Christine Forbes was descending slowly, one hand delicately gliding along on the polished railing. Her face was pinched and pale and her dark eyes were dry and very bright. Shayne had the feeling that she could not weep. She looked frail and young and pathetically unversed in deep grief.
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.”