Shayne said, “I’m at the Teller House. It’s imperative that you call me the moment Meade is able to talk. Miss Carson engaged me to find her father’s murderer, and I think Meade’s condition ties into the case.”
“I understand,” the doctor said.
Shayne turned reluctantly and started toward the doorway, swung around and said, “It’s equally imperative that Meade not be allowed to talk to anyone unless I’m present. You can help me out on that.”
“I can see to that, all right,” the doctor promised. Outside, Shayne was shocked to see the first gray rumors of dawn in the eastern sky. The rugged peaks westward were scalloped against the faint pink of low-hanging clouds. Below, on Eureka Street, a few cars were crawling down the grade to Black Hawk, and tired citizens were climbing the hills homeward.
Going down was easy. When Shayne reached Eureka, he was amazed to find the throng of merrymakers almost as numerous as before. He stopped on the corner, shivered in the damp, chilly air, looked longingly toward the crowded Teller House bar. He needed a drink, and he wanted to find Phyllis, and he wondered what Casey had been doing.
The moment of indecision was brief. He went up the street toward the sheriff’s office. A light burned in a front room of the County Courthouse. He found Sheriff Fleming and a paunchy, rosy-faced little man inside. Fleming introduced him to Mr. Pegone, Central City’s leading mortician and Gilpin County coroner.
“Mighty busy night,” Mr. Pegone effused, dry-washing his plump hands and looking extraordinarily like a beardless Santa Claus. “I guess you’re responsible for it, eh, Mr. Shayne. They say murder follows you around.”
“Sure,” Shayne said. “I have an arrangement with the undertakers’ association for a cut.”
Mr. Pegone thought that extremely funny. He chortled appreciatively, his round belly shaking.
Shayne turned to the sheriff and asked curtly, “How about the girl? Has she been examined by a competent physician?”