“Oh my, that does go back.” She twisted her lips. “I can give you a photocopy, but the original issues are at the State Historical Society.”

“I only need to see page three.”

“If you care to wait, it’ll take about fifteen minutes to track down the film of November 17, 1911, and run the page you want through the copy machine.”

“Thank you. By the way, would you happen to have a business directory for Colorado?”

“We certainly do.” She reached under the counter and laid a booklet on the smudged plastic top.

Donner sat down to study the directory as the girl disappeared to search out his request. There was no listing of a Guthrie and Sons Foundry in Pueblo. He thumbed to the T’s. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.

The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn’t returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he’d heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.

“Here you are, sir,” the girl said. “That’ll be fifty cents.”

Donner paid and quickly scanned the headline in the upper-right-hand corner of the old newsprint’s reproduction. The article covered a mine disaster.

“Is it what you were looking for?” the girl asked.

“It will have to do,” he said as he walked away.

Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators was situated between the Burlington-Northern rail yards and the South Platte River; a massive corrugated monstrosity that would have blotted any landscape except the one that surrounded it. Inside the work shed, overhead cranes shuffled enormous lengths of rusty pipe from pile to pile, while stamping machines pounded away with an intolerable clangor that made Dormer’s eardrums cringe from the attack. The main office sat off to one side behind soundproofed aggregate concrete walls and tall arched windows.

An attractive, large-breasted receptionist escorted him down a shag-carpeted hall to a spacious paneled office. Carl Jensen, Jr., came around the desk and shook hands with Donner. He was young; no more than twenty-eight and wore his hair long. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore an expensive plaid suit. He looked for all the world like a UCLA graduate; Donner couldn’t see him as anything else.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Jensen.”

Jensen smiled guardedly. “It sounded important. A big man on the Washington campus and all. How could I refuse?”

“As I mentioned over the telephone, I’m checking on some old records.”

Jensen’s smile thinned. “You’re not from the Internal Revenue, I hope.”

Donner shook his head. “Nothing like that. The government’s interest is purely historical. If you still keep them, I’d like to check over your sales records for July through November of 1911.”