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infanticide, was suggested and investi­gated. Maybe you’d be interested in seeing my file on the case?”
    â€œVery much,” Quinn said.
    â€œI kept a personal file, in addition to what we printed in the Beacon, because of Martha being an old friend. Also because —well, frankly, I’ve always had the feeling that the case would be reopened some day, that maybe some burglar in Kansas City, or some guy up on another murder charge in New Orleans or Seattle, would confess to killing O’Gorman and settle everything once and for all.”
    â€œDidn’t you ever think, or hope, that O’Gorman himself might turn up?”
    â€œI hoped. I didn’t think, though. When O’Gorman left the house that night he had two one-dollar bills in his wallet, his car, and the clothes on his back, and that’s all. Martha handled the money for the family, she knew to a cent how much O’Gorman was carrying.”
    â€œNo clothes were missing from his closet?”
    â€œNone,” Ronda said.
    â€œDid he have a bank account?”
    â€œA joint one with Martha. He could easily have cashed a check that afternoon without Martha finding out about it until later, but he didn’t. He also didn’t borrow any money.”
    â€œDid he have anything valuable he might have taken along to pawn?”
    â€œHe owned a wrist watch worth about a hundred dollars, a present from Martha. It was found in his bureau drawer.” Ronda lit another cigarette, leaned back in the swivel chair and studied the ceiling. “Aside from all the physical evidence which would rule out a voluntary disappearance, there is the emotional evidence: O’Gorman had become, over the years, completely dependent on Martha, he couldn’t have lasted a week without her, he was like a little boy.”
    â€œLittle boys his age can become a nuisance,” Quinn said dryly. ‘‘Maybe the police were wrong to rule out infanticide.”
    â€œIf that’s a joke, it’s a bad one.”
    â€œMost of mine are.”
    â€œI’ll get that file for you,” Ronda said, rising. “I don’t know why I’m doing all this, except I guess I’d like to see the case closed once and for all so Martha could start seriously considering remarriage. She’d make a fine wife. You prob­ably haven’t seen her at her best.”
    â€œNo, and I doubt that I will.”
    â€œShe’s lively, full of fun—”
    â€œThe pitch doesn’t fit the product,” Quinn said, “and I’m not in the market.”
    â€œYou’re very suspicious.”
    â€œBy nature, training, experience and observation, yes.”
    Ronda went out and Quinn sat back in the chair, frowning. Through the glass paneling he could see the tops of three heads, Ronda’s bushy gray one, a man’s crew cut, and a woman’s elaborate bee-hive-style coiffure, the color of per­simmons.
    The shirt, he thought. That’s it, it’s the shirt that bothers me, the piece of cloth snagged on the hinge of the car door. On the stormiest night of the year why wasn’t O’Gorman wearing a jacket or a raincoat?
    Ronda came back, carrying two cardboard boxes labeled simply Patrick O’Gorman. The boxes contained newspaper clippings, photographs, snapshots, copies of telegrams and letters to and from various police officials. Though most of them originated in California, Nevada and Arizona, others came from remote parts of the country and Mexico and Can­ada. The material was arranged in chronological order, but to go through it all would require considerable time and patience.
    Quinn said, “May I borrow the file overnight?”
    â€œWhat do you intend to do with it?”
    â€œTake it to my motel and examine it. There are one or two points I’d like to go into more fully—the condition of the car, for instance. Was there a heater in it and was it switched