In a Deadly Vein (2 page)

TWO MEMBERS of the Colorado Courtesy Patrol reached the scene. They were young men, in neat blue uniforms with polished boots and Sam Browne belts. In the absence of local authority they assumed charge, ordering the crowd back and questioning those nearest the body.

Shayne briefly explained his and Nora’s presence. No one had seen the actual attack. One of the men who had been kneeling over the body was a dentist from Denver. He introduced himself to the young officers:

“I’m Doctor Adams. My wife and I were on our way to the opera after changing to evening clothes at a friend’s home. We were starting down those steps from above,” he pointed to a flight of wooden steps leading down from the next street level, “when we heard a loud thud and a groan down here. We saw a man running off to the right into the darkness.” He indicated the rear of the Masonic Temple. “I can’t describe him very well, but I think my wife saw him better.” He turned to a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a black lace gown.

She nodded emphatically, keeping her eyes averted from the kneeling figure of Nora Carson and the dead man. “He was roughly dressed and he looked old,” Mrs. Adams told them. “I have an indistinct impression of a black hat and whiskers, but—” she shuddered and forced herself to glance hastily at the corpse, “it might have been this poor man I saw, just the instant before he was struck. It all happened so suddenly.”

Sheriff Fleming arrived as she finished her halting statement. He slowly lifted his broad-brimmed hat, staring down at the face of the dead man. In the faint light his face was stern, touched with pity.

“It’s old Pete,” Sheriff Fleming said in his soft western drawl. “Screwloose Pete. Poor old fellow. Who do you reckon would of done this? Just when he’d made his ten-strike, too, after prospecting for years.”

Nora Carson lifted her tear-streaked face. Her blue eyes were softly luminous. “This man’s name is Peter Dalcor,” she corrected the sheriff. She lifted her chin. “He’s my father. He disappeared from Telluride ten years ago and we were never able to trace him.”

There were murmurings of pity from the onlookers when Nora revealed the identity of the murdered man. Sheriff Fleming rubbed his chin reflectively. “Yes, Ma’am. I wouldn’t know about that. He’s been hanging around Central for eight or ten years. Nobody ever knew any name for him but Pete. We called him Screwloose, begging your pardon, Ma’am, because he was sort of strange-like. Stayed out in the hills by himself and didn’t ever talk much. Never said where he hailed from, nor anything about his past.”

Nora cried, “I’m certainly not going to believe he was insane, if that’s what you’re hinting. He was always quiet. Perhaps,” she faltered, “he had an attack or amnesia and didn’t know who he was. That would explain everything.”

A bareheaded young man came charging through the circle of spectators. He dropped to his knees beside the girl and said hoarsely, “Nora! My God, Nora! What is this?”

He wore a neat blue suit, and his glossy black hair was disheveled. His dark, clean-cut features had a cameo-like beauty, but there was, oddly, nothing foppish about him.

Nora shivered when his arm went around her. She looked down at the blood-smeared old man and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She sobbed, “It’s Father. After all these years, Frank, I’ve found him.” She buried her face against the young man’s chest.

He glanced up angrily at the silent officer and demanded, “Why in the name of God don’t you do something? Can’t you cover him up—take him away?” His arm tightened protectively around Nora. “This is awful, darling. You mustn’t—please, dear, you can’t sit here like this. The play—good Lord! you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

Nora Carson let her husband draw her away from the dead man. One of the patrolmen turned the sheepskin collar up to hide the ghastly sight from view.

“Yes, Frank—the play,” Nora said. “I suppose I’ll have to go on.”

“Of course you must.” Frank Carson spoke with firm authority.

He lifted his wife and drew her back a few steps, his fine features strained and tight. He spoke to her in a soft, persuasive voice:

“Are you sure the man is your father, dear? Sure you haven’t let your long search and your desire to find him influence your recognition? After all, he’s not—well, it’s rather difficult to tell much about how he looks
now.”

“It is Father,” Nora insisted fiercely. “You see, I saw him, Frank—before he was like this. Just a few minutes ago. Through the window at the Teller House. And he recognized me, too. But he ran away.” A convulsive tremor shook her body. “He ran away before I could reach him. Oh, why did he have to die just when I’d found him again!”

While her passionate words lingered in the air, the clangor of a bell from Eureka Street came up through the night stillness to the group gathered in the presence of death on the steep hillside. An eerie sound, echoing upward from the stone walls of buildings housing a thousand ghostly memories of the past.

Below, in the glare of street lights, a tall man dressed in somber black, with a batwing collar and stiff shirt, was moving solemnly down the center of the crowded street ringing the old bell that had announced the opening of the opera house since the days when Modjeska and Edwin Booth had trod that historic stage.

The doors were flung open as the bell clanged, and those fortunate enough to hold first-night tickets began to file inside while thousands stood outside watching the colorful spectacle. There was the glare of spotlights, the blare of the radio announcer’s voice through the loudspeaker, and laughter and gay voices from those below, unconscious of the tragedy a hundred feet away.

Slowly and silently the group around the body dissolved downward, drawn by the warning bell. As Shayne dragged his gaze and his thoughts back to the reality of the murder, he heard Frank Carson urging his wife:

“We must hurry, dear. The curtain goes up in fifteen minutes. You have to change—and make up…” He was gently drawing her away, but Nora hung back, her sorrow-haunted eyes clinging to the crumpled figure on the ground.

“We’ve got to do something,” she cried. “We just can’t leave him lying there.”

“The police will take care of everything,” Frank reminded her. “You have to think of the play—the rest of the cast. All the important Eastern critics are here.” His voice was soft and persuasive.

Nora shuddered and lifted her chin valiantly. “Of course, Frank. The play must go on.” She turned to Shayne who was standing a little aside, and said impulsively:

“You’ve been awfully kind. Will you—they’ll make an investigation, won’t they? They won’t let the murderer get away?”

Carson turned searching black eyes on the tall redhead, and Nora explained, “This is Mr. Shayne, the detective from Florida. He helped me find Father.”

Frank Carson nodded. “I remember seeing your picture in the local paper. We appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Shayne. Now, Nora, please.” His fingers tightened on her arm. She resisted him, and said hurriedly to Shayne:

“Would you consider taking charge here? Helping the officers? I’d feel so much better if you would.” Shayne hesitated, and Frank joined Nora in the request:

“If it wouldn’t be too great an imposition. Nora has to get backstage immediately.”

Shayne nodded abruptly. “I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

“Fine—and thanks.” Carson spoke crisply. “Come, Nora darling, there’s nothing further to keep you here.”

Shayne stood solidly on wide-spread feet and watched them hurry down the slope to keep one of the oldest traditions of the theater. He sighed and turned to the sheriff and the two patrolmen. “Who assumes jurisdiction here?”

One of the young men said, “I’m Stout, of the State Courtesy Patrol, Mr. Shayne. We try to be exactly what our name implies. It’s our duty to co-operate with local authority, not usurp it. This is Sheriff Fleming’s baby.”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “This is mighty bad business. First killing in town since I’ve been sheriff. I declare I don’t know who around here would be mean enough to smash Pete’s head. Harmless old codger, and friendly as a speckled pup.”

Shayne said, “From the description given by the dentist and his wife it sounded like local talent. Another old miner. Do you know anyone who had a grudge against him?”

The sheriff considered for a moment, his face troubled. Then he shook his head. “Not right off,” he said lamely. “No one that would of done a thing like this. Of course, these old-timers have their squabbles.”

“When you’re investigating murder,” Shayne warned him, “you can’t let personalities interfere.” He dropped to his knees beside the dead man and turned the sheepskin collar down. He muttered, “Looks like a single crushing blow did the job. A brick or a large flat rock.”

Sheriff Fleming squatted beside him. “I heard what the young lady said to you, Mr. Shayne. I’d be mighty glad to have your help finding the killer.”

“I don’t mean to horn in, but I’ll do what I can,” Shayne promised. “Get the routine over with, and start checking the alibis of Pete’s cronies, particularly any who have quarreled with him. You’ll be doing innocent men a favor by checking their alibis and removing them from suspicion promptly.”

“That’s a fact.” Sheriff Fleming was relieved. “I’ll start right in.”

Shayne stood up. “I can’t do much until after the play. My wife is waiting for me.” He looked at his watch as he started down the steep slope. It was 8:22.

KNOWING PATRICK CASEY OF OLD, Shayne looked for him and Phyllis in the barroom. It was less crowded now, some of the crowd having drifted to other places of amusement. He found them at a small table in the rear.

“Well, if it isn’t that man again,” Phyllis murmured as he pulled up a chair and signaled for a drink. “Of course, we did have a date to see a play. Have you forgot that, along with the fact that you have a wife?” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“’Tis a betrayed lass you are,” mourned Casey. “To shackle a rounder like Mike Shayne to matrimony is like harnessing a Derby winner to a junk wagon.”

Shayne said, “Very funny.” He glowered at them. “Do we go to the opera or do we stay here and think up gags?”

Phyllis smiled prettily. “That scene you and the Carson girl put on was as good as anything we’ll see in the opera house. Did she find the old man she was running after?”

“She found her father.”

The waiter brought his drink and he drank half of it.

“I suppose you don’t care what happened a hundred yards from where you and Pat sat drinking liquor.” Shayne’s face was glum.

Phyllis’s dark eyes glowed with concern and curiosity. “What happened, Michael?”

“Murder.”

“Michael! You’re not mixed up in it?” she cried.

“I’m not a suspect this time, if that’s what you mean. But I was with Nora Carson when she found her father’s body, and I intend to find out who did it.”

“You see, darlin’,” Pat Casey said, “murderers follow Mike around so’s to keep him in practice.”

“Even on our vacation,” Phyllis said bitterly. “You’d dig up a case if we took a rocket to Mars.”

Shayne grinned at her and finished his drink. “We’ve got about two minutes before the curtain goes up.” He turned to Casey. “You’re not going to the play?”

Casey’s bullet head waggled negatively. “’Tis a tough gate to crash, I hear. And me without a monkey suit or a messy jacket.”

Shayne stood up and drew Phyllis from her chair. “Do this for me, Pat. The sheriff and a couple of boys from the State Patrol are on the job. I wish you’d wander up there and keep an eye on things. They’re all right, but none of them are homicide men.”

“I’ll do it, Mike, but I’ve got a job of my own I haven’t finished telling you about.”

“It’ll have to wait. Maybe I can help you on it.”

“Sure,” Phyllis said as Shayne hurried her through the room. “Why not? One case is hardly enough to keep you busy while we’re on a vacation. Take on a couple more so you won’t have any time for me. I can always amuse myself.”

Shayne chuckled. “You forget you married a working man, angel. When a murder case slaps me in the face I can’t run from it.”

The curtain was a few minutes late going up. The huge central chandelier which had originally held many kerosene lamps, and which had been the pride of mining pioneers, was lighted with myriads of electric bulbs, but the footlights began to glow as they found their seats, the last two vacant chairs in the building that had once been the most pretentious playhouse between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean.

In keeping with the fine traditions of the Opera Association, the French tragedy
A Bras Ouverts
had been chosen as the vehicle for a distinguished company of Broadway artists.

The chandelier lights dimmed as Shayne ran a finger down the names of the cast listed in the order of their appearance on stage. Playing the juvenile lead, Frank Carson was among those opening the play. He pointed the name out to Phyllis, whispering:

“He is Nora Carson’s husband. He’ll be a trouper if he makes his appearance. Not more than fifteen minutes ago he was standing over the murdered body of his father-in-law.”

The house darkened and the curtain went up. For a moment, Shayne didn’t recognize the young actor in his costume and make-up, but when he spoke his first lines, the strong timbre of his voice was unmistakable. As the first act continued, Shayne admitted that his dramatic artistry was undeniably perfect.

Nora Carson did not appear immediately, and his impatience grew as he waited for her to come on. He knew that it would be vastly more difficult for her, but Shayne had faith in his snap judgment of her character as observed under trying conditions, and he waited eagerly for her to justify that faith.

The first scene ended and she did not appear. The lights came on for a brief interval while the scenery was shifted, and Shayne studied his program again. He discovered that Nora was not due on stage until the middle of the second scene and he settled himself to wait.

The two minutes apportioned to the change of scene stretched to ten before the second curtain went up. Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead as the time for Nora’s first cue neared. For some obscure reason it was important to him that she appear and play her part well. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t matter a tinker’s damn to him, but it did matter terribly.

Something was wrong on-stage. A cue line was spoken and there was no response. The line was repeated.

A slender girl came on hurriedly and the voice Shayne heard was not Nora Carson’s. She wore a blond wig, but her eyes were dark, and her heart-shaped face and pointed chin in no way resembled Nora’s features.

A white-haired patroness of the theater sitting next to Shayne gasped, “That’s not Nora Carson. It’s Christine Forbes, Nora’s understudy. I wonder what has happened to Nora.”

Christine Forbes was adequate in her role. She gave her lines with assurance and with fire. She was graceful and poised throughout a difficult emotional scene. There was thunderous applause when the act was over; Nora’s understudy had captured the audience. They called for her again and again and she took her bows with grace and modesty.

Shayne did not applaud. He got up and made his way down the aisle with a grim look on his angular face. He strode through the foyer and outside. He lit a cigarette and went around the west side of the building toward the stage entrance, passing over the wooden flume that carried the water of Clear Creek directly under the village.

He was halted by a closed gate in a high wooden wall bearing the painted sign, NO ADMITTANCE.

Shayne rattled the gate savagely. It was locked from the inside.

From Eureka Street came the sound of shrill laughter and the wail of square-dance music, and from the flume just behind him was the rushing sound of flood waters, just now reaching town from an evening cloudburst high in the mountains.

His eyes were bleak as he stalked back to the front door and regained his seat in time for the next curtain.

He was silent and morose through the rest of the performance while Christine Forbes turned her opportunity into a personal triumph, and when the final curtain came down, he again strode out while the ancient playhouse echoed with applause.

Phyllis clung to his arm and was silent until they were on the sidewalk. Then she spoke sharply:

“I can’t see that Nora Carson was particularly missed tonight. The other girl was marvelous.”

Shayne grunted. “Yeh. That’s one of the things that tastes bad to me. The Forbes girl is so damned good that I’m willing to bet Nora Carson has lost her part altogether. First, her father whom she has just found after ten years, then an important role that she’s rehearsed for weeks—all in the space of three hours.”

“But you can’t blame yourself, Michael,” Phyllis wailed.

He looked down at her and some of the grimness went out of his face. “You’re not a cop, angel. You don’t know the feeling of being just too late to prevent murder.”

The vanguard of first-nighters was filing from the opera house. Shayne turned toward the side of the building again. He said, “I’m going to see her if I have to break that damned gate down.”

As they crossed over the flume he noticed that the tremendous rushing sound of water had receded. The wooden gate leading backstage was standing open.

They found a door leading into the shadowy region of props and sliding scenery behind the lowered curtain. The stage was a riot of confusion, with members of the cast receiving congratulations from those of the audience who were fortunate enough to find standing room.

Shayne and Phyllis wormed their way through to find Frank Carson in the midst of a bevy of bare backs and flowing skirts. The young actor saw the detective and signaled to him urgently, thrusting aside feminine admirers to make his way to Shayne.

When they met, Shayne said, “I was worried about your wife. How is she holding up?”

Carson’s face darkened under his heavy make-up. “Isn’t Nora with you? You promised to look after things.”

Shayne’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why should your wife be with me?”

“I thought she’d gone back—up there.”

“Do you mean she isn’t in the theater?”

“Hell, no, she isn’t here. Why would I be asking you? She must have gone out right after the play started. I left her in her dressing-room when I went on. She swore she’d be all right. Then she slipped out without telling anyone.”

“No one?”

“No one knew she was gone until just in time for Christine to get in costume. I thought she’d gone back to find you.” Frank Carson took a backward step. Horror and fear were accentuated by heavy mascara and greasepaint, and his fine features were distorted. He said in a low, furious voice, “You didn’t stay? You don’t know what has become of Nora? You let her go out alone—with a mad killer roaming this damned town? What sort of a detective are you?”

“Sometimes I ask myself that same question,” Shayne said grimly, “and don’t receive a very satisfactory reply.”