In a Deadly Vein (10 page)

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.”

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.”