“Turn a collar up around Windrow’s face and it’d be difficult at a distance to tell whether he wore whiskers or not. The rest of him coincides perfectly with our description of Pete’s murderer.”
Windrow took a step forward. Fleming and the patrolman nervously edged between them. Windrow said, “I’m warning you.”
Shayne lit a cigarette and flipped the match toward him. “I’m not accusing you — yet. But,” his voice crackled, “if I find that you left some unpaid markers behind at Two-Deck Bryant’s place the last time you visited New York, I’m going to start fitting a noose for you.”
“Two-Deck Bryant? Unpaid markers? What kind of talk is that?”
“Maybe you don’t know.” Shayne’s voice was hard, disinterested. “But Bryant seemed to know a lot about you today. And whoever is dodging Bryant is mighty damned anxious to get hold of some cash in a hurry — anxious enough to commit murder for it. Personally, Windrow, I think you make a hell of a good candidate.” He turned to the patrolman. “If you’ve got a flash I’d like to take a look around outside.”
“You bet.” The young officer whipped out a powerful focusing flashlight and started for the door.
As Shayne followed him, he said to the sheriff, “I advise you to stay here while Windrow’s around. If Pete left a will, I think it’d be safer if you took charge of it.”
Visibly nervous, Fleming agreed. “All right. I reckon it won’t do any harm for me to look around — just to satisfy Mr. Windrow that everything’s aboveboard.”
“By all means,” said Shayne, “satisfy Mr. Windrow.”
Half a dozen men were grouped outside the cabin. Cal Strenk stepped forward from among them. “What’s happenin’ inside? You found out who fired that shot?”