Shayne rocked back on his haunches and demanded, “Do you know who this girl is?”
“One of ’em from the opry house, ain’t she?” asked Cal Strenk when the patrolman shook his head.
Shayne stood up and with apparent carelessness flashed his light into the miner’s face. “Her name is Nora Carson. She identified Screwloose Pete as her father a few minutes before he was murdered tonight.”
The old man clawed at his whiskers and blinked into the bright light. “Do tell? I’d look for a jackass to pappy a thoroughbred colt quicker’n I’d expect ol’ Screwloose to beget a purty actress daughter.”
“That’s your connection,” Shayne told the officer. “One of the reasons why it’s a cinch for murder. And this blow on the top of her head wasn’t accidental. It’s too much like the wound that killed her father.” He turned the light back on Strenk and demanded:
“Are you backing Jasper Windrow in his attempt to prove she lied about Pete being her father?”
“Is that what he’s up to?” The miner sounded properly indignant. “Might know he’d wanta grab Pete’s share, too. After puttin’ up not more’n five-six hundred dollars all told, he ain’t satisfied with a third share of a million-dollar mine. No, sirree. I ain’t throwin’ in with Windrow. Not ’less he splits with me, I don’t. Pete allus said if he died fust he wanted for me to have all his share in our claims.”
“He never mentioned having any heirs to you?”
“Nope. Never said nothin’ about none.”
“He didn’t put that in writing, did he? That you should have what he left?” Shayne’s voice was hard, biting.