportunist who seized on Nora’s absence to put himself in solidly with the girl he loves.”

A waiter brought drinks for the three. Shayne seized his avidly, muttering, “I need this.”

Phyllis propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “With all this dither about Nora Carson, aren’t you forgetting her father? He’s the corpse in the case. I thought you always concerned yourself with the murderer to the exclusion of everything else, Michael.”

Shayne was staring straight in front of him. He mused, “In this case, I’ll ask nothing more than to keep the murders down to one.”

Phyllis nudged him by placing her foot on his under the table. “Look — Michael!” she whispered.

Sheriff Fleming said, “Pardon me, Mr. Shayne,” lifting his broad hat from his silvery hair. “I heard there was a rumpus out here.”

Shayne turned his head slightly. “Yeh. There was, sort of, sheriff.”

Phyllis smiled up at him brightly. “Wherever there’s a rumpus, Sheriff Fleming, there you’ll find Michael Shayne.”

Shayne stood up. “You remember my wife, Sheriff. And this is Pat Casey, of the New York police.”

“I remember Mrs. Shayne, all right,” the sheriff drawled, bowing slightly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Casey. New York police, eh? On business or pleasure?”

Shayne grinned and said, “He came on business and stayed for pleasure, after meeting my wife. Anything new on Nora Carson?”

“Not a thing. Looks like she just flew the coop without telling anybody. Her husband has been giving me fits.” Fleming paused, then continued diffidently, “I’ve been checking around on Screwloose Pete like you said. I reckon you’d be interested to hear what Cal Strenk’s got to say. That’s his partner I told you about. If you’re not busy right now—”

“I’m not.” Shayne reached for his brandy glass and emptied it. He shook his head at Phyllis when she started to get up. “I wish you’d stick around, angel, and try to get acquainted with Christine Forbes — and with Celia Moore. Get them to talk if you can. It shouldn’t be hard, with so much informality at this hour. You needn’t tell Christine you’re the wife of the guy who had a run-in with Joe Meade”

Phyllis sank into her chair and made a wry face. “I could find out more from her boy friend,” she challenged in a hurt tone.

Shayne turned to Casey and asked, “Want to sit in on this?”

Casey waggled his round head negatively. “I’ll have to tend to my own knitting. Two-Deck will feel neglected if he’s without a tail too long.”

Shayne patted Phyllis’s shoulder as he turned to go with the sheriff. He noted, in passing, that Celia Moore and Jasper Windrow were no longer at their table.

Chapter nine

“NO, SIREE, ol’ Screwloose Pete wasn’t as screwy as most folks thought,” Cal Strenk said firmly. His faded blue eyes held a knowing gleam. He drank noisily through lips flattened against toothless front gums and wiped beer foam from drooping mustaches with the back of a gnarled hand. “Reckon I knowed Screwloose better’n most, and Mister, you git to know a man when you prospect these hills ’longside him for nigh on ten years.”

The aged prospector sat opposite Shayne and Sheriff Fleming in a booth at the rear of a musty beer joint on Main Street. The din of a string orchestra and the bang and whir of slot machines from an adjoining building almost drowned his nasal twang. Across the aisle from the booths, the crowd at the bar were mostly natives, with a sprinkling of tourists who had dropped in for local color.

Strenk was bareheaded. Thin, gray hair framed his parched face in wispy locks. Above a straggly growth of gray mustaches his faded eyes held the sly look of an unfrocked priest as he hunched forward, nursing his mug of beer in calloused hands.

Shayne asked, “Didn’t Pete ever speak of the past — didn’t he ever tell you that his name was Dalcor and that he had a family?”

“Nope, Never did. But shucks, that don’t mean nothin’. Not in these here parts. Plenty hereabouts that’d jest as soon not answer questions, eh, Sheriff?” Strenk cackled a toothless laugh and squinted at Fleming.

Sheriff Fleming pushed his hat back and scratched his forelocks.

Shayne asked, “Do you mean you think he had something to hide? A criminal record, perhaps?”

“Wouldn’t want to say that, Mister. I jest mentioned there was some others, mebby, wasn’t usin’ their right names.” Cal Strenk screwed up his face and appeared to be deep in judicial concentration. “I allus had me an idee Screwloose put on a hull lot of his actin’,” he went on, “to keep from answerin’ fool questions. He was quiet-like, you might say. I recollect onct we was gone three months together, packin’ on burros above timber-line, an’ we didn’t have but two talks in the hull of them three months.”

Shayne bent forward, folding his knobby hands. “What did you talk about those two times?”

“Waal, one time Screwloose tol’ me the pack burros had got their hobbles off an’ we’d have to hunt fer ’em. T’other time was when we was comin’ in after bein’ out prospectin’ fer four days an’ he ast me for a chaw off my plug. He’d run plumb out o’ tobaccy. Nossir, Screwloose weren’t one fer wastin’ words when ’twant no need.”

“And you were his closest friend?” Shayne asked, amused.

“Reckon I was his only friend. We batched together in a shack up back o’ town when we wa’n’t out diggin’ around in the hills.”

“Did he have any personal possessions — anything that might possibly connect him with his past?”

“Nary a thing that I knowed about. Ol’ Pete wa’n’t one fer havin’ things. One wearin’ o’ clothes at a time was all he had use for.” Strenk greedily emptied his beer mug and peered over the tilted edge at Shayne. He set it down, pursing his parched, bloodless lips at its emptiness.

Shayne shoved his empty mug beside it and called for a refill.

“No more for me,” the sheriff declined hastily. “I’ve got to set an example tonight. If folks see me drinking more than one or two beers they’ll swear I was staggering drunk and I’d have trouble.”

“Guess you’re right at that,” Shayne agreed. He lit a cigarette, studying the old miner in silence while they waited. He had an uneasy feeling that Strenk was intentionally drawing him on — holding something back. For a price, perhaps, or out of perverse delight in forcing a detective to probe for information which no one else could give.

When the beers came, Shayne asked Strenk, “What’s your idea about what happened to Pete tonight? Who had a reason to murder him?”

Strenk shook his head warily, buried his whiskers in beer foam and drank. He wiped his mouth carefully before answering, “I sure dunno, Mister Shayne. It beats me. Ol’ Pete was as harmless as a steer in a herd of bullin’ cows. Most folks hereabouts was mighty happy for the ol’ coot when he fin’ly struck it rich.”

Shayne detected a faint emphasis on the word “most.”

He looked sharply at Strenk, but the old miner’s eyes were looking past him, reminiscent and far away. He bent his head over the beer mug and started drinking again.

Shayne asked impatiently, “How many are in on Pete’s discovery? How many besides you will share the mine?”

“How many?” The old man appeared to come back to reality with a jolt. “Why, jest me an’ Pete and Jasper Windrow. Me an’ Pete located the claims side by side, an’ Jasper was grubstakin’ us both. Jasper gets a third,” he ended with the suspicion of a whine.

“Jasper deserves it, too,” Fleming said after a long silence. “He has been grubstaking half the prospectors in Central City for years. It’s high time he got something back. A man can’t keep on doing credit business.”

“Wall, I dunno ’bout that.” The slyness came again to Strenk’s pale eyes. “Notice he still gets to N’York every year on what he calls buyin’ trips. I reckon he ain’t so doggone broke.”

Shayne was conscious of a tension between the sheriff and the aged prospector. Though the words of both had been spoken without stress, there was the impact of a clash across the narrow wooden table. More than ever, he recognized his inability to gauge these men of the West by their spoken word.

Sheriff Fleming said, “Jasper figures he gets better discounts buying direct from New York than in Denver.”

Wrinkled lids veiled Cal Strenk’s watery eyes. He wiped foam from his mouth with elaborate unconcern. He gazed absently past both Shayne and Fleming and said, “Mebby so. Feller like me wouldn’ be knowin’ much about business. There’s some that think Jas is doin’ right well by hisself. Seems like he does some smart steppin’ with the swells durin’ Festival time.”

“A man’s got a right to have some fun once a year like we do in Central,” the sheriff said indulgently. “If you’d put on a clean shirt, Cal, and scrape off your whiskers you might sport some of the ladies around.” He grinned amiably.

Strenk was unresponsive to his humor. He drained the last drop of beer from the glass and sucked noisily at the foam. Shayne ordered a third round for the two of them.

Strenk’s grizzly chin sunk against his chest and his blue-lidded eyes were half closed. He began talking drowsily:

“Funny thing about Pete since we come back an’ filed our claims. Seemed like he got all over hatin’ to have folks come to the cabin. He ast ’em in, b’gosh, an’ sometimes talked hull sentences. Seemed like he got a kick outa havin’ his pitcher took an’ hearin’ Eastern folks say how quaint he was. Quaint, by God. Makes a he-man sick to his stummick. Me, I had to move out.”

“That was after news got around about Pete’s rich strike,” Sheriff Fleming explained to Shayne. “There was a piece about him in the Register-Call with his picture, and the Festival crowd pestered him a lot. You got to admit that striking it rich changes a man a little,” he ended apologetically.

Shayne said, “Yeh. That’s natural, of course. Any particular people you can mention?” he asked Strenk.

The old miner’s expression changed quickly from disgust to one of sly pleasure. The provocative hinting at untold secrets filmed his eyes again. He waggled his head and said, “Don’t know’s I can name any of ’em — me not takin’ any part in it and not bein’ quaint enough for pitchers to be sent back home.”

“Could you describe any of Pete’s visitors?” Shayne asked.

“Waal — yes. A couple of flashy sports an’ a older one not so flashy. They was allus buyin’ drinks for Pete ’round town.”

Shayne stiffened. In careful detail he described Two-Deck Bryant and his gunmen. “Would they be the men?”

“Could be, but the town’s so dang full of dudes it’s hard to say for sure.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them?”

“Reckon so. Could try.” Strenk sucked on his half-filled beer mug.

Shayne turned to Fleming. “That might be an important lead, Sheriff. Sounds like a New York gambler who is suspected of being out here on the trail of a welsher. He has a reputation for collecting overdue gambling debts with a gun. It couldn’t be Pete’s trail he was on,” he mused wearily. “I don’t suppose he has been in New York recently.”

“Not in the ten years I’ve knowed him,” Cal Strenk said drowsily. “He ain’t been to Denver — or even Idaho Springs.”

Shayne said, “I’d like to have you see the men I’m thinking of. See if they’re the ones.”

“Glad to, Mister. Yes, sirree, I’ll be glad to ’blige you. Reckon it was one of them give it to Pete tonight?”

“Not necessarily, but there might be some connection.”

“You lead me to ’em” Strenk finished his third beer and combed his whiskers with broken nails. He took a red bandanna from his pocket and blew his nose violently. “Folks’ll mebby be tellin’ you that me an’ Pete had a failin’ out recent on account of I moved out from batchin’ with ’im, but Pete was still my friend an’ I’ll sure he’p all I can to find out who smashed his head in like that.” A watery film spread over the furtive glint in his eyes as they observed Shayne closely.

Shayne said heartily, “That’s fine, Strenk. I suppose you’ve got an alibi for the time Pete was killed.”

“You ain’t thinkin’ I done it?”

“Nothing like that,” Shayne said pleasantly. “Alibis are just a hobby with me when I’m on a case.”

“Waal, I can sure give you one, Mister.” Strenk’s voice trembled with righteous indignation. “But I won’t take it kindly for you to be thinkin’ I done it.”

Shayne waved a big hand. “All I want from you is an alibi.”

“I was playin’ dominoes with Jeff Wharthous, that’s what I was doin’. You can ast him.”

“I will,” Shayne said. “Rather, I’ll ask the sheriff to check it. Right now I want you to go around with me and see if you can identify Two-Deck Bryant. We’ll try the gambling joints first — I beg your pardon, Sheriff — the charity bazaars.”

The sheriff grinned. “From what I’ve heard and seen of the slot machines not paying off, I reckon it couldn’t legally be called gambling. It’s more like a cinch you’re donating to charity every time you pull a lever.”

“Rollered tight?”

“I don’t know what you call it, but it isn’t hardly gambling.” The sheriff pulled his big frame partially erect and squirmed out of the cramped quarters of the booth. “You two go ahead and mosey around some. I got to show my badge in public so folks’ll know there’s some limits in Central City tonight.”

Shayne and Strenk pushed their way out into the street while the sheriff loitered to speak with friends.

It was past midnight, and the night was clear and biting cold beneath a star-studded sky. Shayne shivered and drew the inadequate coat of his tuxedo closer about him while Strenk strolled along comfortably with a sweaty cotton shirt open at the neck and blue jeans flapping about his scrawny legs.

The streets were jammed, and sounds of revelry came from every lighted building. Shayne started across to the two main gambling casinos, saying, “The man I’m looking for is a professional gambler, but they’re always suckers for a game on their night off. Let’s look over here.”

“Them tourists sure go for this kinda trimmin’,” Strenk said scornfully. “They got a idee it’s like it was sixty years ago.”

“Isn’t it?”

Strenk guffawed and spat in the gutter. “’Tain’t no more a parcel of the ol’ times than a painted face is all of a sporty woman.”

Shayne chuckled and led the way into a large room crammed with crap layouts and roulette tables, chuck-a-luck games and faro dealers; with every game of chance besieged by players waiting to lay their money on the long odds against them. At two o’clock, an early hour for the night-long carousal, the crowd was riotously good-natured and still reasonably sober.

Shayne stayed close to Strenk as they made a slow circuit of the room, but neither Bryant nor his two gunsels were in evidence.

After a thorough search, Strenk said, when they reached the door again, “Didn’t see any of ’em in there.”

They repeated the procedure next door where a fraternal order was raking in charitable donations across the green baize, with the same negative result. When they were once again on the boardwalk outside, Shayne shivered and asked, “Any more joints open?”

“No more big ones like these city fellers’ve put up for the festival. Slot machines around most everywhere, an’ there’s a poker game runnin’ down to the pool hall. Small stakes, I reckon.”

“Bryant wouldn’t be interested in small stakes,” Shayne told him. “He’s a plunger.”

“Tell you what.” Strenk lowered his voice and tugged at Shayne’s sleeve. “I heard talk about a backroom game bein’ mebby open tonight. Not for no charity. Regular ol’ time gamblin’. It’s sorta secret-like, but I reckon you’re awright — not bein’ the real law.”

“Hell, no. I’m not the law. Haven’t even a private license in this state.”

“It’s down the street here — couple of buildin’s past Windrow’s store.” Strenk’s flapping jeans led the way past the old bank building on the corner, across Eureka Street and east, past the dark fronts of shuttered buildings on the north side of the highway leading in from Black Hawk.

“Right acrost yonder,” Strenk pointed south across the bottom of the canyon to the steep barren slope rising beyond, “is our ol’ cabin — Pete’s an’ mine. You can see it in the daytime, settin’ there all by itse’f—”

He stopped abruptly, sucking in his breath. “Looks like a light up there right now. That’s what it is. See it yonder?”

His voice and his pointing finger shook with excitement.

Shayne saw a light flicker like a will-o’-the-wisp a couple of hundred feet up the opposite slope and some distance east. It flickered out as he looked.

“Ghost lights,” Cal Strenk whispered, awed. “Nobody up there now with Ol’ Pete dead. Ghost lights. That’s what. Ha’nting our ol’ cabin.”

The light appeared again in the cabin high on the slope. It shone steadily.

“That’s a flashlight,” Shayne scoffed. “Ghosts aren’t that modern. How do we get up there?”

“They’s a path right acrost the street here. Leads over the end of the flume an’ up the hill. What you reckon—”

“I don’t reckon,” Shayne said curtly. “I want to take a look.”

He started across the street.

Strenk loped ahead of him, past a gasoline pump and down the sharp slope to the bottom of the ravine where the wooden flume emptied into the gulch east of town.

Their shoes thumped hollowly on the flume, mingling with the rushing sound of water that snarled downward; then they were following a narrow path angling up the rocky, precipitous incline.

The old miner went steadily, bent forward at the waist, as sure-footed and long-winded as a mountain goat. Shayne strained to keep pace with him. His heart pounded mightily and his lungs worked like bellows, striving to draw in enough of the rarefied atmosphere to keep him going.

They were halfway up the hill when the sharp report of a pistol spanged through the high stillness from the cabin above them.

Cal Strenk stopped abruptly and Shayne stumbled into him. The echo of the single shot continued to reverberate between the rocky walls of the gulch for a long time. There was no light in the cabin now. It was cloaked in darkness and in silence.

Chapter ten

“SOUNDED LIKE A PISTOL SHOT,” Cal Strenk faltered. His hunched figure looked shrunken.

Shayne demanded, “Is there another trail away from the cabin?”

“Nope. You can mebby slide down an’ ford the crik to the road on the other side if it ain’t flooded too high from that rain in the mountains. You got a gun, Mister?”

The pistol Shayne had taken from one of Bryant’s men sagged in his coat pocket. He drew it, gave Strenk a light shove.

“Go ahead. You know the trail. Drop to the ground if we meet anyone.”

Strenk hunched his body for balance on the steep slope and moved upward as silent as an Indian. Shayne followed clumsily, straining his ears for further noise from the cabin. The only sound in the thick silence was the rumble of floodwaters from Clear Creek below them, and an occasional echoing shout from the lighted village which appeared fantastically remote from this high vantage point.

Cal Strenk stopped again after they had gone a hundred paces. He pointed to the shadowy bulk of the cabin squatting against the hillside.

“Nary a sign of anybody,” he said in an awed tone. “No light — no nothin’. Maybe it was a backfire from an auto we heard and it echoed back from up here.”

Shayne sucked a deep breath and grunted, “It was a pistol shot, and it came from up here.” His heart was pounding madly from the exertion of climbing at high altitude. He steadied himself with a hand on Strenk’s shoulder against a wave of faintness. After a moment he strode past the miner and went on to the dark and silent cabin.

The front door was open, sagging back on rusty hinges. The interior was a blot of thick darkness. Shayne stopped near the threshold and shouted, “Hey there — anybody inside?”

The words were echoed back hollowly.

Over his shoulder, he asked Strenk, “Got a flashlight?”

“Not me. I got matches, though.”

“I’ve got matches,” Shayne growled. He slid the automatic into his coat pocket so he could get out a box and strike one. It flickered out as he held it up to peer inside.

He stepped over the threshold before lighting another. It burned steadily, the tiny flame gnawing a small circle out of the blackness. He moved carefully, bumped into a sturdy table in the center of the room. The glass chimney of a kerosene lamp caught the final flicker of the match as it burned out.

He heard Strenk’s measured breathing close behind him as he fumbled for another match. He lifted the chimney and put flame to the wick, dropping his hand to the gun in his pocket while replacing the chimney.

Yellow light flooded the one-room cabin.

Shayne stood very still and his gaze made a complete circuit of the room. He was beginning to catch the jitters from the old miner. He took a step forward and the toe of his shoe struck something yielding on the floor.

He moved the lamp to the edge of the table so its light fell on the figure of a man lying almost under the table.

It was Joe Meade. His left arm was outflung and his cheek rested on it. Blood streamed from a wound in his right forehead. A short.32 revolver lay on the floor a few inches from the curled fingers of his right hand.

Shayne dropped to his knees and found a feeble pulse beating irregularly in Meade’s wrist. The head-wound looked dangerous but not necessarily fatal. The area around it was pitted with exploding powder. As he drew a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket to bind the wound, he snapped over his shoulder:

“Get down the hill fast and get a doctor. This looks bad.”

Cal Strenk backed away. He hesitated in the doorway. “What about the feller that shot him? I ain’t hankerin’ to meet up with no two-time killer out yonder in the dark.”

Shayne pulled the automatic from his pocket and extended it to the miner. He muttered, “This looks like suicide, but — take the gun along with you. The powder burns might be a cover-up for murder.”

Strenk took the weapon and trotted off down the slope. Shayne got his handkerchief bound over the wound to slow the flow of blood. He tried the pulse again and found it was holding its own.

Still on his knees, he leaned over the.32 and sniffed the muzzle. It had been fired very recently. He left it lying there, got up and eased one hip down on a corner of the table, fit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at Joe Meade.

Had Joe come up to this lonely cabin to commit suicide? In the name of God, why? There was no sign of a struggle in the room, and from his previous encounter with the young playwright Shayne knew he wasn’t the type to stand tamely while someone stuck a gun in his face and pulled the trigger.

But why had Meade come to this particular cabin at all? Did it have some connection with Christine’s reaction when he intimated to her that he’d had a hand in Nora Carson’s disappearance?

His right hand went up to tug at his ear-lobe while his gaze roamed around the orderly interior of the log cabin.

An old wood-stove stood in a corner near the door, with unpainted wooden shelves above it holding battered cooking utensils and tin plates. Two cane-bottomed chairs were drawn up to the table, and an old rocking chair with a rawhide seat stood near the crudely fashioned fireplace in the rear. A double-deck bunk was built solidly against the opposite wall. The lower bunk was neatly made up with patchwork quilts, but the one above was bare of bedding. Everything was in neat order except for the dying man lying on the floor.

Shayne had finished his cigarette when he ended his scrutiny of the cabin. From far down the slope, he heard the sound of excited voices coming nearer. He lit another cigarette and held his lounging, loose-jointed position on the table as men trooped up to the doorway.

The first man inside was a rosy-faced little fellow wearing nose-glasses and an unshakable air of propriety. He carried a physician’s bag and he hurried to the wounded man without asking questions.

Sheriff Fleming and a uniformed courtesy patrolman were directly behind the doctor. Shayne met them in the doorway, warning:

“Let’s leave everything as is until the doctor gets through.”

“Who is it this time, Mr. Shayne?” The sheriff’s weatherbeaten face showed grave concern. “Cal Strenk came running and yelling there was another dead man up here—”

Shayne shook his head. “He isn’t dead — yet. That is—” He turned his head. “How about it, Doctor?”

The doctor rocked back on his heels and said briskly, “There’s little I can do for him here. He must be removed to a hospital at once.”

“Will he live?”

“I can’t say,” the doctor snapped. “Certainly not unless he receives immediate care under the best conditions.”

Shayne whirled on the dumpy physician, his features strained and bleak. “Can you give him something to bring him around long enough to answer a few questions?”

The doctor raised himself to his full height, bringing the top of his head level with Shayne’s chin. “I might, but it would probably be fatal. The longer he remains in this coma the better his chances of ultimate recovery. Sheriff Fleming, will you get some men in here to carry him down the hill?”

“You bet I will, Doc.” While the sheriff ordered two husky young men in to strip a quilt from the bunk, Shayne caught the doctor’s arm. “Just a moment. Is it suicide?”

The doctor snorted, “For a guess — yes. The shot was fired a few inches from his face. Here — take him gently, you men,” turning away from the detective to superintend the placing of Meade’s limp body on the quilt.

Shayne drew back and watched the slow procession move out into the night. Fleming and the patrolman entered, and Shayne told exactly what had happened, beginning with the first flicker of light he and Strenk had seen from below.

“Just the one shot — and that thirty-two on the floor has been fired,” he ended.

The sheriff stared down at the weapon. He shook his head and muttered, “First it’s murder — then suicide.”

Shayne said, “Maybe.” He nodded toward the gun. “If we can get some fingerprints off the corrugated butt of that thing we’ll be lucky. Just because a wound is powder-burned it doesn’t definitely prove suicide.” He was arguing the point with himself.

“But there wasn’t anyone else to’ve done it.”

“We didn’t see or hear anyone else,” Shayne corrected him. “Strenk says a man could go straight down to the creek and ford it if the water is low enough.”

“That’s right. A man sure could. But who do you reckon — and who is the fellow they carried out?”

“His name is Joe Meade.” Shayne settled down on the table and briefly related to the sheriff and courtesy patrolman what he had overheard between Meade and Christine Forbes on the terrace. “Now, you know as much about the case as I do,” he ended in deep disgust. “If Meade recovers we can ask him what he was doing up here shot through the head. If he doesn’t—” He spread out his hands.

The patrolman cleared his throat diffidently and said, “They tell me this cabin belongs to the old miner who was murdered earlier tonight. Do you suppose there’s any connection?”

Shayne stood up and strode the length of the room, rumpling his coarse red hair. He burst out angrily, “All we can do is suppose. Damn a case that’s all supposition and no facts. I’m about ready to dump it into your lap, Sheriff. My wife was right. I’m on a vacation.”

The sheriff’s face became very grave. He said, “Now, Mr. Shayne, don’t you be—”

He was interrupted by the opening of the outer door and the entrance of Jasper Windrow.

He still wore his tight-fitting dinner coat, and it accentuated his bulk and aggressiveness as he planted himself solidly before the trio and said, “They tell me Pete’s murderer slipped off up here and shot himself.” His eyes, bulging slightly above pronounced puffs, sought Shayne’s and held them “Is that right, or isn’t it?”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Thought you were a detective. Can’t you say yes or no to a straight question?”

Anger glinted in Shayne’s eyes. He moved slowly toward the big man. In clipped tones he said, “I don’t call a man a murderer until I’ve discovered a motive. Where were you at eight o’clock tonight?”

Their eyes remained locked together. Shayne realized the big man was dangerous; ruthless and dictatorial, and no man’s fool. His dominant position in the smalltown life of Central City had given him a tremendous ego.

He demanded, “Are you accusing me?”

“I’m suggesting you’d better fix yourself up with an alibi for the time of Pete’s death,” Shayne answered curtly. He turned to Sheriff Fleming. “What’s this man doing in here? This is a murder investigation, not a Rotary luncheon.”

The sheriff essayed a placating smile. “Well, now, Jasper’s one of our most important citizens. He—”

“If you’re ringing in a citizen’s committee, I’m getting out.” Shayne started for the door.

Fleming detained Shayne with a hand on his shoulder. He said mildly, “Be better, maybe, for you to go outside, Jasper.”

Windrow remained solidly planted on his big feet. “I’ve got a right to protect my own interests. If there’s any searching of this cabin done, I mean to be in on it. I’ve got a right to know whether Pete left a will.”

The sheriff echoed, “A will? Now, what made you think of that?”

“I’ve got reason to think of it. There’s talk around town that one of the actresses claims Screwloose was her long-lost father—after he was dead and couldn’t speak up to call her a liar.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is a lie. And a damned nasty one.” His eyes were murky with anger.

Windrow disregarded him. He continued steadily, “Looks like a swindle to me. I don’t believe Pete ever had any daughter or any family. I aim to be right here and see that no fake evidence is put over on anybody. If there’s proof, all right. If there isn’t, I’ll take it to court.”

Shayne’s breathing was heavy. He moved around to confront Windrow. “You seem to be intimating that I’m in the swindle with her.”

“I don’t know about that. I notice you’re sticking your oar in for no good reason. They say you were running around with that Carson girl pretending to hunt Pete just after he’d been killed.”

Shayne’s big hands balled into fists. He said, “I’ll always wonder why I didn’t attend to this this afternoon.” The sheriff hastily pushed between them, throwing a worried look at the patrolman.

Shayne shoved the sheriff aside, saying thickly, “So help me God, I’m going to knock his teeth down his throat—” but Fleming had hold of his right arm, and the patrolman was efficiently shouldering Windrow back.

The sheriff clung to his arm, panting, “Don’t get het up now. Jas don’t mean that.”

Shayne laughed shortly and his tight muscles relaxed. Over the sheriff’s head he said, “The third time we tangle it’s going to be for keeps. But right now — I presume you’re worried about your share in the mine Pete and Strenk located?”

Windrow nodded stolidly. “Naturally, I’m interested in that property. I’ve been grubstaking both men for years without getting a cent back.”

“And it’s your thought,” Shayne pursued, “that if it can be shown Pete died without heirs, a larger share of the mine will come to you?”

Again, Windrow nodded. “Are you going to say it won’t?”

Fleming wiped sweat from his bronzed face. He warned, “Be sort of careful what you say, Jasper. Mr. Shayne’s digging around to find a reason for Pete getting his head smashed.”

Windrow snorted his disdain of Shayne’s detective methods. “Let him dig. I won’t deny I’m going to protect my rights. But I warn any man in hearing distance I won’t have it said I’m a murder suspect.”

Shayne had regained complete control of himself. There was something about Windrow that roughed his temper every time they met. He lounged back to the table and settled his rangy body on it, swinging one foot casually. He said to Fleming:

“Turn a collar up around Windrow’s face and it’d be difficult at a distance to tell whether he wore whiskers or not. The rest of him coincides perfectly with our description of Pete’s murderer.”

Windrow took a step forward. Fleming and the patrolman nervously edged between them. Windrow said, “I’m warning you.”

Shayne lit a cigarette and flipped the match toward him. “I’m not accusing you — yet. But,” his voice crackled, “if I find that you left some unpaid markers behind at Two-Deck Bryant’s place the last time you visited New York, I’m going to start fitting a noose for you.”

“Two-Deck Bryant? Unpaid markers? What kind of talk is that?”

“Maybe you don’t know.” Shayne’s voice was hard, disinterested. “But Bryant seemed to know a lot about you today. And whoever is dodging Bryant is mighty damned anxious to get hold of some cash in a hurry — anxious enough to commit murder for it. Personally, Windrow, I think you make a hell of a good candidate.” He turned to the patrolman. “If you’ve got a flash I’d like to take a look around outside.”

“You bet.” The young officer whipped out a powerful focusing flashlight and started for the door.

As Shayne followed him, he said to the sheriff, “I advise you to stay here while Windrow’s around. If Pete left a will, I think it’d be safer if you took charge of it.”

Visibly nervous, Fleming agreed. “All right. I reckon it won’t do any harm for me to look around — just to satisfy Mr. Windrow that everything’s aboveboard.”

“By all means,” said Shayne, “satisfy Mr. Windrow.”

Half a dozen men were grouped outside the cabin. Cal Strenk stepped forward from among them. “What’s happenin’ inside? You found out who fired that shot?”

“Looks like you might have been right. We’ve about agreed that a ghost did it — then dissolved up the chimney.” Shayne dropped his bantering tone. “Come on with us. I want to look for footprints down toward the creek where you said a man might have crossed.”

Strenk said, “There’s a path back this way. We usta carry water up from the crik. Hard to tell about footprints on these rocks, though.”

In the circle of light cast by the patrolman’s flashlight, Shayne saw nothing that looked like a path, but Strenk led the way downward confidently.

The roar of rushing creek waters increased as they neared the bottom of the gulch. Strenk stopped on the edge of a narrow turbulent stream and pointed to some flat rocks partially covered with foaming water.

“There’s where we usta dip our pails in. Comes floodin’ down like this every time it rains heavy in the hills.”

“Is it too deep to be waded now?”

Strenk squinted at the tumbling stream and calculated aloud, “Just over the top of them rocks now, an’ it’s goin’ down fast. Reckon it ain’t more’n two feet deep in the middle. A man could wade ’er if he could stand up against the current.”

“Throw your light up and down the bank,” Shayne told the patrolman. “If anyone left the cabin in a hurry, he might easily have missed this thing Strenk calls a path.”

The officer’s light flickered along the edge of the water downstream. The bank was steep and rocky, and showed no trace of footprints.

He turned his light upstream, manipulating the focusing mechanism to make the beam smaller and brighter as the distance grew greater.

He stiffened and made a low, jerky exclamation when the bright beam touched what appeared to be a bundle of discarded clothing not more than thirty feet away.

Shayne swore softly and grabbed the light from the officer’s hand. He had seen that pinkish color before.

It wasn’t pink. It was orchid.

He stumbled forward, holding the flashlight extended before him. The bundle of discarded clothing took shape — the shape of a slender young girl.

Shayne slowed to a walk. It was far too late for hurrying now. Nora Carson was quite dead.

Chapter eleven

THE TOP OF THE ACTRESS’S HEAD was smashed in, the edges of the gaping wound showing clean and unbloody under the light of the flash. She lay curled about the base of an old tree stump as though she embraced it in dying. Her shoulders and arms were bare, creamy-smooth in the bright light; the orchid evening gown was twined tightly about her body from the knees upward.

Cal Strenk and the patrolman came up behind Shayne quietly. The miner’s breath made a faint slobbering noise in the stillness. None of them said anything.

Shayne bent and touched one of Nora Carson’s bright blond curls and her gown. Both were soggy. A few inches from her feet the creek water swirled and foamed over small boulders. The rocky bank surrounding her was clean-washed, with no sign of blood anywhere.

Shayne sent the beam of the flashlight up the steep slope, muttering, “She wasn’t killed here. Might have rolled down from above and lodged against this stump.” The light reached upward to the path leading to the cabin without revealing anything to indicate where the murder had occurred.

“Might of,” Cal Strenk agreed in a curiously choked voice. “But looks like her purty dress would of got torn on the rocks if she rolled down. With her bein’ so wet, looks like she was doused in the crik.”

Shayne played the light up and down the slope above the present water-line. “I don’t see any high-water marks. Do you think the water’s been above this stump tonight?”

“I reckon it has, all right. Turn your light down here again.” Strenk bent over the stump and nodded. “Yep. It’s soakin’ wet, too. She might of been washed downstream hour or so ago.”

“Or else placed here while the water was high in a position to indicate she’d been washed downstream. But hell!” Shayne rubbed his chin irritably. “Could the creek have fallen this far since eight-thirty? It doesn’t seem possible.”

“It’s not only possible, but it’s quite probable.” The young patrolman spoke for the first time since his light had touched the girl’s body. “Easterners don’t understand our mountain cloudbursts. I’ve seen a twenty-foot wall of water roll down a dry creek bed — and in thirty minutes it would all be past.”

“That’s right,” Strenk corroborated. “Depends on how much it rains up in the mountains.”

Shayne grunted sourly and circled the body and stump, holding his light on it. He decided, “Her body was either placed there carefully, or it was washed down the creek during high water and lodged against the stump. In either case, it was done while the water was high, else there would be some indications of blood on the rocks. That leaves us a nice wide-open question as to where the murder was actually committed. She might have been dumped into the creek any goddamned place above here while the water was high and roaring down.”

“Is it necessarily murder?” the state officer asked respectfully. “Couldn’t she have fallen in the creek — struck her head against a rock?”

Shayne laughed shortly. “Could have, but I’m betting a thousand-to-one it’s murder. Such things follow each other, you know.” He dropped on his knees beside the girl, made a close and careful examination of the head wound.

“I was thinking of that previous murder — wondering if we might not be jumping to conclusions. There isn’t necessarily any connection, is there?”

Shayne rocked back on his haunches and demanded, “Do you know who this girl is?”

“One of ’em from the opry house, ain’t she?” asked Cal Strenk when the patrolman shook his head.

Shayne stood up and with apparent carelessness flashed his light into the miner’s face. “Her name is Nora Carson. She identified Screwloose Pete as her father a few minutes before he was murdered tonight.”

The old man clawed at his whiskers and blinked into the bright light. “Do tell? I’d look for a jackass to pappy a thoroughbred colt quicker’n I’d expect ol’ Screwloose to beget a purty actress daughter.”

“That’s your connection,” Shayne told the officer. “One of the reasons why it’s a cinch for murder. And this blow on the top of her head wasn’t accidental. It’s too much like the wound that killed her father.” He turned the light back on Strenk and demanded:

“Are you backing Jasper Windrow in his attempt to prove she lied about Pete being her father?”

“Is that what he’s up to?” The miner sounded properly indignant. “Might know he’d wanta grab Pete’s share, too. After puttin’ up not more’n five-six hundred dollars all told, he ain’t satisfied with a third share of a million-dollar mine. No, sirree. I ain’t throwin’ in with Windrow. Not ’less he splits with me, I don’t. Pete allus said if he died fust he wanted for me to have all his share in our claims.”

“He never mentioned having any heirs to you?”

“Nope. Never said nothin’ about none.”

“He didn’t put that in writing, did he? That you should have what he left?” Shayne’s voice was hard, biting.

“Nope. I don’t reckon Pete could write much. He could make out to read a mite.”

Abruptly, Shayne said, “To hell with dividing up an estate before the bodies are buried.” He handed the patrolman his flashlight. “Wish you’d stay here with the body while I go up and tell Sheriff Fleming his grief has just begun. While you’re waiting, you might look around for a coat Nora Carson was wearing when she left the hotel.”

It was a steep rough climb up the rocky slope. Strenk followed Shayne in silence. The cabin door was open and they went in.

Two-Deck Bryant leaned negligently against the wall near the stove. He gave Shayne a cold, tight-lipped stare. Neither of his torpedoes was present.

Shayne stopped in the doorway and asked, “What are you doing here?”

The gambler’s smile was insolent. “I’ve always wanted to watch a gumshoe at work when he wasn’t trying to pin something on me. Go right ahead. I want to see you detect something.”

Shayne said, “Don’t be too sure you’re in the clear.” He glanced at Fleming and Windrow. The sheriff looked mildly curious at this interchange, but Windrow’s rugged face was enigmatic. He might have been backing four aces or bluffing with a busted straight.

Shayne stepped aside and motioned for Cal Strenk to come in. He asked the miner, “Do you see one of the three men you were telling me about in the barroom?”

Strenk pointed to Bryant. “Yep. That’s one of ’em. The other two—”

Shayne said, “I know all about the other two.” In a flat tone, he advised Bryant, “That gives you a pretty definite stake in my gumshoeing, so you’d better stick around.” He turned to the sheriff. “I’ve got another murder for you, Fleming.”

“Another one? God ’lmighty, Mr. Shayne. We’ve never had anything like—”

“I thought you said it was suicide,” Windrow interrupted.

Shayne’s brooding gaze went slowly to Jasper Windrow’s face. “You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions. In the first place I haven’t said Joe Meade tried to commit suicide. I don’t know. In the second place, this one is a girl. Down on the bank of the creek. Her name is Nora Carson.”

Not a flicker of emotion showed on Windrow’s face. He nodded almost imperceptibly, pleasurably, perhaps. “The actress who tried to claim Pete as her father.”

“The girl,” Shayne corrected, “who positively identified Pete as her father. I’ll swear to that in court.”

Sheriff Fleming interceded hastily. “No matter about that now. Down by the creek, you say? Right here at Old Pete’s cabin?”

Shayne nodded. “We found her when we were looking for footprints across the creek. The state cop is waiting down there with his flashlight.”

The sheriff said, “I guess I better go see.” He went heavily across the cabin and out the door.

Bryant approached Shayne, asking in an even, menacing tone, “What’s the idea of having this old gink put the finger on me? How do you figure that pulls me into the picture?”

Shayne dropped one hip onto the center table again and lit a cigarette. “I’m wondering what prompted your interest in Screwloose Pete this past week.”

A mocking grin twitched the gambler’s saturnine features. “I’ve been thinking about taking a little flyer in the mining game. Looks to me like a chance to hit a real jackpot without laying too much sugar on the line.”

Shayne shook his head. “You know an easier way of making money, Bryant — with all the percentages in your favor. Casey tells me that clip-joint of yours on the Parkway is wired so heavy that the only play you get nowadays is from out-of-town suckers who don’t know the ropes. Storekeepers in town on buying trips from jerkwater towns like this.”

Again, he failed to get a rise out of Jasper Windrow. If the barbed shaft struck home, the man wasn’t giving out. He interrupted impatiently, “I’ve still got a bone to pick with you, Shayne. Your championship of the Carson girl’s claim against Pete’s estate isn’t going to mean very much. The sheriff and I failed to find a single thing among his effects to indicate he was her father.”

Shayne glanced sardonically around the orderly cabin.

“And I suppose you ripped everything to pieces trying to find some such evidence?”

Windrow reiterated, “We found nothing. Perhaps you’d like to look for yourself — while I’m here to see you don’t plant something to support her contention.”

That, Shayne agreed, would be a hell of a good idea. “I’ll at least try, which is more than I think you’ve done.” He turned to Cal Strenk. “You batched here with Pete. Any idea where to start looking for private papers?”

“I don’t reckon Pete never had no papers. Never showed me none.”

Shayne slid off the table and went to cupboards behind the stove. He rattled pots and pans to reach back behind them, then began a slow circuit of the four mud-chinked walls of peeled logs, feeling into crevices in the corners and studying the bare wooden floor for signs of a cache as he moved about.

Bryant stood spread-legged on the brick hearth in front of the fireplace when Shayne finished his search without finding anything. The gambler laughed softly. “Looks like you forgot your magnifying glass, Sherlock. Oughtn’t you to pick up samples of the dirt and cigarette ashes from the floor to test in your laboratory?”

Shayne frowned and tugged at the lobe of his ear, refusing to let himself be disturbed by Bryant’s taunts. As he stared slowly around the room, Bryant stepped forward, opening his lips to speak again. A hearth brick creaked under his foot as he lifted his weight from it. He glanced swiftly downward, then stepped back and began speaking rapidly:

“I’m glad I came up to get some lessons. Are you all done, Shamus, or have you got some more tricks up your sleeve?”

“I think,” said Shayne, “I’m going to pull a brood of rabbits out of the hat for you.” He stalked forward purposefully. “That sounds like a loose brick you’re standing on, Bryant. They say it’s difficult to teach an old dog new tricks — and fifty years ago half the valuables in this country were stashed under a brick in the hearth. Step aside and let’s take a look.”

Bryant held his position. “That wasn’t a loose brick. I just scraped my foot on that dirt in front.”

Shayne said, “I’ll see.”

Bryant hesitated a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside. Shayne dropped to his knees and studied the mortared bricks. He took hold of one protruding slightly above the others, and waggled it. It was loose in its mortar.

Cal Strenk hurried forward as Shayne pulled it up. “Doggone, I plumb forgot about that. Ol’ Pete allus cached his nuggets an’ rich samples there in a ol’ Prince Albert tobaccy can. Said he was hidin’ ’em from burglars, but he’d pull that brick out an’ show ’em to anybody that come aroun’.”

Shayne laid the brick aside. He reached into the rectangular hole and lifted out a battered tobacco can. Windrow breathed uneasily as he and Bryant peered over the detective’s shoulder. Shayne opened the lid and emitted a grunt of disappointment when the contents dribbled out into his palm. There were half a dozen smooth heavy pellets smaller than a pea, and several jagged bits of rock which didn’t look at all rich in gold to the uninitiated eye.

There was nothing else in the can. Shayne rocked back on his heels and cursed. Bryant snorted with glee at his discomfiture, and taunted, “Why don’t you keep on digging? Maybe you’ll hit the lost Gregory lode.” Shayne was staring down at the floor in front of the hearth. He nodded suddenly. “I might, at that.” He dug his long fingers into the soft dirt upon which the can had lain. It came out easily, and after a moment, he paused and grinned up at Windrow’s intent face.

“You’re going to love this.” He fumbled in the hole and brought out another tobacco can similar to the first one.

He settled back on his haunches contentedly, murmuring, “One will get any gambler ten if this isn’t the real McCoy.”

Cal Strenk was the only one who spoke. “Damn if Ol’ Pete wa’n’t a slick un. In ten years we lived here he never showed me that other can underneath.”

Shayne turned the lid back and shook the contents of the can out on the hearth in the manner of a magician shaking elephants from a silk hat.

There were three newspaper clippings and an old faded photograph of a man and a young girl. The girl had a sweet, grave face, wore pigtails and a short dress. The man was clean-shaven, wearing a miner’s cap and overalls.

Shayne turned the picture over and read aloud: “Nora and her daddy.”

He laid the picture aside and selected a clipping that was brittle and old in contrast to the comparative newness of the other two: Two columns from an old copy of the Telluride Chronicle neatly clipped to show the name of the paper and the date.

The somewhat indistinct photograph of a man was above the caption: James Peter Dalcor, MISSING.

The man was hatless and wore a short growth of chin whiskers. He was clearly the “Daddy” of the earlier picture.

Shayne glanced through the news story beneath the photograph. It told of Peter Dalcor’s unexplained disappearance from his home in Telluride, Colorado; mentioned the mounting apprehension of his wife and daughter, Nora.

Shayne handed the clipping to Strenk without a word.

The old miner growled, “Danged if Ol’ Pete didn’t think he was a beaut, allus havin’ his pitcher took even way back then. This’n with the whiskers looks some like him”

Windrow snatched the clipping from Strenk and studied it. He snapped, “Nonsense. You can’t prove a thing from this picture. Why, it might be one of Cal, here, taken ten years ago.”

“It’s hard to identify a ten-year-old picture,” Shayne agreed. “But the fact that Pete had them in his possession all this time will be accepted in any court as legal proof of his identity. And here’s one that shows he had recognized Nora Carson as his daughter as much as two weeks ago.”

He held out another neat clipping from the local Register-Call that carried a date two weeks previous. It had a clear likeness of Nora Carson above the cut-line: Actress Continues Ten-Year Search for Father in Colorado Mining Camps.

“I recollec’ seein’ that pitcher,” Strenk exclaimed excitedly. “’Twas on the front page ’longside one of me an’ Ol’ Pete together tellin’ ’bout our strike.”

“This one?” asked Shayne, picking up the last of the three clippings, rudely torn from the center of a front page.

It had a picture of Cal Strenk and Screwloose Pete with their arms around each other’s shoulders and wide grins on their whiskered faces above the caption: Local Men Make Rich Strike.

“Tha’s the one!” Strenk nodded vigorously. “I recollec’ when Pete tore it out, he was that proud. Carried it folded in his pants pocket an’ showed it to ever’one. But he never said nothin’ ’bout that pitcher of the gal bein’ his gal. I never saw him cut it out.”

Shayne refolded the clippings carefully, shaking his head. “That was Pete’s secret. This stuff proves it wasn’t any case of amnesia. He knew who he was all the time, and for two weeks he’d known his daughter was here looking for him. But he didn’t approach her — except to look through the hotel window tonight. And then he ran away to be killed as soon as she saw him.”

Chapter twelve

MICHAEL SHAYNE followed, alone, behind the procession carrying the body of Nora Carson to the village. His head was bowed in thought, hands thrust deep into his pockets, rangy body inclined backward from the waist to give him balance down the precipitous path.

The death of the girl had hit him hard. She was so young, had been so vibrantly full of life a few hours previous. Screwloose Pete was an old man with lots of living behind him. A cantankerous old man, it appeared, who hadn’t wanted to share his new-found wealth with the daughter whom he had deserted ten years before.

It wasn’t difficult to find a motive for the old man’s death. Men had been murdered for gold since Biblical days, had fought to their deaths for the yellow stuff. Let three men share in a million-dollar discovery and there you were. The wonder of it was that any of the three were still alive.

But how did Nora Carson’s death fit into a coldly calculated scheme of murder for profit? He had all the portions of the puzzle in his hands, but none of them seemed to fit together. At the moment, Joe Meade appeared to be the key to the whole thing. Was his wound self-inflicted, or was it, too, part of the murder plan?

What was he doing at Pete’s cabin, either shooting himself or getting shot?

You had to start with the premise that Joe Meade was not a normally balanced young man. The bitterness of defeat had warped an otherwise brilliant mentality, had grown to be an obsession with him. An obsession that might easily have developed to such a point that getting rid of Nora Carson to insure Christine’s success in the theater would seem a logical step.

All right. Granting that premise, what would be his logical reaction to Christine’s flat and emphatic statement that she did not want success to come that way?

The hell of it was, you couldn’t apply rules of logic to an unbalanced mentality. When Joe boasted to Christine that he was responsible for Nora’s absence, did he know she was already dead? Or had he, with some reason to suspect the truth, slyly turned the knowledge to what he believed was his own benefit by pretending to Christine that she was indebted to him for getting her chance tonight?

Shayne was sure of only one thing about Joe Meade. The young man possessed some guilty knowledge. But what could the actor have had to do with the death of Screwloose Pete? Was it conceivable that he had discovered the relationship, had murdered the old man in cold blood just prior to the performance — thinking thus to strike Nora such a blow that she would be unable to go on? Then, finding his first plan foiled by Nora’s strength which refused to give way to grief, had he felt impelled to carry on the plot by getting rid of Nora also? Later, after Christine had clearly indicated her repugnance and horror of the very thought, had he slipped up here to commit suicide as the only way out for him?

Shayne turned his speculations from Meade to Jasper Windrow with a feeling of relief. Windrow was the sort of man the detective understood. He was ruthless and mercenary, more than normally intelligent. Shayne could easily visualize Windrow cold-bloodedly planning Pete’s death to obtain a greater share of the rich mine for himself, but not if he realized Pete was leaving a legal heir to claim his portion.

Shayne stopped short on the hillside and stared at the lights of the village below with narrowed eyes.

Nora’s identification of her father had not been made public until after Pete’s death. It was merest chance that had given Nora a glimpse of Pete at the hotel window a few minutes before his death. One of those weird and inexplicable coincidences that are forever popping up to ruin the best-laid plans of men, something which the murderer could not possibly foresee.

If she hadn’t chanced to see him at the window and followed him wildly, it was a thousand to one she would never have recognized his disfigured face after he was struck down.

He frowned, visualizing the death scene above Eureka Street, the old man’s smashed and bloody-whiskered face. No. No one who hadn’t seen Pete Dalcor for ten years would have recognized him after death. Why, Nora had not even recognized his picture in the local paper though it had been in the same issue with her own. It had required that personal contact, the glimpse through the hotel window, to bring Nora the realization that Pete was actually her father.

With that point settled in his own mind, he started plodding slowly downward again. In the interim, the men carrying Nora’s body had crossed the end of the flumed creek and disappeared from view.

Even if the killer had known of the relationship between Pete and Nora, he could not foresee the chance recognition that had come just before Pete’s death.

Again, Shayne stopped in his tracks. If anyone had known of the relationship.

Might that not be the crux of the entire diabolical murder plan? Everyone in Central City must have seen Nora’s picture and read the story of her ten-year search for a missing father. It could easily have furnished the clue to Pete’s identity to a man who knew him well. Jasper Windrow — or Cal Strenk. Both hoped to gain by Pete’s death.

If either had planned to get rid of Pete at some convenient time, the presence of Nora Carson in town was a very real threat to the plan. Though she had failed to recognize his picture in the paper, there was always the chance that she might meet him on the street — or even that Pete might learn of her identity and make himself known to her. That threat would make it imperative to get rid of Pete at once — if he was to die without known heirs and intestate.

Shayne started forward again, tingling with a feeling of getting close to something. Under such circumstances, it would be a terrific blow to the murderer to learn that he had struck a few minutes too late — that Nora had already seen and identified her father.

There could be only one reaction to that. Having killed once to obtain an object, a murderer would not hesitate to kill again to attain his end. The second killing would be predicated on the hope that Nora’s identification of Pete as her father would be held inconclusive in court — on the chance that no corroborative evidence would be found among Pete’s effects.

That sounded more like the reasoning of Cal Strenk than of Jasper Windrow. Strenk had appeared so positive that Pete possessed nothing to connect him with the past. It was hard to doubt that Strenk’s surprise had been genuine when Shayne dug up the second tobacco can.

Cal Strenk was a real enigma. His eyes were sly as a fox’s at times, and again he appeared simple as a child. He hated Jasper Windrow, and made no real effort to hide that hatred. He had quarreled with Pete after they filed their claims — and he claimed to have an alibi for the time of Pete’s death.

Shayne’s probing thoughts went back to Jasper Windrow again. Bryant was ruled out of the picture as far as Strenk was concerned, but it appeared to Shayne highly probable that Windrow might be the defaulting loser from whom Two-Deck had come west to collect. Proof of that would give more solid ground for suspecting Windrow — because the man who owed Bryant money would be under terrific pressure to pay up in a hurry and in cash.

Would Pete’s death allow the jointly owned property to be sold for cash sooner? That was a point to look into. The sheriff had said something about Pete refusing a cash offer for his share. Perhaps the old miner’s unwillingness to sell had held up disposal of all shares. And Bryant certainly had some good reason for cultivating Pete during the past week.

Shayne realized, of course, that he was taking a lot for granted when he assumed that Windrow was Bryant’s victim. His only basis was the fact that Windrow had recently made a trip east, and that his business was shaky for lack of cash.

Any member of the cast might just as well have left rubber markers in Bryant’s gambling joint — or any of the wealthy tourists from the east out for the Festival. It didn’t have to be a man. Women were notorious plungers. Neither Nora Carson nor Christine Forbes fitted into the category, but Celia Moore! There was a lady from whom anything might be expected. Joe Meade wouldn’t have had money for gambling. Frank Carson?

Shayne stopped just on the other side of the wooden flume. A few strollers wandered up and down the boardwalk in front of him, and from the main part of town, half a block distant, the sound of continued night revelry came clearly.

Carson fitted the role of a welshing gambler all right. He earned a fair salary, doubtless, and would be one of the New York sporting crowd that considered it smart to be seen at places like Bryant’s on the Hudson Parkway.

He might have known or guessed that Screwloose Pete was his wife’s father. He certainly would have heard the story from Nora — seen a picture of her father. And Pete’s picture had been in the newspaper with the story of his rich strike. If Frank had recognized that picture—

But Nora hadn’t. Was it reasonable to suppose that Frank had noticed the likeness while the man’s own daughter failed to?

He put that question aside for a moment. Frank might have discovered the truth some other way.

If Frank made the discovery it would have been natural for him to tell his wife so she could claim her father and her part of his fortune. But, suppose Frank had discovered that Pete already knew Nora was his daughter (the clipping in the tobacco can proved that he did), yet had no intention of admitting his identity to her? If the old man refused to share his find with her, Frank might have killed him so Nora would legally inherit all of it.

But hell! Again, he was confronted with the inescapable fact that the murderer could not have foreseen that Nora would see and recognize her father just before he was killed in such a way as to render his features almost unrecognizable. If Frank had planned to have her identify the old man after death, he would certainly have chosen a murder method that did not make identification almost impossible.

Shayne sighed wearily and climbed up the incline to the boardwalk, turned toward the brilliantly lighted intersection of Eureka and Main Streets.

It came down to this: Anyone mixed up in the thing might have killed Screwloose. He could figure out a possible motive for almost anybody you mentioned. But the motive behind Nora’s death (and the manner in which she had been lured to her death) was more shrouded and obscure. The actual time of her death would be an important factor in sifting out alibis. She had left the opera house after the play started. Her body had been deposited against the stump while the creek water was at least that high. If that time could be established, it would narrow the limits between which her murder had been committed.

He bumped into a courtesy patrolman coming out of the Chain-o’-Mines Hotel on the corner, and recognized the young man who had been at Pete’s cabin. He asked, “Do you know where they took the wounded man?”

“Up to Dr. Fairweather’s private hospital.” The officer pointed across the street and almost straight up. “It’s right up the hill yonder. That big two-story house lit up like a sea-going tug.”

“Do you know how Meade is?”

“Only that he was still alive the last time I heard.”

“How long ago was that?” Shayne queried.

“About five minutes,” the officer said.

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and crossed the street, only vaguely aware of the accelerated tempo of laughter and gaiety he was leaving behind him.

The revelry faded to a confused turmoil as he climbed higher and higher, past one precipitous street level and then another. When he turned on level ground toward the lighted two-story building, he had the odd feeling of standing on top of the world viewing the seething village below as only a cluster of lights cupped in the palm of the canyon.

The path to the hospital led steeply upward from the narrow street. Double entrance doors stood open on a wide furnished hall, and Shayne was glad there was no one to witness his collapse on an elaborate, old-fashioned settee in the hall. His lungs felt constricted, and his heart was beating like a triphammer from the exertion of fast climbing.

A wide stairway led upward from the end of the hall. He could hear voices and movement on the second floor, but he doubted his ability to negotiate the stairs. As he panted to regain his breath he heard footsteps, and turned to look.

Christine Forbes was descending slowly, one hand delicately gliding along on the polished railing. Her face was pinched and pale and her dark eyes were dry and very bright. Shayne had the feeling that she could not weep. She looked frail and young and pathetically unversed in deep grief.

Shayne managed to stand and drag off his hat when Christine reached the foot of the stairs. Her gaze flickered over him without interest. She was about to pass when he put out his hand and said, “Miss Forbes.”

She stopped. Her tortured, burning eyes met his. Slowly the blankness went from her face. She said, as though in a stupor:

“You’re the man who hid behind the wall and eavesdropped on Joe.” It was a simple statement, dull and lifeless, with no hint of an accusation.

“How is Joe?”

“Joe is dying.” She spoke as though it didn’t matter; as though he was already dead as far as she was concerned.

Shayne’s face muscles contracted and his wide mouth was grim. Christine continued in her listless tone, “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You needn’t waste any more time on Joe. He is beyond your reach now. There had to be three, you know.”

“Three what?”

“Corpses. When Joe dies he’ll be the third and that will end the whole miserable affair.”

Shayne’s long arm reached out and caught her slumped shoulder. He held her gently and asked, “What’s the matter with you, Miss Forbes?”

She lifted her eyes wearily. They were glazed, and there was no life in their dark depths. She ignored his question, and parried listlessly:

“Have you found Nora’s body yet?”

Shayne dropped his arm from her shoulder. His voice was hard when he asked, “How do you know she’s dead?”

Christine smiled. A patient, knowing smile. “I’ve known all along.” She paused, then added earnestly, “You’ll let Joe go in peace, won’t you? He’ll make the third and that will end it.”

A tall nurse in a starched uniform glided into the hall from a side door. She took Christine by the arm and said cheerfully, “The doctor said you weren’t to go away, Miss Forbes. You know he gave you something for your nerves and he wants you to lie down and rest.”

“Oh, yes,” Christine murmured. “I was to lie down, wasn’t I?” She went away with the nurse.

Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead, though the open hallway was chilly.

A stocky, white-coated man was coming down the stairs. Approaching Shayne with a nod of recognition, he said: “I’m Doctor Fairweather. I suppose you are anxious to know Mr. Meade’s condition. He is resting under a sedative.”

“Will he live?” Shayne asked.

Dr. Fairweather placed the tips of his fingers carefully together and frowned at them. “It is impossible to make an accurate prognosis at this time. He has a chance. Yes, a fair chance.”

Shayne dragged in a deep breath. “How soon will he be able to talk? Couldn’t you rouse him enough to answer a couple of questions?”

Dr. Fairweather said, “No, indeed. That would almost surely be fatal. Meade must have perfect rest.”

“How soon, then?”

“Tomorrow — at the very earliest — if he rallies satisfactorily.”

“And — if he doesn’t rally?”

The doctor spread out his hands. “Your questions will have to go unanswered in that case, Mr. Shayne.”

“I can’t risk that, Doctor. Good God, all I want is the answer to one question.”

“You can’t risk it,” Doctor Fairweather said stonily. “He is my patient. I’ll allow you to question him as soon as I’m convinced he’s out of danger. Certainly not before that.”

Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little jittery. There are a couple of murders involved, you know.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Was it attempted suicide?”

“That is impossible to determine, Mr. Shayne. The position of the wound indicates that it may have been self-inflicted. On the other hand, there is no proof that another’s finger didn’t pull the trigger. The bullet was a thirty-two caliber.”

Shayne nodded. “Does Miss Forbes believe Meade shot himself?”

“She seems quite positive of it. She is dangerously close to hysteria. It is advisable for her to remain here under my care tonight.”

Shayne said, “I’m at the Teller House. It’s imperative that you call me the moment Meade is able to talk. Miss Carson engaged me to find her father’s murderer, and I think Meade’s condition ties into the case.”

“I understand,” the doctor said.

Shayne turned reluctantly and started toward the doorway, swung around and said, “It’s equally imperative that Meade not be allowed to talk to anyone unless I’m present. You can help me out on that.”

“I can see to that, all right,” the doctor promised. Outside, Shayne was shocked to see the first gray rumors of dawn in the eastern sky. The rugged peaks westward were scalloped against the faint pink of low-hanging clouds. Below, on Eureka Street, a few cars were crawling down the grade to Black Hawk, and tired citizens were climbing the hills homeward.

Going down was easy. When Shayne reached Eureka, he was amazed to find the throng of merrymakers almost as numerous as before. He stopped on the corner, shivered in the damp, chilly air, looked longingly toward the crowded Teller House bar. He needed a drink, and he wanted to find Phyllis, and he wondered what Casey had been doing.

The moment of indecision was brief. He went up the street toward the sheriff’s office. A light burned in a front room of the County Courthouse. He found Sheriff Fleming and a paunchy, rosy-faced little man inside. Fleming introduced him to Mr. Pegone, Central City’s leading mortician and Gilpin County coroner.

“Mighty busy night,” Mr. Pegone effused, dry-washing his plump hands and looking extraordinarily like a beardless Santa Claus. “I guess you’re responsible for it, eh, Mr. Shayne. They say murder follows you around.”

“Sure,” Shayne said. “I have an arrangement with the undertakers’ association for a cut.”

Mr. Pegone thought that extremely funny. He chortled appreciatively, his round belly shaking.

Shayne turned to the sheriff and asked curtly, “How about the girl? Has she been examined by a competent physician?”

“Yes. I’ve got the notes here — things I figured you’d want to know.” He drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and read aloud:

“Struck one lick. With a smooth rock or brick. Died instantly before being doused in the water. Post-mortem bruises on body indicate she was washed some distance downstream before lodging against the stump. Death occurred between four and seven hours ago. That’s timed from two o’clock,” he explained, “meaning she was killed some time between seven and ten o’clock.”

“Not later than ten?” Shayne asked.

“That’s right. I asked particular. The doc figured around eight-thirty or nine, but wouldn’t say closer without an autopsy — knowing when she ate dinner and things like that.”

“Ten is pretty good for us,” Shayne told him grimly. “You and I saw her alive at eight-thirty. What else have you?”

“That’s about all. Doc doesn’t think she fought any before getting hit on the head. But I thought of something else, Mr. Shayne. There’s a government gauge here in the creek. It works automatic, making a record of the rise and fall with the exact time. From looking at it we can tell how high Clear Creek rose tonight — and when.”

“That’s good stuff,” Shayne commended. “When can you get hold of that record?”

“Not till we can get the government man to come up from Denver to unlock it. Sometime this morning.”

“With that, and with what Joe Meade tells when he comes out of it — if he does — we might almost hope to begin to get a faint glimmering of the truth. Call me when you get the dope.”

Chapter thirteen

SHAYNE TURNED THE COLLAR of his tuxedo up around his neck and strode rapidly toward the Teller House. Daylight spilling through the mist had scattered the crowd, and a parade of cars moved down the hill. The barroom was closed.

Knowing Phyllis as he did, he decided to look for her in the patio where he had left her, and went through the rear hall.

He found her sitting at a table with Celia Moore, whose stout torso sprawled on the table, her face cradled in the crook of her arm

Phyllis sprang up and cried, “Michael! I thought you’d never come. I don’t know what to do about her.”

The patio was deserted except for the two forlorn women. Shayne grinned and reached Phyllis in a few quick strides.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I thought you were going to interview Miss Forbes for me.”

“Oh — I did,” she said irritably. “And it was awful. She was nearly out of her mind when she left — and Miss Moore is to blame for it”

Shayne sat down close to her and slipped his arm around her. “Is she conscious?”

He indicated Miss Moore who was breathing evenly and audibly. A trickle of saliva ran down from her mouth, wetting her coat sleeve.

Phyllis whispered, “I don’t think so. She has been like that for an hour, and I didn’t want to leave her. I thought she’d come out of it in a little while.”

“What did she do to make Miss Forbes miserable?”

“She was downright nasty. Told Christine that Joe Meade had been writing notes to Nora Carson. Claims she found one of them and read it — and tore it up. Of course she did that to keep Christine from being jealous and worried,” Phyllis went on ironically. “And then she told us that Nora was dead — and that there would be another murder, because things like that always went in threes in the theater, especially on opening night.”

“Bunk,” Shayne grunted. “What else, angel? Did you find out what was in the note Joe wrote to Nora?”

“I couldn’t question her while Christine was here,” Phyllis wailed. “And when the policeman came for Christine, Miss Moore passed out. She had been propping her eyes open for an hour with her fingers and squinting at us. She was mad because her escort skipped out on her and because she said they used little gold thimbles to measure liquor here — and, oh, it was simply terrible, Michael!”

“What did the police want with Christine?” Shayne asked.

“I don’t know. The man just said that Joe Meade had shot himself and he’d been sent to get Christine.”

“Well — we’d better rouse Miss Moore and get her to her room.”

“If you had heard her talking about murders going in threes! Her voice sounded like a — well, like one of those awful people who predict things like that. It scared Christine half to death.”

Shayne got up and pulled Celia Moore’s shoulders up against her chair. Her arms slid from the table and lolled in her lap. He started talking close to her ear in a persuasive voice. Phyllis caught her plump hands in one of hers and began chafing them.

One of Celia’s eyes opened and squinted at them. “What you doing, big boy?” she asked thickly.

“I want to know what was in the note Joe Meade wrote to Nora Carson.”

The woman giggled. “Can’t tell you, big boy. Don’t wanna hurt Christy’s feelings. Say — I thought you were the gal with redhead. C’mon, let’s all have a drink.”

“The bar is closed — it’s morning. Come on, Miss Moore, we’ll take you to your room,” Phyllis pleaded.

“About that note,” Shayne interrupted. “What was in it?”

Miss Moore shook her head emphatically. “Won’t tell anybody that.”

“You’ll tell tomorrow,” Shayne said angrily. He put a long arm around her waist and pulled her weight from the chair, motioned to Phyllis to take her other arm. “Now walk straight,” he warned Miss Moore. “You don’t want people to think you’re drunk.”

“Got a drink, big boy?” she asked.

“What’s your room number?”

She giggled again and gave him the number, and the trio moved slowly through the rear hall and the bar, and into the lobby. As they started up the stairs, the older woman jerked away from them, caught the banister rail, and pulled herself up, carefully planting both feet on each step.

Shayne and Phyllis waited until she reached her room, then Shayne picked his wife up in his arms and carried her to their room.

As he unlocked the door, he glanced down the hall and noticed a light shining from the open door of 123. He said, “Go on in and get to bed, angel. I’ll look in on Frank Carson.”

Phyllis said stubbornly, “I’ve worked on this case all night with you, and I’m not quitting now.”

Shayne said, “Okay,” with a chuckle, and she followed him down the hall.

Frank Carson lay flat on his stomach across the bed. He wore a striped dressing gown, and bare feet and shanks protruded over the edge.

Shayne said “Carson!” sharply, but there was no movement of the inert body, and no reply.

Phyllis swayed against the door jamb and watched with tired, frightened eyes.

“I told you you shouldn’t come, angel,” Shayne said gently. “Run along, now, and relax.”

She shook her head and stiffened her limbs against the rubbery feeling overcoming them. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, after she said:

“He’s dead, Michael. Frank Carson is the third Celia was talking about.”

Shayne went into the room and began examining the inert body. Phyllis followed him, clinging to his arm. He grinned and pointed mutely to an empty whisky bottle on the floor directly beneath the lax fingers of Carson’s right hand. Carson’s eyes were closed, but his mouth sagged open. He was breathing quietly.

Shayne drew her back, extinguished the light and went out, closing the door. He said gruffly, “Let the poor devil sleep it off. He has had it pretty tough tonight. I suppose he heard about Nora and decided to take this way out of his misery.”

Phyllis swayed against him and whispered, “Do you mean — Celia was right about Nora?”

Shayne looked down into her tired face compassionately. “Hasn’t the news got around town yet? Christine seemed to know all about it. Nora is dead — murdered.”

“But you said ‘bunk’ when I was telling you what Miss Moore said about — three murders. And you knew all the time,” she accused him, her voice teary.

“I wasn’t sure she was passed out,” he told her, “so I just said ‘bunk.’”

“So Nora was the second,” she breathed.

Again Shayne swung her into his long arms and carried her across the threshold of their room and dumped her on the bed.

Chapter fourteen

PHYLLIS LEANED BACK comfortably against the high headboard of the bed. She looked diminutive and ridiculously childlike snuggled into a rose-colored wool dressing gown with the blankets drawn up to her waist.

Shayne extinguished the lights and rolled the window shades high to let the gray light of morning into the room. For fifteen minutes he paced up and down the spacious room while Phyllis reported her interview with Christine in elaborate detail, bringing Celia Moore into the story with dramatic effect.

“I suppose none of it’s important,” she ended with a sigh. “We don’t even know for sure that there was any note from Joe Meade to Nora. Celia might have just been making that up.”

Shayne shook his head. “Christine evidently didn’t think she was making it up. And I don’t believe so either. Remember her hesitancy backstage tonight? I thought she was holding something out on us.” He continued his long-legged pacing with shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped behind his back.

After a few moments, Phyllis cried, “For heaven’s sake, stop impersonating Krazy Kat and tell me whether I did all right or messed everything up. You give me the jitters.”

Shayne said, “I’ve already got ’em.” He stopped at the window and stared broodingly out into the mist of dawn.

There was the sound of starting motors and blasting horns, signaling the end of a full night of revelry. In the cold, merciless light of morning, the little town with its ancient dwellings looked bleak and drab, robbed of all the glamour and intoxicating warmth that had come back with the glory of departed days for one night.

Shayne sighed and turned away from the window. He filled a wineglass from a cognac bottle and sank into an easy chair. He felt drab and bleak and robbed of something.

He reassured Phyllis. “You did all right, angel. Swell, with the material you had to work with. I suppose there wouldn’t be any chance of dragging the contents of the note from the Moore woman?”

Phyllis shook her head and laughed shortly. “Not unless you want to stick pins in her to wake her up.”

“And when she sobers up, she’ll tighten up,” Shayne prophesied gloomily. “She’ll probably deny having seen a note. Oh, hell.” He took a long gulp of cognac, set the glass down dejectedly.

“Maybe I could have kept at her — forced her to tell me.”

With bitter irony, Shayne said, “Oh, no. That wouldn’t have been cricket. Hell, no. We’re solving this case without getting our kid gloves soiled—if we solve it. First, I let Joe Meade give me the run-around, then you let an important clue slip through your fingers.” Phyllis swallowed hard and blinked rapidly to hold back tears. Above everything else, her red-headed husband detested a weepy woman. But she had been so proud of the way she had handled a difficult situation—

Through a salty mist, she saw Shayne get up and stalk to the telephone. He told the operator, “I want to get hold of Sheriff Fleming.” Then, with snarling irritability, “How do I know where you’ll find him? Try his office and home and all the bars. Of course it’s important. Call me as soon as you locate him.”

He slammed up the receiver and went back to pour himself more cognac.

With determined cheerfulness, Phyllis asked, “Have you thought of something, Michael?”

“Something I should have thought of an hour ago.” He nursed the wineglass between his big palms and complained, “I’m losing my grip, Phyl. This thing is getting to be a nightmare. Every time I think I’ve got my finger on something — it eludes me. None of my usual methods work. I’ve always managed to bull my way through a case before. Take hold of a lead and squeeze it between my two hands until something broke. But there’s nothing—”

The telephone interrupted him. He jumped to answer it. He said, “All right, put him on. Sheriff? Mike Shayne talking. I want a guard put over Joe Meade. I don’t want him left alone a moment. Have you got a good man?”

He listened a moment, frowning at the wall. “Well, I want him guarded for both reasons. Station a man in his room to keep Meade in, and everyone else out. I’ll depend on that.”

Phyllis asked in a stifled voice, “Do you think Joe did it — then got remorseful and shot himself?”

Shayne grunted, “Could be. And could be he shot himself for a gag.”

Phyllis shuddered. “A gag?”

Shayne stopped at the foot of the bed with an impatient gesture. “To throw suspicion off himself — if he felt we were closing in.”

“Isn’t it pushing a gag pretty far to almost kill himself?”

Shayne said carelessly, “Some men go a little bit nuts when they get scared. He might have planned to have the bullet just graze his temple. The slightest miscalculation would make the difference.” He went back to his chair.

“But, if you think Joe did it — why did you tell the sheriff you wanted a guard to keep Joe in and everybody else out? That sounds as though he might be in danger.”

“I didn’t say I thought Joe did it. I didn’t say I thought Joe shot himself. Hell, I don’t know what to think. If someone else shot him, it must have been the murderer. And Joe saw him. In that case, I’d expect the killer to make an attempt to finish the job before Joe is able to talk.”

Phyllis shuddered and snuggled deeper into the covers. “Hadn’t you better come to bed? It’s cold.”

“I’ve got thinking to do. And the cognac keeps me warm.”

After a short silence, he asked, “How far is it to Telluride?”

“Didn’t we drive through it last week? That tiny old mining town at the base of those terrific towering mountains? Remember? It’s at the bottom of that gloriously dangerous road — the Million Dollar Highway.”

Shayne nodded. “It’s about a good day’s drive from here.”

“It took us three days,” she reminded him.

“But we stopped in Gunnison and Colorado Springs. You had to have your laugh at me trying to catch a rainbow trout, and you had to see Pike’s Peak.”

“All right,” she assented meekly. “It’s about a day’s drive. When do we start?”

“We don’t.” He took a Prince Albert can from his pocket and shook the clippings and photograph out on the table.

Watching with interest, Phyllis asked, “What’s that?” He told her briefly about his search of Screwloose Pete’s cabin, and the resulting find. He selected the clipping telling of Peter Dacor’s disappearance, and carried it to the telephone.

He told the long distance operator, “This is Michael Shayne at the Teller House. Calling Telluride, Colorado. I want the editor—” he glanced at the clipping “—of the Telluride Chronicle. He hung up and went back to his chair, tossed the clips and photograph to Phyllis. She thumbed through them, murmuring:

“Poor old man. He looks henpecked. Think how he must have felt when he saw Nora’s picture in the Central City newspaper right next to his on the front page, and read about her looking for him all these years. Why do you suppose he didn’t go to her at once?”

“Either of two reasons: He had just made his first decent strike after ten years of poverty and prospecting, and he didn’t want to share it with her. Or, he was frightened away by Nora’s success — ashamed of his shabbiness and what he had become — afraid of shaming her before her rich friends.”

The telephone rang. When the long distance connection was made, he spoke slowly and distinctly: “This is Michael Shayne, a detective in Central City. That’s right. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we’ve got a couple of murders over here and need your help.”

He listened a moment. “Thanks. I appreciate that. How long have you been editor of the Chronicle? Good. You ought to remember the Peter Dalcor disappearance in your town about ten years ago?”

He waited hopefully, tugging at his left ear. “That’s the man. The old miner who ducked out without any explanation. He had a daughter named Nora…”

“That’s right. She’s an actress now. She’s here in Central City appearing in the play. Here’s what I want to know: Are there any other relatives still living?”

He let go of his ear as he listened. “None at all? You’re quite sure? That brings up a difficulty. Do you know anyone now living in Telluride who knew Dalcor intimately before he disappeared? You knew him as well as anyone? That’s great. Could you come to Central City right away to help us solve a couple of murders?”

Shayne’s face brightened.

“It’s damned important, and it’s mighty swell of you to help us. I’ll look for you around six tonight. At the Teller House, as soon as you reach town. Thanks a million, Mr. Raton.”

He hung up and shook his head wonderingly. “These Westerners continue to amaze me. He’s leaving Telluride in his car right away. He say’s it’s only a few hundred miles. By God, Phyl, can you imagine how my ears would be ringing if I’d made a request like that to a complete stranger back home? This man never heard of me in his life, yet he gets out of bed and starts driving just because I ask him to. With that sort of cooperation, I may pull this thing out of the bag yet.”

He went to pick up his wineglass, set it down without lifting it to his lips. He strode back to the telephone and lifted the receiver again. This time Phyllis listened while he got Dr. Fairweather on the other end of the wire.

He said, “I’ve been worrying about Meade’s condition, Doctor. I’m afraid I left a rather bad impression with you — that I didn’t care whether he recovered or not just so I had a chance to question him.”

He grinned as he listened to the doctor. “I did give you that impression, eh? Well, I want to correct it, Doctor. I don’t want you to do anything not in the best interest of your patient. I’m even having a deputy sheriff sent up to sit with him. If you feel it will be safer to keep Meade under a hypo all day tomorrow…”

“By all means, do that. Preserving a human life is far more important than solving a couple of murders. Just forget my impatient attitude. I’ll fold my hands and compose my soul until, say around dark. Seven o’clock, or seven-thirty.”

He hung up, turned to Phyllis, and grinned broadly. “My humanitarian instincts are developing rapidly under your influence, angel.” He yawned and stretched long arms above his head. “I can sleep now.” He loosened his tie and started undoing his shirt.

“Michael Shayne! You know who did it,” Phyllis accused.

“No, Phyl.” His voice was smothered by his undershirt being pulled over his head. “I’m not a storybook dick who knows and refuses to tell just to keep up the suspense. I’ve still got a lot of things to find out before I confront Joe Meade tonight.” He dropped his pants to the floor and strode to the window clad only in shorts, expanded his chest and drew in a great lungful of the near-freezing air.

With his back to Phyllis, he cogitated:

“Maybe Bryant had the right idea about hitting the jackpot out here. A man might invest in a mine and make a million, and never have to leave Colorado.”

Chapter fifteen

MICHAEL SHAYNE looked at his watch when he got off the bus in Denver. The time was ten o’clock, and he decided the hour was not too early to pay a society woman a call. He went to a telephone booth and looked up the number of John Mattson’s residence, wrote it down in a notebook, and went outside to hail a taxi.

In twenty minutes the driver stopped before an old stone mansion in a fashionable district. He paid the fare, strode up the flagstone walk and pushed the button. The heavy paneled door was wide open, and he saw a trim uniformed maid with a broad face and twinkling eyes cross the spacious living-room to answer his ring.

Shayne asked, “Is Mrs. Mattson in?”

“Who is calling?” she asked in a pleasant voice.

Shayne grinned. “Just say a gentleman on business.”

“Mrs. Mattson is having her breakfast and might not want to see you,” the maid told him.

“She’ll see me,” Shayne grated. “It’s important.”

The maid hesitated a moment, then went back through the room, disappearing from sight when she turned to the right after passing through an archway.

She left the door open.

Shayne opened the screen and went in, found a deep chair to his liking, and sat down. He yawned, and settled himself to wait.

He heard the maid’s bright voice say, “There’s a gentleman to see you, Madame.”

“Here, take the tray away, Marie,” Olivia Mattson said. “Do I look all right?”

“Madame looks lovely,” Marie assured her mistress gravely. “The blue is the most becoming of your hostess gowns.”

“It’s Frank. The dear boy has come to apologize. Show him in, Marie.”

Shayne grinned, and lit a cigarette.

“It is not Mr. Carson, Madame,” he heard the maid say.

“Not Frank? Then, who is it? Of course I can’t see anyone at this ridiculous hour. Send him away.”

“But he wouldn’t go away, Madame. He seemed confident you’d see him.”

“Well, ask his name,” Olivia Mattson snapped.

“I did. He wouldn’t tell me, Madame.”

There was a short silence in the room beyond. Shayne got up, found an ashtray, ground out his cigarette and went stealthily toward the richly grilled archway.

Presently, Olivia Mattson asked, “What does he look like.”

“He’s a tall man. Not handsome, Madame, but you couldn’t say he is ugly.”

“Nonsense,” Olivia Mattson said irritably. “Tell him it’s impossible.”

Shayne went silently through the arch into a long sun porch to the right. He said, “Impossible is a word I don’t like, Mrs. Mattson.” He sauntered across the richly furnished, bright room, grinning at Mrs. Mattson’s gasp of outraged protest.

She stormed, “How dare you force your way in here? Marie, call the chauffeur to throw this man out.”

Shayne arched red eyebrows at the maid. “Marie? Katie would be more like it. Better send the yard man and the butler along with the chauffeur. I’m not easy to throw out.” He nudged a rose-satin footstool forward with his toe and lowered his lanky body onto it.

Olivia Mattson sank back on the chaise-longue, a baffled look of fear and dawning recognition in her eyes.

“The name is Shayne. I’m investigating a couple of murders in Central City last night.”

Mrs. Mattson dismissed the maid sharply. Her dark eyes were veiled with long black lashes. “What have I to do with murder?” she demanded.

“I’m not quite sure yet,” Shayne admitted blandly. “But when a man’s wife is murdered, we generally look for another woman. In this case I didn’t have to look very hard.”

“That’s preposterous — and you’re insulting. You can’t possibly suspect me.”

“I suspect everyone who had the opportunity and the motive. As far as I know now, you had both.”

Olivia’s eyes widened, and she held Shayne’s as she reached for a jeweled cigarette holder and a cigarette. Shayne got to his feet and struck a match. As he held it to her cigarette, he said with a disarming grin: “You’ve got to admit your proposed divorce looks suspicious. That Nora Carson’s death was — well, at least, convenient for you.” He blew out the match and resumed his seat on the footstool.

Her thin nostrils quivered as she expelled smoke. She exclaimed, “That’s an atrocious thing to say. Frank was going to divorce Nora.”

“That, of course, will be your story. And Frank’s. I’ll attempt to prove that Nora stood between you. I can produce several witnesses who will testify that Nora Carson was deeply in love with her husband and had no intention of giving him up without a fight.”

After a moment of strained silence, Olivia said, “All right. I’ll produce several witnesses of my own to prove that everything was ended between Frank and me before Nora was killed. That will effectually spike your nasty insinuations.”

“Do you mean the scene backstage after the play?”

“Yes. Several people witnessed it. Oh, I was properly humiliated.” Her mouth was a thin line of bitterness.

Shayne shrugged. “It happens, unfortunately, that Nora was killed some time before that scene took place.”

Olivia put the back of her hand to her mouth. For a moment, panic showed in her eyes. Then it cleared away. “If she was killed during the performance I certainly have an alibi. I was with a large party who had seats near the front.”

Shayne changed his tactics abruptly. “Disregarding the time element for a moment, why are you going on with the divorce if everything is over between you and Frank Carson?”

“The divorce has nothing to do with Frank,” she declared. “Not now. Not after last night. I have a few shreds of self-respect left.”

“Perhaps the divorce really had nothing to do with Frank all along,” Shayne suggested softly. “You’re too mature to fall for a young actor. Oh, you might play around with him, but I can hardly believe you were serious about marrying him. Are you sure you haven’t been using Frank as a blind? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was actually you who engineered the smash-up last night.”

Olivia held the cigarette-holder away from her lips and wet them with the sharp tip of her tongue. “What makes you think that?”

“The whole set-up looks phony. I’m wondering if you hadn’t some other reason for a divorce all along.” He crushed out his cigarette, dropping his gaze from hers.

“If you thought that, why did you come here intimating that I had something to do with Nora Carson’s death?”

“Did I intimate that?” Shayne looked surprised. Then he spread out his hands. “Well, a detective has to follow every lead. You’ll admit you had your husband fooled, too.”

“John.” Her voice was venomous. “If I’d known he was going to take it as he did—”

“You would have told him your true reason?” Shayne finished for her.

“Yes. That I hate him. That I’m tired of having no life of my own — every penny grudgingly doled out to me.”

“You’re a wealthy woman.”

Her thin mouth twisted scornfully. “My husband is a wealthy man,” she contradicted. “Oh, I can have charge accounts at all the stores and he doesn’t look at the bills. But let me ask for a penny of cash—” She raised her hands in horror and rolled her eyes upward.

Shayne’s gray eyes twinkled around the luxuriously appointed room. “This isn’t a bad little love-nest.”

“Love-nest? I’m a slave here,” she cried dramatically. “I’ve helped John get ahead, skimped and managed when we were poor. I’ve a right to my own life. Every woman has. But as long as I’m married to him he’ll treat me like a poor relation, doling out the money as he sees fit.”

Shayne said, “Lots of wealthy men are like that. It gives them a feeling of power to control the purse-strings.” He paused to light a cigarette, asked negligently, “Do you go east often?”

“Very seldom. John’s so tied down with his business.”

“And he won’t let you travel alone?” Shayne asked sympathetically.

“No. That’s another thing I object to. It’s old-fashioned. But I just packed up and went anyway a couple of months ago. New York was wonderful.” Her eyes glowed with the recollection. “No one to tell me what I could or couldn’t do. That brief experience opened my eyes. I realized what life could be if I had some freedom. I made up my mind then to divorce John — long before I met Frank Carson.”

Shayne stared down at the carpet. “A couple of months ago.” He raised his eyes abruptly and asked, “Are you fond of gambling?”

She appeared taken aback, narrowed her eyes. “Not particularly. Why do you ask that?”

He shrugged. “It occurred to me that you might have taken a fling at it while you were east — discovering your freedom. I’ve even heard of people losing more than they could afford — more than they could pay.”

She laughed. “I’d never make a good gambler. I hate so to lose.”

He nodded and put out his cigarette. When he stood up, she lifted her black lashes coyly and asked, “You’re not going to arrest me?”

“Not right away. But I’ll have to ask you to be in Central City this evening about seven. An informal get-together preceding the official inquest which may save you from being called to attend the public hearing later.”

Some of her first hauteur returned to her. “I’m afraid that will be impossible. I plan to leave for Reno tonight.”

Shayne said, “Make it easy on yourself. I can’t force you to come tonight, but I’ll see that you’re subpoenaed as a material witness for the public inquest — and you won’t be allowed to leave town.”

She paled, biting her underlip and shooting him a sharp, worried glance. “If I come at seven, have I your assurance that I’ll be free to leave afterward?”

“Unless we decide to hang a murder rap around your neck,” he told her lightly.

Olivia’s answering smile was forced. “Very well. I suppose I’ll have to risk that.”

Shayne told her, “A lot of others will be taking the same risk. At Dr. Fairweather s private hospital. Just ask for Mr. Shayne — and I appreciate your cooperation.”

Chapter sixteen

RETURNING TO CENTRAL CITY via the new oiled highway through the tunnels from the foot of Floyd Hill, Shayne eased his car into second gear to climb the steep grade west of Black Hawk. Entering the outskirts of Central City, he drove slowly, leaning out to scan the wall of the canyon on his left.

He pulled off the highway to the left at the point where he and Cal Strenk had crossed to reach Pete’s cabin the preceding night, and let the car coast down the steep incline to stop on the rickety bridge where the wooden flume ended and the creek water emerged from under the village to flow along the bottom of the gulch.

He cut off the motor and stared up at the isolated little cabin on the hill high above the creek. The path leading up to it was narrow and precipitous, and he marveled that he and Strenk and the others had been able to follow it in the dark.

He sat there a long time, studying the terrain and getting it fixed in his mind. The cabin was about two hundred feet above the creek bed. All along toward Black Hawk, the bottom of the gulch had been filled in by mine tailings and by construction crews leveling out building sites until only a narrow, deep channel was left.

With the whole scene before him in daylight, it was easy to see how someone could have shot Meade at the cabin and then evaded Cal Strenk and himself as they followed the path to the cabin. As Strenk suggested, he could have slid straight down to the bottom of the creek and forded it, climbed up to the road from Black Hawk and re-entered town unnoticed; or, he might have gone just a little way down the slope until Shayne and Strenk passed on the path above, then climbed up behind them and gone back to the village before the alarm was given.

Shayne opened the door of his car and stepped down on the rough boards of the flume, leaned over the shaky railing and peered down at the mere trickle of water dripping from the end of the flume this morning.

The flume was large enough to accommodate a terrific volume of rushing water. It was rectangular, approximately four by six feet. From the end of the bridge where he stood would be a perfect spot to dump a body into the torrent, and he searched carefully along the floor boards and railing for a bit of torn cloth or a spot of blood to indicate that Nora had been struck down here.

He found nothing. But that didn’t mean this wasn’t the death spot. She had been struck one heavy blow. A slight shove coincident with the blow would have sent her tumbling into the stream before the blood flowed. He recalled the doctor’s belief that there had been no struggle preceding her death.

He walked slowly around his car, followed the course of the flume with his eye until it disappeared under the middle of an old store building. He saw a youth watching him curiously from a filling station up on the road, and beckoned to him.

“Is this flume open to the surface anywhere between here and the opera house?” he asked the lad.

“You’re the detective, ain’t you?” The boy’s freckled face shone happily.

Shayne nodded. “I’m trying to find the closest spot to the opera house where a body could have been placed in the creek. If the flume is covered all the way, this looks like the nearest place.”

“Sure. It’s covered over solid all the way through town.” The youth’s sky-blue eyes danced with excitement. “Runs right under that store building and under Main Street. And the Teller House and opera house are both built right slap kadab square on top of it.”

“How about the other side of town?” asked Shayne. “How far in that direction is the creek flumed in?”

“A long ways up. Lots farther than from here to the opera house. You reckon they might of put her in the flume up there and she washed right under the whole town and come out here?” The lad’s eyes were round and awe-struck.

“Could have,” Shayne assented absently. “The smooth walls of the flume wouldn’t offer any obstacle to the passage of a body. I’d like to check the time it takes to get from the opera house to both ends of the flume. How’d you like to help me?”

“Help you detect? You bet.”

Shayne took out his watch. “Starting from here, I’ll time you to the opera house. Go the nearest and fastest way. Hurry, but don’t run. I’ll drive my car up and be waiting at the opera house when you get there.”

The lad nodded and scrambled up the slope toward Eureka Street. Shayne backed around and followed him, passed the hurrying lad opposite the post office and continued on to park in front of the opera house.

He checked the elapsed time when the boy reached him. Exactly seven minutes and thirty-five seconds from the lower end of the flume.

Shayne said, “Now hop in and show me the upper end. I’ll clock you back the same way.”

His car crawled in low gear up the steep grade beyond the courthouse, past dilapidated and deserted mill buildings built along what had once been the bank of the creek.

“Right here,” the boy stopped him. “This is where the flume starts.”

Shayne parked by the side of the street and got out. He followed his eager young guide through the littered back yard of a weatherbeaten cabin to a point where the rock walls of the gulch converged and the flow of water entered the boarded-up flume to be carried underneath the town. Here, again, Shayne searched carefully without finding any clue to indicate it was where Nora Carson had died.

He looked at his watch and started his young helper back, then returned to his car and let it coast down to the opera house in second gear.

Eight and a half minutes had elapsed when the lad reached him again. He snapped his watch shut and told the lad approvingly, “You were right. It’s closer to the lower end. You were coming downhill this time, and it took you a minute longer to make it.”

“Look, Mister. You figure maybe it was somebody here at the opera house last night slipped out and killed her? Then hurried back and pretended they hadn’t been away — for an alibi? That why you were seeing how long it took?”

Shayne chuckled and took a dollar bill from his pocket. “Keep up that sort of guessing and you’ll be a better detective than I am before you’re many years older.”

The lad was offended by the offer of money. He shook his head. “Gosh, no, Mister. I don’t want to get paid. Let me know if you need any more help.”

Shayne gravely promised he would, and the lad swaggered away.

The front doors of the opera house were closed. Shayne went around to the stage entrance. He found a tall, haggard man in shirtsleeves conferring backstage with a man wearing bib overalls and spectacles. They both looked him over sharply when Shayne approached and introduced himself.

“I’m Johnston, the producer,” the tall man told him. “And this is Mr. McLeod, our set designer and chief property man.”

Shayne shook hands with both of them. He explained, “You gentlemen can help me clear the members of your cast of suspicion in Nora Carson’s murder. She was killed while the play was going on. Whoever killed her must have been absent from the opera house for an absolute minimum of fifteen minutes — and that’s allowing no time for the actual murder.”

Both men listened with intent interest.

He continued, “I’m particularly interested in the movements of two men: Frank Carson and Joe Meade. Don’t answer hastily. Take time to think it over. Your answers may be very important. Could either of those men have been absent fifteen minutes during the performance without being missed?”

He took out a cigarette while he waited. His hand shook, striking a match. A hell of a lot depended on the answer to his question. An entire hypothesis he had been mentally building since early dawn.

The producer was first with a definite and positive shake of his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, Mr. Shayne. Carson couldn’t possibly have been absent from the theater five minutes without being missed.”

“How about intermissions?”

“Impossible. He’s on-stage at both curtains, and has a complete change of costume between acts. No, I can get a cue-sheet if you wish and go over it with you minute by minute, but I assure you that Carson could not have been away as much as ten consecutive minutes from the first curtain until the last.”

“All right. How about Joe Meade?”

“Mac will have to answer for him.” Johnston turned to McLeod.

The stout, overalled man shook his head. “Naturally, I can’t be quite as positive as Johnston. We don’t have a cue-sheet for the prop men. But I’m afraid I’ll have to alibi Meade also. There’s a change of scenery at the end of each act, and a shift just about halfway between each curtain. It’s very, very doubtful that Meade could have been away as much as fifteen minutes without being noticed.”

Shayne made no attempt to hide his disappointment. He hesitated a moment, tugging at his ear, then asked Johnston, “Does Carson have an understudy?”

“No. We can’t provide understudies for every member of the cast.”

“But there must be someone,” Shayne insisted, “capable of taking his place in case of sickness or something like that.”

“Well, there is, of course,” Johnston admitted reluctantly. “One of the bit players who could substitute for most any of the others in a pinch. Philip Steele. He’s an ambitious youngster and quite talented.”

Shayne’s eyes began to glow. “With a great gift for make-up?” he questioned. “He’d have to be if he’s able to assume the different parts well enough to fool an audience.”

“It happens that he is particularly good at make-up,” Johnston assented. “In fact, he’s a wizard at it. But if you’re thinking that Carson might have arranged for Steele to substitute for him on the stage while he slipped out and murdered his wife, the idea is absurd.”

“I was thinking something like that,” Shayne admitted. “It would give Carson a swell alibi. How can you be sure Steele didn’t fool you last night? With his extraordinary gift for making himself up to resemble—”

“See here, Mr. Shayne. I’m the producer. I was right here in the wings every moment. I’d have to be either drunk or crazy for such a substitution to go unnoticed two minutes. I was neither drunk nor crazy last night.”

Shayne said, “All right. But this is murder and I can’t afford guesswork.”

“I’ll take my oath on it,” Johnston said. “You’d better look outside the theater for your murderer.”

“I’ve got plenty of other candidates,” Shayne admitted cheerily. “So many that I’ve got to go through this process of elimination.” He turned to McLeod again. “I’ve just remembered something. I saw the play last night, and there was a hitch in the first change of scenery. The curtain was down so long the audience began to get restless. What occasioned the delay?”

McLeod’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He thumped a solid fist into his palm. “That I should ever forget that! It’s lucky for Joe Meade he went off and shot himself last night. He was to blame. He’d sneaked off for a smoke and didn’t show up to give us a hand until the job was nearly done. I bawled him out proper, you may be sure of that.”

“Slipped off for a smoke?” Shayne repeated. “How do you know that’s what he was doing?”

“So he said when he—” McLeod stopped suddenly. His square jaw sagged.

Shayne nodded. “Exactly. So he said. But you don’t know he was smoking. If he strolled off to commit murder, he wouldn’t be likely to tell you so.” Shayne’s tone was scathing. “That’s what I warned you against when I told you to think your answers over carefully. When was that change of scene?”

“We were a few minutes behind schedule last night. Eight-fifty — a few minutes one way or the other.”

Shayne nodded grimly. “That may be damned important.” He turned to Johnston. “Could I see Miss Carson’s dressing-room again?”

“Of course.”

Nervousness had replaced the faint hostility both men had shown at first. The producer led the way to the steps leading down to the concrete basement, switching on lights ahead of him.

Shayne shivered in the damp, chill air as they reached the bottom.

Johnston smiled thinly. “Air-conditioning wasn’t in vogue when this opera house was built.” He gestured toward an opening in the corridor. “There’s an old furnace in the cellar there, but we don’t use it during these summer revivals.”

Shayne stepped to the doorway and muttered, “This would be a swell place to store an unwanted corpse if it stays this cold in here all summer.”

“It does.” Johnston hesitated, then came back with a harried look on his face. “You’re not expecting to find any more bodies?” he ejaculated.

Shayne hesitated. There was a groping look on his gaunt features; as though he was tantalized by an elusive perception just beyond his reach.

He asked, “Is there a light inside?”

Johnston’s teeth chattered and the blood left his face. “There’s a switch just inside the door.” He reached past the detective, fumbled for it, and the big unfloored basement room was flooded with light.

The hard-packed dirt was damp underfoot. The cellar was littered with discarded pieces of furniture and sets that must have been accumulating for decades. Shayne walked forward, saying grimly:

“I’m nuts, of course, but there is one character missing from last night’s murder charade. And we’re short one corpse according to an old theatrical superstition.”

The producer followed him hesitantly. The top of the wooden flume was flush with the dirt floor, running through the middle of the cellar. Just beyond it was a squat iron furnace, big enough, as Shayne pointed out, to conceal a dozen bodies. He was not satisfied until he had opened the big iron door of the firebox and peered inside, then carefully poked around in all the likely-looking shadows without finding anything.

He grinned ruefully as they emerged from the cellar.

“Next thing,” he prophesied, “I’ll be looking for corpses under my bed at night. But if I wanted to dispose of a body, I wouldn’t look for a better place than that morgue. Let’s see, this was Nora Carson’s dressing-room, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. She shared it with Miss Moore.” Johnston stood in the doorway while Shayne entered and looked around.

He nodded with satisfaction when he saw a black evening wrap hanging on a hook. “I’m slipping. For the life of me I didn’t know whether I saw that wrap hanging there last night, or whether I just conjured up the memory of seeing it there.”

“It’s Miss Carson’s cloak,” Johnston volunteered. “Is it an important clue?”

Shayne’s face was cheerful. “Not particularly important — except that it ties up with a lot of other things. It helps explain why she might have gone up to her room for a coat last night — and indicates she was in a terrific hurry when she left this dressing-room. Either that,” he frowned, “or when she went out of this room she had no expectation of leaving the building. Well, thanks for showing me around. I guess this is all I can do here.”

Johnston followed him upstairs. “Glad to have been of help. And I’m glad, too, I could set your suspicions of Carson at rest. Do you think Joe Meade is guilty?”

Shayne stopped and faced both Johnston and McLeod. “You both know Meade better than I do. What do you think?”

They looked at each other.

Johnston asked, “How about it, Mac?”

McLeod shook his head. “You can’t make me believe it without proof. He’s a strange one and given to wild ideas, but I wouldn’t put murder among them.”

Shayne said pleasantly, “I never make a case against a man without proof,” and went out into the sunlight.

He found Phyllis waiting impatiently in their room, and as soon as he entered, she reproached him, “You slipped away before I awoke this morning.”

He grinned and swept her into his arms. “I was out garnering some early worms while the lazy birds overslept. A regular human dynamo, that’s me.”

She snuggled against him. “Did you get any?”

“Some nice fat juicy ones.” He kissed her lingeringly, then put her aside to pour himself a moderate portion of cognac.

“Dr. Fairweather called while you were out.”

Shayne whirled on her. “How’s the patient?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “If you’d been here in bed with me where you belonged instead of out gathering worms, you could have questioned Joe Meade. But the doctor put him back under a hypo when I confessed I didn’t know where you were nor when you’d be back. If you’d only tell me things, Michael—”

Shayne didn’t appear overly disappointed. “How is the wound?”

“Dr. Fairweather says he’s out of danger. You can grill him to your heart’s content this evening when the drug wears off.”

Shayne nodded happily. “Right on schedule.” He sat down with his drink.

Phyllis came over and insinuated herself into his lap. She rubbed her cheek against his, and teased, “Tell me, Mike. About the worms you’ve been gathering while I slept.”

“The blow-off is set for seven o’clock tonight. You don’t deserve a preview.”

“Then you’ve solved it?” Phyllis cried delightedly.

“With a few ifs and buts and ands and maybes. Some few of which I hope to clear up before tonight.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair and his eyes suddenly took on a faraway look.

He said, “Do you know something, Phyl?”

“How can I?” she pouted. “You never tell me anything.”

He said, “Honest to God, angel, this is the first time I’ve stopped to ask myself why I’ve been running around working my head off on this case.”

“Because you’re a famous detective and people expect you to solve it.”

Shayne shook his head angrily and drank some cognac. “I’m slipping, all right. I’ve figured every angle except my own pay-off. Damn it, Phyl. I haven’t even thought about collecting a fee.”

“For once in your life, it wouldn’t kill you to do something just because it was right.”

Shayne narrowed his eyes and said musingly, “There’s always a money angle — if you look hard enough.”

Phyllis wailed, “Do you have to be mercenary? And on our vacation?”

He pushed her gently from his knees and stood up. The questing look in his gray eyes had been replaced by a bleak and driving intensity. He said, “There wouldn’t be any vacations if I didn’t collect on my cases. Murder is an ugly business, but it’s my business. And by God, I’m not going to pass up any dividends.”

He seized his hat, crushed it down on his unruly red hair, and stalked from the room.

Chapter seventeen

IT WAS LATE THAT AFTERNOON when Shayne encountered Sheriff Fleming in the Teller House barroom. His eyes lighted when he saw the detective. “Been looking for you,” he drawled. “I got a government report on the dingus that measures high water in the creek. Got a man to come out from Denver when I told him it was official business.”

“What did you find out?”

“The water got up past the stump, all right. I got the county surveyor to take his measuring thing out there and he took levels and figured how much rise it would take to’ve floated her down there.”

“That was a smart angle,” Shayne conceded. “And the water rose that high?”

“That’s right. The government instrument shows the crest was a couple of inches above where the Carson girl was lying when you found her. High water was at eight-thirty-two. After that, it started dropping.”

“How fast?”

“Pretty fast. The government man and the surveyor got their heads together and they figure she’d have to’ve been dropped in the creek no later than nine-thirty to’ve lodged against the stump. Nine o’clock, more like.”

Shayne thumped the sheriff on the back. “That’s mighty good work. How about Joe Meade? Is he under guard all the time?”

“You bet he is. I’ve got a deputy sitting by the side of his bed. You reckon he killed ’em both?”

Shayne shrugged his shoulders. “We’re going to find out when he’s able to talk — about seven o’clock tonight. I want you to meet me up at the hospital at seven, Sheriff. And here’s a list of people I want there.” He handed the sheriff a sheet of paper, explaining, “I’ll notify most of them, but I haven’t any official standing around here. It’ll be up to you to round them up for me.”

Sheriff Fleming scanned the list, shaking his head. “You’ve got a mighty lot of names wrote down here.”

“Only one of them is a murderer. But each of the others has some pertinent bit of information that’ll help solve the case. By getting them all together and throwing the fear of God into them, I think we’re going to piece together the most extraordinary plan of coldblooded murder ever conceived in a human mind.”

Fleming sighed and nodded. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I can’t make head or tail out of it.”

Shayne heard his name being called by the hotel clerk in the lobby. A little man in a dusty alpaca coat waited for him at the desk. The clerk said, “This gentleman is asking for you, Mr. Shayne.”

The little man wore a straw hat with a vivid red and orange band. He had restless, inquisitive eyes, and a beaked nose. He said, “I’m Mark Raton from Telluride. Editor of the Chronicle.”

Shayne pumped his hand enthusiastically. “You made a fast trip. I didn’t expect you for a couple of hours.” He drew him aside to a row of straight chairs lining the wall of the lobby.

“I drove straight through without stopping except for gas.” The editor smiled grimly. “You got me curious — talking about murders and Pete Dalcor.”

Shayne said, “It was absolutely imperative that we get hold of someone who knew Dalcor in Telluride.” He got the Prince Albert tobacco can from his pocket and opened it.

“I’m your man,” Mark Raton told him. “I knew him better than most, and I reckon I was the only man in Telluride that wasn’t really surprised when he took French leave and didn’t send back a forwarding address.”

Shayne selected the old clipping from Raton’s newspaper and showed it to the editor. “Is this a good likeness?”

Raton nodded. “I recollect printing that. Just the way he looked then.”

“You say you weren’t surprised when he went A.W.O.L. Why?”

“He had plenty of reason to. Mrs. Dalcor was a hellcat. Nagging all the time till it’s a wonder she didn’t drive Pete crazy. Giving him the devil because he was unlucky and none of his prospects panned out rich. She was a pushing woman. Ambitious and proud. Didn’t surprise any of us when Nora turned out a successful actress. After Pete left home she nagged at Nora until the girl had to amount to something.”

Shayne picked put the recent clipping from the Central City newspaper and passed it over to Mark Raton. “Take a good look at this one. Could one of those men be Peter Dalcor after ten years?”

Raton squinted down at the newspaper picture of Screwloose Pete and Cal Strenk.

“Take your time with it and try to visualize what ten years might have done to Dalcor,” Shayne urged. “A great deal depends on how you answer my question.”

The editor turned the picture to get a better light on it, twisted his head and closed one eye, then the other.

He finally said, “I couldn’t take my oath that either of them is or isn’t Pete. Might be, or mightn’t. If I had to pick one of them for Pete Dalcor, I’d say this one.” He pointed a lean forefinger at Screwloose Pete. “Whiskers and ten years make a sight of difference in a man. I could judge better if they were shaved.”

Shayne was perfectly satisfied. He said, “Everything is shaping up for a showdown. You’re invited to a little seance up at a local hospital this evening. I’m going to attempt to evoke the ghost of Peter Dalcor, and you’ll be my star witness.” He got up, chuckling at the bemused look on Mark Raton’s face. “I’ll see you later, but right now I’ve got to dicker with a couple of men about cutting a melon.”

He strolled out of the lobby and down the street to Jasper Windrow’s large mercantile establishment.

Three clerks were busy waiting on the throng of tourists drawn to the store by the large display of Indian blankets and Western trinkets. Shayne asked for the proprietor and was directed to a small office in the rear partitioned off from a large storage room. The door was open, and Shayne found Jasper Windrow and Cal Strenk inside. Ledgers and account books were strewn over the storekeeper’s desk and he was adding a long list of figures as Shayne walked in. Strenk was slouched in a straight chair tilted back against the wall.

Windrow glanced up, keeping the point of his pencil on his place in the long list. He asked, “What do you want?” in a surly tone.

Shayne said, “If you’re figuring up accounts, you might like to settle up with me at the same time.” He dragged over a three-legged stool and settled his long body on it.

Windrow stared at him from under heavy thatched brows. Cal Strenk cackled and raked the tips of his fingers through his straggly beard. He told Shayne, “The only settlin’ up Jasper likes is when he’s on the takin’-in end.”

The detective waggled his red head back and forth. “I’m not talking about that kind of settlement.”

In a low voice that was hoarse with fury, Windrow snarled, “Nobody here is interested in what you’re talking about. You’re not wanted here. Nor in Central City either.”

Shayne smiled and rubbed his lean jaw. He protested, “I thought you’d be glad to know I’m just about set to clean up a couple of murders here. Thought perhaps you and Cal would like to contribute toward a fund the grateful citizens are making up for me.”

“You and your snooping,” snarled Windrow. His bulky body shook and his features darkened. “I said you weren’t wanted here.”

Shayne smiled and took out a cigarette. “I’m staying.”

“No, you’re not.” Windrow’s chair crashed to the floor behind him. He leaned over the desk. His eyes were mad. “Do I have to throw you out?”

Shayne lit a cigarette. He said earnestly, “I won’t stay out. I’m a tough guy to bounce when I smell a profit.”

Jasper Windrow was moving around his desk. Cal Strenk got up hastily, his shrewd eyes studying Shayne’s unconcerned face. He said, “I wouldn’t, Jasper. Damn it, I wouldn’t if I was you.”

Windrow swung his big body toward Strenk. “You owe him the same as I do. If he hadn’t dug up that tobacco can last night nobody could never have proved who Screwloose was.”

“The tobacco can,” said Shayne, “is what I came to talk about.”

Windrow swerved toward him, shaking his head like a maddened bull. “What is there to talk about now? The harm’s already done.”

Shayne said, “Maybe not.” His calm gaze held Windrow’s bloodshot eyes.

Strenk exclaimed, “By golly, Jasper. Wait. Don’t go off half-cocked. Remember what them fellers from Denver was tellin’ about him this mornin’? They say he’s slicker’n greased lightnin’ when it comes to a way of figurin’ out how to make hisse’f some cash money.”

“He won’t get any money from me,” Windrow growled. “His long nose has already cost us Pete’s share in the mine.” He took another step forward with knotted fists swinging.

Strenk caught his coat-tail with both hands, begging, “No need to rush things. Let him have his say. I figger mebby he’s got a proposition.”

Shayne tilted his head up at Windrow and laughed, letting smoke trail from flared nostrils. “I thought you were a businessman,” he mocked.

Windrow was breathing stertorously. He allowed Strenk to pull him back. “What kind of business have you got with me?”

Shayne said, “It would be an admirable example of civic spirit if you and Mr. Strenk each made a donation of, say, a thousand dollars for the work I’ve done investigating the death of your partner.”

Windrow’s hands clenched themselves into fists again. “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”

“Of course,” Shayne interrupted, “I might be moved by such a generous and freehearted gesture to forget about the tobacco can I dug up in Pete’s cabin last night.”

There was flat silence inside the office. Then Windrow let out his breath in a long wheeze. One hand groped out to the desk for support.

Cal Strenk slid back into his chair against the wall. His laughter had an obscene sound. “What’d I tell you ’bout him, Jasper? What’d I tell you?”

Windrow moved back and picked up his chair. He resettled his solid bulk in it, leaned forward with hairy forearms flat in front of him. He demanded, “Are you offering to suppress that evidence for a cash payment of two thousand dollars?”

Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Now, where in hell did you get that idea?”

Windrow started to go apoplectic again. “You just said—”

“I said,” Shayne told him coldly, “that if you and Strenk wish to do the generous thing and each put up a thousand dollars as my fee on this case, I might reciprocate by forgetting about the evidence we found indicating that Pete was the father of the murdered girl.”

“Hell,” snarled Windrow, “it’s the same thing.”

Pinpoints of anger flickered in Shayne’s eyes. “It’s a long way from being the same thing. You’re talking about a bribe, and, by God, that’s something I’ve never taken.” His voice had a ring of passionate sincerity.

Windrow’s upper lip curled away from his teeth. “Have it your own way.”

“It’s going to be my way or not at all.”

“All right. But how do we know you won’t spring the stuff later?”

Shayne pulled the tobacco can from his pocket. “We three and Two-Deck Bryant are the only ones who know about this stuff. If we burn them right now, no one else will ever know.”

“But how about that Bryant fellow?”

Shayne eyed him coldly. “I don’t believe Bryant will make any trouble. Suppose he does? We three can deny it. The word of an ex-con like Bryant wouldn’t be worth a damn in court anyhow.”

“But there are other clippings, probably other pictures just like that one,” Windrow remonstrated.

“Sure, there are. But they, of themselves, don’t prove anything. No one can identify Screwloose Pete from the old pictures. You said so yourself last night. The only value of the stuff as evidence is because it was found in Pete’s cabin where he had hidden it away.”

“That’s right, by golly.” Strenk slapped his thigh and laughed excitedly.

But Jasper’s suspicious gaze continued to bore into Shayne’s face. “Don’t think I’ll be fool enough to trust you. What’s to prevent you from getting up in court later and swearing you found them there?”

Shayne stood up and threw his cigarette butt on the floor. “To hell with this. You’ve got a chance to buy a third interest in a million-dollar mine for two lousy G’s. You haven’t brains enough to realize I’d be in no position to testify later about evidence which I’d have to admit I destroyed.” He slid the tobacco can in his pocket and started out.

Cal Strenk leaped up with remarkable agility and caught his coat sleeve. “Don’t go. Say something, Jasper. He’s right. If he burns the stuff now he won’t have a leg to stand on later.”

“Well — maybe,” Windrow agreed doubtfully as Shayne stopped in the doorway.

“Maybe, hell,” growled Shayne. “Yes or no?”

“He means yes,” Strenk chattered, pulling at Shayne’s coat sleeve. “No use gettin’ mad.”

Shayne let himself be drawn back into the office. “It’ll be my way or not at all.” He stared at Windrow coldly, planting his feet wide apart. “Cash on the barrelhead along with a written notation to the effect that it is a fee paid me outright for my services, with no strings attached.”

Beads of sweat formed on Windrow’s forehead. “I can’t raise that much cash.”

“How much can you raise?”

“Not more than a few hundred — until we can realize something on the mine.”

“I heard that Pete turned down a cold hundred thousand for his one-third share.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Tell you what,” offered Shayne generously. “I’ll take a gambler’s chance. You two make over a tenth share in the property to me. I’ll take it in lieu of cash.”

“A tenth? But that’s—”

“It’s a lot less than the third share you stand to lose unless this stuff is burned,” Shayne pointed out. “And I’ll protect you further by inserting a clause in the deed to the effect that it becomes void if any share of the property goes to Peter Dalcor’s heirs. That way, you can’t lose.”

Windrow wet his lips. He glanced anxiously at Strenk. “Sounds reasonable enough.”

“It’s good enough for me,” Strenk exulted. “Make that deed out an’ I’ll sign it right here.”

When Shayne left Windrow’s store half an hour later, a deed to one-tenth interest in the mining claim rested in his breast pocket. An empty Prince Albert can lay on Windrow’s desk, and in a wastebasket were some charred ashes; all that remained of the clippings and the photograph that had been in the can.

At the Teller House, Shayne went directly to Frank Carson’s room. He knocked loudly, then tried the knob. It opened, and he looked at the resentful face of Frank Carson, sitting up in bed and still wearing his pajamas.

The actor’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. When he saw who his visitor was, Frank put his hands to his forehead and sank back with a groan.

Shayne grinned and said, “You’ll live.” He moved into the room, glancing about speculatively.

Carson uncovered one eye to peer at him. He muttered, “I just woke up. What’s doing? What have you found out?”

Shayne said, “Things. Better take a bromo and try some black coffee. I’m going to need your help shortly.”

Carson closed his eyes and groaned, “I won’t be much help.”

“You’ll have to snap out of it. The doctor says Meade will be able to give out by seven o’clock. You want to help me put a noose around the neck of your wife’s murderer, don’t you?”

Carson struggled to a sitting position. He said dully, “It was Meade. I know it was. It must have been. Why else would he go out there to shoot himself?”

Shayne made a wry face. “If I knew the answer to that, I’d know everything.” His manner changed to briskness. “I want to see your wife’s scrapbook. There’s a ten-year old clipping I need to complete my case.”

“It’s in the desk over there.” Then Frank pulled his hands away from his face. “How’d you know Nora kept a scrapbook?”

Shayne laughed. “I’ve never known an actress who didn’t save her press notices.”

He went to the old-fashioned desk and pulled down the lid. Carson stumbled past him to the bathroom, pointing mutely to a leatherbound loose-leaf scrapbook.

Shayne sat down with it and began turning the pages. It carried a photographic record of Nora’s babyhood, and there were brittle old clippings that proved she had been a precocious youngster. A Fairylike Danseuse, the Chronicle had captioned her; and, A little lady with a lot of dramatic talent. That, at the age of ten.

There were other clippings, all strictly small-town stuff. Shayne turned the pages slowly, a deep frown creasing his forehead when he found no mention of her father’s disappearance.

When Frank came out of the bathroom, whitefaced and retching, Shayne demanded, “Hasn’t she any clippings about her father’s disappearance? That’s what I’m looking for.”

Carson collapsed on the bed. He shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing anything about it in the scrapbook. She didn’t like to talk about it. But I know it’s all true. I can prove it easily enough.”

Shayne scowled. “I’m not worried about that. There was a particular clipping I wanted.” His voice trailed off. He had burned that other clipping in Windrow’s office.

His features tightened grimly. He turned slowly back through the pages and found a picture of Nora’s father with his whiskers — as near a likeness to the picture in the burnt clipping as he could find. He closed the book and put the picture in his coat pocket, said brusquely: “Get yourself in shape to meet me at the hospital at seven o’clock,” and went out.

Phyllis leaped up with a little cry of fright when he entered the room down the hall. “What’s wrong, Michael? Why are you looking like that?”

He set himself, and made an ironic smile come on his lips. He patted his breast pocket holding the deed to a tenth interest in the mine, and said, “We’ve bought ourselves into the mining business, angel. Whether we like it or not.”

Chapter eighteen

THE HAZE OF TWILIGHT was deepening toward the edge of darkness in the mountain gulch when Michael Shayne, accompanied by his wife and Mark Raton, arrived at Dr. Fairweather’s private hospital a few minutes after seven o’clock.

Most of the persons on the detective’s list were already gathered in the ground-floor parlor on the east side of the old house. Shayne stopped in the doorway and viewed the uneasy assemblage with grim satisfaction.

It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room with wide bay windows looking eastward. Modern straight chairs from the doctor’s dining-room were ranged stiffly along the north and south walls, complementing two old-fashioned rockers and a leather settee which were practically museum pieces.

Christine Forbes sat erect in a straight chair in the corner at the right of the windows. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, and her eyes were wide and unblinking — as though they had not been closed for a long time, and would never close again.

Celia Moore reclined in a rocker beside Christine. Her stout body was neatly corseted beneath a powder-blue frock. She looked rested and tranquil, like a woman freshly absolved of past sins and ready to sin again if opportunity came along. Her lips hummed a sprightly tune and she had a coy smile for Jasper Windrow who slouched in a straight chair beside her.

Windrow was clearly not in a flirtatious mood. His stony features looked more than ever as though they had been rudely gouged from native granite. His cold eyes threatened Shayne in the doorway.

Cal Strenk was dressed in clean faded jeans and a shirt that had once been white, but was now yellowed with age and many scrubbings. A stringy black tie was loose about the withered neck, and he evidenced nervousness by continually combing his chin whiskers with ragged fingernails.

Across the room from those four, Frank Carson was slumped against one end of the leather settee. He was nattily dressed, and looked sleek enough outwardly, but his sallow complexion and nervously twitching eyelid betrayed his inward unease.

Patrick Casey occupied the other end of the old settee. His bullet head lolled back and he puffed vigorously on the frayed butt of a cigar while he tried to catch Celia Moore’s gaze with his twinkling eyes.

Sheriff Fleming arose from a chair near the door when Shayne entered. He said:

“A couple of them aren’t here yet. That New York fellow and the patient from upstairs. But I told Bryant to be here, and Doc Fairweather says he’ll have the patient wheeled in when we’re ready.”

Shayne said, “I don’t think Two-Deck will want to miss this, and I have invited another guest from Denver, also.” He stood aside to let Phyllis and the Telluride editor enter. Phyllis smiled at Casey and took a seat between him and Carson on the settee.

Shayne introduced Mark Raton to the room at large: “Mr. Raton is an old friend of Nora Carson’s father. He’s driven all the way from Telluride to help us get at the bottom of this affair. Suppose you take this rocking chair facing the windows, Mr. Raton.”

The outside door opened and closed as the editor took his seat at the right of the door. The tramp of feet, like marching men, sounded in the hallway. Shayne turned in the doorway, blocking it with his bulk. He said to Two-Deck Bryant:

“Your punks weren’t invited to this conference.”

The gambler halted in front of him, his icy eyes fixed on the top button of Shayne’s coat. His two bodyguards ranged up beside him. He asked, “How do I know what you’re fixing to pull, Shamus? I’ve a right to have my friends along in case you spring one of your fast ones.”

Shayne laughed. “A lot of good those two would be if I did frame you for murder. Don’t forget you’re out west, Two-Deck, where the trees grow tall.” He stepped aside to let Bryant pass, warning the others, “This is a private performance, boys. You can wait outside.”

The one whom Shayne had disarmed the night before rasped, “How about it, Chief? Do we stay?”

Anger flamed in Shayne’s eyes. He gave Bryant a shove through the doorway, then blocked the opening. His fists were bunched at his sides. Through his teeth, he said, “Beat it.”

The two gunsels hesitated. Each had a right hand lumped in his coat pocket.

Casey appeared beside Shayne and asked, “You want I should light a fire under ’em, Mike?”

Shayne said, “You won’t have to. They’re going out like good little boys.” Deprived of Bryant’s moral support they turned silently and padded down the hall.

Olivia Mattson came through the door as it was swinging shut behind Bryant’s erstwhile bodyguards. She looked trim and neat and almost youthful in a tailored suit of heather-green wool and an absurd little hat tilted down over her right eye. She was camouflaged with a lot of rouge, and managed a flippant smile as she came up to Shayne.

“Here I am. I hope you won’t keep me long.”

Shayne asked softly, “Still planning to catch the night train west?”

She said, “I certainly am,” and her voice was strong and hard.

Shayne led her inside and again performed a perfunctory introduction. “Mrs. Mattson from Denver — whom some of you already know. There’s a vacant chair by the window, Mrs. Mattson. Now, that’s all, I believe, except the guest of honor.” He glanced at Sheriff Fleming.

Fleming went out and returned in a few minutes with Dr. Fairweather. Behind them, a nurse wheeled in Joe Meade in a rubber-tired reclining chair. His head was swathed in bandages. Sultry eyes, a heavy-bridged nose, and a sulky mouth were the only features that could be seen.

Christine leaped to her feet with a little cry when he was wheeled into the room. She bent over him, crying, “Are you all right, Joe? They refused to let me—” The efficient nurse drew the girl back gently. “The patient is extremely weak and must not become excited. Rest and quiet are all he needs for recovery.”

The doctor warned Shayne, “The young man’s condition is very favorable, but we must guard against a relapse. I can permit him to answer only a few vital questions.” He took a determined stand beside the patient.

Shayne frowned at Meade’s bandages. “Will he be able to hear me through those wrappings?”

Meade cut his eyes in Shayne’s direction without moving his head. “I can hear you, all right” His voice was thin, but carried a thread of hostility.

Shayne told the doctor, “I’ll do most of the talking. After I’ve had my say, there won’t be many questions.” He paused and let his gaze circle the crowded room, passing over Mark Raton and Carson, pausing to catch Phyllis’s encouraging eyes for a moment, on past Casey to Olivia Mattson, then to Christine in the opposite corner.

Christine met his eyes levelly, openly hostile, but Celia smiled at him. Jasper Windrow’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, but Cal Strenk favored him with a sly and knowing wink. Bryant had taken a chair beyond the old miner and was hunched forward with his chin cupped in his palms, his finely sculptured features expressing complete boredom.

Glancing back at Sheriff Fleming, Dr. Fairweather, the nurse and her patient, Shayne thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets and lounged back against the threshold. He began in a conversational tone:

“Opening night of the Play Festival was marred by two murders. An old man who didn’t have much to live for; and a young woman with all of life before her. Each one of you is mixed up in the case one way or another, more or less. Each of you had reason to desire the death of one or the other of the victims. Each of you had the opportunity to commit at least one of the murders. One among you had the motive and opportunity for both murders.”

There was complete silence when he paused. He warned:

“I’m going to take my gloves off and go at you hammer and tongs. Someone is going to break before I’m done. This has been a tough case to unravel because I’ve uncovered such a damnable tangle of confused and overlapping motives, because there aren’t any factual clues. By getting you all together, I hope to put you at each other’s throats until the truth comes out.”

He directed his gaze at Frank Carson.

“You’re the most logical contender for a noose,” he told the young actor pleasantly. “Screwloose Pete had just discovered a mine worth a small fortune. He was murdered immediately after your wife identified him as her long-missed father. Then, she was killed. Leaving you the legal heir to Pete’s share of the mine — if his relationship to your wife can be proved.”

Carson set his teeth and his eyes blazed at Shayne. “You’re absolutely nuts if that’s the best theory you’ve got. I can punch it full of holes. In the first place, I didn’t even know the old man was Nora’s father — until after he was dead. And I’ve been talking to the sheriff. Nora was murdered long before the play was over. Good heavens, I won’t have any trouble proving I couldn’t have left the theater.”

Shayne shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s the trouble with each of my theories,” he admitted. “But you didn’t let me complete my case against you. Passing up the first murder for the moment, you had another possible reason for desiring your wife’s death. You have been openly carrying on an affair with Mrs. Mattson for weeks. To such a point that she demanded a divorce from her husband yesterday.”

When Carson glanced sideways at Olivia and then started to protest, Shayne interrupted with a wry grin:

“I know your answer to that, too. You were just fooling. But you certainly had the lady fooled — until after the play last night when you had the unpleasant job of throwing her over publicly. I can’t help wondering whether something happened to make you change your mind in the meantime.”

“Nora’s death, I presume?” Carson’s voice was scathing. “First, you insinuate I wanted to get rid of her so I could marry Olivia, then you contradict yourself by hinting that Nora’s death caused me to change my mind. None of it makes sense anyway,” he ended disgustedly, “because I hadn’t left the theater before I left Olivia backstage. So I couldn’t have known Nora was dead.”

Shayne paused for a moment to give his words significance. “I have to admit I don’t believe you’d left the theater since the first curtain went up. And that brings us to Mrs. Mattson.” Shayne turned his gaze to her.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a motive for you to have killed Screwloose Pete. The profit motive hardly holds water, even if you hoped Carson would inherit the mine, because your husband is a wealthy man and you had demanded a large property settlement with the divorce. But Nora Carson’s death would have been convenient. You weren’t fooling. And today, after her death, I learn you plan to go on with the divorce.”

Olivia Mattson replied with unshaken poise, “I explained to you this morning that my divorce has nothing to do with Frank. Nothing whatever,” she repeated, catching her lower lip between strong white teeth.

“Perhaps not. But you’d be more convincing if you stated another definite reason. Such as needing a large sum of money desperately — and receiving only a paltry allowance from your husband. Gambling in a clip-joint sometimes leads to such a situation. How about it, Two-Deck?” He swung his attention to Bryant. “Do you want to alibi the lady by giving us another reason why she might have wanted a divorce?”

Bryant lifted his cold gaze to Mrs. Mattson, then to Shayne. “You’re doing the talking, Shamus.”

“And I’ve still got a lot of it to do. But it would help a lot, Bryant, if you’d break loose and tell us which one of these people you came west to finger for your money. Knowing your collection methods, I figure the one who skipped out of New York without paying off would be quite ready to commit murder to clear up that debt.”

Bryant repeated, “You’re doing the talking.”

Shayne sighed. He turned back to Mrs. Mattson. “Do you wish to add anything to the unenlightening conversation I’ve just had with Mr. Two-Deck Bryant?”

Her eyes rounded at him. She shook her head firmly. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps not.” Shayne turned to Windrow and Strenk. “While we’re on the profit motive, I don’t want to neglect you two. You were partners in Pete’s mine. You both had reason to believe no heirs to his estate would ever be found and that his share would revert to you after death. And Strenk!” Shayne’s voice hardened. “The man seen darting away from Pete’s body last night was bearded, dressed like a miner. The description fits you.”

Strenk chuckled with sly humor. “I told you where I was when Pete was getting his head smashed.”

“How about you, Windrow? Have you an alibi, too?”

“I don’t need one,” Windrow retorted. “This whole proceeding is insane. I don’t intend to sit here idly while you make absurd accusations you can’t back up with a shred of proof.”

He got up and started for the door.

Shayne glanced at Fleming. The sheriff stepped into the doorway, drawing a.44 from under his coat. He drawled, “Sorry, Jas. I reckon you better stick around.” Windrow hesitated, then dropped back into his chair with a surly oath.

“You’re short of money,” Shayne went on. “You admitted to me today that you could raise only a few hundred in cash. You made a trip to New York recently. Could you be the sucker who brought Bryant out on a collection trip?”

Windrow’s face hardened. He demanded, “What good would it do either Cal or me to murder Pete when he has a daughter right here in town?”

“The chances are that neither of you knew she was his daughter until after he was dead. Or, you may have known, and killed him hoping to prevent his recognition by her — which would explain the disfiguring blow dealt him. Then,” he went on swiftly, overriding a bellow of rage from Windrow, “you discovered his death had come a few minutes too late. So, you had to get rid of the girl also — hoping there wouldn’t be any factual proof discovered to uphold her identification and make it legally binding.”

“And there hasn’t been any proof found,” Windrow reminded him. “None that I’ve heard of.”

“What do you mean by that crack?” came unexpectedly from Frank Carson across the room. “Do you two murderers think you can get away with a thing like that? Nora said he was her father. I’ll prove it, all right. Don’t think I’m going to let you call my wife a liar in court.”

Shayne said to Carson, “Let’s skip that point for the time being.” He slowly turned to Christine and Celia, spoke gently to the younger girl:

“I’m not going to accuse either you or Miss Moore of murder, though you did benefit by Nora’s death, Miss Forbes. It gave you your big chance — one you’d been waiting for a long time. And that brings up a point that’s had me puzzled all along: Why did Miss Carson conveniently leave the theater to be killed just before the curtain went up? You and she weren’t friendly, Miss Forbes. She wasn’t being big-hearted about giving you your chance. It was something vitally important that took her away from the theater. And that, I think, is where our wounded young playwright comes into the picture.”

He glanced at his watch, then turned to the bandaged figure of Joe Meade in the wheel chair.

“You were in love with Christine. You were bitter against the fate that makes it difficult for young actresses and playwrights to get a start. You were in love with Christine — yet behind her back you were carrying on with Nora. Sending her notes. You sent, or left one, in her dressing-room just before she disappeared last night.”

Shayne held up a big hand when Meade parted his lips to speak. “I’ll do the talking for a moment. Then it’ll be your turn. I know all about that note, Meade. Miss Moore found it in the dressing-room after Nora had gone. She told me what was in it—”

He whirled on Celia who surged to her feet to deny his charge. “I’m doing the telling. Now that you’re sober, you’re sorry you spilled it, but that won’t help Joe.”

He turned back to Joe Meade, whose dilated eyes were the only indication of the strain he was under.

“You were determined Christine should have her chance. You planned for weeks to lure Nora away on opening night so her understudy could take over. All the important critics were there — the hot-shots from the East whose wire stories to their papers could make or break an actress. You knew all Christine needed was a chance to show her stuff. You were tired of waiting for fate to give her a break. So, you took fate in your own hands.”

Shayne had moved forward slowly until he now stood beside the wheel chair. His hands were still in his pockets, but each word carried a terrific impact, as though he struck bare-fisted blows.

“You lured Nora away from the theater just before the first curtain went up. To be sure she didn’t come back and spoil things, you slipped out during the first act and met her down at the end of the flume and got rid of her permanently — then hurried backstage and pretended you hadn’t been away.”

He stopped suddenly. Christine’s labored breathing sounded loud in the silence. Her face was constricted. Joe Meade stared up at Shayne unblinkingly. The detective’s voice became soothing. “That’s the way you planned it. You may as well admit the dirty truth.”

Joe spoke for the first time in his own defense. “You’re nuts. I had to be backstage all through the first act. If Nora was killed during that time, you can’t pin it on me. We had a change of scenery in the middle of the act.”

Shayne nodded blandly. “You almost made that alibi stick. But I was out front. There was a hitch in that scene shift. It took too long. McLeod tells me the trouble was because you weren’t on duty to help. You were a few minutes late in getting back from meeting Nora.” Joe’s lips twitched into a snarl.

“It’s all a lie. Every bit of it.”

Shayne looked down at him pityingly. “What a shock you got after the play when you learned that Christine was horrified at the thought of you having anything to do with Nora’s absence. You bragged about it at first. Remember? I heard you. With what I heard, and the note Miss Moore found, we’ve got you dead to rights.”

“All right.” The words came out thinly. “So you know about that part of it. I won’t deny I fixed it for Christine. It came to me all of a sudden when I heard about Nora’s father. I had been trying to figure how to get her away. But she wasn’t where I told her to meet me. You can’t prove I met her there. She wasn’t there, I tell you. What I did wasn’t any crime.”

Shayne shook his head sorrowfully. “Then why did you get an attack of conscience and go out to the cabin and shoot yourself? That was the give-away, Meade.”

“Shoot myself? Good God, is that what you think?”

“What else are we supposed to think? Overcome with remorse—”

Joe Meade began laughing wildly. “I didn’t shoot myself. I got shot. I was worried about Nora. I went out looking for her. I saw a light in the cabin I knew her father had lived in, and thought she might be there. But I pulled the door open and saw a man on the floor with a flashlight. He turned the light out and jumped me. I heard a gun go off in my face — and woke up in a bed upstairs.”

Shayne rubbed his jaw. “Could be,” he commented drily. It was growing quite dark in the east room. Over his shoulder, he said, “I wish you’d turn on the lights, Sheriff.” Then, to Meade, “If you’ll tell us who shot you, we’ll be glad to ask him what he was doing out there.”

Brilliant light glowed from an overhead chandelier.

It lighted the wounded man’s frightened eyes, his tight-drawn mouth. He shook his head helplessly.

“That’s just it. I don’t know who it was. He was squatting down with his back turned — then the light went out—”

The front legs of Cal Strenk’s chair thumped to the floor. He pointed a trembling hand at the window, ejaculating, “Who in tarnation is that out there?”

A whiskery old face was pressed against the pane, peering into the lighted room. The upturned collar of a sheepskin coat framed his seamed features.

Phyllis shrieked, “Mike! It’s that same face—”

Shayne leaped forward as the face disappeared in the darkness. He jerked the screen loose and thrust his head out, called back sharply, “There he goes. Around the corner of the house.” He turned back, glancing at his watch.

Mark Raton was standing up near the door. His firm voice crackled in the hushed silence:

“That was Pete Dalcor. If he got killed last night, that was his ghost. I’ll take my oath on it.”

Chapter nineteen

THE BAFFLED LOOK on Sheriff Fleming’s face showed that he didn’t understand any of it, but he whirled out of the room and down the rear hall in the hopes of intercepting the bearded man who had reappeared so mysteriously.

Everyone else in the room was staring at the editor from Telluride. Phyllis Shayne spoke first:

“You must be mistaken, Mr. Raton. That’s the same man we saw at the window last night. I know it is. Didn’t you recognize him, Mike?”

Shayne nodded slowly. “Looked like the same face to me.”

“Can’t help that,” Raton grumbled. “Maybe you did see Pete Dalcor last night. But I saw him just now.”

Two-Deck Bryant spoke up in a voice that trembled with wrath. “This is your doing, Shayne. I knew, by God, you had something up your sleeve. You had that old coot planted out there waiting for dark. I saw you look at your watch while you were driveling on — killing time until you could turn on the lights. You’re fixing it to try and prove the man who was killed last night wasn’t Peter Dalcor.”

“Why,” said Shayne agreeably, “that seems self-evident. We all know Screwloose Pete is dead. But Mr. Raton knew Dalcor intimately years ago, and you just heard him positively identify a live man as his old friend.”

“And I suppose he’ll now conveniently disappear again,” sneered Bryant. “And nobody will be able to prove he isn’t Dalcor. How much did you pay Raton to come here and pull a phony identification?”

Shayne said, “I think Mr. Raton’s reputation will make him a credible witness if the question arises in court.” He moved slowly toward Bryant. “I wonder why you’re sticking your oar in. What stake do you have in proving Dalcor dead?”

Bryant met his gaze steadily. “You insisted that I attend this conference, God knows why. I just want to warn these people that you’ve got a rep for pulling stunts like this. Ten to one, you’ve twisted it around so you stand to make something by proving the dead man wasn’t named Dalcor.”

“That must be it,” Frank Carson put in angrily from behind Shayne. “He and his wife are in it together with this imported expert witness.” He gestured angrily toward Raton.

“But you won’t get away with this one, Shamus,” Bryant broke in. “You’ll have a tough time getting around those clippings and things the murdered man had stashed away in his cabin.”

“What clippings and things?” Shayne asked coldly.

“The ones you dug up from under the hearth last night. These two men were there when you found them.” The gambler indicated Windrow and Strenk.

Shayne raised his eyebrows at the two local men. “Do either of you know what this man is talking about? Did you see me dig up anything in Pete’s cabin?”

They both shook their heads stoutly. “First we heard of it,” they vowed.

Bryant began to curse Shayne in a low metallic voice. The redhead slouched closer and hit him in the mouth. Bryant was slammed back against the wall. Blood trickled down his chin. He licked at it and stopped swearing.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” Shayne told him softly. “I thought you’d draw cards when you saw the way things were beginning to stack up.”

Sheriff Fleming strode back into the room before Bryant could answer. He announced in a baffled tone: “Dogged if I know where he went to. Up in the air, seems like. Maybe,” he added in a hushed tone, “it was Old Pete’s ghost.”

“There you are,” Carson cried. “Just as Bryant prophesied. It’s a trick to beat me out of my rightful share of the mine. But we’ll get a court order to make you produce that tobacco can. You can’t hold out evidence.”

“What tobacco can?” Shayne asked slowly.

“Why — the one you found in Pete’s cabin,” Carson faltered.

“What do you know about it?” Shayne pivoted away from Bryant to face the younger man.

“Bryant just said he was there when you dug it up.”

“He didn’t mention a tobacco can.”

“Well he — he had told me about it before,” stammered Carson, suddenly conscious that everyone in the room was eyeing him suspiciously.

A young man entered the room quietly. He was approximately the same build as Frank Carson, with wavy brown hair and intelligent dark eyes. He asked Shayne, “How did I do?”

Shayne glanced at his watch and grinned. “Exactly six minutes to get that old-man make-up off and reappear dressed in your own clothes. You’re an accomplished actor, Steele. As good, I’d say, as Carson. And I have a hunch you’re going to prove it when you play his role at the opera house tonight.”

To the others, he said, “Let me present Philip Steele, Exhibit A. Peter Dalcor, if you please, without the whiskers and sheepskin coat.”

To Mark Raton, he said, “Sorry to hoax you, but I had to convince myself it was possible for an actor to make himself up to resemble an old photograph closely enough to fool someone who had known the man in the photograph ten years ago. You see,” he added, “that’s the way Nora Carson was fooled last night.” Frank Carson slumped back on to the settee. His face was white and his left eyelid twitched spasmodically. He kept opening and closing his mouth, but no words came out.

Two-Deck Bryant was edging along the wall toward the door. Shayne jerked his head at Casey. The New York detective got up and blocked the exit with a cheerful grin.

Shayne said thoughtfully, “I’m not positive what the exact charge will be, Casey, but I imagine Colorado has some statute to cover the crime of incitement to murder. For Two-Deck is morally just as guilty as Carson. He drove Frank to put his fantastic plan into execution by threatening him with death if he didn’t pay up in a hurry. And we can charge him with attempted murder. He shot Joe Meade last night.”

Bryant stopped with a snarl that drew his lips away from his teeth. “What do you think I was doing out there?”

“Burying a Prince Albert can under the hearth. You overplayed your hand later when you were afraid I might overlook the cache. You drew my attention to the loose brick by stepping on it — and then suggested that I keep on digging under the first can which poor old Screwloose had showed you previously. Didn’t he plant the stuff, Carson, after you gave him the clippings and picture from your wife’s scrapbook?”

The actor had gotten hold of himself. He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and clamped his lips together tightly.

Shayne said, “The beginning of the whole thing was the gambling debt Bryant came out to collect. First, you planned to get the money from Mrs. Mattson. But you would have to marry her, and Nora wouldn’t divorce easily, and Bryant wanted his money in a hurry. Then you read in the local paper about a simple-minded, nameless old prospector who’d just made a rich strike. You knew all about Nora’s missing father, and you worked out a plan to get Pete identified as your father-in-law and then get rid of him immediately afterward.”

“He was her father,” Frank insisted. “She recognized him. She said so. After he was dead.”

“But she hadn’t recognized his picture in the paper,” Shayne reminded him. “She didn’t until you made yourself up to look like her father had looked, and showed your face to her briefly through the hotel window. Then, like Mr. Raton just now, she was convinced she had seen Peter Dalcor. You ran away, met Pete up on the hillside where you had him planted, and smashed in the old man’s head with a rock so he was scarcely recognizable.

“Your psychology was perfect,” Shayne went on swiftly. “And your timing of the whole affair was also perfect. She ran out of the hotel looking for her father. She was overwrought, and when she saw the body of an old man superficially resembling her father, dressed exactly as she had just seen him, with his face smashed and bloody, she naturally leaped to the conclusion that he was the same man she’d just seen out the window.”

Carson laughed hollowly. “You should be writing mystery stories instead of trying to solve them. You saw me there yourself a few minutes after he died.”

“Philip Steele just duplicated the stunt in exactly six minutes,” Shayne reminded him. “A dentist and his wife saw a bearded man in miner’s clothing run away from the body. That was you, in your disguise.

“And you had timed it so Nora had only a few minutes with the body before you rushed her off to the opera house. She was weeping and torn with grief, in no condition to make a close examination of the corpse. Then, of course, she had to die, too — to prevent her from later discovering Pete wasn’t actually her father — and to make sure that the legacy went directly to you.”

Carson laughed again. “Of all the goddam fairy tales,” he marveled.

“It’s the way it has to be,” Shayne argued. “I showed Raton that recent picture of Screwloose and he couldn’t identify the man as Dalcor either. Just as Nora couldn’t. Why, then, did she suddenly do so through the window last night?”

“How do I know?” snarled Carson. “Just the right light — a familiar expression on his face—”

Shayne shook his head. “You made a half a dozen other mistakes. After you killed Nora, you knew there was no further need to keep on with Mrs. Mattson to get the money, so you told her off. And those clippings you supplied Bryant to hide under the hearth were from Nora’s scrapbook — with the exception of the one of Pete himself which he had torn out of the paper. The others were neatly clipped with scissors to show the date and source — as every actor clips his notices.”

“All that adds up to exactly nothing,” Carson cried scornfully. “You admit Nora was dead before the play ended. I can easily prove I couldn’t have been absent from the theater for as much as five minutes. And it takes longer than that to get to the end of the flume where her body could be thrown in the creek.”

“Yes,” Shayne agreed. “I timed it this afternoon. It takes fifteen minutes to reach the nearest end of the flume. And that gives you a swell alibi, Carson. Except for the trap-door into the flume from the old cellar under the opera house. Until I saw that opening into the flume this afternoon, I confess I didn’t see how you’d managed it. You didn’t have to leave the building to kill her. You got her into the cellar during the first act, killed her and dropped her body through the trap-door into the rushing water that carried her into the creek below town.”

Carson’s face was a ghastly yellow, but he still managed a sneer of bravado. “You’re forgetting that Meade admits leaving a note to lure her away.”

“He left a note in her dressing-room, all right, but Nora never saw Joe’s note. She was already dead. He didn’t know that, of course. He really supposed she’d gone to her death on account of his note.”

“You’re crazy,” Carson insisted strongly. “According to your insane theory, I killed her inside the opera house. But she was in her hotel room after the play started. She left that note for me—”

Shayne laughed. “That note was your first and most flagrant blunder. I was quite sure it hadn’t been written by Nora as soon as I read it. That’s why I asked you to identify the writing. When you said, positively, that it was Nora’s writing, I knew you must have forged it and left it there yourself — which meant you had planned she would be dead and couldn’t deny authorship.”

Carson’s defenses were crumbling under the impact of Shayne’s remorseless logic. In a stricken voice, he asked, “What makes you think she didn’t write it?”

“Because I’m an egoist, Carson. Just before Nora went to the opera house, she begged me to take the case, showing a lot of faith in my reputation and ability. If she’d had a clue, I felt reasonably certain she would have gone looking for me, not for the sheriff as the note stated. You also explained the presence of the note by saying one of her heavy coats was missing. There was no coat on her body, nor was one found any place in the vicinity. You haven’t a leg to stand on, Carson. I believe they use cyanide eggs in Colorado. That’s a quick, painless death — the same as you gave Nora and Screwloose Pete.”

“It was his fault,” Carson cried wildly, jumping up and pointing a trembling finger at Bryant. “He put me up to it. He planned it all after he got chummy with Pete. I had to do it. That or be killed. He threatened me—” He fell back on the settee sobbing incoherently.

Shayne nodded curtly to the sheriff. “That ought to mean a good stretch for Two-Deck even if he does escape going to the death-house with Carson.”

“But, what’s it all about?” Phyllis wailed. “Wasn’t Screwloose Pete Nora’s father?”

Shayne exclaimed, “By God, Phyl, do you need a blueprint?”

“Yes, I do,” she asserted stoutly. “If Pete wasn’t Nora’s father, who was he?”

“I suppose no one will ever know. Just an old prospector who’d lived alone too much.”

“Then, who is Peter Dalcor?” Phyllis asked helplessly.

“Good heaven, Phyl, I don’t know that one either. He may have been dead these ten years for all we know. Frank Carson made himself up to look like Dalcor last night — and Philip Steele repeated the performance for us just now.” He shrugged. “Isn’t that clear enough?”

“Just about,” said Phyllis sweetly, “as clear as mud.”

And later that evening, when they were back at the hotel and Shayne was having a noggin of cognac while Phyllis took a quick shower, she stuck her head out of the bathroom door, holding a bath towel up in front of her dripping body. “Oh, darling,” she cried breathlessly. “It just came to me like a flash. I understand it all now.”

A grin quirked Shayne’s mouth. “Such sudden intuition must have been a severe shock to your nervous system.”

“But, would it have worked?” she asked dubiously. “Frank’s plan, I mean. He couldn’t have proved Pete was his father-in-law.”

“It won’t be put to the test now. But he and Bryant had laid their plans carefully. No one could have proved Pete wasn’t Nora’s father. She made a public identification of him. And that stuff planted in Pete’s cabin was mighty convincing evidence. The old clipping and a picture of Peter Dalcor and Nora taken years ago—”

“What happened to that evidence?” Phyllis’s voice was reproachful. She began rubbing her dripping body with the coarse towel. “Why did Mr. Windrow and Strenk deny having seen you dig it up?”

“I had arranged that with them beforehand,” Shayne explained easily. “I thought I’d get a rise out of Bryant that way. Up to that time I didn’t have any proof that Bryant was interested in seeing Carson inherit the mine.”

“But, how did you get them to co-operate with you?”

“That was easy.” Shayne took a meditative sip of his cognac. “I appealed to their greed. You see, they thought Pete was Dalcor and were afraid his third would revert to Frank Carson. So they were anxious to play ball when I suggested that we deny the existence of the evidence.”

“But that was downright crooked of them, if they didn’t know the truth when they agreed with you.”

Shayne assented gravely, “That’s right, Phyl. In their greedy desire to keep all of the mine for themselves they played right into my hands.”

“I didn’t hear either one of them even thank you after it was all over. And if it hadn’t been for you no one would ever have known the truth, and Carson might have gotten Pete’s share of the mine.” Phyllis’s voice held righteous indignation, though slightly muffled as she vigorously toweled her face and neck.

Shayne said, “One doesn’t expect thanks.” He touched the breast pocket of his coat holding a deed to a tenth interest in the mine. He grinned to himself and continued, “One’s reward comes from a sense of civic duty well performed. You’ve taught me that, Phyl. The — ah — dignity of my profession as opposed to the sordid and mercenary outlook I used to have before you came into my life.”

“What did you say?”

“I was just saying—”

She advanced upon him swiftly, swathed in a heavy robe, and settled herself on his lap. “I heard you,” she laughed. “You’re wonderful and I adore you, but — I don’t want to change you too much, Michael. It wouldn’t be so hot if you let yourself get in the habit of not collecting fees.”

Shayne pulled her face down and kissed her lips. He promised, “We’ll struggle along somehow. There’s generally a dollar or so to be picked up if a man knows where to look for it.”

Content

Brett Halliday
In a Deadly Vein

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen