Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

He listened a moment. “Thanks. I appreciate that. How long have you been editor of the Chronicle? Good. You ought to remember the Peter Dalcor disappearance in your town about ten years ago?”

He waited hopefully, tugging at his left ear. “That’s the man. The old miner who ducked out without any explanation. He had a daughter named Nora…”

“That’s right. She’s an actress now. She’s here in Central City appearing in the play. Here’s what I want to know: Are there any other relatives still living?”

He let go of his ear as he listened. “None at all? You’re quite sure? That brings up a difficulty. Do you know anyone now living in Telluride who knew Dalcor intimately before he disappeared? You knew him as well as anyone? That’s great. Could you come to Central City right away to help us solve a couple of murders?”

Shayne’s face brightened.

“It’s damned important, and it’s mighty swell of you to help us. I’ll look for you around six tonight. At the Teller House, as soon as you reach town. Thanks a million, Mr. Raton.”

He hung up and shook his head wonderingly. “These Westerners continue to amaze me. He’s leaving Telluride in his car right away. He say’s it’s only a few hundred miles. By God, Phyl, can you imagine how my ears would be ringing if I’d made a request like that to a complete stranger back home? This man never heard of me in his life, yet he gets out of bed and starts driving just because I ask him to. With that sort of cooperation, I may pull this thing out of the bag yet.”

He went to pick up his wineglass, set it down without lifting it to his lips. He strode back to the telephone and lifted the receiver again. This time Phyllis listened while he got Dr. Fairweather on the other end of the wire.

He said, “I’ve been worrying about Meade’s condition, Doctor. I’m afraid I left a rather bad impression with you — that I didn’t care whether he recovered or not just so I had a chance to question him.”

He grinned as he listened to the doctor. “I did give you that impression, eh? Well, I want to correct it, Doctor. I don’t want you to do anything not in the best interest of your patient. I’m even having a deputy sheriff sent up to sit with him. If you feel it will be safer to keep Meade under a hypo all day tomorrow…”

“By all means, do that. Preserving a human life is far more important than solving a couple of murders. Just forget my impatient attitude. I’ll fold my hands and compose my soul until, say around dark. Seven o’clock, or seven-thirty.”

He hung up, turned to Phyllis, and grinned broadly. “My humanitarian instincts are developing rapidly under your influence, angel.” He yawned and stretched long arms above his head. “I can sleep now.” He loosened his tie and started undoing his shirt.

“Michael Shayne! You know who did it,” Phyllis accused.

“No, Phyl.” His voice was smothered by his undershirt being pulled over his head. “I’m not a storybook dick who knows and refuses to tell just to keep up the suspense. I’ve still got a lot of things to find out before I confront Joe Meade tonight.” He dropped his pants to the floor and strode to the window clad only in shorts, expanded his chest and drew in a great lungful of the near-freezing air.

With his back to Phyllis, he cogitated:

“Maybe Bryant had the right idea about hitting the jackpot out here. A man might invest in a mine and make a million, and never have to leave Colorado.”

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.