“You lured Nora away from the theater just before the first curtain went up. To be sure she didn’t come back and spoil things, you slipped out during the first act and met her down at the end of the flume and got rid of her permanently — then hurried backstage and pretended you hadn’t been away.”
He stopped suddenly. Christine’s labored breathing sounded loud in the silence. Her face was constricted. Joe Meade stared up at Shayne unblinkingly. The detective’s voice became soothing. “That’s the way you planned it. You may as well admit the dirty truth.”
Joe spoke for the first time in his own defense. “You’re nuts. I had to be backstage all through the first act. If Nora was killed during that time, you can’t pin it on me. We had a change of scenery in the middle of the act.”
Shayne nodded blandly. “You almost made that alibi stick. But I was out front. There was a hitch in that scene shift. It took too long. McLeod tells me the trouble was because you weren’t on duty to help. You were a few minutes late in getting back from meeting Nora.” Joe’s lips twitched into a snarl.
“It’s all a lie. Every bit of it.”
Shayne looked down at him pityingly. “What a shock you got after the play when you learned that Christine was horrified at the thought of you having anything to do with Nora’s absence. You bragged about it at first. Remember? I heard you. With what I heard, and the note Miss Moore found, we’ve got you dead to rights.”
“All right.” The words came out thinly. “So you know about that part of it. I won’t deny I fixed it for Christine. It came to me all of a sudden when I heard about Nora’s father. I had been trying to figure how to get her away. But she wasn’t where I told her to meet me. You can’t prove I met her there. She wasn’t there, I tell you. What I did wasn’t any crime.”
Shayne shook his head sorrowfully. “Then why did you get an attack of conscience and go out to the cabin and shoot yourself? That was the give-away, Meade.”
“Shoot myself? Good God, is that what you think?”
“What else are we supposed to think? Overcome with remorse—”