Before Bell could answer, Agnes Murphy entered the conference room carrying a tray with three cups and a coffeepot. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said sweetly, “but I thought you gentlemen might like some coffee.”

Bell took the tray from her and set it on the long table. “That’s very kind of you, Agnes.”

She turned and started for the door. “I’ll be right back.” In less than a minute, she returned with a sugar bowl and cream pitcher. “I didn’t forget. I just couldn’t carry it all.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” said Curtis with a broad smile, as he lightly kissed her on the cheek.

Bell and Irvine exchanged glances, smiling. They both knew that Curtis and Agnes were just pals and always teasing each other. Agnes gathered her skirts as she turned, left the conference room, and closed the door.

“Besides the coffee,” said Bell, “it was thoughtful of her to close the door.”

Curtis blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “She knows the score. Agnes has no more respect for Alexander than we do.”

“You were about to say…” Irvine prompted Bell.

“I discovered that, besides a missing finger, he probably has red hair. And rides a motorcycle, which he’s used on more than one robbery.” Bell reached into his pocket and lifted out a small silk sack, opened it, and spilled the cartridge out on the table. “We now know the Butcher Bandit uses a thirty-eight-caliber Colt automatic. This shell casing was found under a carpet. The killer somehow missed it since he hasn’t left any shells at his other bank hits. Sheriff Murphy of Bisbee was a smart man and had the county coroner remove the bullets from the murder victims. They all came from a thirty-eight Colt.”

“We can check sales of all thirty-eight Colt automatics,” said Curtis.

“There couldn’t be more than ten thousand of them,” Irvine replied sarcastically.

“It would take ten agents years to check out every gun dealer, salesman, and hardware store owner who sells thirty-eight Colt automatics.”

“Art is right,” Bell said as he stared at the brass cartridge. “It would be a tremendous long shot.”

Curtis grinned like a fox. “Not if we have a lead to where the bandit hides out.

Then we can check out dealers in the area.”

“Good thinking,” Bell agreed, not knowing what Curtis was about to reveal. “In the meantime, I’ll send it off to Chicago and see if our agency experts can pull any fingerprints.” He relaxed in a chair and tilted it back on two legs, propping a foot against the table. “Now, let me hear what you two have unearthed.”

Irvine opened a bound ledger and placed the book on the table in front of Bell and Curtis. “I hit pay dirt in Elkhorn, Nevada. They had recorded the serial numbers of the fifty-dollar bills in their vault the day before the robbery.”

“I can understand why,” said Bell. “Fifties are counterfeited more than any other bill. As their bookkeeper itemized the bills, he must have studied each one and made sure they weren’t bogus.”