have plenty of money to spend on books… even in the Depression.”
“He inherited money,” Judith said. “I don’t know how much; he sure didn’t leave much cash in his estate. He probably spent it
I thumbed through the papers. “I’ll have to take these files.”
They didn’t like that. They were on guard now, full of new suspicion. I could almost hear the wheels turning in their heads. Maybe the old man had kept his cash hidden somewhere. Maybe there was a big, juicy stack of thousand- dollar bills tucked into the book file—book money unspent.
“I don’t think you should just walk out of here with that stuff,” Ballard said.
“I can get a court order if I have to, and I think you know that,” I said. “Why don’t we make it easy on ourselves?”
“What is this stuff?” Judith said. “Is there anything in there worth any money?”
“I’d be amazed if there was. You can look for yourself while we pack it up. I’ll give you a receipt and after this is over you’ll get it all back.”
“
“Whoever the hell wants it.”
We started packing the files. I could see it was going to take some time, because Ballard and Judith wanted to examine each file microscopically as we went.
“This could take all night,” I said. “Let’s try to cut to the chase. Where’s the original copy of that appraisal he had done?”
“The executor has it,” Judith said. “A lawyer named Walter Drey fuss. I think he and Stan were soldiers together in the Revolutionary War.”
“One of us ought to go see him,” I said to Hennessey.
“I’ll go. I’ll have to take a cab.”
“Good. If you hurry you might make it before his office closes. I’ll call and tell him you’re coming.”
It was dark before I was finished at Ballard’s. We packed all the contents of Stanley Ballard’s filing cabinet into six big cardboard boxes and I loaded them into my car. Neither Ballard nor Judith offered to help. I thanked them and left them to their awful job. I hope I never hate anyone the way they hate each other, I thought as I drove downtown to fetch Hennessey. Then I thought of Jackie Newton, and the world was a darker place again.
Hennessey was waiting for me on 17th Street. Under his arm he had a single folder, which contained Stanley Ballard’s will and a copy of the appraisal. He had made no attempt to read the will—Walter Dreyfuss had given him a verbal summary—but he had looked the book appraisal over.
“What’s it say?”
“Book club fiction, almost without exception. Worthless.”
“W’ho did the appraisal?”
“That dame up in Evergreen. Rita McKinley.”
I grunted.
“So where does this leave us?” Hennessey said.
“Right back where we started. It was something small, and Bobby had to buy the whole damn library to get it; something so tiny you could carry it in your pocket, but so potent it makes the hair stand up on my neck just thinking about it.”
“How’re we gonna find it?”
“I’m gonna dig. I’m gonna comb through every piece of paper in this state if I have to.”
I dropped Hennessey at Ruby’s store, where he had parked his car, and I started back to my apartment for what I thought would be another long night’s work.
Then something happened that changed my life for all time.
I was full of nervous energy: I wanted something to break that would engage me fully and keep me going through the night. I had two possibilities, either of which ought to do it. I took the Ballard files up to my place, but when I started to work I decided to run down the U-Haul lead.
There are almost fifty places in Denver that rent U-Hauls. A lot of gas stations are subagents and rent them out of their back yards. I sat at the phone with a Yellow Pages and began to work. I did it the same way we had found the church, beginning at Bobby’s place and working in a widening circle between there and Madison Street. This is what police work is all about: your trigger finger always gets more action on the telephone than in any gunplay. I hummed “Body and Soul” between calls, trying to get a hint of the way Coleman Hawkins used to play it. “Dah-dah de dah-dah dumm.” It didn’t work. Nothing worked. I gave them Bobby’s name on the insane chance that someone somewhere might’ve had soup for brains and rented a $25,000 truck to a guy with no driver’s license. You never can tell. Lacking a file on Westfall, they would have to look through all their receipts for the night of June 10. I waited through interminable delays. Most of the little places had no extra help—the guy who rented the U-Hauls was the guy who pumped your gas. Customers came and went while I dangled on the phone. One place took almost thirty
