Shayne’s big hands balled into fists. He said, “I’ll always wonder why I didn’t attend to this this afternoon.” The sheriff hastily pushed between them, throwing a worried look at the patrolman.
Shayne shoved the sheriff aside, saying thickly, “So help me God, I’m going to knock his teeth down his throat—” but Fleming had hold of his right arm, and the patrolman was efficiently shouldering Windrow back.
The sheriff clung to his arm, panting, “Don’t get het up now. Jas don’t mean that.”
Shayne laughed shortly and his tight muscles relaxed. Over the sheriff’s head he said, “The third time we tangle it’s going to be for keeps. But right now — I presume you’re worried about your share in the mine Pete and Strenk located?”
Windrow nodded stolidly. “Naturally, I’m interested in that property. I’ve been grubstaking both men for years without getting a cent back.”
“And it’s your thought,” Shayne pursued, “that if it can be shown Pete died without heirs, a larger share of the mine will come to you?”
Again, Windrow nodded. “Are you going to say it won’t?”
Fleming wiped sweat from his bronzed face. He warned, “Be sort of careful what you say, Jasper. Mr. Shayne’s digging around to find a reason for Pete getting his head smashed.”
Windrow snorted his disdain of Shayne’s detective methods. “Let him dig. I won’t deny I’m going to protect my rights. But I warn any man in hearing distance I won’t have it said I’m a murder suspect.”
Shayne had regained complete control of himself. There was something about Windrow that roughed his temper every time they met. He lounged back to the table and settled his rangy body on it, swinging one foot casually. He said to Fleming: