In a Deadly Vein

by Brett Halliday

  “What did you find out?”

  “The water got up past the stump, all right. I got the county surveyor to take his measuring thing out there and he took levels and figured how much rise it would take to’ve floated her down there.”

  “That was a smart angle,” Shayne conceded. “And the water rose that high?”

  “That’s right. The government instrument shows the crest was a couple of inches above where the Carson girl was lying when you found her. High water was at eight-thirty-two. After that, it started dropping.”

  “How fast?”

  “Pretty fast. The government man and the surveyor got their heads together and they figure she’d have to’ve been dropped in the creek no later than nine-thirty to’ve lodged against the stump. Nine o’clock, more like.”

  Shayne thumped the sheriff on the back. “That’s mighty good work. How about Joe Meade? Is he under guard all the time?”

  “You bet he is. I’ve got a deputy sitting by the side of his bed. You reckon he killed ’em both?”

  Shayne shrugged his shoulders. “We’re going to find out when he’s able to talk—about seven o’clock tonight. I want you to meet me up at the hospital at seven, Sheriff. And here’s a list of people I want there.” He handed the sheriff a sheet of paper, explaining, “I’ll notify most of them, but I haven’t any official standing around here. It’ll be up to you to round them up for me.”

  Sheriff Fleming scanned the list, shaking his head. “You’ve got a mighty lot of names wrote down here.”

  “Only one of them is a murderer. But each of the others has some pertinent bit of information that’ll help solve the case. By getting them all together and throwing the fear of God into them, I think we’re going to piece together the most extraordinary plan of coldblooded murder ever conceived in a human mind.”

  Fleming sighed and nodded. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I can’t make head or tail out of it.”

  Shayne heard his name being called by the hotel clerk in the lobby. A little man in a dusty alpaca coat waited for him at the desk. The clerk said, “This gentleman is asking for you, Mr. Shayne.”

  The little man wore a straw hat with a vivid red and orange band. He had restless, inquisitive eyes, and a beaked nose. He said, “I’m Mark Raton from Telluride. Editor of the Chronicle.”

  Shayne pumped his hand enthusiastically. “You made a fast trip. I didn’t expect you for a couple of hours.” He drew him aside to a row of straight chairs lining the wall of the lobby.

  “I drove straight through without stopping except for gas.” The editor smiled grimly. “You got me curious—talking about murders and Pete Dalcor.”

  Shayne said, “It was absolutely imperative that we get hold of someone who knew Dalcor in Telluride.” He got the Prince Albert tobacco can from his pocket and opened it.

  “I’m your man,” Mark Raton told him. “I knew him better than most, and I reckon I was the only man in Telluride that wasn’t really surprised when he took French leave and didn’t send back a forwarding address.”

  Shayne selected the old clipping from Raton’s newspaper and showed it to the editor. “Is this a good likeness?”

  Raton nodded. “I recollect printing that. Just the way he looked then.”

  “You say you weren’t surprised when he went A.W.O.L. Why?”

  “He had plenty of reason to. Mrs. Dalcor was a hellcat. Nagging all the time till it’s a wonder she didn’t drive Pete crazy. Giving him the devil because he was unlucky and none of his prospects panned out rich. She was a pushing woman. Ambitious and proud. Didn’t surprise any of us when Nora turned out a successful actress. After Pete left home she nagged at Nora until the girl had to amount to something.”

  Shayne picked put the recent clipping from the Central City newspaper and passed it over to Mark Raton. “Take a good look at this one. Could one of those men be Peter Dalcor after ten years?”

  Raton squinted down at the newspaper picture of Screwloose Pete and Cal Strenk.

  “Take your time with it and try to visualize what ten years might have done to Dalcor,” Shayne urged. “A great deal depends on how you answer my question.”

  The editor turned the picture to get a better light on it, twisted his head and closed one eye, then the other.

  He finally said, “I couldn’t take my oath that either of them is or isn’t Pete. Might be, or mightn’t. If I had to pick one of them for Pete Dalcor, I’d say this one.” He pointed a lean forefinger at Screwloose Pete. “Whiskers and ten years make a sight of difference in a man. I could judge better if they were shaved.”

  Shayne was perfectly satisfied. He said, “Everything is shaping up for a showdown. You’re invited to a little seance up at a local hospital this evening. I’m going to attempt to evoke the ghost of Peter Dalcor, and you’ll be my star witness.” He got up, chuckling at the bemused look on Mark Raton’s face. “I’ll see you later, but right now I’ve got to dicker with a couple of men about cutting a melon.”

  He strolled out of the lobby and down the street to Jasper Windrow’s large mercantile establishment.

  Three clerks were busy waiting on the throng of tourists drawn to the store by the large display of Indian blankets and Western trinkets. Shayne asked for the proprietor and was directed to a small office in the rear partitioned off from a large storage room. The door was open, and Shayne found Jasper Windrow and Cal Strenk inside. Ledgers and account books were strewn over the storekeeper’s desk and he was adding a long list of figures as Shayne walked in. Strenk was slouched in a straight chair tilted back against the wall.

  Windrow glanced up, keeping the point of his pencil on his place in the long list. He asked, “What do you want?” in a surly tone.

  Shayne said, “If you’re figuring up accounts, you might like to settle up with me at the same time.” He dragged over a three-legged stool and settled his long body on it.

  Windrow stared at him from under heavy thatched brows. Cal Strenk cackled and raked the tips of his fingers through his straggly beard. He told Shayne, “The only settlin’ up Jasper likes is when he’s on the takin’-in end.”

  The detective waggled his red head back and forth. “I’m not talking about that kind of settlement.”

  In a low voice that was hoarse with fury, Windrow snarled, “Nobody here is interested in what you’re talking about. You’re not wanted here. Nor in Central City either.”

  Shayne smiled and rubbed his lean jaw. He protested, “I thought you’d be glad to know I’m just about set to clean up a couple of murders here. Thought perhaps you and Cal would like to contribute toward a fund the grateful citizens are making up for me.”

  “You and your snooping,” snarled Windrow. His bulky body shook and his features darkened. “I said you weren’t wanted here.”

  Shayne smiled and took out a cigarette. “I’m staying.”

  “No, you’re not.” Windrow’s chair crashed to the floor behind him. He leaned over the desk. His eyes were mad. “Do I have to throw you out?”

  Shayne lit a cigarette. He said earnestly, “I won’t stay out. I’m a tough guy to bounce when I smell a profit.”

  Jasper Windrow was moving around his desk. Cal Strenk got up hastily, his shrewd eyes studying Shayne’s unconcerned face. He said, “I wouldn’t, Jasper. Damn it, I wouldn’t if I was you.”

  Windrow swung his big body toward Strenk. “You owe him the same as I do. If he hadn’t dug up that tobacco can last night nobody could never have proved who Screwloose was.”

  “The tobacco can,” said Shayne, “is what I came to talk about.”

  Windrow swerved toward him, shaking his head like a maddened bull. “What is there to talk about now? The harm’s already done.”

  Shayne said, “Maybe not.” His calm gaze held Windrow’s bloodshot eyes.

  Strenk exclaimed, “By golly, Jasper. Wait. Don’t go off half-cocked. Remember what them fellers from Denver was tellin’ about him this mornin’? They say he’s slicker’n gre
ased lightnin’ when it comes to a way of figurin’ out how to make hisse’f some cash money.”

  “He won’t get any money from me,” Windrow growled. “His long nose has already cost us Pete’s share in the mine.” He took another step forward with knotted fists swinging.

  Strenk caught his coat-tail with both hands, begging, “No need to rush things. Let him have his say. I figger mebby he’s got a proposition.”

  Shayne tilted his head up at Windrow and laughed, letting smoke trail from flared nostrils. “I thought you were a businessman,” he mocked.

  Windrow was breathing stertorously. He allowed Strenk to pull him back. “What kind of business have you got with me?”

  Shayne said, “It would be an admirable example of civic spirit if you and Mr. Strenk each made a donation of, say, a thousand dollars for the work I’ve done investigating the death of your partner.”

  Windrow’s hands clenched themselves into fists again. “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”

  “Of course,” Shayne interrupted, “I might be moved by such a generous and freehearted gesture to forget about the tobacco can I dug up in Pete’s cabin last night.”

  There was flat silence inside the office. Then Windrow let out his breath in a long wheeze. One hand groped out to the desk for support.

  Cal Strenk slid back into his chair against the wall. His laughter had an obscene sound. “What’d I tell you ’bout him, Jasper? What’d I tell you?”

  Windrow moved back and picked up his chair. He resettled his solid bulk in it, leaned forward with hairy forearms flat in front of him. He demanded, “Are you offering to suppress that evidence for a cash payment of two thousand dollars?”

  Shayne looked at him in surprise. “Now, where in hell did you get that idea?”

  Windrow started to go apoplectic again. “You just said—”

  “I said,” Shayne told him coldly, “that if you and Strenk wish to do the generous thing and each put up a thousand dollars as my fee on this case, I might reciprocate by forgetting about the evidence we found indicating that Pete was the father of the murdered girl.”

  “Hell,” snarled Windrow, “it’s the same thing.”

  Pinpoints of anger flickered in Shayne’s eyes. “It’s a long way from being the same thing. You’re talking about a bribe, and, by God, that’s something I’ve never taken.” His voice had a ring of passionate sincerity.

  Windrow’s upper lip curled away from his teeth. “Have it your own way.”

  “It’s going to be my way or not at all.”

  “All right. But how do we know you won’t spring the stuff later?”

  Shayne pulled the tobacco can from his pocket. “We three and Two-Deck Bryant are the only ones who know about this stuff. If we burn them right now, no one else will ever know.”

  “But how about that Bryant fellow?”

  Shayne eyed him coldly. “I don’t believe Bryant will make any trouble. Suppose he does? We three can deny it. The word of an ex-con like Bryant wouldn’t be worth a damn in court anyhow.”

  “But there are other clippings, probably other pictures just like that one,” Windrow remonstrated.

  “Sure, there are. But they, of themselves, don’t prove anything. No one can identify Screwloose Pete from the old pictures. You said so yourself last night. The only value of the stuff as evidence is because it was found in Pete’s cabin where he had hidden it away.”

  “That’s right, by golly.” Strenk slapped his thigh and laughed excitedly.

  But Jasper’s suspicious gaze continued to bore into Shayne’s face. “Don’t think I’ll be fool enough to trust you. What’s to prevent you from getting up in court later and swearing you found them there?”

  Shayne stood up and threw his cigarette butt on the floor. “To hell with this. You’ve got a chance to buy a third interest in a million-dollar mine for two lousy G’s. You haven’t brains enough to realize I’d be in no position to testify later about evidence which I’d have to admit I destroyed.” He slid the tobacco can in his pocket and started out.

  Cal Strenk leaped up with remarkable agility and caught his coat sleeve. “Don’t go. Say something, Jasper. He’s right. If he burns the stuff now he won’t have a leg to stand on later.”

  “Well—maybe,” Windrow agreed doubtfully as Shayne stopped in the doorway.

  “Maybe, hell,” growled Shayne. “Yes or no?”

  “He means yes,” Strenk chattered, pulling at Shayne’s coat sleeve. “No use gettin’ mad.”

  Shayne let himself be drawn back into the office. “It’ll be my way or not at all.” He stared at Windrow coldly, planting his feet wide apart. “Cash on the barrelhead along with a written notation to the effect that it is a fee paid me outright for my services, with no strings attached.”

  Beads of sweat formed on Windrow’s forehead. “I can’t raise that much cash.”

  “How much can you raise?”

  “Not more than a few hundred—until we can realize something on the mine.”

  “I heard that Pete turned down a cold hundred thousand for his one-third share.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “Tell you what,” offered Shayne generously. “I’ll take a gambler’s chance. You two make over a tenth share in the property to me. I’ll take it in lieu of cash.”

  “A tenth? But that’s—”

  “It’s a lot less than the third share you stand to lose unless this stuff is burned,” Shayne pointed out. “And I’ll protect you further by inserting a clause in the deed to the effect that it becomes void if any share of the property goes to Peter Dalcor’s heirs. That way, you can’t lose.”

  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 babyho
od, 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.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  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.