Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

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.”