In a Deadly Vein (16 page)

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.”

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.