Patton hadn’t gone deep enough. Having found one thing by accident he had assumed that was all there was. He hadn’t seemed to notice that there ought to be something else.

Another twist of white tissue showed in the fine white powdered sugar. I shook it clean and unwound it. It contained a tiny gold heart, no larger than a woman’s little fingernail.

I spooned the sugar back into the box and put the box back on the shelf and crumpled the piece of newspaper into the stove. I went back to the living room and turned the table lamp on. Under the brighter light the tiny engraving on the back of the little gold heart could just be read without a magnifying glass.

It was in script. It read: “Al to Mildred. June 28th 1938. With all my love.”

Al to Mildred. Al somebody to Mildred Haviland. Mildred Haviland was Muriel Chess. Muriel Chess was dead—two weeks after a cop named De Soto had been looking for her.

I stood there, holding it, wondering what it had to do with me. Wondering, and not having the faintest glimmer of an idea.

I wrapped it up again and left the cabin and drove back to the village.

Patton was in his office telephoning when I got around there. The door was locked. I had to wait while he talked. After a while he hung up and came to unlock the door.

I walked in past him and put the twist of tissue paper on his counter and opened it up.

“You didn’t go deep enough into the powdered sugar,” I said.

He looked at the little gold heart, looked at me, went around behind the counter and got a cheap magnifying glass off his desk. He studied the back of the heart. He put the glass down and frowned at me.

“Might have known if you wanted to search that cabin, you was going to do it,” he said gruffly. “I ain’t going to have trouble with you, am I, son?”

“You ought to have noticed that the cut ends of the chain didn’t fit,” I told him.

He looked at me sadly. “Son, I don’t have your eyes.” He pushed the little heart around with his square blunt finger. He stared at me and said nothing.

I said: “If you were thinking that anklet meant something Bill could have been jealous about, so was I—provided he ever saw it. But strictly on the cuff I’m willing to bet he never did see it and that he never heard of Mildred Haviland.”

Patton said slowly: “Looks like maybe I owe this De Soto party an apology, don’t it?”

“If you ever see him,” I said.

He gave me another long empty stare and I gave it right back to him. “Don’t tell me, son,” he said. “Let me guess all for myself that you got a brand-new idea about it.”

“Yeah. Bill didn’t murder his wife.”

“No?”

“No. She was murdered by somebody out of her past. Somebody who had lost track of her and then found it again and found her married to another man and didn’t like it. Somebody who knew the country up here—as hundreds of people do who don’t live here—and knew a good place to hide the car and the clothes. Somebody who hated and could dissimulate. Who persuaded her to go away with him and when everything was ready and the note was written, took her around the throat and gave her what he thought was coming to her and put her in the lake and went his way. Like it?”

“Well,” he said judiciously, “it does make things kind of complicated, don’t you think? But there ain’t anything impossible about it. Not one bit impossible.”

“When you get tired of it, let me know. I’ll have something else,” I said.

“I’ll just be doggone sure you will,” he said, and for the first time since I had met him he laughed.

I said goodnight and went on out, leaving him there moving his mind around with the ponderous energy of a homesteader digging up a stump.

THIRTEEN

At somewhere around eleven I got down to the bottom of the grade and parked in one of the diagonal slots at the side of the Prescott Hotel in San Bernardino. I pulled an overnight bag out of the boot and had taken three steps with it when a bellhop in braided pants and a white shirt and black bow tie yanked it out of my hand.

The clerk on duty was an eggheaded man with no interest in me or in anything else. He wore parts of a white linen suit and he yawned as he handed me the desk pen and looked off into the distance as if remembering his childhood.

The hop and I rode a four-by-four elevator to the second floor and walked a couple of blocks around corners. As we walked it got hotter and hotter. The hop unlocked a door into a boy’s size room with one window on an air-shaft. The air-conditioner inlet up in the corner of the ceiling was about the size of a woman’s handkerchief. The bit of ribbon tied to it fluttered weakly, just to show that something was moving.

The hop was tall and thin and yellow and not young and as cool as a slice of chicken in aspic. He moved his gum around in his face, put my bag on a chair, looked up at the grating and then stood looking at me. He had eyes the color of a drink of water.

“Maybe I ought to have asked for one of the dollar rooms,” I said. “This one seems a mite close-fitting.”

“I reckon you’re lucky to get one at all. This town’s fair bulgin’ at the seams.”

“Bring us up some ginger ale and glasses and ice,” I said.

“Us?”

“That is, if you happen to be a drinking man.”

“I reckon I might take a chance this late.”

He went out. I took off my coat, tie, shirt and undershirt and walked around in the warm draft from the open door. The draft smelled of hot iron. I went into the bathroom sideways—it was that kind of bathroom—and doused myself with tepid cold water. I was breathing a little more freely when the tall languid hop returned with a tray. He shut the door and I brought out a bottle of rye. He mixed a couple of drinks and we made the usual insincere smiles over them and drank. The perspiration started from the back of my neck down my spine and was halfway to my socks before I put the glass down. But I felt better all the same. I sat on the bed and looked at the hop.

“How long can you stay?”

“Doin’ what?”

“Remembering.”

“I ain’t a damn bit of use at it,” he said.

“I have money to spend,” I said, “in my own peculiar way.” I got my wallet unstuck from the lower part of my back and spread tired-looking dollar bills along the bed.

“I beg yore pardon,” the hop said. “I reckon you might be a dick.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You never saw a dick playing solitaire with his own money. You might call me an investigator.”

“I’m interested,” he said. “The likker makes my mind work.”

I gave him a dollar bill. “Try that on your mind. And can I call you Big Tex from Houston?”

“Amarillo,” he said. “Not that it matters. And how do you like my Texas drawl? It makes me sick, but I find people go for it.”

“Stay with it,” I said. “It never lost anybody a dollar yet.”

He grinned and tucked the folded dollar neatly into the watch pocket of his pants.