"I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one."
"Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints? Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of them?"
"He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson. He disappeared, too!"
I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit into the picture? Why ask me to do something?"
H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment. Then, suddenly,
"Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?"
Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel along the right-of-way.
The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the worst of the bargain.
Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt, leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his beloved cabbage patch on his farm.