The sheriff lumbered out. Baker swiveled, leaned back and gazed at Hurley. “So you can’t read, huh?”
“Not writing I can’t.”
“Can you write?”
“I can print pretty good. I never got onto writing.”
“Can you write your name?”
“I can sign it. I don’t guess you could call it writing it exactly. A man showed me how once.”
“You know, Hurley, if you’re lying, I can investigate and find it out. But that doesn’t help me any right now.”
“I don’t hardly think it ever would help you much.”
Baker sat scowling, rubbing his lip. In a little he resumed. “How much writing was there on the paper? Was it on both sides?”
“Only one side. There wasn’t much, maybe five, six words.”
“Goddamn it, what did it say?”
Hurley shook his head.
“What did it look like? What was the first letter?”
“I couldn’t say the first letter. Maybe I could have told one or two letters if I’d worked at it, but I just knew I couldn’t read it, so I didn’t use up any time on it. But about what it looked like, I could tell you one thing, it wasn’t Charlie Brand that wrote it. Because I’ve seen him write things, like a receipt for me to sign maybe, and it didn’t look like that at all. He wrote sort of a hard trot, sort of up and down, but this was more like... like...”
“Like what?”
“Well, I would say big and round and heavy. Like what the hell, ink don’t cost much. I signed my name once with Charlie Brand’s fountain pen and it wrote thin.”
“You say you found this paper under his body?”
Hurley nodded. “It was there on the floor under him. When I turned him over there it was. I got a habit of keeping little things I don’t want to lose in my boot lining and I tucked it away. Then I lugged him out and tied him across his horse that was outside, and led the horse into Sugarbowl. The first yelp out of Ken Chambers, just to show you, first thing when he got there, he ast didn’t I know a dead body shouldn’t be moved, and I said sure, what I should’ve done was come on to Sugarbowl alone and leave him there for the rats and coyotes to play with and then he would’ve been a pretty looking thing. Next thing I knew—”
“All right, save it. Where was the paper when you saw it last, Tuesday morning?”
“I gave it to Jackson.”
“What did he do with it?”
“He stowed it away in a wallet he had in his pocket.”
“The same wallet he got the three hundred dollars out of?”
“No, he got the money out of the safe. This was a sort of a brown leather wallet.”
“Did he put it back in his pocket after he put the paper in it?”
“Yes, he did.”
The county attorney had reached for his phone and now he spoke into it. After a little wait he spoke again and then waited some more. Finally he said, “Mac? This is Ed Baker. They tell me Frank’s gone home to supper, and I don’t want to disturb him. Maybe you can tell me, did anyone go through Jackson’s pockets Tuesday night? You did yourself? Good! Did you find a brown leather wallet? Did you examine its contents? Was there a piece of paper — no, wait a minute, it was a piece of white paper...”
Five minutes later he shoved the phone back and stood up. Looking down at Squint Hurley, he said shortly, “It wasn’t there.”
Hurley made a noise with his tongue. “By all hell, I saw him put it there. Somebody must’ve took it. Or maybe he shifted it to another pocket—”
“It wasn’t on him. It wasn’t anywhere. I like your first suggestion better. Somebody must’ve took it. By God, Hurley, if you’re stringing me I’ll stake you to something that will make you wish—”
“I ain’t stringing you. What I told you is exactly what happened.”
“It better had be.” Baker strode to the door leading to the anteroom, opened it, looked out, and called, “Come on in here, Clint, and bring Luke!”
Two men entered. When the door was closed behind them Baker said, “This case has been messed up till it stinks and it’s only partly my fault. Where the hell are my hamburgers?”
“Ray ought to be back any minute.”
“All right. Luke, take a fingerprint kit and go to Jackson’s office. You’ll find Mac Losey there with a couple of men. Go over the whole place, and while you’re doing it find a piece of white paper as big as your hand that has been folded double. It has writing in black ink on one side, five or six words in a round heavy hand. If you find—”
“What does the writing say?”
“I don’t know. If you find it don’t let Mac have it. Find it and bring it to me and you’ll wear diamonds. Clint, go to the Jackson house on Blacktail Avenue and see Mrs. Jackson. The stuff that was found in Jackson’s pockets was given to her, and among it was a brown leather wallet. Get it. Not the contents necessarily, just the wallet, but the contents too if you can. Use diplomacy or anything you’ve got. Then go over it for prints and do it good. It’s probably hopeless now, but we’ll try it anyway. All right, step on it.”
The two men asked a couple of questions and departed.
Baker turned. “You can go out and get something to eat, Hurley, and come back around ten-thirty. I may want you again after I see Clara Brand.” Something in the old prospector’s face or attitude made him add, “How much money have you got?”
“None of your damn business,” Hurley growled.
Baker pulled a roll from his pocket and peeled off a bill. “Here, take it. Go ahead and take it! Call it a loan, I’ll be glad to get it back. Come back around ten-thirty.”
“I don’t know as I can stay awake till ten-thirty. You won’t need me anyhow, on account of anything Charlie Brand’s girl will tell you. If you do, you know where my bunk is.”
“Okay. But don’t you try any tricks.”
“I don’t know any,” said Squint Hurley as he headed for the door.
Chapter 12
It was nearly nine o’clock that Thursday evening when Quinby Pellett entered the room where the county attorney sat, with the sheriff and the chief of police also present. He had arrived at eight, as requested when the telephone had found him at the Brand home on Vulcan Street, but had been compelled to wait by superior urgencies. The undersized prognathous man who had put in an appearance around seven-thirty, entering Baker’s room by the private door to avoid the anteroom, was the governor of the state; and upon his departure by the same route, some twenty minutes later, Baker had let fly with both barrels. He had sent for every good man available on the sheriff’s staff as well as his own, with Tuttle acquiescing, and had scattered them on a variety of trails and errands. In the midst of that activity there had been another entry by the private door, leading to a difficult, not to say stormy, quarter of an hour with Ollie Nevins, the largest mine operator in the West. If Nevins had happened to arrive before the governor the story might have been different, but Baker had already made his decision.
When Pellett was ushered in a little before nine o’clock, Tuttle and Phelan were having what appeared to be a private altercation, since they were muttering it in low tones, and Baker, with his elbows planted on the desk, was resting his forehead in his palms. He raised his head, pressed his finger tips to his eyes, blinked a couple of times and barked, “Sit down, Pellett. What was on that piece of paper that Jackson showed you Tuesday afternoon?”
Pellett’s stooped shoulders lifted a little. “Godamighty,” he said plaintively, “you starting off like that?”
“I want to know what was on that paper!”
“Well... I’d like to know myself.”
“Didn’t he show it to you?”
Pellett compressed his lips; and then let his shoulders drop, apparently, deciding to be patient. “I told Bill Tuttle all about it yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?”