Joe Meade began laughing wildly. “I didn’t shoot myself. I got shot. I was worried about Nora. I went out looking for her. I saw a light in the cabin I knew her father had lived in, and thought she might be there. But I pulled the door open and saw a man on the floor with a flashlight. He turned the light out and jumped me. I heard a gun go off in my face — and woke up in a bed upstairs.”
Shayne rubbed his jaw. “Could be,” he commented drily. It was growing quite dark in the east room. Over his shoulder, he said, “I wish you’d turn on the lights, Sheriff.” Then, to Meade, “If you’ll tell us who shot you, we’ll be glad to ask him what he was doing out there.”
Brilliant light glowed from an overhead chandelier.
It lighted the wounded man’s frightened eyes, his tight-drawn mouth. He shook his head helplessly.
“That’s just it. I don’t know who it was. He was squatting down with his back turned — then the light went out—”
The front legs of Cal Strenk’s chair thumped to the floor. He pointed a trembling hand at the window, ejaculating, “Who in tarnation is that out there?”
A whiskery old face was pressed against the pane, peering into the lighted room. The upturned collar of a sheepskin coat framed his seamed features.
Phyllis shrieked, “Mike! It’s that same face—”
Shayne leaped forward as the face disappeared in the darkness. He jerked the screen loose and thrust his head out, called back sharply, “There he goes. Around the corner of the house.” He turned back, glancing at his watch.
Mark Raton was standing up near the door. His firm voice crackled in the hushed silence: