TWO MEMBERS of the Colorado Courtesy Patrol reached the scene. They were young men, in neat blue uniforms with polished boots and Sam Browne belts. In the absence of local authority they assumed charge, ordering the crowd back and questioning those nearest the body.
Shayne briefly explained his and Nora’s presence. No one had seen the actual attack. One of the men who had been kneeling over the body was a dentist from Denver. He introduced himself to the young officers:
“I’m Doctor Adams. My wife and I were on our way to the opera after changing to evening clothes at a friend’s home. We were starting down those steps from above,” he pointed to a flight of wooden steps leading down from the next street level, “when we heard a loud thud and a groan down here. We saw a man running off to the right into the darkness.” He indicated the rear of the Masonic Temple. “I can’t describe him very well, but I think my wife saw him better.” He turned to a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a black lace gown.
She nodded emphatically, keeping her eyes averted from the kneeling figure of Nora Carson and the dead man. “He was roughly dressed and he looked old,” Mrs. Adams told them. “I have an indistinct impression of a black hat and whiskers, but—” she shuddered and forced herself to glance hastily at the corpse, “it might have been this poor man I saw, just the instant before he was struck. It all happened so suddenly.”
Sheriff Fleming arrived as she finished her halting statement. He slowly lifted his broad-brimmed hat, staring down at the face of the dead man. In the faint light his face was stern, touched with pity.
“It’s old Pete,” Sheriff Fleming said in his soft western drawl. “Screwloose Pete. Poor old fellow. Who do you reckon would of done this? Just when he’d made his ten-strike, too, after prospecting for years.”
Nora Carson lifted her tear-streaked face. Her blue eyes were softly luminous. “This man’s name is Peter Dalcor,” she corrected the sheriff. She lifted her chin. “He’s my father. He disappeared from Telluride ten years ago and we were never able to trace him.”
There were murmurings of pity from the onlookers when Nora revealed the identity of the murdered man. Sheriff Fleming rubbed his chin reflectively. “Yes, Ma’am. I wouldn’t know about that. He’s been hanging around Central for eight or ten years. Nobody ever knew any name for him but Pete. We called him Screwloose, begging your pardon, Ma’am, because he was sort of strange-like. Stayed out in the hills by himself and didn’t ever talk much. Never said where he hailed from, nor anything about his past.”
Nora cried, “I’m certainly not going to believe he was insane, if that’s what you’re hinting. He was always quiet. Perhaps,” she faltered, “he had an attack or amnesia and didn’t know who he was. That would explain everything.”
A bareheaded young man came charging through the circle of spectators. He dropped to his knees beside the girl and said hoarsely, “Nora! My God, Nora! What is this?”
He wore a neat blue suit, and his glossy black hair was disheveled. His dark, clean-cut features had a cameo-like beauty, but there was, oddly, nothing foppish about him.
Nora shivered when his arm went around her. She looked down at the blood-smeared old man and fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. She sobbed, “It’s Father. After all these years, Frank, I’ve found him.” She buried her face against the young man’s chest.
He glanced up angrily at the silent officer and demanded, “Why in the name of God don’t you do something? Can’t you cover him up — take him away?” His arm tightened protectively around Nora. “This is awful, darling. You mustn’t — please, dear, you can’t sit here like this. The play — good Lord! you’ve got to pull yourself together.”
Nora Carson let her husband draw her away from the dead man. One of the patrolmen turned the sheepskin collar up to hide the ghastly sight from view.
“Yes, Frank — the play,” Nora said. “I suppose I’ll have to go on.”
“Of course you must.” Frank Carson spoke with firm authority.
He lifted his wife and drew her back a few steps, his fine features strained and tight. He spoke to her in a soft, persuasive voice:
“Are you sure the man is your father, dear? Sure you haven’t let your long search and your desire to find him influence your recognition? After all, he’s not — well, it’s rather difficult to tell much about how he looks now.”
“It is Father,” Nora insisted fiercely. “You see, I saw him, Frank — before he was like this. Just a few minutes ago. Through the window at the Teller House. And he recognized me, too. But he ran away.” A convulsive tremor shook her body. “He ran away before I could reach him. Oh, why did he have to die just when I’d found him again!”
While her passionate words lingered in the air, the clangor of a bell from Eureka Street came up through the night stillness to the group gathered in the presence of death on the steep hillside. An eerie sound, echoing upward from the stone walls of buildings housing a thousand ghostly memories of the past.
Below, in the glare of street lights, a tall man dressed in somber black, with a batwing collar and stiff shirt, was moving solemnly down the center of the crowded street ringing the old bell that had announced the opening of the opera house since the days when Modjeska and Edwin Booth had trod that historic stage.
The doors were flung open as the bell clanged, and those fortunate enough to hold first-night tickets began to file inside while thousands stood outside watching the colorful spectacle. There was the glare of spotlights, the blare of the radio announcer’s voice through the loudspeaker, and laughter and gay voices from those below, unconscious of the tragedy a hundred feet away.
Slowly and silently the group around the body dissolved downward, drawn by the warning bell. As Shayne dragged his gaze and his thoughts back to the reality of the murder, he heard Frank Carson urging his wife:
“We must hurry, dear. The curtain goes up in fifteen minutes. You have to change — and make up…” He was gently drawing her away, but Nora hung back, her sorrow-haunted eyes clinging to the crumpled figure on the ground.
“We’ve got to do something,” she cried. “We just can’t leave him lying there.”
“The police will take care of everything,” Frank reminded her. “You have to think of the play — the rest of the cast. All the important Eastern critics are here.” His voice was soft and persuasive.
Nora shuddered and lifted her chin valiantly. “Of course, Frank. The play must go on.” She turned to Shayne who was standing a little aside, and said impulsively:
“You’ve been awfully kind. Will you — they’ll make an investigation, won’t they? They won’t let the murderer get away?”
Carson turned searching black eyes on the tall redhead, and Nora explained, “This is Mr. Shayne, the detective from Florida. He helped me find Father.”
Frank Carson nodded. “I remember seeing your picture in the local paper. We appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Shayne. Now, Nora, please.” His fingers tightened on her arm. She resisted him, and said hurriedly to Shayne:
“Would you consider taking charge here? Helping the officers? I’d feel so much better if you would.” Shayne hesitated, and Frank joined Nora in the request:
“If it wouldn’t be too great an imposition. Nora has to get backstage immediately.”
Shayne nodded abruptly. “I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
“Fine — and thanks.” Carson spoke crisply. “Come, Nora darling, there’s nothing further to keep you here.”
Shayne stood solidly on wide-spread feet and watched them hurry down the slope to keep one of the oldest traditions of the theater. He sighed and turned to the sheriff and the two patrolmen. “Who assumes jurisdiction here?”
One of the young men said, “I’m Stout, of the State Courtesy Patrol, Mr. Shayne. We try to be exactly what our name implies. It’s our duty to co-operate with local authority, not usurp it. This is Sheriff Fleming’s baby.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “This is mighty bad business. First killing in town since I’ve been sheriff. I declare I don’t know who around here would be mean enough to smash Pete’s head. Harmless old codger, and friendly as a speckled pup.”
Shayne said, “From the description given by the dentist and his wife it sounded like local talent. Another old miner. Do you know anyone who had a grudge against him?”
The sheriff considered for a moment, his face troubled. Then he shook his head. “Not right off,” he said lamely. “No one that would of done a thing like this. Of course, these old-timers have their squabbles.”
“When you’re investigating murder,” Shayne warned him, “you can’t let personalities interfere.” He dropped to his knees beside the dead man and turned the sheepskin collar down. He muttered, “Looks like a single crushing blow did the job. A brick or a large flat rock.”
Sheriff Fleming squatted beside him. “I heard what the young lady said to you, Mr. Shayne. I’d be mighty glad to have your help finding the killer.”
“I don’t mean to horn in, but I’ll do what I can,” Shayne promised. “Get the routine over with, and start checking the alibis of Pete’s cronies, particularly any who have quarreled with him. You’ll be doing innocent men a favor by checking their alibis and removing them from suspicion promptly.”
“That’s a fact.” Sheriff Fleming was relieved. “I’ll start right in.”
Shayne stood up. “I can’t do much until after the play. My wife is waiting for me.” He looked at his watch as he started down the steep slope. It was 8:22.