The telephone interrupted him. He jumped to answer it. He said, “All right, put him on. Sheriff? Mike Shayne talking. I want a guard put over Joe Meade. I don’t want him left alone a moment. Have you got a good man?”
He listened a moment, frowning at the wall. “Well, I want him guarded for both reasons. Station a man in his room to keep Meade in, and everyone else out. I’ll depend on that.”
Phyllis asked in a stifled voice, “Do you think Joe did it—then got remorseful and shot himself?”
Shayne grunted, “Could be. And could be he shot himself for a gag.”
Phyllis shuddered. “A gag?”
Shayne stopped at the foot of the bed with an impatient gesture. “To throw suspicion off himself—if he felt we were closing in.”
“Isn’t it pushing a gag pretty far to almost kill himself?”
Shayne said carelessly, “Some men go a little bit nuts when they get scared. He might have planned to have the bullet just graze his temple. The slightest miscalculation would make the difference.” He went back to his chair.
“But, if you think Joe did it—why did you tell the sheriff you wanted a guard to keep Joe in and everybody else out? That sounds as though he might be in danger.”
“I didn’t say I thought Joe did it. I didn’t say I thought Joe shot himself. Hell, I don’t know what to think. If someone else shot him, it must have been the murderer. And Joe saw him. In that case, I’d expect the killer to make an attempt to finish the job before Joe is able to talk.”
Phyllis shuddered and snuggled deeper into the covers. “Hadn’t you better come to bed? It’s cold.”
“I’ve got thinking to do. And the cognac keeps me warm.”
After a short silence, he asked, “How far is it to Telluride?”
“Didn’t we drive through it last week? That tiny old mining town at the base of those terrific towering mountains? Remember? It’s at the bottom of that gloriously dangerous road—the Million Dollar Highway.”
Shayne nodded. “It’s about a good day’s drive from here.”
“It took us three days,” she reminded him.
“But we stopped in Gunnison and Colorado Springs. You had to have your laugh at me trying to catch a rainbow trout, and you had to see Pike’s Peak.”
“All right,” she assented meekly. “It’s about a day’s drive. When do we start?”
“We don’t.” He took a Prince Albert can from his pocket and shook the clippings and photograph out on the table.
Watching with interest, Phyllis asked, “What’s that?” He told her briefly about his search of Screwloose Pete’s cabin, and the resulting find. He selected the clipping telling of Peter Dacor’s disappearance, and carried it to the telephone.
He told the long distance operator, “This is Michael Shayne at the Teller House. Calling Telluride, Colorado. I want the editor—” he glanced at the clipping “—of the Telluride Chronicle. He hung up and went back to his chair, tossed the clips and photograph to Phyllis. She thumbed through them, murmuring:
“Poor old man. He looks henpecked. Think how he must have felt when he saw Nora’s picture in the Central City newspaper right next to his on the front page, and read about her looking for him all these years. Why do you suppose he didn’t go to her at once?”
“Either of two reasons: He had just made his first decent strike after ten years of poverty and prospecting, and he didn’t want to share it with her. Or, he was frightened away by Nora’s success—ashamed of his shabbiness and what he had become—afraid of shaming her before her rich friends.”
The telephone rang. When the long distance connection was made, he spoke slowly and distinctly: “This is Michael Shayne, a detective in Central City. That’s right. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we’ve got a couple of murders over here and need your help.”
He listened a moment. “Thanks. I appreciate that. How long have you been editor of the Chronicle? Good. You ought to remember the Peter Dalcor disappearance in your town about ten years ago?”
He waited hopefully, tugging at his left ear. “That’s the man. The old miner who ducked out without any explanation. He had a daughter named Nora…”
“That’s right. She’s an actress now. She’s here in Central City appearing in the play. Here’s what I want to know: Are there any other relatives still living?”
He let go of his ear as he listened. “None at all? You’re quite sure? That brings up a difficulty. Do you know anyone now living in Telluride who knew Dalcor intimately before he disappeared? You knew him as well as anyone? That’s great. Could you come to Central City right away to help us solve a couple of murders?”
Shayne’s face brightened.
“It’s damned important, and it’s mighty swell of you to help us. I’ll look for you around six tonight. At the Teller House, as soon as you reach town. Thanks a million, Mr. Raton.”
He hung up and shook his head wonderingly. “These Westerners continue to amaze me. He’s leaving Telluride in his car right away. He say’s it’s only a few hundred miles. By God, Phyl, can you imagine how my ears would be ringing if I’d made a request like that to a complete stranger back home? This man never heard of me in his life, yet he gets out of bed and starts driving just because I ask him to. With that sort of cooperation, I may pull this thing out of the bag yet.”
He went to pick up his wineglass, set it down without lifting it to his lips. He strode back to the telephone and lifted the receiver again. This time Phyllis listened while he got Dr. Fairweather on the other end of the wire.
He said, “I’ve been worrying about Meade’s condition, Doctor. I’m afraid I left a rather bad impression with you—that I didn’t care whether he recovered or not just so I had a chance to question him.”
He grinned as he listened to the doctor. “I did give you that impression, eh? Well, I want to correct it, Doctor. I don’t want you to do anything not in the best interest of your patient. I’m even having a deputy sheriff sent up to sit with him. If you feel it will be safer to keep Meade under a hypo all day tomorrow…”
“By all means, do that. Preserving a human life is far more important than solving a couple of murders. Just forget my impatient attitude. I’ll fold my hands and compose my soul until, say around dark. Seven o’clock, or seven-thirty.”
He hung up, turned to Phyllis, and grinned broadly. “My humanitarian instincts are developing rapidly under your influence, angel.” He yawned and stretched long arms above his head. “I can sleep now.” He loosened his tie and started undoing his shirt.
“Michael Shayne! You know who did it,” Phyllis accused.
“No, Phyl.” His voice was smothered by his undershirt being pulled over his head. “I’m not a storybook dick who knows and refuses to tell just to keep up the suspense. I’ve still got a lot of things to find out before I confront Joe Meade tonight.” He dropped his pants to the floor and strode to the window clad only in shorts, expanded his chest and drew in a great lungful of the near-freezing air.
With his back to Phyllis, he cogitated:
“Maybe Bryant had the right idea about hitting the jackpot out here. A man might invest in a mine and make a million, and never have to leave Colorado.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MICHAEL SHAYNE looked at his watch when he got off the bus in Denver. The time was ten o’clock, and he decided the hour was not too early to pay a society woman a call. He went to a telephone booth and looked up the number of John Mattson’s residence, wrote it down in a notebook, and went outside to hail a taxi.
In twenty minutes the driver stopped before an old stone mansion in a fashionable district. He paid the fare, strode up the flagstone walk and pushed the button. The heavy paneled door was wide open, and he saw a trim uniformed maid with a broad face and twinkling eyes cross the spacious living-room to answer his ring.
Shayne asked, “Is Mrs. Mattson in?”
“Who is calling?” she asked in a pleasant voice.
Shayne grinned.
“Just say a gentleman on business.”
“Mrs. Mattson is having her breakfast and might not want to see you,” the maid told him.
“She’ll see me,” Shayne grated. “It’s important.”
The maid hesitated a moment, then went back through the room, disappearing from sight when she turned to the right after passing through an archway.
She left the door open.
Shayne opened the screen and went in, found a deep chair to his liking, and sat down. He yawned, and settled himself to wait.
He heard the maid’s bright voice say, “There’s a gentleman to see you, Madame.”
“Here, take the tray away, Marie,” Olivia Mattson said. “Do I look all right?”
“Madame looks lovely,” Marie assured her mistress gravely. “The blue is the most becoming of your hostess gowns.”
“It’s Frank. The dear boy has come to apologize. Show him in, Marie.”
Shayne grinned, and lit a cigarette.
“It is not Mr. Carson, Madame,” he heard the maid say.
“Not Frank? Then, who is it? Of course I can’t see anyone at this ridiculous hour. Send him away.”
“But he wouldn’t go away, Madame. He seemed confident you’d see him.”
“Well, ask his name,” Olivia Mattson snapped.
“I did. He wouldn’t tell me, Madame.”
There was a short silence in the room beyond. Shayne got up, found an ashtray, ground out his cigarette and went stealthily toward the richly grilled archway.
Presently, Olivia Mattson asked, “What does he look like.”
“He’s a tall man. Not handsome, Madame, but you couldn’t say he is ugly.”
“Nonsense,” Olivia Mattson said irritably. “Tell him it’s impossible.”
Shayne went silently through the arch into a long sun porch to the right. He said, “Impossible is a word I don’t like, Mrs. Mattson.” He sauntered across the richly furnished, bright room, grinning at Mrs. Mattson’s gasp of outraged protest.
She stormed, “How dare you force your way in here? Marie, call the chauffeur to throw this man out.”
Shayne arched red eyebrows at the maid. “Marie? Katie would be more like it. Better send the yard man and the butler along with the chauffeur. I’m not easy to throw out.” He nudged a rose-satin footstool forward with his toe and lowered his lanky body onto it.
Olivia Mattson sank back on the chaise-longue, a baffled look of fear and dawning recognition in her eyes.
“The name is Shayne. I’m investigating a couple of murders in Central City last night.”
Mrs. Mattson dismissed the maid sharply. Her dark eyes were veiled with long black lashes. “What have I to do with murder?” she demanded.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Shayne admitted blandly. “But when a man’s wife is murdered, we generally look for another woman. In this case I didn’t have to look very hard.”
“That’s preposterous—and you’re insulting. You can’t possibly suspect me.”
“I suspect everyone who had the opportunity and the motive. As far as I know now, you had both.”
Olivia’s eyes widened, and she held Shayne’s as she reached for a jeweled cigarette holder and a cigarette. Shayne got to his feet and struck a match. As he held it to her cigarette, he said with a disarming grin: “You’ve got to admit your proposed divorce looks suspicious. That Nora Carson’s death was—well, at least, convenient for you.” He blew out the match and resumed his seat on the footstool.
Her thin nostrils quivered as she expelled smoke. She exclaimed, “That’s an atrocious thing to say. Frank was going to divorce Nora.”
“That, of course, will be your story. And Frank’s. I’ll attempt to prove that Nora stood between you. I can produce several witnesses who will testify that Nora Carson was deeply in love with her husband and had no intention of giving him up without a fight.”
After a moment of strained silence, Olivia said, “All right. I’ll produce several witnesses of my own to prove that everything was ended between Frank and me before Nora was killed. That will effectually spike your nasty insinuations.”
“Do you mean the scene backstage after the play?”
“Yes. Several people witnessed it. Oh, I was properly humiliated.” Her mouth was a thin line of bitterness.
Shayne shrugged. “It happens, unfortunately, that Nora was killed some time before that scene took place.”
Olivia put the back of her hand to her mouth. For a moment, panic showed in her eyes. Then it cleared away. “If she was killed during the performance I certainly have an alibi. I was with a large party who had seats near the front.”
Shayne changed his tactics abruptly. “Disregarding the time element for a moment, why are you going on with the divorce if everything is over between you and Frank Carson?”
“The divorce has nothing to do with Frank,” she declared. “Not now. Not after last night. I have a few shreds of self-respect left.”
“Perhaps the divorce really had nothing to do with Frank all along,” Shayne suggested softly. “You’re too mature to fall for a young actor. Oh, you might play around with him, but I can hardly believe you were serious about marrying him. Are you sure you haven’t been using Frank as a blind? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it was actually you who engineered the smash-up last night.”
Olivia held the cigarette-holder away from her lips and wet them with the sharp tip of her tongue. “What makes you think that?”
“The whole set-up looks phony. I’m wondering if you hadn’t some other reason for a divorce all along.” He crushed out his cigarette, dropping his gaze from hers.
“If you thought that, why did you come here intimating that I had something to do with Nora Carson’s death?”
“Did I intimate that?” Shayne looked surprised. Then he spread out his hands. “Well, a detective has to follow every lead. You’ll admit you had your husband fooled, too.”
“John.” Her voice was venomous. “If I’d known he was going to take it as he did—”
“You would have told him your true reason?” Shayne finished for her.
“Yes. That I hate him. That I’m tired of having no life of my own—every penny grudgingly doled out to me.”
“You’re a wealthy woman.”
Her thin mouth twisted scornfully. “My husband is a wealthy man,” she contradicted. “Oh, I can have charge accounts at all the stores and he doesn’t look at the bills. But let me ask for a penny of cash—” She raised her hands in horror and rolled her eyes upward.
Shayne’s gray eyes twinkled around the luxuriously appointed room. “This isn’t a bad little love-nest.”
“Love-nest? I’m a slave here,” she cried dramatically. “I’ve helped John get ahead, skimped and managed when we were poor. I’ve a right to my own life. Every woman has. But as long as I’m married to him he’ll treat me like a poor relation, doling out the money as he sees fit.”
Shayne said, “Lots of wealthy men are like that. It gives them a feeling of power to control the purse-strings.” He paused to light a cigarette, asked negligently, “Do you go east often?”
“Very seldom. John’s so tied down with his business.”
“And he won’t let you travel alone?” Shayne asked sympathetically.
“No. That’s another thing I object to. It’s old-fashioned. But I just packed up and went anyway a couple of months ago. New York was wonderful.” Her eyes glowed with the recollection. “No one to tell me what I could or couldn’t do. That brief experience opened my eyes. I realized what life could be if I had some freedom. I made up my mind then to divorce John—long before I met Frank Carson.”
Shayne stared down at the carpet. “A couple of months ago.” He raised his eyes abruptly and asked, “Are you fond of gambling?”
She appeared taken aback, narrowed her eyes. “Not particularly. Why do you ask that?”
He shrugged. “It occurred to me that you might have taken a fling at it while you were
east—discovering your freedom. I’ve even heard of people losing more than they could afford—more than they could pay.”
She laughed. “I’d never make a good gambler. I hate so to lose.”
He nodded and put out his cigarette. When he stood up, she lifted her black lashes coyly and asked, “You’re not going to arrest me?”
“Not right away. But I’ll have to ask you to be in Central City this evening about seven. An informal get-together preceding the official inquest which may save you from being called to attend the public hearing later.”
Some of her first hauteur returned to her. “I’m afraid that will be impossible. I plan to leave for Reno tonight.”
Shayne said, “Make it easy on yourself. I can’t force you to come tonight, but I’ll see that you’re subpoenaed as a material witness for the public inquest—and you won’t be allowed to leave town.”
She paled, biting her underlip and shooting him a sharp, worried glance. “If I come at seven, have I your assurance that I’ll be free to leave afterward?”
“Unless we decide to hang a murder rap around your neck,” he told her lightly.
Olivia’s answering smile was forced. “Very well. I suppose I’ll have to risk that.”
Shayne told her, “A lot of others will be taking the same risk. At Dr. Fairweather s private hospital. Just ask for Mr. Shayne—and I appreciate your cooperation.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RETURNING TO CENTRAL CITY via the new oiled highway through the tunnels from the foot of Floyd Hill, Shayne eased his car into second gear to climb the steep grade west of Black Hawk. Entering the outskirts of Central City, he drove slowly, leaning out to scan the wall of the canyon on his left.
He pulled off the highway to the left at the point where he and Cal Strenk had crossed to reach Pete’s cabin the preceding night, and let the car coast down the steep incline to stop on the rickety bridge where the wooden flume ended and the creek water emerged from under the village to flow along the bottom of the gulch.
He cut off the motor and stared up at the isolated little cabin on the hill high above the creek. The path leading up to it was narrow and precipitous, and he marveled that he and Strenk and the others had been able to follow it in the dark.
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