Murder Wears a Mummer's Mask by Brett Halliday

Author:Brett Halliday
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504012799
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

13

Shayne turned the collar of his tuxedo up around his neck and strode rapidly toward the Teller House. Daylight spilling through the mist had scattered the crowd, and a parade of cars moved down the hill. The barroom was closed.

Knowing Phyllis as he did, he decided to look for her in the patio where he had left her, and went through the rear hall.

He found her sitting at a table with Celia Moore, whose stout torso sprawled on the table, her face cradled in the crook of her arm.

Phyllis sprang up and cried, “Michael! I thought you’d never come. I don’t know what to do about her.”

The patio was deserted except for the two forlorn women. Shayne grinned and reached Phyllis in a few quick strides. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “I thought you were going to interview Miss Forbes for me.”

“Oh—I did,” she said irritably. “And it was awful. She was nearly out of her mind when she left—and Miss Moore is to blame for it.”

Shayne sat down close to her and slipped his arm around her. “Is she conscious?” He indicated Miss Moore who was breathing evenly and audibly. A trickle of saliva ran down from her mouth, wetting her coat sleeve.

Phyllis whispered, “I don’t think so. She has been like that for an hour, and I didn’t want to leave her. I thought she’d come out of it in a little while.”

“What did she do to make Miss Forbes miserable?”

“She was downright nasty. Told Christine that Joe Meade had been writing notes to Nora Carson. Claims she found one of them and read it—and tore it up. Of course she did that to keep Christine from being jealous and worried,” Phyllis went on ironically. “And then she told us that Nora was dead—and that there would be another murder, because things like that always went in threes in the theater, especially on opening night.”

“Bunk,” Shayne grunted. “What else, angel? Did you find out what was in the note Joe wrote to Nora?”

“I couldn’t question her while Christine was here,” Phyllis wailed. “And when the policeman came for Christine, Miss Moore passed out. She had been propping her eyes open for an hour with her fingers and squinting at us. She was mad because her escort skipped out on her and because she said they used little gold thimbles to measure liquor here—and oh, it was simply terrible, Michael!”

“What did the police want with Christine?” Shayne asked.

“I don’t know. The man just said that Joe Meade had shot himself and he’d been sent to get Christine.”

“Well—we’d better rouse Miss Moore and get her to her room.”

“If you had heard her talking about murders going in threes! Her voice sounded like a—well, like one of those awful people who predict things like that. It scared Christine half to death.”

Shayne got up and pulled Celia Moore’s shoulders up against her chair. Her arms slid from the table and lolled in her lap. He started talking close to her ear in a persuasive voice.

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