In a Deadly Vein

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne managed to stand and drag off his hat when Christine reached the foot of the stairs. Her gaze flickered over him without interest. She was about to pass when he put out his hand and said, “Miss Forbes.”

  She stopped. Her tortured, burning eyes met his. Slowly the blankness went from her face. She said, as though in a stupor:

  “You’re the man who hid behind the wall and eavesdropped on Joe.” It was a simple statement, dull and lifeless, with no hint of an accusation.

  “How is Joe?”

  “Joe is dying.” She spoke as though it didn’t matter; as though he was already dead as far as she was concerned.

  Shayne’s face muscles contracted and his wide mouth was grim. Christine continued in her listless tone, “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You needn’t waste any more time on Joe. He is beyond your reach now. There had to be three, you know.”

  “Three what?”

  “Corpses. When Joe dies he’ll be the third and that will end the whole miserable affair.”

  Shayne’s long arm reached out and caught her slumped shoulder. He held her gently and asked, “What’s the matter with you, Miss Forbes?”

  She lifted her eyes wearily. They were glazed, and there was no life in their dark depths. She ignored his question, and parried listlessly:

  “Have you found Nora’s body yet?”

  Shayne dropped his arm from her shoulder. His voice was hard when he asked, “How do you know she’s dead?”

  Christine smiled. A patient, knowing smile. “I’ve known all along.” She paused, then added earnestly, “You’ll let Joe go in peace, won’t you? He’ll make the third and that will end it.”

  A tall nurse in a starched uniform glided into the hall from a side door. She took Christine by the arm and said cheerfully, “The doctor said you weren’t to go away, Miss Forbes. You know he gave you something for your nerves and he wants you to lie down and rest.”

  “Oh, yes,” Christine murmured. “I was to lie down, wasn’t I?” She went away with the nurse.

  Sweat was standing on Shayne’s forehead, though the open hallway was chilly.

  A stocky, white-coated man was coming down the stairs. Approaching Shayne with a nod of recognition, he said: “I’m Doctor Fairweather. I suppose you are anxious to know Mr. Meade’s condition. He is resting under a sedative.”

  “Will he live?” Shayne asked.

  Dr. Fairweather placed the tips of his fingers carefully together and frowned at them. “It is impossible to make an accurate prognosis at this time. He has a chance. Yes, a fair chance.”

  Shayne dragged in a deep breath. “How soon will he be able to talk? Couldn’t you rouse him enough to answer a couple of questions?”

  Dr. Fairweather said, “No, indeed. That would almost surely be fatal. Meade must have perfect rest.”

  “How soon, then?”

  “Tomorrow—at the very earliest—if he rallies satisfactorily.”

  “And—if he doesn’t rally?”

  The doctor spread out his hands. “Your questions will have to go unanswered in that case, Mr. Shayne.”

  “I can’t risk that, Doctor. Good God, all I want is the answer to one question.”

  “You can’t risk it,” Doctor Fairweather said stonily. “He is my patient. I’ll allow you to question him as soon as I’m convinced he’s out of danger. Certainly not before that.”

  Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little jittery. There are a couple of murders involved, you know.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Was it attempted suicide?”

  “That is impossible to determine, Mr. Shayne. The position of the wound indicates that it may have been self-inflicted. On the other hand, there is no proof that another’s finger didn’t pull the trigger. The bullet was a thirty-two caliber.”

  Shayne nodded. “Does Miss Forbes believe Meade shot himself?”

  “She seems quite positive of it. She is dangerously close to hysteria. It is advisable for her to remain here under my care tonight.”

  Shayne said, “I’m at the Teller House. It’s imperative that you call me the moment Meade is able to talk. Miss Carson engaged me to find her father’s murderer, and I think Meade’s condition ties into the case.”

  “I understand,” the doctor said.

  Shayne turned reluctantly and started toward the doorway, swung around and said, “It’s equally imperative that Meade not be allowed to talk to anyone unless I’m present. You can help me out on that.”

  “I can see to that, all right,” the doctor promised. Outside, Shayne was shocked to see the first gray rumors of dawn in the eastern sky. The rugged peaks westward were scalloped against the faint pink of low-hanging clouds. Below, on Eureka Street, a few cars were crawling down the grade to Black Hawk, and tired citizens were climbing the hills homeward.

  Going down was easy. When Shayne reached Eureka, he was amazed to find the throng of merrymakers almost as numerous as before. He stopped on the corner, shivered in the damp, chilly air, looked longingly toward the crowded Teller House bar. He needed a drink, and he wanted to find Phyllis, and he wondered what Casey had been doing.

  The moment of indecision was brief. He went up the street toward the sheriff’s office. A light burned in a front room of the County Courthouse. He found Sheriff Fleming and a paunchy, rosy-faced little man inside. Fleming introduced him to Mr. Pegone, Central City’s leading mortician and Gilpin County coroner.

  “Mighty busy night,” Mr. Pegone effused, dry-washing his plump hands and looking extraordinarily like a beardless Santa Claus. “I guess you’re responsible for it, eh, Mr. Shayne. They say murder follows you around.”

  “Sure,” Shayne said. “I have an arrangement with the undertakers’ association for a cut.”

  Mr. Pegone thought that extremely funny. He chortled appreciatively, his round belly shaking.

  Shayne turned to the sheriff and asked curtly, “How about the girl? Has she been examined by a competent physician?”

  “Yes. I’ve got the notes here—things I figured you’d want to know.” He drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and read aloud:

  “Struck one lick. With a smooth rock or brick. Died instantly before being doused in the water. Post-mortem bruises on body indicate she was washed some distance downstream before lodging against the stump. Death occurred between four and seven hours ago. That’s timed from two o’clock,” he explained, “meaning she was killed some time between seven and ten o’clock.”

  “Not later than ten?” Shayne asked.

  “That’s right. I asked particular. The doc figured around eight-thirty or nine, but wouldn’t say closer without an autopsy—knowing when she ate dinner and things like that.”

  “Ten is pretty good for us,” Shayne told him grimly. “You and I saw her alive at eight-thirty. What else have you?”

  “That’s about all. Doc doesn’t think she fought any before getting hit on the head. But I thought of something else, Mr. Shayne. There’s a government gauge here in the creek. It works automatic, making a record of the rise and fall with the exact time. From looking at it we can tell how high Clear Creek rose tonight—and when.”

  “That’s good stuff,” Shayne commended. “When can you get hold of that record?”

  “Not till we can get the government man to come up from Denver to unlock it. Sometime this morning.”

  “With that, and with what Joe Meade tells when he comes out of it—if he does—we might almost hope to begin to get a faint glimmering of the truth. Call me when you get the dope.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHAYNE TURNED THE COLLAR of his tuxedo up around his neck and strode rapidly toward the Teller House. Daylight spilling through the mist had scattered the crowd, and a parade of cars moved down the hill. The barroom was closed.

  Knowing Phyllis as he did, he decided to look for her in the patio where he had left her, and went through the rear hall.
>
  He found her sitting at a table with Celia Moore, whose stout torso sprawled on the table, her face cradled in the crook of her arm

  Phyllis sprang up and cried, “Michael! I thought you’d never come. I don’t know what to do about her.”

  The patio was deserted except for the two forlorn women. Shayne grinned and reached Phyllis in a few quick strides.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I thought you were going to interview Miss Forbes for me.”

  “Oh—I did,” she said irritably. “And it was awful. She was nearly out of her mind when she left—and Miss Moore is to blame for it”

  Shayne sat down close to her and slipped his arm around her. “Is she conscious?”

  He indicated Miss Moore who was breathing evenly and audibly. A trickle of saliva ran down from her mouth, wetting her coat sleeve.

  Phyllis whispered, “I don’t think so. She has been like that for an hour, and I didn’t want to leave her. I thought she’d come out of it in a little while.”

  “What did she do to make Miss Forbes miserable?”

  “She was downright nasty. Told Christine that Joe Meade had been writing notes to Nora Carson. Claims she found one of them and read it—and tore it up. Of course she did that to keep Christine from being jealous and worried,” Phyllis went on ironically. “And then she told us that Nora was dead—and that there would be another murder, because things like that always went in threes in the theater, especially on opening night.”

  “Bunk,” Shayne grunted. “What else, angel? Did you find out what was in the note Joe wrote to Nora?”

  “I couldn’t question her while Christine was here,” Phyllis wailed. “And when the policeman came for Christine, Miss Moore passed out. She had been propping her eyes open for an hour with her fingers and squinting at us. She was mad because her escort skipped out on her and because she said they used little gold thimbles to measure liquor here—and, oh, it was simply terrible, Michael!”

  “What did the police want with Christine?” Shayne asked.

  “I don’t know. The man just said that Joe Meade had shot himself and he’d been sent to get Christine.”

  “Well—we’d better rouse Miss Moore and get her to her room.”

  “If you had heard her talking about murders going in threes! Her voice sounded like a—well, like one of those awful people who predict things like that. It scared Christine half to death.”

  Shayne got up and pulled Celia Moore’s shoulders up against her chair. Her arms slid from the table and lolled in her lap. He started talking close to her ear in a persuasive voice. Phyllis caught her plump hands in one of hers and began chafing them.

  One of Celia’s eyes opened and squinted at them. “What you doing, big boy?” she asked thickly.

  “I want to know what was in the note Joe Meade wrote to Nora Carson.”

  The woman giggled. “Can’t tell you, big boy. Don’t wanna hurt Christy’s feelings. Say—I thought you were the gal with redhead. C’mon, let’s all have a drink.”

  “The bar is closed—it’s morning. Come on, Miss Moore, we’ll take you to your room,” Phyllis pleaded.

  “About that note,” Shayne interrupted. “What was in it?”

  Miss Moore shook her head emphatically. “Won’t tell anybody that.”

  “You’ll tell tomorrow,” Shayne said angrily. He put a long arm around her waist and pulled her weight from the chair, motioned to Phyllis to take her other arm. “Now walk straight,” he warned Miss Moore. “You don’t want people to think you’re drunk.”

  “Got a drink, big boy?” she asked.

  “What’s your room number?”

  She giggled again and gave him the number, and the trio moved slowly through the rear hall and the bar, and into the lobby. As they started up the stairs, the older woman jerked away from them, caught the banister rail, and pulled herself up, carefully planting both feet on each step.

  Shayne and Phyllis waited until she reached her room, then Shayne picked his wife up in his arms and carried her to their room.

  As he unlocked the door, he glanced down the hall and noticed a light shining from the open door of 123. He said, “Go on in and get to bed, angel. I’ll look in on Frank Carson.”

  Phyllis said stubbornly, “I’ve worked on this case all night with you, and I’m not quitting now.”

  Shayne said, “Okay,” with a chuckle, and she followed him down the hall.

  Frank Carson lay flat on his stomach across the bed. He wore a striped dressing gown, and bare feet and shanks protruded over the edge.

  Shayne said “Carson!” sharply, but there was no movement of the inert body, and no reply.

  Phyllis swayed against the door jamb and watched with tired, frightened eyes.

  “I told you you shouldn’t come, angel,” Shayne said gently. “Run along, now, and relax.”

  She shook her head and stiffened her limbs against the rubbery feeling overcoming them. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, after she said:

  “He’s dead, Michael. Frank Carson is the third Celia was talking about.”

  Shayne went into the room and began examining the inert body. Phyllis followed him, clinging to his arm. He grinned and pointed mutely to an empty whisky bottle on the floor directly beneath the lax fingers of Carson’s right hand. Carson’s eyes were closed, but his mouth sagged open. He was breathing quietly.

  Shayne drew her back, extinguished the light and went out, closing the door. He said gruffly, “Let the poor devil sleep it off. He has had it pretty tough tonight. I suppose he heard about Nora and decided to take this way out of his misery.”

  Phyllis swayed against him and whispered, “Do you mean—Celia was right about Nora?”

  Shayne looked down into her tired face compassionately. “Hasn’t the news got around town yet? Christine seemed to know all about it. Nora is dead—murdered.”

  “But you said ‘bunk’ when I was telling you what Miss Moore said about—three murders. And you knew all the time,” she accused him, her voice teary.

  “I wasn’t sure she was passed out,” he told her, “so I just said ‘bunk.’”

  “So Nora was the second,” she breathed.

  Again Shayne swung her into his long arms and carried her across the threshold of their room and dumped her on the bed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PHYLLIS LEANED BACK comfortably against the high headboard of the bed. She looked diminutive and ridiculously childlike snuggled into a rose-colored wool dressing gown with the blankets drawn up to her waist.

  Shayne extinguished the lights and rolled the window shades high to let the gray light of morning into the room. For fifteen minutes he paced up and down the spacious room while Phyllis reported her interview with Christine in elaborate detail, bringing Celia Moore into the story with dramatic effect.

  “I suppose none of it’s important,” she ended with a sigh. “We don’t even know for sure that there was any note from Joe Meade to Nora. Celia might have just been making that up.”

  Shayne shook his head. “Christine evidently didn’t think she was making it up. And I don’t believe so either. Remember her hesitancy backstage tonight? I thought she was holding something out on us.” He continued his long-legged pacing with shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped behind his back.

  After a few moments, Phyllis cried, “For heaven’s sake, stop impersonating Krazy Kat and tell me whether I did all right or messed everything up. You give me the jitters.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve already got ’em.” He stopped at the window and stared broodingly out into the mist of dawn.

  There was the sound of starting motors and blasting horns, signaling the end of a full night of revelry. In the cold, merciless light of morning, the little town with its ancient dwellings looked bleak and drab, robbed of all the glamour and intoxicating warmth that had come back with the glory of departed days for one night.

  Shayne sighed and turned away from
the window. He filled a wineglass from a cognac bottle and sank into an easy chair. He felt drab and bleak and robbed of something.

  He reassured Phyllis. “You did all right, angel. Swell, with the material you had to work with. I suppose there wouldn’t be any chance of dragging the contents of the note from the Moore woman?”

  Phyllis shook her head and laughed shortly. “Not unless you want to stick pins in her to wake her up.”

  “And when she sobers up, she’ll tighten up,” Shayne prophesied gloomily. “She’ll probably deny having seen a note. Oh, hell.” He took a long gulp of cognac, set the glass down dejectedly.

  “Maybe I could have kept at her—forced her to tell me.”

  With bitter irony, Shayne said, “Oh, no. That wouldn’t have been cricket. Hell, no. We’re solving this case without getting our kid gloves soiled—if we solve it. First, I let Joe Meade give me the run-around, then you let an important clue slip through your fingers.” Phyllis swallowed hard and blinked rapidly to hold back tears. Above everything else, her red-headed husband detested a weepy woman. But she had been so proud of the way she had handled a difficult situation—

  Through a salty mist, she saw Shayne get up and stalk to the telephone. He told the operator, “I want to get hold of Sheriff Fleming.” Then, with snarling irritability, “How do I know where you’ll find him? Try his office and home and all the bars. Of course it’s important. Call me as soon as you locate him.”

  He slammed up the receiver and went back to pour himself more cognac.

  With determined cheerfulness, Phyllis asked, “Have you thought of something, Michael?”

  “Something I should have thought of an hour ago.” He nursed the wineglass between his big palms and complained, “I’m losing my grip, Phyl. This thing is getting to be a nightmare. Every time I think I’ve got my finger on something—it eludes me. None of my usual methods work. I’ve always managed to bull my way through a case before. Take hold of a lead and squeeze it between my two hands until something broke. But there’s nothing—”