“A tenth? But that’s—”
“It’s a lot less than the third share you stand to lose unless this stuff is burned,” Shayne pointed out. “And I’ll protect you further by inserting a clause in the deed to the effect that it becomes void if any share of the property goes to Peter Dalcor’s heirs. That way, you can’t lose.”
Windrow wet his lips. He glanced anxiously at Strenk. “Sounds reasonable enough.”
“It’s good enough for me,” Strenk exulted. “Make that deed out an’ I’ll sign it right here.”
When Shayne left Windrow’s store half an hour later, a deed to one-tenth interest in the mining claim rested in his breast pocket. An empty Prince Albert can lay on Windrow’s desk, and in a wastebasket were some charred ashes; all that remained of the clippings and the photograph that had been in the can.
At the Teller House, Shayne went directly to Frank Carson’s room. He knocked loudly, then tried the knob. It opened, and he looked at the resentful face of Frank Carson, sitting up in bed and still wearing his pajamas.
The actor’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. When he saw who his visitor was, Frank put his hands to his forehead and sank back with a groan.
Shayne grinned and said, “You’ll live.” He moved into the room, glancing about speculatively.
Carson uncovered one eye to peer at him. He muttered, “I just woke up. What’s doing? What have you found out?”
Shayne said, “Things. Better take a bromo and try some black coffee. I’m going to need your help shortly.”