Shayne stood up and strode the length of the room, rumpling his coarse red hair. He burst out angrily, “All we can do is suppose. Damn a case that’s all supposition and no facts. I’m about ready to dump it into your lap, Sheriff. My wife was right. I’m on a vacation.”
The sheriff’s face became very grave. He said, “Now, Mr. Shayne, don’t you be—”
He was interrupted by the opening of the outer door and the entrance of Jasper Windrow.
He still wore his tight-fitting dinner coat, and it accentuated his bulk and aggressiveness as he planted himself solidly before the trio and said, “They tell me Pete’s murderer slipped off up here and shot himself.” His eyes, bulging slightly above pronounced puffs, sought Shayne’s and held them “Is that right, or isn’t it?”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Thought you were a detective. Can’t you say yes or no to a straight question?”
Anger glinted in Shayne’s eyes. He moved slowly toward the big man. In clipped tones he said, “I don’t call a man a murderer until I’ve discovered a motive. Where were you at eight o’clock tonight?”
Their eyes remained locked together. Shayne realized the big man was dangerous; ruthless and dictatorial, and no man’s fool. His dominant position in the smalltown life of Central City had given him a tremendous ego.
He demanded, “Are you accusing me?”
“I’m suggesting you’d better fix yourself up with an alibi for the time of Pete’s death,” Shayne answered curtly. He turned to Sheriff Fleming. “What’s this man doing in here? This is a murder investigation, not a Rotary luncheon.”