“None.”

“Not a single clue?” Jack interposed dubiously. “Old Stony must have had a few friends.”

“No one—unless maybe you could say he kept up a writing acquaintance with Craig Warner.”

“Who’s he?”

The motel owner shrugged. “Someone he wrote to in Colorado. A casual acquaintance, I guess.”

“Stony didn’t seem the type to bother with trivial friendships,” Jack commented. “Did he come from Colorado?”

“Stony must have told you that much himself,” Walz retorted, making no attempt to hide his growing distaste for the conversation.

“We don’t mean to be inquisitive,” interposed Mr. Livingston smoothly. “However, it’s rather important to know something of Stony’s past. What was his last name?”

“Who knows? When he came here, he told me his name was John Stone. That’s how he got his nickname, Old Stony. Later, he said his name was Adams. And once he told me it was Pickering. So take your choice.”

“He must have had something to hide.”

“Old Stony ran away from a past. I suspected that when I hired him.” Walz laughed without mirth. “He was afraid to set foot over the Colorado line, so I figured he was wanted for something in that state.”

“He kept it a secret?”

“Old Stony never told me anything. Nothing, that is, except wild yarns. The truth is, he disliked me and was ungrateful for all I did to help him.”

“Well, he’s in a bad spot at the moment,” Mr. Livingston said. “Any idea who might have attacked him?”

“Not the slightest.”

“The motive?”

“Oh, I figure some hoodlum put faith in Stony’s story of having gold or a map to a gold mine. Trouble with him, he couldn’t keep his lips from wagging. He invited the attack.”

“You’ve reported it to the police?”

 Prev. P 15/117 next