Cal Strenk backed away. He hesitated in the doorway. “What about the feller that shot him? I ain’t hankerin’ to meet up with no two-time killer out yonder in the dark.”
Shayne pulled the automatic from his pocket and extended it to the miner. He muttered, “This looks like suicide, but — take the gun along with you. The powder burns might be a cover-up for murder.”
Strenk took the weapon and trotted off down the slope. Shayne got his handkerchief bound over the wound to slow the flow of blood. He tried the pulse again and found it was holding its own.
Still on his knees, he leaned over the.32 and sniffed the muzzle. It had been fired very recently. He left it lying there, got up and eased one hip down on a corner of the table, fit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at Joe Meade.
Had Joe come up to this lonely cabin to commit suicide? In the name of God, why? There was no sign of a struggle in the room, and from his previous encounter with the young playwright Shayne knew he wasn’t the type to stand tamely while someone stuck a gun in his face and pulled the trigger.
But why had Meade come to this particular cabin at all? Did it have some connection with Christine’s reaction when he intimated to her that he’d had a hand in Nora Carson’s disappearance?
His right hand went up to tug at his ear-lobe while his gaze roamed around the orderly interior of the log cabin.
An old wood-stove stood in a corner near the door, with unpainted wooden shelves above it holding battered cooking utensils and tin plates. Two cane-bottomed chairs were drawn up to the table, and an old rocking chair with a rawhide seat stood near the crudely fashioned fireplace in the rear. A double-deck bunk was built solidly against the opposite wall. The lower bunk was neatly made up with patchwork quilts, but the one above was bare of bedding. Everything was in neat order except for the dying man lying on the floor.
Shayne had finished his cigarette when he ended his scrutiny of the cabin. From far down the slope, he heard the sound of excited voices coming nearer. He lit another cigarette and held his lounging, loose-jointed position on the table as men trooped up to the doorway.
The first man inside was a rosy-faced little fellow wearing nose-glasses and an unshakable air of propriety. He carried a physician’s bag and he hurried to the wounded man without asking questions.