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 if 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.”