“Another one? God ’lmighty, Mr. Shayne. We’ve never had anything like—”
“I thought you said it was suicide,” Windrow interrupted.
Shayne’s brooding gaze went slowly to Jasper Windrow’s face. “You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions. In the first place I haven’t said Joe Meade tried to commit suicide. I don’t know. In the second place, this one is a girl. Down on the bank of the creek. Her name is Nora Carson.”
Not a flicker of emotion showed on Windrow’s face. He nodded almost imperceptibly, pleasurably, perhaps. “The actress who tried to claim Pete as her father.”
“The girl,” Shayne corrected, “who positively identified Pete as her father. I’ll swear to that in court.”
Sheriff Fleming interceded hastily. “No matter about that now. Down by the creek, you say? Right here at Old Pete’s cabin?”
Shayne nodded. “We found her when we were looking for footprints across the creek. The state cop is waiting down there with his flashlight.”
The sheriff said, “I guess I better go see.” He went heavily across the cabin and out the door.
Bryant approached Shayne, asking in an even, menacing tone, “What’s the idea of having this old gink put the finger on me? How do you figure that pulls me into the picture?”
Shayne dropped one hip onto the center table again and lit a cigarette. “I’m wondering what prompted your interest in Screwloose Pete this past week.”