Brett Halliday: In a Deadly Vein

MICHAEL SHAYNE said, “So this is what we’ve waited a week to see.” He stood in the doorway of the historic Teller House in Central City, and let his eyes roam pleasurably over the scene.

“I told you it would be worth coming all the way to Colorado to see.” Phyllis stood on tiptoe trying to see over the heads of the crowd swarming over walks and street.

By mid-afternoon of opening day of the annual Play Festival, Central City was beginning to look like the hell-roaring town it would become by nightfall. Since early morning tourists and natives and first-nighters from Denver had been streaming into the ancient mining village wedged between the steep walls of a gulch high in the Rockies — a town built more than sixty years before by rugged pioneers in a ravine so narrow that the creek flowing along the bottom had to be flumed over with stout boards to make space for the business district.

For a pleasant, dreamy week Michael and Phyllis had watched the old town slowly stretch itself and come to life again. Vacationing in the high country had been perfect, with July nights icy, and long, lazy, sunny days for hiking into the mountains pockmarked with tunnels and scarred with placer mines which had produced tons of gold in the Sixties.

A rising tide of excitation was rushing toward a climax of frenzied activity today. Ghost stores were refurbished and opened; small shops that barely eked out an existence eleven months of the year glistened with fresh paint, and counters were replenished with merchandise. All week, miners had been drifting in from the hills, getting their whiskers trimmed and donning new overalls for the Festival. Two deserted buildings on Main Street were transformed into gambling casinos to re-create the spirit of the Sixties and to raise money for charity.

Up and down the steep walls of Eureka Gulch the shuttered homes built by pioneers were opened by new owners who would keep open house during the three weeks of the Festival, and since early morning progressive cocktail parties were the order of the day.

Shayne nodded to his eager young wife. “I’m beginning to believe you, Phyl. Your idea for a vacation in the Rockies wasn’t bad.” He caught her arm and they moved into the gay throng drifting down Eureka Street. Crossing at the corner, they passed old structures which had once been important business buildings, but were now in ill repair and vacant.

Heavy black clouds hung above jagged western peaks, blotting out the sun, but failing to dampen the holiday spirit of the throng. Streaks of lightning forked through the lowering clouds, and the roar of thunder was added to the noise of feet tramping on boardwalks, and the hubbub of talk and laughter. A stiff breeze swept through the narrow canyon, bending the boughs of stately spruce and quaking aspens on the canyon walls.

“Oh, I hope it won’t rain and spoil everything,” Phyllis cried. She clung to her hat with one hand and to Shayne’s arm with the other.

Shayne chuckled. “It would take more than rain to spoil their fun. If it rains everybody out of the streets there’s enough room to open up in some of these old buildings.”

“But the streets would be all muddy — and slippery,” she protested. “I think it would be a shame.”

“We can’t complain, angel,” he answered. “We’ve had a good week up here. It has to rain sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, it has been fun! I was thrilled to meet some of the actors and actresses. Why, they’re just like other people. I’d always imagined they would be snooty.” She laughed gaily as the wind whipped her short skirt.

Shayne pulled his hat tighter on his red head and looked up at the darkened sky. An ominous black cloud appeared to hang lower than the gray film. It moved in the high wind, growing larger momently.

“Looks like we’re going to get it,” he said, “and quick.”

“There’s no use trying to hurry,” Phyllis laughed. “That is, unless everybody hurries.”

Raindrops suddenly spattered in the street, a forerunner of the deluge that sent the crowd scurrying for shelter. Michael and Phyllis were swept along by mass movement into a huge and well-stocked general store, the largest and only modern establishment in the town.

Pushing their way through the double doors, Phyllis shivered from the icy wetness of her suit, but her dark eyes sparkled as they flashed around the walls and occasionally glimpsed a gaily bedecked counter through an opening between the throng of shelter seekers.

“I’ve been planning to lure you in here,” she said, “ever since I saw the marvelous display of Indian blankets in the window.”

Shayne took out his wallet and handed her a sheaf of bills. “Here, go pick out a blanket and wrap it around you. You’re all wet.”

“But — I want you to help me select one, Michael,” she urged.

“Not me,” he said emphatically. “I wouldn’t tackle that mob for forty Indian blankets.”

He grinned and watched her eel her way through, murmuring apologies, then turned to stare through the plate-glass window. Rain fell in wind-driven sheets. The steep street and gutters were a rushing torrent. People were still pushing through the doors, and on the boardwalk women laughed and squealed and shivered as male escorts urged them along.

While the last of them were pressing into the store, Shayne stood on feet planted wide apart, knobby hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, his coarse red brows drawn down in a straight line over slitted gray eyes. Something within him responded to the elemental fury of the mountain storm. He felt alive and vibrant. A week in the high country had dispelled the lethargy which had slowly crept over him at sea-level Florida.

A sardonic smile twitched his wide mouth. His big hands drew up into fists in his pockets. He felt a strong urge to get back into harness — to drive himself hard, as the wind drove the sheets of rain from a cloudburst.

Even as he watched, the wind appeared to swoop low and pick up the rain-sheet to pour it back into the clouds to be dropped somewhere else. Only a misty spray was left and bright sunlight filtered through. The torrent in street and gutters slowly subsided.

As he turned from the window, his gaze brushed the face of a man standing alone in the angle of the walls. He was watching eager buyers at the counters, and there was a caustic smile on his thin lips.

Something told Shayne he should recognize that smile. The man was of medium height, solidly built. A quiet gray business suit was tailored to emphasize his height. His eyes were very blue and still, with a hard opacity. He was not more than fifty, but his hair was a clean, glistening white, cut rather long and parted in the middle. His features were finely sculptured, almost ascetic.

Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear, his gray eyes brooding across the room for a long moment. Abruptly, he strode over to the man and said, “Hello, Two-Deck. You want to be careful of this clean air. Your lungs aren’t used to it.”

Two-Deck Bryant turned his head slowly. His cold eyes studied the tall redhead without a flicker of recognition. He said, “You’re one up on me,” in a mellow, reflective voice.

Shayne grinned. “Last time we met you were dealing seconds in Harry’s Casino at Atlantic Beach.”

A frown ruffled the gambler’s smooth brow. He mused, “That would be eight years ago.”

Shayne nodded. “I was with World-Wide.”

Bryant said, negligently, “Don’t expect me to remember every two-bit dick I run across.”

The hollows in Shayne’s cheeks deepened. “What are you doing out here?”

“Lucius Beebe and me, we’re hell on drama,” Bryant replied.