Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

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.