“You’re putting me on.” Jensen laughed.

“I assure you, it’s a straight request.”

Jensen stared at him blankly. “Are you sure you’ve got the right company?”

“I am,” Dormer said brusquely, “if this is a descendant of the Thor Forge and Ironworks.”

“My great-grandfather’s old outfit,” Jensen admitted.

“My father bought up the outstanding stock and changed the name in 1942 “

“Would you still have any of the old records?”

Jensen shrugged. “We threw out the ancient history some time ago. If we’d saved every receipt of sale since great granddaddy opened his doors back in 1897, we’d need a warehouse the size of Bronco Stadium just to store them.”

Donner pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He sagged in his chair.

“However,” Jensen continued, “and you can thank the foresight of Carl Jensen, Sr, we have all our past records down on microfilm.”

“Microfilm?”

“The only way to fly. After five years, we film everything. Efficiency personified, that’s us.”

Dormer couldn’t believe his luck. “Then you can provide me with sales for the last six months of 1911?”

Jensen didn’t answer. He leaned over the desk, spoke into his intercom, and then tilted back in his executive chair. “While we wait, can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Dormer?”

“I’d prefer something with a little more snap.”

“Spoken like a man from the big city.” Jensen stood up and walked over to a mirrored bar from which he produced a bottle of Chivas Regal. “You’ll find Denver quite gauche. A bar in an office is generally frowned upon here. The locals’ idea of entertaining visiting firemen is to treat them to a large Coca-Cola and a lavish lunch at the Wienerschnitzel. Fortunately for our esteemed out-of-town customers, I spent my business apprenticeship on Madison Avenue.”

Donner took the offered glass and downed it.

Jensen looked at him appraisingly and then refilled the glass. “Tell me, Mr. Donner, just what is it you expect to find?”

“Nothing of importance,” Dormer said.

“Come now. The government wouldn’t send a man across half the country to itemize seventy-six-year-old sales records strictly for laughs.”

“The government often handles its secrets in a funny way.”

“A classified secret that goes back to 1911?” Jensen shook his head in wonder. “Truly amazing.”

“Let’s just say we’re trying to solve an ancient crime whose perpetrator purchased your great-grandfather’s services.”

Jensen smiled and courteously accepted the lie.

A black-haired girl in long skirt and boots swiveled into the room, threw Jensen a seductive look, laid a Xerox paper on his desk, and retreated.

Jensen picked up the paper and examined it. “June to November must have been a recession year for my ancestor. Sales for those months were slim. Any particular entry you’re interested in, Mr. Dormer?”

“Mining equipment.”

“Yes, this must be it … drilling tools. Ordered August tenth and picked up by the buyer on November first.” Jensen’s lips broke into a wide grin. “It would seem, sir, the laugh is on you.”