“I’m glad I came up to get some lessons. Are you all done, Shamus, or have you got some more tricks up your sleeve?”
“I think,” said Shayne, “I’m going to pull a brood of rabbits out of the hat for you.” He stalked forward purposefully. “That sounds like a loose brick you’re standing on, Bryant. They say it’s difficult to teach an old dog new tricks—and fifty years ago half the valuables in this country were stashed under a brick in the hearth. Step aside and let’s take a look.”
Bryant held his position. “That wasn’t a loose brick. I just scraped my foot on that dirt in front.”
Shayne said, “I’ll see.”
Bryant hesitated a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside. Shayne dropped to his knees and studied the mortared bricks. He took hold of one protruding slightly above the others, and waggled it. It was loose in its mortar.
Cal Strenk hurried forward as Shayne pulled it up. “Doggone, I plumb forgot about that. Ol’ Pete allus cached his nuggets an’ rich samples there in a ol’ Prince Albert tobaccy can. Said he was hidin’ ’em from burglars, but he’d pull that brick out an’ show ’em to anybody that come aroun’.”
Shayne laid the brick aside. He reached into the rectangular hole and lifted out a battered tobacco can. Windrow breathed uneasily as he and Bryant peered over the detective’s shoulder. Shayne opened the lid and emitted a grunt of disappointment when the contents dribbled out into his palm. There were half a dozen smooth heavy pellets smaller than a pea, and several jagged bits of rock which didn’t look at all rich in gold to the uninitiated eye.
There was nothing else in the can. Shayne rocked back on his heels and cursed. Bryant snorted with glee at his discomfiture, and taunted, “Why don’t you keep on digging? Maybe you’ll hit the lost Gregory lode.” Shayne was staring down at the floor in front of the hearth. He nodded suddenly. “I might, at that.” He dug his long fingers into the soft dirt upon which the can had lain. It came out easily, and after a moment, he paused and grinned up at Windrow’s intent face.
“You’re going to love this.” He fumbled in the hole and brought out another tobacco can similar to the first one.
He settled back on his haunches contentedly, murmuring, “One will get any gambler ten if this isn’t the real McCoy.”
Cal Strenk was the only one who spoke. “Damn if Ol’ Pete wa’n’t a slick un. In ten years we lived here he never showed me that other can underneath.”
Shayne turned the lid back and shook the contents of the can out on the hearth in the manner of a magician shaking elephants from a silk hat.
There were three newspaper clippings and an old faded photograph of a man and a young girl. The girl had a sweet, grave face, wore pigtails and a short dress. The man was clean-shaven, wearing a miner’s cap and overalls.
Shayne turned the picture over and read aloud: “Nora and her daddy.”
He laid the picture aside and selected a clipping that was brittle and old in contrast to the comparative newness of the other two: Two columns from an old copy of the Telluride Chronicle neatly clipped to show the name of the paper and the date.
The somewhat indistinct photograph of a man was above the caption: James Peter Dalcor, MISSING.
The man was hatless and wore a short growth of chin whiskers. He was clearly the “Daddy” of the earlier picture.
Shayne glanced through the news story beneath the photograph. It told of Peter Dalcor’s unexplained disappearance from his home in Telluride, Colorado; mentioned the mounting apprehension of his wife and daughter, Nora.
Shayne handed the clipping to Strenk without a word.
The old miner growled, “Danged if Ol’ Pete didn’t think he was a beaut, allus havin’ his pitcher took even way back then. This’n with the whiskers looks some like him”
Windrow snatched the clipping from Strenk and studied it. He snapped, “Nonsense. You can’t prove a thing from this picture. Why, it might be one of Cal, here, taken ten years ago.”
“It’s hard to identify a ten-year-old picture,” Shayne agreed. “But the fact that Pete had them in his possession all this time will be accepted in any court as legal proof of his identity. And here’s one that shows he had recognized Nora Carson as his daughter as much as two weeks ago.”
He held out another neat clipping from the local Register-Call that carried a date two weeks previous. It had a clear likeness of Nora Carson above the cut-line: Actress Continues Ten-Year Search for Father in Colorado Mining Camps.
“I recollec’ seein’ that pitcher,” Strenk exclaimed excitedly. “’Twas on the front page ’longside one of me an’ Ol’ Pete together tellin’ ’bout our strike.”
“This one?” asked Shayne, picking up the last of the three clippings, rudely torn from the center of a front page.
It had a picture of Cal Strenk and Screwloose Pete with their arms around each other’s shoulders and wide grins on their whiskered faces above the caption: Local Men Make Rich Strike.
“Tha’s the one!” Strenk nodded vigorously. “I recollec’ when Pete tore it out, he was that proud. Carried it folded in his pants pocket an’ showed it to ever’one. But he never said nothin’ ’bout that pitcher of the gal bein’ his gal. I never saw him cut it out.”
Shayne refolded the clippings carefully, shaking his head. “That was Pete’s secret. This stuff proves it wasn’t any case of amnesia. He knew who he was all the time, and for two weeks he’d known his daughter was here looking for him. But he didn’t approach her—except to look through the hotel window tonight. And then he ran away to be killed as soon as she saw him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MICHAEL SHAYNE followed, alone, behind the procession carrying the body of Nora Carson to the village. His head was bowed in thought, hands thrust deep into his pockets, rangy body inclined backward from the waist to give him balance down the precipitous path.
The death of the girl had hit him hard. She was so young, had been so vibrantly full of life a few hours previous. Screwloose Pete was an old man with lots of living behind him. A cantankerous old man, it appeared, who hadn’t wanted to share his new-found wealth with the daughter whom he had deserted ten years before.
It wasn’t difficult to find a motive for the old man’s death. Men had been murdered for gold since Biblical days, had fought to their deaths for the yellow stuff. Let three men share in a million-dollar discovery and there you were. The wonder of it was that any of the three were still alive.
But how did Nora Carson’s death fit into a coldly calculated scheme of murder for profit? He had all the portions of the puzzle in his hands, but none of them seemed to fit together. At the moment, Joe Meade appeared to be the key to the whole thing. Was his wound self-inflicted, or was it, too, part of the murder plan?
What was he doing at Pete’s cabin, either shooting himself or getting shot?
You had to start with the premise that Joe Meade was not a normally balanced young man. The bitterness of defeat had warped an otherwise brilliant mentality, had grown to be an obsession with him. An obsession that might easily have developed to such a point that getting rid of Nora Carson to insure Christine’s success in the theater would seem a logical step.
All right. Granting that premise, what would be his logical reaction to Christine’s flat and emphatic statement that she did not want success to come that way?
The hell of it was, you couldn’t apply rules of logic to an unbalanced mentality. When Joe boasted to Christine that he was responsible for Nora’s absence, did he know she was already dead? Or had he, with some reason to suspect the truth, slyly turned the knowledge to what he believed was his own benefit by pretending to Christine that she was indebted to him for getting her chance tonight?
Shayne was sure of only one thing about Joe Meade. The young man possessed some guilty knowledge. But what could the actor have had to do with the death of Screwloose Pete? Was it conceivable that he had discovered the relationship, had murdered the old man in cold blood just prior to the pe
rformance—thinking thus to strike Nora such a blow that she would be unable to go on? Then, finding his first plan foiled by Nora’s strength which refused to give way to grief, had he felt impelled to carry on the plot by getting rid of Nora also? Later, after Christine had clearly indicated her repugnance and horror of the very thought, had he slipped up here to commit suicide as the only way out for him?
Shayne turned his speculations from Meade to Jasper Windrow with a feeling of relief. Windrow was the sort of man the detective understood. He was ruthless and mercenary, more than normally intelligent. Shayne could easily visualize Windrow cold-bloodedly planning Pete’s death to obtain a greater share of the rich mine for himself, but not if he realized Pete was leaving a legal heir to claim his portion.
Shayne stopped short on the hillside and stared at the lights of the village below with narrowed eyes.
Nora’s identification of her father had not been made public until after Pete’s death. It was merest chance that had given Nora a glimpse of Pete at the hotel window a few minutes before his death. One of those weird and inexplicable coincidences that are forever popping up to ruin the best-laid plans of men, something which the murderer could not possibly foresee.
If she hadn’t chanced to see him at the window and followed him wildly, it was a thousand to one she would never have recognized his disfigured face after he was struck down.
He frowned, visualizing the death scene above Eureka Street, the old man’s smashed and bloody-whiskered face. No. No one who hadn’t seen Pete Dalcor for ten years would have recognized him after death. Why, Nora had not even recognized his picture in the local paper though it had been in the same issue with her own. It had required that personal contact, the glimpse through the hotel window, to bring Nora the realization that Pete was actually her father.
With that point settled in his own mind, he started plodding slowly downward again. In the interim, the men carrying Nora’s body had crossed the end of the flumed creek and disappeared from view.
Even if the killer had known of the relationship between Pete and Nora, he could not foresee the chance recognition that had come just before Pete’s death.
Again, Shayne stopped in his tracks. If anyone had known of the relationship.
Might that not be the crux of the entire diabolical murder plan? Everyone in Central City must have seen Nora’s picture and read the story of her ten-year search for a missing father. It could easily have furnished the clue to Pete’s identity to a man who knew him well. Jasper Windrow—or Cal Strenk. Both hoped to gain by Pete’s death.
If either had planned to get rid of Pete at some convenient time, the presence of Nora Carson in town was a very real threat to the plan. Though she had failed to recognize his picture in the paper, there was always the chance that she might meet him on the street—or even that Pete might learn of her identity and make himself known to her. That threat would make it imperative to get rid of Pete at once—if he was to die without known heirs and intestate.
Shayne started forward again, tingling with a feeling of getting close to something. Under such circumstances, it would be a terrific blow to the murderer to learn that he had struck a few minutes too late—that Nora had already seen and identified her father.
There could be only one reaction to that. Having killed once to obtain an object, a murderer would not hesitate to kill again to attain his end. The second killing would be predicated on the hope that Nora’s identification of Pete as her father would be held inconclusive in court—on the chance that no corroborative evidence would be found among Pete’s effects.
That sounded more like the reasoning of Cal Strenk than of Jasper Windrow. Strenk had appeared so positive that Pete possessed nothing to connect him with the past. It was hard to doubt that Strenk’s surprise had been genuine when Shayne dug up the second tobacco can.
Cal Strenk was a real enigma. His eyes were sly as a fox’s at times, and again he appeared simple as a child. He hated Jasper Windrow, and made no real effort to hide that hatred. He had quarreled with Pete after they filed their claims—and he claimed to have an alibi for the time of Pete’s death.
Shayne’s probing thoughts went back to Jasper Windrow again. Bryant was ruled out of the picture as far as Strenk was concerned, but it appeared to Shayne highly probable that Windrow might be the defaulting loser from whom Two-Deck had come west to collect. Proof of that would give more solid ground for suspecting Windrow—because the man who owed Bryant money would be under terrific pressure to pay up in a hurry and in cash.
Would Pete’s death allow the jointly owned property to be sold for cash sooner? That was a point to look into. The sheriff had said something about Pete refusing a cash offer for his share. Perhaps the old miner’s unwillingness to sell had held up disposal of all shares. And Bryant certainly had some good reason for cultivating Pete during the past week.
Shayne realized, of course, that he was taking a lot for granted when he assumed that Windrow was Bryant’s victim. His only basis was the fact that Windrow had recently made a trip east, and that his business was shaky for lack of cash.
Any member of the cast might just as well have left rubber markers in Bryant’s gambling joint—or any of the wealthy tourists from the east out for the Festival. It didn’t have to be a man. Women were notorious plungers. Neither Nora Carson nor Christine Forbes fitted into the category, but Celia Moore! There was a lady from whom anything might be expected. Joe Meade wouldn’t have had money for gambling. Frank Carson?
Shayne stopped just on the other side of the wooden flume. A few strollers wandered up and down the boardwalk in front of him, and from the main part of town, half a block distant, the sound of continued night revelry came clearly.
Carson fitted the role of a welshing gambler all right. He earned a fair salary, doubtless, and would be one of the New York sporting crowd that considered it smart to be seen at places like Bryant’s on the Hudson Parkway.
He might have known or guessed that Screwloose Pete was his wife’s father. He certainly would have heard the story from Nora—seen a picture of her father. And Pete’s picture had been in the newspaper with the story of his rich strike. If Frank had recognized that picture—
But Nora hadn’t. Was it reasonable to suppose that Frank had noticed the likeness while the man’s own daughter failed to?
He put that question aside for a moment. Frank might have discovered the truth some other way.
If Frank made the discovery it would have been natural for him to tell his wife so she could claim her father and her part of his fortune. But, suppose Frank had discovered that Pete already knew Nora was his daughter (the clipping in the tobacco can proved that he did), yet had no intention of admitting his identity to her? If the old man refused to share his find with her, Frank might have killed him so Nora would legally inherit all of it.
But hell! Again, he was confronted with the inescapable fact that the murderer could not have foreseen that Nora would see and recognize her father just before he was killed in such a way as to render his features almost unrecognizable. If Frank had planned to have her identify the old man after death, he would certainly have chosen a murder method that did not make identification almost impossible.
Shayne sighed wearily and climbed up the incline to the boardwalk, turned toward the brilliantly lighted intersection of Eureka and Main Streets.
It came down to this: Anyone mixed up in the thing might have killed Screwloose. He could figure out a possible motive for almost anybody you mentioned. But the motive behind Nora’s death (and the manner in which she had been lured to her death ) was more shrouded and obscure. The actual time of her death would be an important factor in sifting out alibis. She had left the opera house after the play started. Her body had been deposited against the stump while the creek water was at least that high. If that time could be established, it would narrow the limits between which her murder had been committed.
He bumped into a courtesy patrolman coming out o
f the Chain-o’-Mines Hotel on the corner, and recognized the young man who had been at Pete’s cabin. He asked, “Do you know where they took the wounded man?”
“Up to Dr. Fairweather’s private hospital.” The officer pointed across the street and almost straight up. “It’s right up the hill yonder. That big two-story house lit up like a sea-going tug.”
“Do you know how Meade is?”
“Only that he was still alive the last time I heard.”
“How long ago was that?” Shayne queried.
“About five minutes,” the officer said.
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and crossed the street, only vaguely aware of the accelerated tempo of laughter and gaiety he was leaving behind him.
The revelry faded to a confused turmoil as he climbed higher and higher, past one precipitous street level and then another. When he turned on level ground toward the lighted two-story building, he had the odd feeling of standing on top of the world viewing the seething village below as only a cluster of lights cupped in the palm of the canyon.
The path to the hospital led steeply upward from the narrow street. Double entrance doors stood open on a wide furnished hall, and Shayne was glad there was no one to witness his collapse on an elaborate, old-fashioned settee in the hall. His lungs felt constricted, and his heart was beating like a triphammer from the exertion of fast climbing.
A wide stairway led upward from the end of the hall. He could hear voices and movement on the second floor, but he doubted his ability to negotiate the stairs. As he panted to regain his breath he heard footsteps, and turned to look.
Christine Forbes was descending slowly, one hand delicately gliding along on the polished railing. Her face was pinched and pale and her dark eyes were dry and very bright. Shayne had the feeling that she could not weep. She looked frail and young and pathetically unversed in deep grief.
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