“How long ago was that?” Shayne queried.
“About five minutes,” the officer said.
Shayne said, “Thanks,” and crossed the street, only vaguely aware of the accelerated tempo of laughter and gaiety he was leaving behind him.
The revelry faded to a confused turmoil as he climbed higher and higher, past one precipitous street level and then another. When he turned on level ground toward the lighted two-story building, he had the odd feeling of standing on top of the world viewing the seething village below as only a cluster of lights cupped in the palm of the canyon.
The path to the hospital led steeply upward from the narrow street. Double entrance doors stood open on a wide furnished hall, and Shayne was glad there was no one to witness his collapse on an elaborate, old-fashioned settee in the hall. His lungs felt constricted, and his heart was beating like a triphammer from the exertion of fast climbing.
A wide stairway led upward from the end of the hall. He could hear voices and movement on the second floor, but he doubted his ability to negotiate the stairs. As he panted to regain his breath he heard footsteps, and turned to look.
Christine Forbes was descending slowly, one hand delicately gliding along on the polished railing. Her face was pinched and pale and her dark eyes were dry and very bright. Shayne had the feeling that she could not weep. She looked frail and young and pathetically unversed in deep grief.
Shayne managed to stand and drag off his hat when Christine reached the foot of the stairs. Her gaze flickered over him without interest. She was about to pass when he put out his hand and said, “Miss Forbes.”
She stopped. Her tortured, burning eyes met his. Slowly the blankness went from her face. She said, as though in a stupor:
“You’re the man who hid behind the wall and eavesdropped on Joe.” It was a simple statement, dull and lifeless, with no hint of an accusation.