The doctor snorted, “For a guess — yes. The shot was fired a few inches from his face. Here — take him gently, you men,” turning away from the detective to superintend the placing of Meade’s limp body on the quilt.
Shayne drew back and watched the slow procession move out into the night. Fleming and the patrolman entered, and Shayne told exactly what had happened, beginning with the first flicker of light he and Strenk had seen from below.
“Just the one shot — and that thirty-two on the floor has been fired,” he ended.
The sheriff stared down at the weapon. He shook his head and muttered, “First it’s murder — then suicide.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He nodded toward the gun. “If we can get some fingerprints off the corrugated butt of that thing we’ll be lucky. Just because a wound is powder-burned it doesn’t definitely prove suicide.” He was arguing the point with himself.
“But there wasn’t anyone else to’ve done it.”
“We didn’t see or hear anyone else,” Shayne corrected him. “Strenk says a man could go straight down to the creek and ford it if the water is low enough.”
“That’s right. A man sure could. But who do you reckon — and who is the fellow they carried out?”
“His name is Joe Meade.” Shayne settled down on the table and briefly related to the sheriff and courtesy patrolman what he had overheard between Meade and Christine Forbes on the terrace. “Now, you know as much about the case as I do,” he ended in deep disgust. “If Meade recovers we can ask him what he was doing up here shot through the head. If he doesn’t—” He spread out his hands.
The patrolman cleared his throat diffidently and said, “They tell me this cabin belongs to the old miner who was murdered earlier tonight. Do you suppose there’s any connection?”