“This is bad business,” the man muttered. “Murder.”
Nora Carson swayed to her knees beside the murdered man. Between sobs she spoke close to his battered ear. Her words were unintelligible, soft, crooning sounds, like a mother comforting an injured child.
Chapter three
TWO MEMBERS of the Colorado Courtesy Patrol reached the scene. They were young men, in neat blue uniforms with polished boots and Sam Browne belts. In the absence of local authority they assumed charge, ordering the crowd back and questioning those nearest the body.
Shayne briefly explained his and Nora’s presence. No one had seen the actual attack. One of the men who had been kneeling over the body was a dentist from Denver. He introduced himself to the young officers:
“I’m Doctor Adams. My wife and I were on our way to the opera after changing to evening clothes at a friend’s home. We were starting down those steps from above,” he pointed to a flight of wooden steps leading down from the next street level, “when we heard a loud thud and a groan down here. We saw a man running off to the right into the darkness.” He indicated the rear of the Masonic Temple. “I can’t describe him very well, but I think my wife saw him better.” He turned to a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a black lace gown.
She nodded emphatically, keeping her eyes averted from the kneeling figure of Nora Carson and the dead man. “He was roughly dressed and he looked old,” Mrs. Adams told them. “I have an indistinct impression of a black hat and whiskers, but—” she shuddered and forced herself to glance hastily at the corpse, “it might have been this poor man I saw, just the instant before he was struck. It all happened so suddenly.”
Sheriff Fleming arrived as she finished her halting statement. He slowly lifted his broad-brimmed hat, staring down at the face of the dead man. In the faint light his face was stern, touched with pity.
“It’s old Pete,” Sheriff Fleming said in his soft western drawl. “Screwloose Pete. Poor old fellow. Who do you reckon would of done this? Just when he’d made his ten-strike, too, after prospecting for years.”
Nora Carson lifted her tear-streaked face. Her blue eyes were softly luminous. “This man’s name is Peter Dalcor,” she corrected the sheriff. She lifted her chin. “He’s my father. He disappeared from Telluride ten years ago and we were never able to trace him.”