Celia Moore reclined in a rocker beside Christine. Her stout body was neatly corseted beneath a powder-blue frock. She looked rested and tranquil, like a woman freshly absolved of past sins and ready to sin again if opportunity came along. Her lips hummed a sprightly tune and she had a coy smile for Jasper Windrow who slouched in a straight chair beside her.
Windrow was clearly not in a flirtatious mood. His stony features looked more than ever as though they had been rudely gouged from native granite. His cold eyes threatened Shayne in the doorway.
Cal Strenk was dressed in clean faded jeans and a shirt that had once been white, but was now yellowed with age and many scrubbings. A stringy black tie was loose about the withered neck, and he evidenced nervousness by continually combing his chin whiskers with ragged fingernails.
Across the room from those four, Frank Carson was slumped against one end of the leather settee. He was nattily dressed, and looked sleek enough outwardly, but his sallow complexion and nervously twitching eyelid betrayed his inward unease.
Patrick Casey occupied the other end of the old settee. His bullet head lolled back and he puffed vigorously on the frayed butt of a cigar while he tried to catch Celia Moore’s gaze with his twinkling eyes.
Sheriff Fleming arose from a chair near the door when Shayne entered. He said:
“A couple of them aren’t here yet. That New York fellow and the patient from upstairs. But I told Bryant to be here, and Doc Fairweather says he’ll have the patient wheeled in when we’re ready.”
Shayne said, “I don’t think Two-Deck will want to miss this, and I have invited another guest from Denver, also.” He stood aside to let Phyllis and the Telluride editor enter. Phyllis smiled at Casey and took a seat between him and Carson on the settee.
Shayne introduced Mark Raton to the room at large: “Mr. Raton is an old friend of Nora Carson’s father. He’s driven all the way from Telluride to help us get at the bottom of this affair. Suppose you take this rocking chair facing the windows, Mr. Raton.”
The outside door opened and closed as the editor took his seat at the right of the door. The tramp of feet, like marching men, sounded in the hallway. Shayne turned in the doorway, blocking it with his bulk. He said to Two-Deck Bryant: