I waited for a minute or so during which I could hear papers rustling; then the voice said, “That’s right. Emory G. Hale. New York and back.”
“You wouldn’t know what he looked like? I wouldn’t be able to get a description?”
“No. I don’t remember him. Just a minute.”
I heard him say, “Anyone remember selling a ticket to a man named Hale for New York on Wednesday? Shreveport police calling... No, I’m sorry we don’t have anyone who remembers him.”
“When you book a passenger, don’t you take his weight?”
“Yes.”
I said, “What did Hale weigh?”
“Just a minute. I have that right here. He weighed — let’s see — yes, here we are. He weighed a hundred and forty-six.”
I thanked him and hung up.
Emory G. Hale would have tipped the beam at something over two hundred pounds.