“And you were his closest friend?” Shayne asked, amused.
“Reckon I was his only friend. We batched together in a shack up back o’ town when we wa’n’t out diggin’ around in the hills.”
“Did he have any personal possessions — anything that might possibly connect him with his past?”
“Nary a thing that I knowed about. Ol’ Pete wa’n’t one fer havin’ things. One wearin’ o’ clothes at a time was all he had use for.” Strenk greedily emptied his beer mug and peered over the tilted edge at Shayne. He set it down, pursing his parched, bloodless lips at its emptiness.
Shayne shoved his empty mug beside it and called for a refill.
“No more for me,” the sheriff declined hastily. “I’ve got to set an example tonight. If folks see me drinking more than one or two beers they’ll swear I was staggering drunk and I’d have trouble.”
“Guess you’re right at that,” Shayne agreed. He lit a cigarette, studying the old miner in silence while they waited. He had an uneasy feeling that Strenk was intentionally drawing him on — holding something back. For a price, perhaps, or out of perverse delight in forcing a detective to probe for information which no one else could give.
When the beers came, Shayne asked Strenk, “What’s your idea about what happened to Pete tonight? Who had a reason to murder him?”
Strenk shook his head warily, buried his whiskers in beer foam and drank. He wiped his mouth carefully before answering, “I sure dunno, Mister Shayne. It beats me. Ol’ Pete was as harmless as a steer in a herd of bullin’ cows. Most folks hereabouts was mighty happy for the ol’ coot when he fin’ly struck it rich.”
Shayne detected a faint emphasis on the word “most.”