“Reckon so. Could try.” Strenk sucked on his half-filled beer mug.
Shayne turned to Fleming. “That might be an important lead, Sheriff. Sounds like a New York gambler who is suspected of being out here on the trail of a welsher. He has a reputation for collecting overdue gambling debts with a gun. It couldn’t be Pete’s trail he was on,” he mused wearily. “I don’t suppose he has been in New York recently.”
“Not in the ten years I’ve knowed him,” Cal Strenk said drowsily. “He ain’t been to Denver — or even Idaho Springs.”
Shayne said, “I’d like to have you see the men I’m thinking of. See if they’re the ones.”
“Glad to, Mister. Yes, sirree, I’ll be glad to ’blige you. Reckon it was one of them give it to Pete tonight?”
“Not necessarily, but there might be some connection.”
“You lead me to ’em” Strenk finished his third beer and combed his whiskers with broken nails. He took a red bandanna from his pocket and blew his nose violently. “Folks’ll mebby be tellin’ you that me an’ Pete had a failin’ out recent on account of I moved out from batchin’ with ’im, but Pete was still my friend an’ I’ll sure he’p all I can to find out who smashed his head in like that.” A watery film spread over the furtive glint in his eyes as they observed Shayne closely.
Shayne said heartily, “That’s fine, Strenk. I suppose you’ve got an alibi for the time Pete was killed.”
“You ain’t thinkin’ I done it?”
“Nothing like that,” Shayne said pleasantly. “Alibis are just a hobby with me when I’m on a case.”