In a Deadly Vein Read Free Page B

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