“It took us three days,” she reminded him.
“But we stopped in Gunnison and Colorado Springs. You had to have your laugh at me trying to catch a rainbow trout, and you had to see Pike’s Peak.”
“All right,” she assented meekly. “It’s about a day’s drive. When do we start?”
“We don’t.” He took a Prince Albert can from his pocket and shook the clippings and photograph out on the table.
Watching with interest, Phyllis asked, “What’s that?” He told her briefly about his search of Screwloose Pete’s cabin, and the resulting find. He selected the clipping telling of Peter Dacor’s disappearance, and carried it to the telephone.
He told the long distance operator, “This is Michael Shayne at the Teller House. Calling Telluride, Colorado. I want the editor—” he glanced at the clipping “—of the Telluride Chronicle. He hung up and went back to his chair, tossed the clips and photograph to Phyllis. She thumbed through them, murmuring:
“Poor old man. He looks henpecked. Think how he must have felt when he saw Nora’s picture in the Central City newspaper right next to his on the front page, and read about her looking for him all these years. Why do you suppose he didn’t go to her at once?”
“Either of two reasons: He had just made his first decent strike after ten years of poverty and prospecting, and he didn’t want to share it with her. Or, he was frightened away by Nora’s success — ashamed of his shabbiness and what he had become — afraid of shaming her before her rich friends.”
The telephone rang. When the long distance connection was made, he spoke slowly and distinctly: “This is Michael Shayne, a detective in Central City. That’s right. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we’ve got a couple of murders over here and need your help.”
He listened a moment. “Thanks. I appreciate that. How long have you been editor of the Chronicle? Good. You ought to remember the Peter Dalcor disappearance in your town about ten years ago?”