“What do you mean by that crack?” came unexpectedly from Frank Carson across the room. “Do you two murderers think you can get away with a thing like that? Nora said he was her father. I’ll prove it, all right. Don’t think I’m going to let you call my wife a liar in court.”
Shayne said to Carson, “Let’s skip that point for the time being.” He slowly turned to Christine and Celia, spoke gently to the younger girl:
“I’m not going to accuse either you or Miss Moore of murder, though you did benefit by Nora’s death, Miss Forbes. It gave you your big chance — one you’d been waiting for a long time. And that brings up a point that’s had me puzzled all along: Why did Miss Carson conveniently leave the theater to be killed just before the curtain went up? You and she weren’t friendly, Miss Forbes. She wasn’t being big-hearted about giving you your chance. It was something vitally important that took her away from the theater. And that, I think, is where our wounded young playwright comes into the picture.”
He glanced at his watch, then turned to the bandaged figure of Joe Meade in the wheel chair.
“You were in love with Christine. You were bitter against the fate that makes it difficult for young actresses and playwrights to get a start. You were in love with Christine — yet behind her back you were carrying on with Nora. Sending her notes. You sent, or left one, in her dressing-room just before she disappeared last night.”
Shayne held up a big hand when Meade parted his lips to speak. “I’ll do the talking for a moment. Then it’ll be your turn. I know all about that note, Meade. Miss Moore found it in the dressing-room after Nora had gone. She told me what was in it—”
He whirled on Celia who surged to her feet to deny his charge. “I’m doing the telling. Now that you’re sober, you’re sorry you spilled it, but that won’t help Joe.”
He turned back to Joe Meade, whose dilated eyes were the only indication of the strain he was under.
“You were determined Christine should have her chance. You planned for weeks to lure Nora away on opening night so her understudy could take over. All the important critics were there — the hot-shots from the East whose wire stories to their papers could make or break an actress. You knew all Christine needed was a chance to show her stuff. You were tired of waiting for fate to give her a break. So, you took fate in your own hands.”
Shayne had moved forward slowly until he now stood beside the wheel chair. His hands were still in his pockets, but each word carried a terrific impact, as though he struck bare-fisted blows.