"You knew her?"
"I knew of her. I never met her."
"What about this report of her death?"
Swanson shrugged; tented manicured fingers. "It's a hoax. Any job printing shop with a Linotype could do it. In all likelihood it was some place in San Francisco. That's closest. It would be very difficult to check." His curiosity was showing.
"I see. Well, thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Swanson."
"Not at all. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."
One thing to do. One thing that must be done.
Motors over the mountains. And riding with them, the numb resolve. Motors over the salt pans, the wheat lands, the corn belt.
The stewardess stops again. "Coffee, sir? A sandwich, perhaps?"
"I beg your— Oh, no. No, thanks."