There could be only one reaction to that. Having killed once to obtain an object, a murderer would not hesitate to kill again to attain his end. The second killing would be predicated on the hope that Nora’s identification of Pete as her father would be held inconclusive in court — on the chance that no corroborative evidence would be found among Pete’s effects.
That sounded more like the reasoning of Cal Strenk than of Jasper Windrow. Strenk had appeared so positive that Pete possessed nothing to connect him with the past. It was hard to doubt that Strenk’s surprise had been genuine when Shayne dug up the second tobacco can.
Cal Strenk was a real enigma. His eyes were sly as a fox’s at times, and again he appeared simple as a child. He hated Jasper Windrow, and made no real effort to hide that hatred. He had quarreled with Pete after they filed their claims — and he claimed to have an alibi for the time of Pete’s death.
Shayne’s probing thoughts went back to Jasper Windrow again. Bryant was ruled out of the picture as far as Strenk was concerned, but it appeared to Shayne highly probable that Windrow might be the defaulting loser from whom Two-Deck had come west to collect. Proof of that would give more solid ground for suspecting Windrow — because the man who owed Bryant money would be under terrific pressure to pay up in a hurry and in cash.
Would Pete’s death allow the jointly owned property to be sold for cash sooner? That was a point to look into. The sheriff had said something about Pete refusing a cash offer for his share. Perhaps the old miner’s unwillingness to sell had held up disposal of all shares. And Bryant certainly had some good reason for cultivating Pete during the past week.
Shayne realized, of course, that he was taking a lot for granted when he assumed that Windrow was Bryant’s victim. His only basis was the fact that Windrow had recently made a trip east, and that his business was shaky for lack of cash.
Any member of the cast might just as well have left rubber markers in Bryant’s gambling joint — or any of the wealthy tourists from the east out for the Festival. It didn’t have to be a man. Women were notorious plungers. Neither Nora Carson nor Christine Forbes fitted into the category, but Celia Moore! There was a lady from whom anything might be expected. Joe Meade wouldn’t have had money for gambling. Frank Carson?
Shayne stopped just on the other side of the wooden flume. A few strollers wandered up and down the boardwalk in front of him, and from the main part of town, half a block distant, the sound of continued night revelry came clearly.
Carson fitted the role of a welshing gambler all right. He earned a fair salary, doubtless, and would be one of the New York sporting crowd that considered it smart to be seen at places like Bryant’s on the Hudson Parkway.
He might have known or guessed that Screwloose Pete was his wife’s father. He certainly would have heard the story from Nora — seen a picture of her father. And Pete’s picture had been in the newspaper with the story of his rich strike. If Frank had recognized that picture—