With that point settled in his own mind, he started plodding slowly downward again. In the interim, the men carrying Nora’s body had crossed the end of the flumed creek and disappeared from view.
Even if the killer had known of the relationship between Pete and Nora, he could not foresee the chance recognition that had come just before Pete’s death.
Again, Shayne stopped in his tracks. If anyone had known of the relationship.
Might that not be the crux of the entire diabolical murder plan? Everyone in Central City must have seen Nora’s picture and read the story of her ten-year search for a missing father. It could easily have furnished the clue to Pete’s identity to a man who knew him well. Jasper Windrow — or Cal Strenk. Both hoped to gain by Pete’s death.
If either had planned to get rid of Pete at some convenient time, the presence of Nora Carson in town was a very real threat to the plan. Though she had failed to recognize his picture in the paper, there was always the chance that she might meet him on the street — or even that Pete might learn of her identity and make himself known to her. That threat would make it imperative to get rid of Pete at once — if he was to die without known heirs and intestate.
Shayne started forward again, tingling with a feeling of getting close to something. Under such circumstances, it would be a terrific blow to the murderer to learn that he had struck a few minutes too late — that Nora had already seen and identified her father.
There could be only one reaction to that. Having killed once to obtain an object, a murderer would not hesitate to kill again to attain his end. The second killing would be predicated on the hope that Nora’s identification of Pete as her father would be held inconclusive in court — on the chance that no corroborative evidence would be found among Pete’s effects.
That sounded more like the reasoning of Cal Strenk than of Jasper Windrow. Strenk had appeared so positive that Pete possessed nothing to connect him with the past. It was hard to doubt that Strenk’s surprise had been genuine when Shayne dug up the second tobacco can.
Cal Strenk was a real enigma. His eyes were sly as a fox’s at times, and again he appeared simple as a child. He hated Jasper Windrow, and made no real effort to hide that hatred. He had quarreled with Pete after they filed their claims — and he claimed to have an alibi for the time of Pete’s death.
Shayne’s probing thoughts went back to Jasper Windrow again. Bryant was ruled out of the picture as far as Strenk was concerned, but it appeared to Shayne highly probable that Windrow might be the defaulting loser from whom Two-Deck had come west to collect. Proof of that would give more solid ground for suspecting Windrow — because the man who owed Bryant money would be under terrific pressure to pay up in a hurry and in cash.
Would Pete’s death allow the jointly owned property to be sold for cash sooner? That was a point to look into. The sheriff had said something about Pete refusing a cash offer for his share. Perhaps the old miner’s unwillingness to sell had held up disposal of all shares. And Bryant certainly had some good reason for cultivating Pete during the past week.
Shayne realized, of course, that he was taking a lot for granted when he assumed that Windrow was Bryant’s victim. His only basis was the fact that Windrow had recently made a trip east, and that his business was shaky for lack of cash.
Any member of the cast might just as well have left rubber markers in Bryant’s gambling joint — or any of the wealthy tourists from the east out for the Festival. It didn’t have to be a man. Women were notorious plungers. Neither Nora Carson nor Christine Forbes fitted into the category, but Celia Moore! There was a lady from whom anything might be expected. Joe Meade wouldn’t have had money for gambling. Frank Carson?
Shayne stopped just on the other side of the wooden flume. A few strollers wandered up and down the boardwalk in front of him, and from the main part of town, half a block distant, the sound of continued night revelry came clearly.
Carson fitted the role of a welshing gambler all right. He earned a fair salary, doubtless, and would be one of the New York sporting crowd that considered it smart to be seen at places like Bryant’s on the Hudson Parkway.
He might have known or guessed that Screwloose Pete was his wife’s father. He certainly would have heard the story from Nora — seen a picture of her father. And Pete’s picture had been in the newspaper with the story of his rich strike. If Frank had recognized that picture—
But Nora hadn’t. Was it reasonable to suppose that Frank had noticed the likeness while the man’s own daughter failed to?
He put that question aside for a moment. Frank might have discovered the truth some other way.
If Frank made the discovery it would have been natural for him to tell his wife so she could claim her father and her part of his fortune. But, suppose Frank had discovered that Pete already knew Nora was his daughter (the clipping in the tobacco can proved that he did), yet had no intention of admitting his identity to her? If the old man refused to share his find with her, Frank might have killed him so Nora would legally inherit all of it.
But hell! Again, he was confronted with the inescapable fact that the murderer could not have foreseen that Nora would see and recognize her father just before he was killed in such a way as to render his features almost unrecognizable. If Frank had planned to have her identify the old man after death, he would certainly have chosen a murder method that did not make identification almost impossible.
Shayne sighed wearily and climbed up the incline to the boardwalk, turned toward the brilliantly lighted intersection of Eureka and Main Streets.
It came down to this: Anyone mixed up in the thing might have killed Screwloose. He could figure out a possible motive for almost anybody you mentioned. But the motive behind Nora’s death (and the manner in which she had been lured to her death) was more shrouded and obscure. The actual time of her death would be an important factor in sifting out alibis. She had left the opera house after the play started. Her body had been deposited against the stump while the creek water was at least that high. If that time could be established, it would narrow the limits between which her murder had been committed.
He bumped into a courtesy patrolman coming out of the Chain-o’-Mines Hotel on the corner, and recognized the young man who had been at Pete’s cabin. He asked, “Do you know where they took the wounded man?”
“Up to Dr. Fairweather’s private hospital.” The officer pointed across the street and almost straight up. “It’s right up the hill yonder. That big two-story house lit up like a sea-going tug.”
“Do you know how Meade is?”
“Only that he was still alive the last time I heard.”
“How long ago was that?” Shayne queried.
“About five minutes,” the officer said.
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and crossed the street, only vaguely aware of the accelerated tempo of laughter and gaiety he was leaving behind him.
The revelry faded to a confused turmoil as he climbed higher and higher, past one precipitous street level and then another. When he turned on level ground toward the lighted two-story building, he had the odd feeling of standing on top of the world viewing the seething village below as only a cluster of lights cupped in the palm of the canyon.
The path to the hospital led steeply upward from the narrow street. Double entrance doors stood open on a wide furnished hall, and Shayne was glad there was no one to witness his collapse on an elaborate, old-fashioned settee in the hall. His lungs felt constricted, and his heart was beating like a triphammer from the exertion of fast climbing.
A wide stairway led upward from the end of the hall. He could hear voices and movement on the second floor, but he doubted his ability to negotiate the stairs. As he panted to regain his breath he heard footsteps, and turned to look.