In a Deadly Vein (7 page)

“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.

“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.”