Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

“It happens that he is particularly good at make-up,” Johnston assented. “In fact, he’s a wizard at it. But if you’re thinking that Carson might have arranged for Steele to substitute for him on the stage while he slipped out and murdered his wife, the idea is absurd.”

“I was thinking something like that,” Shayne admitted. “It would give Carson a swell alibi. How can you be sure Steele didn’t fool you last night? With his extraordinary gift for making himself up to resemble—”

“See here, Mr. Shayne. I’m the producer. I was right here in the wings every moment. I’d have to be either drunk or crazy for such a substitution to go unnoticed two minutes. I was neither drunk nor crazy last night.”

Shayne said, “All right. But this is murder and I can’t afford guesswork.”

“I’ll take my oath on it,” Johnston said. “You’d better look outside the theater for your murderer.”

“I’ve got plenty of other candidates,” Shayne admitted cheerily. “So many that I’ve got to go through this process of elimination.” He turned to McLeod again. “I’ve just remembered something. I saw the play last night, and there was a hitch in the first change of scenery. The curtain was down so long the audience began to get restless. What occasioned the delay?”

McLeod’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He thumped a solid fist into his palm. “That I should ever forget that! It’s lucky for Joe Meade he went off and shot himself last night. He was to blame. He’d sneaked off for a smoke and didn’t show up to give us a hand until the job was nearly done. I bawled him out proper, you may be sure of that.”

“Slipped off for a smoke?” Shayne repeated. “How do you know that’s what he was doing?”

“So he said when he—” McLeod stopped suddenly. His square jaw sagged.

Shayne nodded. “Exactly. So he said. But you don’t know he was smoking. If he strolled off to commit murder, he wouldn’t be likely to tell you so.” Shayne’s tone was scathing. “That’s what I warned you against when I told you to think your answers over carefully. When was that change of scene?”

“We were a few minutes behind schedule last night. Eight-fifty — a few minutes one way or the other.”

Shayne nodded grimly. “That may be damned important.” He turned to Johnston. “Could I see Miss Carson’s dressing-room again?”

“Of course.”

Nervousness had replaced the faint hostility both men had shown at first. The producer led the way to the steps leading down to the concrete basement, switching on lights ahead of him.

Shayne shivered in the damp, chill air as they reached the bottom.

Johnston smiled thinly. “Air-conditioning wasn’t in vogue when this opera house was built.” He gestured toward an opening in the corridor. “There’s an old furnace in the cellar there, but we don’t use it during these summer revivals.”

Shayne stepped to the doorway and muttered, “This would be a swell place to store an unwanted corpse if it stays this cold in here all summer.”

“It does.” Johnston hesitated, then came back with a harried look on his face. “You’re not expecting to find any more bodies?” he ejaculated.

Shayne hesitated. There was a groping look on his gaunt features; as though he was tantalized by an elusive perception just beyond his reach.

He asked, “Is there a light inside?”

Johnston’s teeth chattered and the blood left his face. “There’s a switch just inside the door.” He reached past the detective, fumbled for it, and the big unfloored basement room was flooded with light.

The hard-packed dirt was damp underfoot. The cellar was littered with discarded pieces of furniture and sets that must have been accumulating for decades. Shayne walked forward, saying grimly:

“I’m nuts, of course, but there is one character missing from last night’s murder charade. And we’re short one corpse according to an old theatrical superstition.”

The producer followed him hesitantly. The top of the wooden flume was flush with the dirt floor, running through the middle of the cellar. Just beyond it was a squat iron furnace, big enough, as Shayne pointed out, to conceal a dozen bodies. He was not satisfied until he had opened the big iron door of the firebox and peered inside, then carefully poked around in all the likely-looking shadows without finding anything.

He grinned ruefully as they emerged from the cellar.

“Next thing,” he prophesied, “I’ll be looking for corpses under my bed at night. But if I wanted to dispose of a body, I wouldn’t look for a better place than that morgue. Let’s see, this was Nora Carson’s dressing-room, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. She shared it with Miss Moore.” Johnston stood in the doorway while Shayne entered and looked around.

He nodded with satisfaction when he saw a black evening wrap hanging on a hook. “I’m slipping. For the life of me I didn’t know whether I saw that wrap hanging there last night, or whether I just conjured up the memory of seeing it there.”

“It’s Miss Carson’s cloak,” Johnston volunteered. “Is it an important clue?”

Shayne’s face was cheerful. “Not particularly important — except that it ties up with a lot of other things. It helps explain why she might have gone up to her room for a coat last night — and indicates she was in a terrific hurry when she left this dressing-room. Either that,” he frowned, “or when she went out of this room she had no expectation of leaving the building. Well, thanks for showing me around. I guess this is all I can do here.”

Johnston followed him upstairs. “Glad to have been of help. And I’m glad, too, I could set your suspicions of Carson at rest. Do you think Joe Meade is guilty?”

Shayne stopped and faced both Johnston and McLeod. “You both know Meade better than I do. What do you think?”

They looked at each other.

Johnston asked, “How about it, Mac?”

McLeod shook his head. “You can’t make me believe it without proof. He’s a strange one and given to wild ideas, but I wouldn’t put murder among them.”

Shayne said pleasantly, “I never make a case against a man without proof,” and went out into the sunlight.

He found Phyllis waiting impatiently in their room, and as soon as he entered, she reproached him, “You slipped away before I awoke this morning.”

He grinned and swept her into his arms. “I was out garnering some early worms while the lazy birds overslept. A regular human dynamo, that’s me.”

She snuggled against him. “Did you get any?”

“Some nice fat juicy ones.” He kissed her lingeringly, then put her aside to pour himself a moderate portion of cognac.

“Dr. Fairweather called while you were out.”

Shayne whirled on her. “How’s the patient?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “If you’d been here in bed with me where you belonged instead of out gathering worms, you could have questioned Joe Meade. But the doctor put him back under a hypo when I confessed I didn’t know where you were nor when you’d be back. If you’d only tell me things, Michael—”

Shayne didn’t appear overly disappointed. “How is the wound?”

“Dr. Fairweather says he’s out of danger. You can grill him to your heart’s content this evening when the drug wears off.”

Shayne nodded happily. “Right on schedule.” He sat down with his drink.

Phyllis came over and insinuated herself into his lap. She rubbed her cheek against his, and teased, “Tell me, Mike. About the worms you’ve been gathering while I slept.”

“The blow-off is set for seven o’clock tonight. You don’t deserve a preview.”

“Then you’ve solved it?” Phyllis cried delightedly.