“I’ve got plenty of other candidates,” Shayne admitted cheerily. “So many that I’ve got to go through this process of elimination.” He turned to McLeod again. “I’ve just remembered something. I saw the play last night, and there was a hitch in the first change of scenery. The curtain was down so long the audience began to get restless. What occasioned the delay?”
McLeod’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He thumped a solid fist into his palm. “That I should ever forget that! It’s lucky for Joe Meade he went off and shot himself last night. He was to blame. He’d sneaked off for a smoke and didn’t show up to give us a hand until the job was nearly done. I bawled him out proper, you may be sure of that.”
“Slipped off for a smoke?” Shayne repeated. “How do you know that’s what he was doing?”
“So he said when he—” McLeod stopped suddenly. His square jaw sagged.
Shayne nodded. “Exactly. So he said. But you don’t know he was smoking. If he strolled off to commit murder, he wouldn’t be likely to tell you so.” Shayne’s tone was scathing. “That’s what I warned you against when I told you to think your answers over carefully. When was that change of scene?”
“We were a few minutes behind schedule last night. Eight-fifty — a few minutes one way or the other.”
Shayne nodded grimly. “That may be damned important.” He turned to Johnston. “Could I see Miss Carson’s dressing-room again?”
“Of course.”
Nervousness had replaced the faint hostility both men had shown at first. The producer led the way to the steps leading down to the concrete basement, switching on lights ahead of him.
Shayne shivered in the damp, chill air as they reached the bottom.