As the secretary entered his office, the mayor stared out the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
“You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes,” he replied without turning. “I need you to send a message to the chief of police.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I want him here as soon as possible.”
“But . . . he was just here this morning, wasn’t he?” she asked.
He turned and looked at her over his shoulder,.
“Don’t be addled, Margaret,” he said. “Of course he was here. You saw him.”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“I want him here again,” he said, “and as soon as possible. Get that message to him.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Of course.”
She turned and left the office. The mayor turned his attention back to the window.
* * *
Clint left City Hall and went directly to the telegraph office.
“Can I help ya?” the clerk asked. He was a man in his fifties, very pale from hours spent inside, very thin except for a bulging belly.
“I received a telegram sent from this location,” Clint said. “I’d like to know if you sent it.”
“Um, well, I guess . . . can I see it?”
“No.”
“But then, how can I tell—”
“It was a few weeks ago,” Clint said. “The man would have been in his thirties, with blue eyes and a scar here.” Clint touched the spot next to his left eye.
“I don’t . . . that doesn’t sound familiar, sir,” the man said nervously.
Was everyone in this town a liar? Clint wondered.
“Does anyone else work here?”
“No, sir,” the man said. “Only me.”
“I see.” He could have asked if anyone had been working at the telegraph office several weeks ago, but the man would only have lied again.
“Okay, thank you.”
Clint left the telegraph office, paused just outside. Who was the only person in town who had not lied to him—yet?
* * *
Clint walked to Hannah’s Café. There was only one man seated at a table, eating. Ben was nowhere to be seen, but at that moment he came out from the kitchen.
“Hey, can’t keep you away from here,” he said.
“I’m not here to eat,” Clint said. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Okay, ask.”
“Can we sit?”
“Sure. Want some coffee? No charge.”
“Okay.”
Clint sat at the same back table he’d occupied at breakfast while Ben went into the kitchen. He returned with coffee and a piece of pie.
“Peach,” he told Clint. “Also no charge.”
Clint put a hunk into his mouth. It was sweet as sugar, the peaches soft but not mushy.
“It’s great,” he said, washing it down with coffee.
“What was the question?”
Clint looked around. The lone man was paying attention to his food, and nothing else.
“So far everyone I’ve talked to in this town has lied to me, except you,” he said to the young man.
“Lied about what?”
“Harlan Banks.”
“Really, Clint,” Ben said, “I never met the man.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I believe you. My question is about something else entirely.”
“What’s that?”
“The telegraph office,” Clint said. “Do you know how many key operators there are?”
“One,” Ben said. “His name’s Lenny.”
“Pale as a ghost?”
“That’s him.”
“No one else?”
“Nope,” Ben said. “Just him.”
Clint frowned, had another slice of pie.
“What about a few weeks ago?”
“Oh, well,” Ben said, “back then there was two.”
“There was?”
“Sure,” Ben said, “my friend Bobby worked there.”
“And what happened to Bobby?”
“He got fired.”
“What for?”
“He never told me.”
“Did you ask?”
“I did,” Ben said. “A couple of times. He said he couldn’t tell me.”
“I’d like to meet your friend Bobby,” Clint said. “Can you arrange that?”
“Sure,” Ben said with a shrug, “why not?”
“Good. Today?”
“Now, if you want,” Ben said. “I’ll take you to his house.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
Ben stood up.
“You finish your pie. I’ll take care of my last customer and tell Mom.”
“Okay.”
Ben went into the kitchen. Clint looked over at the man, who was dressed poorly, eating with dirty hands. The man looked at him and smiled.
“The food here is real good,” the man said.
“Very good,” Clint said.
The man nodded, smiled, and ate his last bite.