In a Deadly Vein (12 page)

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.”

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.