In the years that followed, Kate played fair with him and he gradually achieved a certain respect for her. Since there were going to be houses anyway, they had better be run by responsible people. Every so often Kate spotted a wanted man and turned him in. She ran a house which did not get into trouble. Sheriff Quinn and Kate got along together.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, about noon, Sheriff Quinn looked through the papers from Joe Valery’s pockets. The .38 slug had splashed off one side of Joe’s heart and had flattened against the ribs and torn out a section as big as a fist. The manila envelopes were glued together with blackened blood. The sheriff dampened the papers with a wet handkerchief to get them apart. He read the will, which had been folded, so that the blood was on the outside. He laid it aside and inspected the photographs in the envelopes. He sighed deeply.

Every envelope contained a man’s honor and peace of mind. Effectively used, these pictures could cause half a dozen suicides. Already Kate was on the table at Muller’s with the formalin running into her veins, and her stomach was in a jar in the corner’s office.

When he had seen all of the pictures he called a number. He said into the phone, “Can you drop over to my office? Well, put your lunch off, will you? Yes, I think you’ll see it’s important. I’ll wait for you.”

A few minutes later when the nameless man stood beside his desk in the front office of the old red county jail behind the courthouse, Sheriff Quinn stuck the will out in front of him. “As a lawyer, would you say this is any good?”

His visitor read the two lines and breathed deep through his nose. “Is this who I think it is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if her name was Catherine Trask and this is her handwriting, and if Aron Trask is her son, this is as good as gold.”

Quinn lifted the ends of his fine wide mustache with the back of his forefinger. “You knew her, didn’t you?”

“Well, not to say know. I knew who she was.”

Quinn put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “Sit down, I want to talk to you.”

His visitor drew up a chair. His fingers picked at a coat button.

The sheriff asked, “Was Kate blackmailing you?”

“Certainly not. Why should she?”

“I’m asking you as a friend. You know she’s dead. You can tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at—nobody’s blackmailing me.”

Quinn slipped a photograph from its envelope, turned it like a playing card, and skidded it across the desk.

His visitor adjusted his glasses and the breath whistled in his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he said softly.

“You didn’t know she had it?”

“Oh, I knew it all right. She let me know. For Christ’s sake, Horace—what are you going to do with this?”

Quinn took the picture from his hand.