“You boys must have started early, didn’t yuh?” he asked.
“Pretty early, Len. Charley Prentice was killed last night.”
Len’s greenish-gray eyes opened a trifle wider as he looked from Ben to Breezy.
“What killed him?” he asked slowly.
“Couple of forty-fours, Len.”
“Yeah?” Len’s eyes did not waver. “What time was this?”
“After you left town—a while after. Just what time was it, Breezy?”
“I never looked,” confessed Breezy. “Yuh remember when yuh left, Len? Well, me and Hartley went over to the office, and it was ten or fifteen minutes later when Larry came to tell us.”
“Did Larry see it?” asked Len.
“Nope. Somebody knocked on the door, and when Prentice answered the knock, they shot him dead on his own porch.”