Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

“With a few ifs and buts and ands and maybes. Some few of which I hope to clear up before tonight.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair and his eyes suddenly took on a faraway look.

He said, “Do you know something, Phyl?”

“How can I?” she pouted. “You never tell me anything.”

He said, “Honest to God, angel, this is the first time I’ve stopped to ask myself why I’ve been running around working my head off on this case.”

“Because you’re a famous detective and people expect you to solve it.”

Shayne shook his head angrily and drank some cognac. “I’m slipping, all right. I’ve figured every angle except my own pay-off. Damn it, Phyl. I haven’t even thought about collecting a fee.”

“For once in your life, it wouldn’t kill you to do something just because it was right.”

Shayne narrowed his eyes and said musingly, “There’s always a money angle — if you look hard enough.”

Phyllis wailed, “Do you have to be mercenary? And on our vacation?”

He pushed her gently from his knees and stood up. The questing look in his gray eyes had been replaced by a bleak and driving intensity. He said, “There wouldn’t be any vacations if I didn’t collect on my cases. Murder is an ugly business, but it’s my business. And by God, I’m not going to pass up any dividends.”

He seized his hat, crushed it down on his unruly red hair, and stalked from the room.

IT WAS LATE THAT AFTERNOON when Shayne encountered Sheriff Fleming in the Teller House barroom. His eyes lighted when he saw the detective. “Been looking for you,” he drawled. “I got a government report on the dingus that measures high water in the creek. Got a man to come out from Denver when I told him it was official business.”

“What did you find out?”

“The water got up past the stump, all right. I got the county surveyor to take his measuring thing out there and he took levels and figured how much rise it would take to’ve floated her down there.”

“That was a smart angle,” Shayne conceded. “And the water rose that high?”

“That’s right. The government instrument shows the crest was a couple of inches above where the Carson girl was lying when you found her. High water was at eight-thirty-two. After that, it started dropping.”

“How fast?”

“Pretty fast. The government man and the surveyor got their heads together and they figure she’d have to’ve been dropped in the creek no later than nine-thirty to’ve lodged against the stump. Nine o’clock, more like.”

Shayne thumped the sheriff on the back. “That’s mighty good work. How about Joe Meade? Is he under guard all the time?”

“You bet he is. I’ve got a deputy sitting by the side of his bed. You reckon he killed ’em both?”

Shayne shrugged his shoulders. “We’re going to find out when he’s able to talk — about seven o’clock tonight. I want you to meet me up at the hospital at seven, Sheriff. And here’s a list of people I want there.” He handed the sheriff a sheet of paper, explaining, “I’ll notify most of them, but I haven’t any official standing around here. It’ll be up to you to round them up for me.”

Sheriff Fleming scanned the list, shaking his head. “You’ve got a mighty lot of names wrote down here.”

“Only one of them is a murderer. But each of the others has some pertinent bit of information that’ll help solve the case. By getting them all together and throwing the fear of God into them, I think we’re going to piece together the most extraordinary plan of coldblooded murder ever conceived in a human mind.”

Fleming sighed and nodded. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I can’t make head or tail out of it.”

Shayne heard his name being called by the hotel clerk in the lobby. A little man in a dusty alpaca coat waited for him at the desk. The clerk said, “This gentleman is asking for you, Mr. Shayne.”

The little man wore a straw hat with a vivid red and orange band. He had restless, inquisitive eyes, and a beaked nose. He said, “I’m Mark Raton from Telluride. Editor of the Chronicle.”

Shayne pumped his hand enthusiastically. “You made a fast trip. I didn’t expect you for a couple of hours.” He drew him aside to a row of straight chairs lining the wall of the lobby.

“I drove straight through without stopping except for gas.” The editor smiled grimly. “You got me curious — talking about murders and Pete Dalcor.”

Shayne said, “It was absolutely imperative that we get hold of someone who knew Dalcor in Telluride.” He got the Prince Albert tobacco can from his pocket and opened it.

“I’m your man,” Mark Raton told him. “I knew him better than most, and I reckon I was the only man in Telluride that wasn’t really surprised when he took French leave and didn’t send back a forwarding address.”

Shayne selected the old clipping from Raton’s newspaper and showed it to the editor. “Is this a good likeness?”

Raton nodded. “I recollect printing that. Just the way he looked then.”

“You say you weren’t surprised when he went A.W.O.L. Why?”

“He had plenty of reason to. Mrs. Dalcor was a hellcat. Nagging all the time till it’s a wonder she didn’t drive Pete crazy. Giving him the devil because he was unlucky and none of his prospects panned out rich. She was a pushing woman. Ambitious and proud. Didn’t surprise any of us when Nora turned out a successful actress. After Pete left home she nagged at Nora until the girl had to amount to something.”

Shayne picked put the recent clipping from the Central City newspaper and passed it over to Mark Raton. “Take a good look at this one. Could one of those men be Peter Dalcor after ten years?”

Raton squinted down at the newspaper picture of Screwloose Pete and Cal Strenk.

“Take your time with it and try to visualize what ten years might have done to Dalcor,” Shayne urged. “A great deal depends on how you answer my question.”

The editor turned the picture to get a better light on it, twisted his head and closed one eye, then the other.

He finally said, “I couldn’t take my oath that either of them is or isn’t Pete. Might be, or mightn’t. If I had to pick one of them for Pete Dalcor, I’d say this one.” He pointed a lean forefinger at Screwloose Pete. “Whiskers and ten years make a sight of difference in a man. I could judge better if they were shaved.”

Shayne was perfectly satisfied. He said, “Everything is shaping up for a showdown. You’re invited to a little seance up at a local hospital this evening. I’m going to attempt to evoke the ghost of Peter Dalcor, and you’ll be my star witness.” He got up, chuckling at the bemused look on Mark Raton’s face. “I’ll see you later, but right now I’ve got to dicker with a couple of men about cutting a melon.”

He strolled out of the lobby and down the street to Jasper Windrow’s large mercantile establishment.

Three clerks were busy waiting on the throng of tourists drawn to the store by the large display of Indian blankets and Western trinkets. Shayne asked for the proprietor and was directed to a small office in the rear partitioned off from a large storage room. The door was open, and Shayne found Jasper Windrow and Cal Strenk inside. Ledgers and account books were strewn over the storekeeper’s desk and he was adding a long list of figures as Shayne walked in. Strenk was slouched in a straight chair tilted back against the wall.

Windrow glanced up, keeping the point of his pencil on his place in the long list. He asked, “What do you want?” in a surly tone.

Shayne said, “If you’re figuring up accounts, you might like to settle up with me at the same time.” He dragged over a three-legged stool and settled his long body on it.