“Perhaps not.” Shayne turned to Windrow and Strenk. “While we’re on the profit motive, I don’t want to neglect you two. You were partners in Pete’s mine. You both had reason to believe no heirs to his estate would ever be found and that his share would revert to you after death. And Strenk!” Shayne’s voice hardened. “The man seen darting away from Pete’s body last night was bearded, dressed like a miner. The description fits you.”
Strenk chuckled with sly humor. “I told you where I was when Pete was getting his head smashed.”
“How about you, Windrow? Have you an alibi, too?”
“I don’t need one,” Windrow retorted. “This whole proceeding is insane. I don’t intend to sit here idly while you make absurd accusations you can’t back up with a shred of proof.”
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.”