He got up and started for the door.
Shayne glanced at Fleming. The sheriff stepped into the doorway, drawing a.44 from under his coat. He drawled, “Sorry, Jas. I reckon you better stick around.” Windrow hesitated, then dropped back into his chair with a surly oath.
“You’re short of money,” Shayne went on. “You admitted to me today that you could raise only a few hundred in cash. You made a trip to New York recently. Could you be the sucker who brought Bryant out on a collection trip?”
Windrow’s face hardened. He demanded, “What good would it do either Cal or me to murder Pete when he has a daughter right here in town?”
“The chances are that neither of you knew she was his daughter until after he was dead. Or, you may have known, and killed him hoping to prevent his recognition by her — which would explain the disfiguring blow dealt him. Then,” he went on swiftly, overriding a bellow of rage from Windrow, “you discovered his death had come a few minutes too late. So, you had to get rid of the girl also — hoping there wouldn’t be any factual proof discovered to uphold her identification and make it legally binding.”
“And there hasn’t been any proof found,” Windrow reminded him. “None that I’ve heard of.”
“What do you mean by that crack?” came unexpectedly from Frank Carson across the room. “Do you two murderers think you can get away with a thing like that? Nora said he was her father. I’ll prove it, all right. Don’t think I’m going to let you call my wife a liar in court.”
Shayne said to Carson, “Let’s skip that point for the time being.” He slowly turned to Christine and Celia, spoke gently to the younger girclass="underline"
“I’m not going to accuse either you or Miss Moore of murder, though you did benefit by Nora’s death, Miss Forbes. It gave you your big chance — one you’d been waiting for a long time. And that brings up a point that’s had me puzzled all along: Why did Miss Carson conveniently leave the theater to be killed just before the curtain went up? You and she weren’t friendly, Miss Forbes. She wasn’t being big-hearted about giving you your chance. It was something vitally important that took her away from the theater. And that, I think, is where our wounded young playwright comes into the picture.”
He glanced at his watch, then turned to the bandaged figure of Joe Meade in the wheel chair.
“You were in love with Christine. You were bitter against the fate that makes it difficult for young actresses and playwrights to get a start. You were in love with Christine — yet behind her back you were carrying on with Nora. Sending her notes. You sent, or left one, in her dressing-room just before she disappeared last night.”
Shayne held up a big hand when Meade parted his lips to speak. “I’ll do the talking for a moment. Then it’ll be your turn. I know all about that note, Meade. Miss Moore found it in the dressing-room after Nora had gone. She told me what was in it—”
He whirled on Celia who surged to her feet to deny his charge. “I’m doing the telling. Now that you’re sober, you’re sorry you spilled it, but that won’t help Joe.”
He turned back to Joe Meade, whose dilated eyes were the only indication of the strain he was under.
“You were determined Christine should have her chance. You planned for weeks to lure Nora away on opening night so her understudy could take over. All the important critics were there — the hot-shots from the East whose wire stories to their papers could make or break an actress. You knew all Christine needed was a chance to show her stuff. You were tired of waiting for fate to give her a break. So, you took fate in your own hands.”
Shayne had moved forward slowly until he now stood beside the wheel chair. His hands were still in his pockets, but each word carried a terrific impact, as though he struck bare-fisted blows.
“You lured Nora away from the theater just before the first curtain went up. To be sure she didn’t come back and spoil things, you slipped out during the first act and met her down at the end of the flume and got rid of her permanently — then hurried backstage and pretended you hadn’t been away.”
He stopped suddenly. Christine’s labored breathing sounded loud in the silence. Her face was constricted. Joe Meade stared up at Shayne unblinkingly. The detective’s voice became soothing. “That’s the way you planned it. You may as well admit the dirty truth.”
Joe spoke for the first time in his own defense. “You’re nuts. I had to be backstage all through the first act. If Nora was killed during that time, you can’t pin it on me. We had a change of scenery in the middle of the act.”
Shayne nodded blandly. “You almost made that alibi stick. But I was out front. There was a hitch in that scene shift. It took too long. McLeod tells me the trouble was because you weren’t on duty to help. You were a few minutes late in getting back from meeting Nora.” Joe’s lips twitched into a snarl.
“It’s all a lie. Every bit of it.”
Shayne looked down at him pityingly. “What a shock you got after the play when you learned that Christine was horrified at the thought of you having anything to do with Nora’s absence. You bragged about it at first. Remember? I heard you. With what I heard, and the note Miss Moore found, we’ve got you dead to rights.”
“All right.” The words came out thinly. “So you know about that part of it. I won’t deny I fixed it for Christine. It came to me all of a sudden when I heard about Nora’s father. I had been trying to figure how to get her away. But she wasn’t where I told her to meet me. You can’t prove I met her there. She wasn’t there, I tell you. What I did wasn’t any crime.”
Shayne shook his head sorrowfully. “Then why did you get an attack of conscience and go out to the cabin and shoot yourself? That was the give-away, Meade.”
“Shoot myself? Good God, is that what you think?”
“What else are we supposed to think? Overcome with remorse—”
Joe Meade began laughing wildly. “I didn’t shoot myself. I got shot. I was worried about Nora. I went out looking for her. I saw a light in the cabin I knew her father had lived in, and thought she might be there. But I pulled the door open and saw a man on the floor with a flashlight. He turned the light out and jumped me. I heard a gun go off in my face — and woke up in a bed upstairs.”
Shayne rubbed his jaw. “Could be,” he commented drily. It was growing quite dark in the east room. Over his shoulder, he said, “I wish you’d turn on the lights, Sheriff.” Then, to Meade, “If you’ll tell us who shot you, we’ll be glad to ask him what he was doing out there.”
Brilliant light glowed from an overhead chandelier.
It lighted the wounded man’s frightened eyes, his tight-drawn mouth. He shook his head helplessly.
“That’s just it. I don’t know who it was. He was squatting down with his back turned — then the light went out—”
The front legs of Cal Strenk’s chair thumped to the floor. He pointed a trembling hand at the window, ejaculating, “Who in tarnation is that out there?”
A whiskery old face was pressed against the pane, peering into the lighted room. The upturned collar of a sheepskin coat framed his seamed features.
Phyllis shrieked, “Mike! It’s that same face—”
Shayne leaped forward as the face disappeared in the darkness. He jerked the screen loose and thrust his head out, called back sharply, “There he goes. Around the corner of the house.” He turned back, glancing at his watch.
Mark Raton was standing up near the door. His firm voice crackled in the hushed silence:
“That was Pete Dalcor. If he got killed last night, that was his ghost. I’ll take my oath on it.”