“You’ve been awfully kind. Will you — they’ll make an investigation, won’t they? They won’t let the murderer get away?”
Carson turned searching black eyes on the tall redhead, and Nora explained, “This is Mr. Shayne, the detective from Florida. He helped me find Father.”
Frank Carson nodded. “I remember seeing your picture in the local paper. We appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Shayne. Now, Nora, please.” His fingers tightened on her arm. She resisted him, and said hurriedly to Shayne:
“Would you consider taking charge here? Helping the officers? I’d feel so much better if you would.” Shayne hesitated, and Frank joined Nora in the request:
“If it wouldn’t be too great an imposition. Nora has to get backstage immediately.”
Shayne nodded abruptly. “I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
“Fine — and thanks.” Carson spoke crisply. “Come, Nora darling, there’s nothing further to keep you here.”
Shayne stood solidly on wide-spread feet and watched them hurry down the slope to keep one of the oldest traditions of the theater. He sighed and turned to the sheriff and the two patrolmen. “Who assumes jurisdiction here?”
One of the young men said, “I’m Stout, of the State Courtesy Patrol, Mr. Shayne. We try to be exactly what our name implies. It’s our duty to co-operate with local authority, not usurp it. This is Sheriff Fleming’s baby.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “This is mighty bad business. First killing in town since I’ve been sheriff. I declare I don’t know who around here would be mean enough to smash Pete’s head. Harmless old codger, and friendly as a speckled pup.”