Brett Halliday - In a Deadly Vein

Shayne rubbed his jaw. “Could be,” he commented drily. It was growing quite dark in the east room. Over his shoulder, he said, “I wish you’d turn on the lights, Sheriff.” Then, to Meade, “If you’ll tell us who shot you, we’ll be glad to ask him what he was doing out there.”

Brilliant light glowed from an overhead chandelier.

It lighted the wounded man’s frightened eyes, his tight-drawn mouth. He shook his head helplessly.

“That’s just it. I don’t know who it was. He was squatting down with his back turned — then the light went out—”

The front legs of Cal Strenk’s chair thumped to the floor. He pointed a trembling hand at the window, ejaculating, “Who in tarnation is that out there?”

A whiskery old face was pressed against the pane, peering into the lighted room. The upturned collar of a sheepskin coat framed his seamed features.

Phyllis shrieked, “Mike! It’s that same face—”

Shayne leaped forward as the face disappeared in the darkness. He jerked the screen loose and thrust his head out, called back sharply, “There he goes. Around the corner of the house.” He turned back, glancing at his watch.

Mark Raton was standing up near the door. His firm voice crackled in the hushed silence:

“That was Pete Dalcor. If he got killed last night, that was his ghost. I’ll take my oath on it.”

THE BAFFLED LOOK on Sheriff Fleming’s face showed that he didn’t understand any of it, but he whirled out of the room and down the rear hall in the hopes of intercepting the bearded man who had reappeared so mysteriously.

Everyone else in the room was staring at the editor from Telluride. Phyllis Shayne spoke first:

“You must be mistaken, Mr. Raton. That’s the same man we saw at the window last night. I know it is. Didn’t you recognize him, Mike?”

Shayne nodded slowly. “Looked like the same face to me.”

“Can’t help that,” Raton grumbled. “Maybe you did see Pete Dalcor last night. But I saw him just now.”

Two-Deck Bryant spoke up in a voice that trembled with wrath. “This is your doing, Shayne. I knew, by God, you had something up your sleeve. You had that old coot planted out there waiting for dark. I saw you look at your watch while you were driveling on — killing time until you could turn on the lights. You’re fixing it to try and prove the man who was killed last night wasn’t Peter Dalcor.”

“Why,” said Shayne agreeably, “that seems self-evident. We all know Screwloose Pete is dead. But Mr. Raton knew Dalcor intimately years ago, and you just heard him positively identify a live man as his old friend.”

“And I suppose he’ll now conveniently disappear again,” sneered Bryant. “And nobody will be able to prove he isn’t Dalcor. How much did you pay Raton to come here and pull a phony identification?”

Shayne said, “I think Mr. Raton’s reputation will make him a credible witness if the question arises in court.” He moved slowly toward Bryant. “I wonder why you’re sticking your oar in. What stake do you have in proving Dalcor dead?”

Bryant met his gaze steadily. “You insisted that I attend this conference, God knows why. I just want to warn these people that you’ve got a rep for pulling stunts like this. Ten to one, you’ve twisted it around so you stand to make something by proving the dead man wasn’t named Dalcor.”

“That must be it,” Frank Carson put in angrily from behind Shayne. “He and his wife are in it together with this imported expert witness.” He gestured angrily toward Raton.

“But you won’t get away with this one, Shamus,” Bryant broke in. “You’ll have a tough time getting around those clippings and things the murdered man had stashed away in his cabin.”

“What clippings and things?” Shayne asked coldly.

“The ones you dug up from under the hearth last night. These two men were there when you found them.” The gambler indicated Windrow and Strenk.

Shayne raised his eyebrows at the two local men. “Do either of you know what this man is talking about? Did you see me dig up anything in Pete’s cabin?”

They both shook their heads stoutly. “First we heard of it,” they vowed.

Bryant began to curse Shayne in a low metallic voice. The redhead slouched closer and hit him in the mouth. Bryant was slammed back against the wall. Blood trickled down his chin. He licked at it and stopped swearing.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” Shayne told him softly. “I thought you’d draw cards when you saw the way things were beginning to stack up.”

Sheriff Fleming strode back into the room before Bryant could answer. He announced in a baffled tone: “Dogged if I know where he went to. Up in the air, seems like. Maybe,” he added in a hushed tone, “it was Old Pete’s ghost.”

“There you are,” Carson cried. “Just as Bryant prophesied. It’s a trick to beat me out of my rightful share of the mine. But we’ll get a court order to make you produce that tobacco can. You can’t hold out evidence.”

“What tobacco can?” Shayne asked slowly.

“Why — the one you found in Pete’s cabin,” Carson faltered.

“What do you know about it?” Shayne pivoted away from Bryant to face the younger man.

“Bryant just said he was there when you dug it up.”

“He didn’t mention a tobacco can.”

“Well he — he had told me about it before,” stammered Carson, suddenly conscious that everyone in the room was eyeing him suspiciously.

A young man entered the room quietly. He was approximately the same build as Frank Carson, with wavy brown hair and intelligent dark eyes. He asked Shayne, “How did I do?”

Shayne glanced at his watch and grinned. “Exactly six minutes to get that old-man make-up off and reappear dressed in your own clothes. You’re an accomplished actor, Steele. As good, I’d say, as Carson. And I have a hunch you’re going to prove it when you play his role at the opera house tonight.”

To the others, he said, “Let me present Philip Steele, Exhibit A. Peter Dalcor, if you please, without the whiskers and sheepskin coat.”

To Mark Raton, he said, “Sorry to hoax you, but I had to convince myself it was possible for an actor to make himself up to resemble an old photograph closely enough to fool someone who had known the man in the photograph ten years ago. You see,” he added, “that’s the way Nora Carson was fooled last night.” Frank Carson slumped back on to the settee. His face was white and his left eyelid twitched spasmodically. He kept opening and closing his mouth, but no words came out.

Two-Deck Bryant was edging along the wall toward the door. Shayne jerked his head at Casey. The New York detective got up and blocked the exit with a cheerful grin.

Shayne said thoughtfully, “I’m not positive what the exact charge will be, Casey, but I imagine Colorado has some statute to cover the crime of incitement to murder. For Two-Deck is morally just as guilty as Carson. He drove Frank to put his fantastic plan into execution by threatening him with death if he didn’t pay up in a hurry. And we can charge him with attempted murder. He shot Joe Meade last night.”

Bryant stopped with a snarl that drew his lips away from his teeth. “What do you think I was doing out there?”

“Burying a Prince Albert can under the hearth. You overplayed your hand later when you were afraid I might overlook the cache. You drew my attention to the loose brick by stepping on it — and then suggested that I keep on digging under the first can which poor old Screwloose had showed you previously. Didn’t he plant the stuff, Carson, after you gave him the clippings and picture from your wife’s scrapbook?”