Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

Windrow wet his lips. He glanced anxiously at Strenk. “Sounds reasonable enough.”

“It’s good enough for me,” Strenk exulted. “Make that deed out an’ I’ll sign it right here.”

When Shayne left Windrow’s store half an hour later, a deed to one-tenth interest in the mining claim rested in his breast pocket. An empty Prince Albert can lay on Windrow’s desk, and in a wastebasket were some charred ashes; all that remained of the clippings and the photograph that had been in the can.

At the Teller House, Shayne went directly to Frank Carson’s room. He knocked loudly, then tried the knob. It opened, and he looked at the resentful face of Frank Carson, sitting up in bed and still wearing his pajamas.

The actor’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. When he saw who his visitor was, Frank put his hands to his forehead and sank back with a groan.

Shayne grinned and said, “You’ll live.” He moved into the room, glancing about speculatively.

Carson uncovered one eye to peer at him. He muttered, “I just woke up. What’s doing? What have you found out?”

Shayne said, “Things. Better take a bromo and try some black coffee. I’m going to need your help shortly.”

Carson closed his eyes and groaned, “I won’t be much help.”

“You’ll have to snap out of it. The doctor says Meade will be able to give out by seven o’clock. You want to help me put a noose around the neck of your wife’s murderer, don’t you?”

Carson struggled to a sitting position. He said dully, “It was Meade. I know it was. It must have been. Why else would he go out there to shoot himself?”

Shayne made a wry face. “If I knew the answer to that, I’d know everything.” His manner changed to briskness. “I want to see your wife’s scrapbook. There’s a ten-year old clipping I need to complete my case.”

“It’s in the desk over there.” Then Frank pulled his hands away from his face. “How’d you know Nora kept a scrapbook?”

Shayne laughed. “I’ve never known an actress who didn’t save her press notices.”

He went to the old-fashioned desk and pulled down the lid. Carson stumbled past him to the bathroom, pointing mutely to a leatherbound loose-leaf scrapbook.

Shayne sat down with it and began turning the pages. It carried a photographic record of Nora’s babyhood, and there were brittle old clippings that proved she had been a precocious youngster. A Fairylike Danseuse, the Chronicle had captioned her; and, A little lady with a lot of dramatic talent. That, at the age of ten.

There were other clippings, all strictly small-town stuff. Shayne turned the pages slowly, a deep frown creasing his forehead when he found no mention of her father’s disappearance.

When Frank came out of the bathroom, whitefaced and retching, Shayne demanded, “Hasn’t she any clippings about her father’s disappearance? That’s what I’m looking for.”

Carson collapsed on the bed. He shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing anything about it in the scrapbook. She didn’t like to talk about it. But I know it’s all true. I can prove it easily enough.”

Shayne scowled. “I’m not worried about that. There was a particular clipping I wanted.” His voice trailed off. He had burned that other clipping in Windrow’s office.

His features tightened grimly. He turned slowly back through the pages and found a picture of Nora’s father with his whiskers — as near a likeness to the picture in the burnt clipping as he could find. He closed the book and put the picture in his coat pocket, said brusquely: “Get yourself in shape to meet me at the hospital at seven o’clock,” and went out.

Phyllis leaped up with a little cry of fright when he entered the room down the hall. “What’s wrong, Michael? Why are you looking like that?”

He set himself, and made an ironic smile come on his lips. He patted his breast pocket holding the deed to a tenth interest in the mine, and said, “We’ve bought ourselves into the mining business, angel. Whether we like it or not.”

THE HAZE OF TWILIGHT was deepening toward the edge of darkness in the mountain gulch when Michael Shayne, accompanied by his wife and Mark Raton, arrived at Dr. Fairweather’s private hospital a few minutes after seven o’clock.

Most of the persons on the detective’s list were already gathered in the ground-floor parlor on the east side of the old house. Shayne stopped in the doorway and viewed the uneasy assemblage with grim satisfaction.

It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room with wide bay windows looking eastward. Modern straight chairs from the doctor’s dining-room were ranged stiffly along the north and south walls, complementing two old-fashioned rockers and a leather settee which were practically museum pieces.

Christine Forbes sat erect in a straight chair in the corner at the right of the windows. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, and her eyes were wide and unblinking — as though they had not been closed for a long time, and would never close again.

Celia Moore reclined in a rocker beside Christine. Her stout body was neatly corseted beneath a powder-blue frock. She looked rested and tranquil, like a woman freshly absolved of past sins and ready to sin again if opportunity came along. Her lips hummed a sprightly tune and she had a coy smile for Jasper Windrow who slouched in a straight chair beside her.

Windrow was clearly not in a flirtatious mood. His stony features looked more than ever as though they had been rudely gouged from native granite. His cold eyes threatened Shayne in the doorway.

Cal Strenk was dressed in clean faded jeans and a shirt that had once been white, but was now yellowed with age and many scrubbings. A stringy black tie was loose about the withered neck, and he evidenced nervousness by continually combing his chin whiskers with ragged fingernails.

Across the room from those four, Frank Carson was slumped against one end of the leather settee. He was nattily dressed, and looked sleek enough outwardly, but his sallow complexion and nervously twitching eyelid betrayed his inward unease.

Patrick Casey occupied the other end of the old settee. His bullet head lolled back and he puffed vigorously on the frayed butt of a cigar while he tried to catch Celia Moore’s gaze with his twinkling eyes.

Sheriff Fleming arose from a chair near the door when Shayne entered. He said:

“A couple of them aren’t here yet. That New York fellow and the patient from upstairs. But I told Bryant to be here, and Doc Fairweather says he’ll have the patient wheeled in when we’re ready.”

Shayne said, “I don’t think Two-Deck will want to miss this, and I have invited another guest from Denver, also.” He stood aside to let Phyllis and the Telluride editor enter. Phyllis smiled at Casey and took a seat between him and Carson on the settee.

Shayne introduced Mark Raton to the room at large: “Mr. Raton is an old friend of Nora Carson’s father. He’s driven all the way from Telluride to help us get at the bottom of this affair. Suppose you take this rocking chair facing the windows, Mr. Raton.”

The outside door opened and closed as the editor took his seat at the right of the door. The tramp of feet, like marching men, sounded in the hallway. Shayne turned in the doorway, blocking it with his bulk. He said to Two-Deck Bryant:

“Your punks weren’t invited to this conference.”

The gambler halted in front of him, his icy eyes fixed on the top button of Shayne’s coat. His two bodyguards ranged up beside him. He asked, “How do I know what you’re fixing to pull, Shamus? I’ve a right to have my friends along in case you spring one of your fast ones.”