In a Deadly Vein

by Brett Halliday

  It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room with wide bay windows looking eastward. Modern straight chairs from the doctor’s dining-room were ranged stiffly along the north and south walls, complementing two old-fashioned rockers and a leather settee which were practically museum pieces.

  Christine Forbes sat erect in a straight chair in the corner at the right of the windows. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, and her eyes were wide and unblinking—as though they had not been closed for a long time, and would never close again.

  Celia Moore reclined in a rocker beside Christine. Her stout body was neatly corseted beneath a powder-blue frock. She looked rested and tranquil, like a woman freshly absolved of past sins and ready to sin again if opportunity came along. Her lips hummed a sprightly tune and she had a coy smile for Jasper Windrow who slouched in a straight chair beside her.

  Windrow was clearly not in a flirtatious mood. His stony features looked more than ever as though they had been rudely gouged from native granite. His cold eyes threatened Shayne in the doorway.

  Cal Strenk was dressed in clean faded jeans and a shirt that had once been white, but was now yellowed with age and many scrubbings. A stringy black tie was loose about the withered neck, and he evidenced nervousness by continually combing his chin whiskers with ragged fingernails.

  Across the room from those four, Frank Carson was slumped against one end of the leather settee. He was nattily dressed, and looked sleek enough outwardly, but his sallow complexion and nervously twitching eyelid betrayed his inward unease.

  Patrick Casey occupied the other end of the old settee. His bullet head lolled back and he puffed vigorously on the frayed butt of a cigar while he tried to catch Celia Moore’s gaze with his twinkling eyes.

  Sheriff Fleming arose from a chair near the door when Shayne entered. He said:

  “A couple of them aren’t here yet. That New York fellow and the patient from upstairs. But I told Bryant to be here, and Doc Fairweather says he’ll have the patient wheeled in when we’re ready.”

  Shayne said, “I don’t think Two-Deck will want to miss this, and I have invited another guest from Denver, also.” He stood aside to let Phyllis and the Telluride editor enter. Phyllis smiled at Casey and took a seat between him and Carson on the settee.

  Shayne introduced Mark Raton to the room at large: “Mr. Raton is an old friend of Nora Carson’s father. He’s driven all the way from Telluride to help us get at the bottom of this affair. Suppose you take this rocking chair facing the windows, Mr. Raton.”

  The outside door opened and closed as the editor took his seat at the right of the door. The tramp of feet, like marching men, sounded in the hallway. Shayne turned in the doorway, blocking it with his bulk. He said to Two-Deck Bryant:

  “Your punks weren’t invited to this conference.”

  The gambler halted in front of him, his icy eyes fixed on the top button of Shayne’s coat. His two bodyguards ranged up beside him. He asked, “How do I know what you’re fixing to pull, Shamus? I’ve a right to have my friends along in case you spring one of your fast ones.”

  Shayne laughed. “A lot of good those two would be if I did frame you for murder. Don’t forget you’re out west, Two-Deck, where the trees grow tall.” He stepped aside to let Bryant pass, warning the others, “This is a private performance, boys. You can wait outside.”

  The one whom Shayne had disarmed the night before rasped, “How about it, Chief? Do we stay?”

  Anger flamed in Shayne’s eyes. He gave Bryant a shove through the doorway, then blocked the opening. His fists were bunched at his sides. Through his teeth, he said, “Beat it.”

  The two gunsels hesitated. Each had a right hand lumped in his coat pocket.

  Casey appeared beside Shayne and asked, “You want I should light a fire under ’em, Mike?”

  Shayne said, “You won’t have to. They’re going out like good little boys.” Deprived of Bryant’s moral support they turned silently and padded down the hall.

  Olivia Mattson came through the door as it was swinging shut behind Bryant’s erstwhile bodyguards. She looked trim and neat and almost youthful in a tailored suit of heather-green wool and an absurd little hat tilted down over her right eye. She was camouflaged with a lot of rouge, and managed a flippant smile as she came up to Shayne.

  “Here I am. I hope you won’t keep me long.”

  Shayne asked softly, “Still planning to catch the night train west?”

  She said, “I certainly am,” and her voice was strong and hard.

  Shayne led her inside and again performed a perfunctory introduction. “Mrs. Mattson from Denver—whom some of you already know. There’s a vacant chair by the window, Mrs. Mattson. Now, that’s all, I believe, except the guest of honor.” He glanced at Sheriff Fleming.

  Fleming went out and returned in a few minutes with Dr. Fairweather. Behind them, a nurse wheeled in Joe Meade in a rubber-tired reclining chair. His head was swathed in bandages. Sultry eyes, a heavy-bridged nose, and a sulky mouth were the only features that could be seen.

  Christine leaped to her feet with a little cry when he was wheeled into the room. She bent over him, crying, “Are you all right, Joe? They refused to let me—” The efficient nurse drew the girl back gently. “The patient is extremely weak and must not become excited. Rest and quiet are all he needs for recovery.”

  The doctor warned Shayne, “The young man’s condition is very favorable, but we must guard against a relapse. I can permit him to answer only a few vital questions.” He took a determined stand beside the patient.

  Shayne frowned at Meade’s bandages. “Will he be able to hear me through those wrappings?”

  Meade cut his eyes in Shayne’s direction without moving his head. “I can hear you, all right” His voice was thin, but carried a thread of hostility.

  Shayne told the doctor, “I’ll do most of the talking. After I’ve had my say, there won’t be many questions.” He paused and let his gaze circle the crowded room, passing over Mark Raton and Carson, pausing to catch Phyllis’s encouraging eyes for a moment, on past Casey to Olivia Mattson, then to Christine in the opposite corner.

  Christine met his eyes levelly, openly hostile, but Celia smiled at him. Jasper Windrow’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, but Cal Strenk favored him with a sly and knowing wink. Bryant had taken a chair beyond the old miner and was hunched forward with his chin cupped in his palms, his finely sculptured features expressing complete boredom.

  Glancing back at Sheriff Fleming, Dr. Fairweather, the nurse and her patient, Shayne thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets and lounged back against the threshold. He began in a conversational tone:

  “Opening night of the Play Festival was marred by two murders. An old man who didn’t have much to live for; and a young woman with all of life before her. Each one of you is mixed up in the case one way or another, more or less. Each of you had reason to desire the death of one or the other of the victims. Each of you had the opportunity to commit at least one of the murders. One among you had the motive and opportunity for both murders.”

  There was complete silence when he paused. He warned:

  “I’m going to take my gloves off and go at you hammer and tongs. Someone is going to break before I’m done. This has been a tough case to unravel because I’ve uncovered such a damnable tangle of confused and overlapping motives, because there aren’t any factual clues. By getting you all together, I hope to put you at each other’s throats until the truth comes out.”

  He directed his gaze at Frank Carson.

  “You’re the most logical contender for a noose,” he told the young actor pleasantly. “Screwloose Pete had just discovered a mine worth a small fortune. He was murdered immediately after your wife identified him as her long-missed father. Then, she was killed. Leaving you the legal heir to Pete’s share of the mine—if his relationship to your wife can be proved.”

  Carson set his teeth and his eyes blazed at Shayne. “You’re absolutely nuts i
f that’s the best theory you’ve got. I can punch it full of holes. In the first place, I didn’t even know the old man was Nora’s father—until after he was dead. And I’ve been talking to the sheriff. Nora was murdered long before the play was over. Good heavens, I won’t have any trouble proving I couldn’t have left the theater.”

  Shayne shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s the trouble with each of my theories,” he admitted. “But you didn’t let me complete my case against you. Passing up the first murder for the moment, you had another possible reason for desiring your wife’s death. You have been openly carrying on an affair with Mrs. Mattson for weeks. To such a point that she demanded a divorce from her husband yesterday.”

  When Carson glanced sideways at Olivia and then started to protest, Shayne interrupted with a wry grin:

  “I know your answer to that, too. You were just fooling. But you certainly had the lady fooled—until after the play last night when you had the unpleasant job of throwing her over publicly. I can’t help wondering whether something happened to make you change your mind in the meantime.”

  “Nora’s death, I presume?” Carson’s voice was scathing. “First, you insinuate I wanted to get rid of her so I could marry Olivia, then you contradict yourself by hinting that Nora’s death caused me to change my mind. None of it makes sense anyway,” he ended disgustedly, “because I hadn’t left the theater before I left Olivia backstage. So I couldn’t have known Nora was dead.”

  Shayne paused for a moment to give his words significance. “I have to admit I don’t believe you’d left the theater since the first curtain went up. And that brings us to Mrs. Mattson.” Shayne turned his gaze to her.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a motive for you to have killed Screwloose Pete. The profit motive hardly holds water, even if you hoped Carson would inherit the mine, because your husband is a wealthy man and you had demanded a large property settlement with the divorce. But Nora Carson’s death would have been convenient. You weren’t fooling. And today, after her death, I learn you plan to go on with the divorce.”

  Olivia Mattson replied with unshaken poise, “I explained to you this morning that my divorce has nothing to do with Frank. Nothing whatever,” she repeated, catching her lower lip between strong white teeth.

  “Perhaps not. But you’d be more convincing if you stated another definite reason. Such as needing a large sum of money desperately—and receiving only a paltry allowance from your husband. Gambling in a clip-joint sometimes leads to such a situation. How about it, Two-Deck?” He swung his attention to Bryant. “Do you want to alibi the lady by giving us another reason why she might have wanted a divorce?”

  Bryant lifted his cold gaze to Mrs. Mattson, then to Shayne. “You’re doing the talking, Shamus.”

  “And I’ve still got a lot of it to do. But it would help a lot, Bryant, if you’d break loose and tell us which one of these people you came west to finger for your money. Knowing your collection methods, I figure the one who skipped out of New York without paying off would be quite ready to commit murder to clear up that debt.”

  Bryant repeated, “You’re doing the talking.”

  Shayne sighed. He turned back to Mrs. Mattson. “Do you wish to add anything to the unenlightening conversation I’ve just had with Mr. Two-Deck Bryant?”

  Her eyes rounded at him. She shook her head firmly. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Perhaps not.” Shayne turned to Windrow and Strenk. “While we’re on the profit motive, I don’t want to neglect you two. You were partners in Pete’s mine. You both had reason to believe no heirs to his estate would ever be found and that his share would revert to you after death. And Strenk!” Shayne’s voice hardened. “The man seen darting away from Pete’s body last night was bearded, dressed like a miner. The description fits you.”

  Strenk chuckled with sly humor. “I told you where I was when Pete was getting his head smashed.”

  “How about you, Windrow? Have you an alibi, too?”

  “I don’t need one,” Windrow retorted. “This whole proceeding is insane. I don’t intend to sit here idly while you make absurd accusations you can’t back up with a shred of proof.”

  He got up and started for the door.

  Shayne glanced at Fleming. The sheriff stepped into the doorway, drawing a .44 from under his coat. He drawled, “Sorry, Jas. I reckon you better stick around.” Windrow hesitated, then dropped back into his chair with a surly oath.

  “You’re short of money,” Shayne went on. “You admitted to me today that you could raise only a few hundred in cash. You made a trip to New York recently. Could you be the sucker who brought Bryant out on a collection trip?”

  Windrow’s face hardened. He demanded, “What good would it do either Cal or me to murder Pete when he has a daughter right here in town?”

  “The chances are that neither of you knew she was his daughter until after he was dead. Or, you may have known, and killed him hoping to prevent his recognition by her—which would explain the disfiguring blow dealt him. Then,” he went on swiftly, overriding a bellow of rage from Windrow, “you discovered his death had come a few minutes too late. So, you had to get rid of the girl also—hoping there wouldn’t be any factual proof discovered to uphold her identification and make it legally binding.”

  “And there hasn’t been any proof found,” Windrow reminded him. “None that I’ve heard of.”

  “What do you mean by that crack?” came unexpectedly from Frank Carson across the room. “Do you two murderers think you can get away with a thing like that? Nora said he was her father. I’ll prove it, all right. Don’t think I’m going to let you call my wife a liar in court.”

  Shayne said to Carson, “Let’s skip that point for the time being.” He slowly turned to Christine and Celia, spoke gently to the younger girl:

  “I’m not going to accuse either you or Miss Moore of murder, though you did benefit by Nora’s death, Miss Forbes. It gave you your big chance—one you’d been waiting for a long time. And that brings up a point that’s had me puzzled all along: Why did Miss Carson conveniently leave the theater to be killed just before the curtain went up? You and she weren’t friendly, Miss Forbes. She wasn’t being big-hearted about giving you your chance. It was something vitally important that took her away from the theater. And that, I think, is where our wounded young playwright comes into the picture.”

  He glanced at his watch, then turned to the bandaged figure of Joe Meade in the wheel chair.

  “You were in love with Christine. You were bitter against the fate that makes it difficult for young actresses and playwrights to get a start. You were in love with Christine—yet behind her back you were carrying on with Nora. Sending her notes. You sent, or left one, in her dressing-room just before she disappeared last night.”

  Shayne held up a big hand when Meade parted his lips to speak. “I’ll do the talking for a moment. Then it’ll be your turn. I know all about that note, Meade. Miss Moore found it in the dressing-room after Nora had gone. She told me what was in it—”

  He whirled on Celia who surged to her feet to deny his charge. “I’m doing the telling. Now that you’re sober, you’re sorry you spilled it, but that won’t help Joe.”

  He turned back to Joe Meade, whose dilated eyes were the only indication of the strain he was under.

  “You were determined Christine should have her chance. You planned for weeks to lure Nora away on opening night so her understudy could take over. All the important critics were there—the hot-shots from the East whose wire stories to their papers could make or break an actress. You knew all Christine needed was a chance to show her stuff. You were tired of waiting for fate to give her a break. So, you took fate in your own hands.”

  Shayne had moved forward slowly until he now stood beside the wheel chair. His hands were still in his pockets, but each word carried a terrific impact, as though he struck bare-fisted blows.

  “You lured Nora away from
the theater just before the first curtain went up. To be sure she didn’t come back and spoil things, you slipped out during the first act and met her down at the end of the flume and got rid of her permanently—then hurried backstage and pretended you hadn’t been away.”

  He stopped suddenly. Christine’s labored breathing sounded loud in the silence. Her face was constricted. Joe Meade stared up at Shayne unblinkingly. The detective’s voice became soothing. “That’s the way you planned it. You may as well admit the dirty truth.”

  Joe spoke for the first time in his own defense. “You’re nuts. I had to be backstage all through the first act. If Nora was killed during that time, you can’t pin it on me. We had a change of scenery in the middle of the act.”

  Shayne nodded blandly. “You almost made that alibi stick. But I was out front. There was a hitch in that scene shift. It took too long. McLeod tells me the trouble was because you weren’t on duty to help. You were a few minutes late in getting back from meeting Nora.” Joe’s lips twitched into a snarl.

  “It’s all a lie. Every bit of it.”

  Shayne looked down at him pityingly. “What a shock you got after the play when you learned that Christine was horrified at the thought of you having anything to do with Nora’s absence. You bragged about it at first. Remember? I heard you. With what I heard, and the note Miss Moore found, we’ve got you dead to rights.”

  “All right.” The words came out thinly. “So you know about that part of it. I won’t deny I fixed it for Christine. It came to me all of a sudden when I heard about Nora’s father. I had been trying to figure how to get her away. But she wasn’t where I told her to meet me. You can’t prove I met her there. She wasn’t there, I tell you. What I did wasn’t any crime.”

  Shayne shook his head sorrowfully. “Then why did you get an attack of conscience and go out to the cabin and shoot yourself? That was the give-away, Meade.”

  “Shoot myself? Good God, is that what you think?”