In a Deadly Vein (15 page)

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.”

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?”