Carmichael gave a low whistle. “So there’s thirty thousand dollars in that gun?”

  Packerson nodded.

  Carmichael walked around the desk, stooped down, picked up the gun, and broke the barrel open.

  It was Sergeant Ackley who blurted out, “There’s no money in here now.”

  Captain Carmichael kicked Ackley’s shins. Packerson jumped to his feet. “No money in there!” He grabbed at the gun, stared at it with startled eyes, and said, “But that’s not my gun!”

  Captain Carmichael nudged Sergeant Ackley in the ribs.

  “It’s not my gun,” Packerson repeated. “It’s the same make and the same model, but my gun had a scratch and …” His voice trailed away.

  “Well, go on,” Sergeant Ackley said.

  A crafty smile came over Packerson’s face. “Ha, ha,” he said. “That’s a great joke on you.”

  “What is?” Ackley asked.

  “Of course it’s my gun,” Packerson said. “I never saw the blueprints, but since you birds thought you were such good detectives, I thought I’d kid you along for a while.”

  Captain Carmichael said, “A quick thinker, aren’t you, Packerson?”

  Sergeant Ackley turned to the captain with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it at all, Cap,” he said.

  Captain Carmichael pulled handcuffs from his hip pocket. “If,” he announced, “you’d kept your big mouth shut about the money not being there, we’d have had a complete confession. As it is, we can still get those blueprints if we get after Gilbert and that clerk of his right away. As far as the money is concerned—well, we can still get that, if we work fast enough, thanks to the fact that you got your manuscript twenty-four hours in advance. Now do you get it, dumb head?”

  Sergeant Ackley was staring at Captain Carmichael with eyes that seemed unable to focus. “You mean—Lester Leith—been here—changed guns …”

  “Exactly,” Captain Carmichael said. “Now, come on, first to Gilbert’s …”

  Bernice Lamen lingered over her last drink with Lester Leith. Her eyes, as she raised them to regard his profile, were warm with appreciation. “I don’t know,” she said, “how I can ever thank you. I—”

  One of the busboys, who had been standing near the window, approached the table and bent deferentially above Lester Leith. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, “but is your car number XL552?”

  Leith’s eyes narrowed. “That’s my license number,” he admitted.

  “I think you’ve violated a parking ordinance. I’ve noticed a couple of cops looking it over, and now they’re sitting in a squad car just outside the door, apparently waiting for you to come back to the car.”

  Lester Leith absently fished a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off a ten-dollar bill, and pushed it into the busboy’s hand. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I tore up a couple of traffic tickets. I guess they’ve caught up with me. By the way, could you get me about a hundred of these paper cocktail napkins?”

  The busboy stared at the bill. “Gee, mister, thanks. Paper napkins? Gosh, yes, I should say so.”

  Lester Leith turned to his feminine companion. “On second thought,” he said, “I think it would be better for you to have your talk with Jason Bellview without me being there. Now, I’m going to leave the restaurant in a few minutes, and you’d better wait ten or fifteen minutes before you go out, then take a taxicab to Bellview’s office.”

  The busboy brought a huge stack of small paper cocktail napkins.

  “My gun,” Lester Leith explained, “needs cleaning. I wonder if I could step out in the kitchen to run some napkins through it?”

  “Why, certainly, but you don’t need to use napkins. I can get you a rag and—”

  “No,” Leith said. “Napkins really work better.” He got to his feet and bowed to Bernice Lamen.

  Puzzled, she saw him follow the busboy in the direction of the kitchen, nor was she greatly surprised when he failed to return. She waited a full fifteen minutes, then started for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” the busboy said. “He’s forgotten one of his guns.”

  “Oh, that’s right, he did. He’s gone?”

  “Yes. Out through the kitchen door into the alley.”

  Bernice Lamen smiled brightly. “Under those circumstances, you’d better keep this gun here—until he calls for it later.”

  Sergeant Ackley, sitting in the squad car, suddenly grabbed Captain Carmichael’s arm. “By George, here he comes down that side street. And he’s got the gun with him.”

  “Take it easy now, Sergeant,” Captain Carmichael said. “Don’t tip our hand until we know we’re right.”

  Lester Leith, a gun case swung over his shoulder, a briefcase in his hand, walked up to his car and slid in behind the wheel.

  Captain Carmichael said, “Okay, Sergeant, do your stuff, but don’t make the arrest unless you’re certain you’ve caught him red-handed.”

  Sergeant Ackley nodded, slid out of the squad car, and started back toward Leith’s automobile.

  Lester Leith was just pressing his foot on the starter when Sergeant Ackley tapped him on the shoulder.

  Leith looked up. His face showed incredulous surprise. “You!” he said.

  Sergeant Ackley’s grin was triumphant. “Just checking up on stolen shotguns, Leith,” he said. “That shotgun in the case is yours all right?”

  Leith hesitated perceptibly.

  “I’ll just take a look at it,” Sergeant Ackley said.

  He pulled the gun case out through the window, unfastened the end of the gun case, pulled out the barrels, and held them to the light. The left-hand barrel shone with a clear, smooth polish. The right-hand barrel was choked up with rolled papers.

  Sergeant Ackley’s grin was triumphant. He tossed the gun into the back of the car. “Come on, Leith,” he said. “You’re going to headquarters.”

  Leith said, “I don’t get you.”

  “No. But I’ve got you,” Sergeant Ackley gloated. “It’s been a long lane, but this is where the turn comes. Drive to headquarters, or I’ll put the nippers on you and call the wagon.”

  Without a word Leith started the car and drove to headquarters. Following along behind, Captain Carmichael guarded against any break for escape.

  In front of the desk sergeant, Ackley permitted himself a bit of gloating. “All right, boys,” he said, “I’ll show you a little shrewd deduction. Give me something I can push down the barrel of this shotgun, and I’ll show you a little parlor magic.”

  “Cut the comedy,” Captain Carmichael said.

  But Sergeant Ackley couldn’t resist an opportunity for glory. “Notice,” he said as one of the officers handed him a wooden dowel, “that I have nothing in either hand and nothing up my sleeve. I push this wooden dowel through the left barrel of the shotgun, and nothing happens. Now then, I push it through the right barrel, and you’ll see thirty thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills come showering out on the floor.”

  Ackley pushed hard with the improvised ramrod.

  There was a period of surprised silence; then a gale of laughter ran around the room as a shower of paper cocktail napkins burst from the barrel of the shotgun.

  “A new scheme,” Leith said urbanely. “Someone told me it would keep a barrel from rusting. I decided to use paper in the right barrel and nothing in the left, put the gun away for six months, and see which barrel was in better condition. I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you’ve destroyed my experiment.”

  Captain Carmichael took Sergeant Ackley’s arm. “Come on,” he said.

  Lester Leith said to the desk sergeant, “I really didn’t steal those cocktail napkins. They were given to me.”

  Captain Carmichael rushed Sergeant Ackley outside.

  “Blast it, Sergeant, I told you that the big danger about using the Chinese method of fishing was that you had to keep a rope tied tightly around the bird’s neck.”

  Sergeant Ackley said, “Gosh, Captain, I’d like to get one of those pelican birds for that lake up in—”

  “It wouldn’t do you any good,” Captain Carmichael snapped. “You wouldn’t know how to tie up a bird’s neck so he couldn’t swallow the fish.”

  A Man Is Missing

  Sheriff Bill Catlin spilled the contents of the envelope on his battered desk and glowered at the younger man across from him, who sat uncomfortably attentive.

  “The trouble with these dudes,” the sheriff said, “is that they think out here in Idaho we ain’t civilized. Now, here’s Ed Harvel, the chief of police who was visiting out here three years ago. He wants me to locate an amnesia victim, and he writes me a two-page letter telling me how to go about it.”

  Hank Lucas nodded vaguely as the sheriff’s steely eyes looked up over the top of his spectacles.

  “Now, this here chap,” the sheriff went on, “had a previous attack. He wandered off on his own. Was gone for three months, came back, and didn’t know where he’d been. Never has been able to remember a thing about it. Didn’t know what he’d done, what name he went under, where he lived, or anything about it. He just left his office five o’clock one afternoon and started for home. He showed up three months later. Ain’t that a heck of a note?”

  “That,” Lucas agreed, “is a heck of a note.”

  “Now then,” the sheriff went on, “a year ago he did it again. Disappeared last September. But this time he writes his wife a picture postcard. Sends it to her ’way back last October.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Hank said. “If he sent his wife a picture postcard, his mind hasn’t gone plumb blank. How did he know where to address it?”

  “I’m coming to that,” the sheriff said. “That’s the funny thing. He’d been married three years, but he addressed the postcard to his wife under her maiden name and sent it to the old address where she lived when he was courting her. Been married to her and still thinks she’s his sweetie pie.”

  Hank didn’t say anything.

  “Now, this here Ed Harvel,” the sheriff went on, “I guess he’s a bang-up chief of police back East, but you put him out here and he’s just a dude. Had him into the Middle Fork country three years ago, and there wasn’t a single tenderfoot trick he didn’t pull—even to getting lost. Now, when he writes to me, he tells me what he wants done and then goes on and tells me how I should do it. You’d think I’d never done any investigating at all. Suggests this chap, whose name is Frank Adrian, is still going under his own name, because he signed the postcard ‘Frank.’ Says it might be a good plan to check with the banks to see if he’s opened an account, talk with the proprietors of some of the stores in town, go search the backcountry, and—”

  “Ain’t that all right?” Hank asked.

  The sheriff snorted. “It’s the idea of him telling me how I should go about finding the guy! Anyhow, I don’t think that’s the best way to do it.”

  “No?” Hank asked.

  “Nope,” the sheriff said positively, and then added, “Funny thing about dudes—”

  “You said you wanted to see me official, Bill,” Hank interrupted, shifting his position uneasily.

  “Now, don’t get impatient,” the sheriff said. “A man would think you’d been shooting meat outta season and was afraid you’d left a back trail.”

  “You’d ought to know how it feels,” Hank said. “I can remember before you was elected when—”

  “Now, this here amnesia guy,” the sheriff interrupted hastily but authoritatively, “seems to have gone over in the Middle Fork country and lived in a cabin. He had a camera, and someone took his picture standing in front of his cabin. It was sent to his wife—addressed to her, like I said, under her maiden name, Corliss Lathan.

  “The postcard was mailed from Twin Falls, and darned if they didn’t waste a lot of time corresponding with the folks down in Twin Falls. Then finally someone suggested it might be the Middle Fork country, and it seems like the man who is in charge of the missing-persons department found out Ed Harvel had been out here three years ago. So he goes to Ed and asks Ed for the name of the sheriff. And instead of writing a letter of introduction, Ed takes over and writes me the whole story and—”

  “You wanted to ask me something about it?” Hank interrupted.

  The sheriff pushed the photographic postcard across the desk. “Take a look.”

  Hank looked at the card. On the side reserved for the message was written: “Corliss, dear, this shows where I am living. It’s the wildest, most inaccessible place you can imagine. I still feel the results of that auto accident six weeks ago, but what with climbing around these mountains, living on venison and trout, getting lots of fresh air and exercise, I’ll be fit in no time at all.”

  The card was addressed to Miss Corliss Lathan.

  Hank turned the card over and studied the photograph of a mountain cabin, with a man standing in front of it smiling fatuously at the camera. “Auto accident?” Hank asked.

  “According to Ed Harvel, that accident was three years ago. The date on the card shows it was sent about six weeks after the guy disappeared the second time. Apparently he got his head banged in that accident, and whenever his memory slips a cog, it goes back to the time of the accident. Everything after that is a blank.”

  Hank studied the postcard.

  “What do you make out of it?” the sheriff asked.

  “A trapper’s cabin,” Hank said, “up on a ridge. It was built in the fall. You can see where the trees were chopped off around near the cabin—indicates there was about three feet of snow on the ground. The guy’s sure a tenderfoot.”

  “He is, for a fact,” the sheriff agreed.

  “Those high boots,” Hank went on. “Hobnails in ’em too. Bet they weigh a ton. Look at that hunting knife hanging on his belt. Pretty far front. No protection on the sheath. He’d go hunting, jump over a log, double up when he lit, and the point of that knife would run through that leather sheath right into his leg and cut the big artery. Then we’d have another dead dude to pack out…. What makes you think the cabin’s around here?”

  “Notice that little ‘T.M.’ up in the corner?”

  Hank nodded.

  “That’s Tom Morton’s initials. He puts ’em on the postcards he prints, with a string of figures after ’em. I don’t know just what the idea is myself. But I’ve seen those sets of figures on picture postcards Tom makes of the fishing country and places around town. Tom printed that postcard, all right.”

  “You talk with Tom?” Hank asked.

  “Nope, I was sorta waiting for you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Well, now,” the sheriff said, “you see, it’s like this, Hank. I want you to sorta help me out.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Hank said. “The way you’re talkin’, Bill, you’ve gone and made some arrangements.”

  “Nothing out of the way,” Sheriff Catlin said hastily. “I’ve got you a couple of customers. A couple of dudes.”

  “Who?” Hank asked.

  “Seems like this Corliss Adrian has all of a sudden got in a helluva lather to get her husband located. Seems like there’s another man been hanging around, and maybe she’d like to get a divorce. To do that she’d like to make a charge of desertion and serve papers. Or, in case she’s a widow, then she could get married again right away. This here new man has got lots of money, and he’s willing to spend it. He wants results quick. And the high-powered city detective who’s been in charge of the investigation, a chap by the name of James Dewitt, has a vacation coming up. So he and this Corliss Adrian are driving out together, and they wanted—”

  “Absolutely not,” Hank said. “I can’t—”

  “They’ll pay regular dude prices,” the sheriff finished triumphantly.

  “Well …” Hank hesitated. “That’s different. How about the other guy, the one who wants to marry her? Is he coming?”

  “Course not,” the sheriff said. “He’s keeping under cover, hugging the ground like a spotted fawn and hoping no one sees him. He’s the rich son of a big broker back there. Lots of dough and political influence—chap name of Gridley. His dad’s a pal of Ed Harvel’s, and that’s partly why Ed’s all worked up. You can see the thing from Gridley’s viewpoint. S’pose they locate this husband and his mind’s a blank, or maybe he’s just checked out of marriage because he’s tired of it. But he gets a lawyer and starts a suit for alienating affections or some such business. Nope, Gridley’s son is sitting just as still as a pheasant in a grain patch.”

  Hank said, “Well, I’ve got my pack string where I could take a party into the Middle Fork. Of course, I don’t know what sort this city detective is, and—”

  “Let’s you an’ me go to see Tom Morton,” the sheriff suggested….

  The sheriff and Hank Lucas left the wooden courthouse and went out into the sun. The sprawling Idaho town was deceptive to those who didn’t know it. A single long main street stretching in a thin ribbon of frame business structures, many of which were in need of paint, gave little indication of the innate prosperity of the place. For a radius of more than fifty miles, cattlemen used the facilities of the town to service their ranches. Business from a county as big as some of the eastern states flowed into the county seat. The bank, housed in a one-story frame structure, casually discussed financial deals which would have jarred many a more pretentious city bank to its granite foundations.

  The sheriff and Hank Lucas turned in at Tom Morton’s doorway. The entrance room was bleak and cold, decorated with pictures of familiar faces, young men in uniform, girls at the time of high-school graduation. Here and there were hand-colored photographs of the mountainous backcountry.

  Ignoring the sign, “Ring for Photographer,” the sheriff arid Lucas clumped noisily along the uncarpeted corridor toward the living quarters and the darkroom in the rear.

  “Hi, Tom,” the sheriff called.

  “Hello,” a voice answered from behind a door marked “Darkroom.”

  “This is the sheriff. Watcha doin’?”

  “Just taking some films out of the developer. Stick around a minute, and I’ll be with you.”