month's rent, too. Said some friends of hers
were plannin' to open a mortuary. Seemed like a funny way for people to
do business, but then, no affair of mine."

Funny? No, not funny at all, but icily, eerily logical. There had to be
an undertaking parlor where he could send the funeral expenses. He
wondered if Helen had laughed when she opened the letter. Everyone his,
or her, own undertaker. And the carefully cultivated friend in the
coroner's office. For stationery.

He got to his feet. "Thanks a lot, Miss Collins. You've been a great
deal of help." He almost smiled as he asked, "I don't suppose she left a
forwarding address?"

The old head shook decisively. "Not a thing. Just packed and left, one
Monday morning."

All the loose ends tied up tight on a Monday morning. Nothing to cause
suspicion. Nothing to worry about. Only a woman's almost paranoid
hysteria,--and a glance at a clock. Not very much to unmask--incubus.
And what could he do? What _could_ he do? Start talking and land in an
institution? Well, there was one thing.

"Thanks again, Miss Collins."

He went out.

* * * * *

Swanson didn't look like the general conception of a small-town
newspaperman. One knew instinctively that his beard wouldn't have been
tobacco-stained even if he'd cared to grow one. And he didn't have a
bottle of bourbon in the file marked Miscellaneous, or if he did he
didn't bring it out.

"That never came from my paper," he said precisely. He handed the
clipping back to Jim. "We don't use that type, for one thing. For
another, Miss Simmons, so far as I know, wasn't killed here or anywhere
else."

"You knew her?"

"I knew of her. I never met her."

"What about this report of her death?"

Swanson shrugged; tented manicured fingers. "It's a hoax. Any job
printing shop with a Linotype could do it. In all likelihood it was some
place in San Francisco. That's closest. It would be very difficult to
check." His curiosity was showing.

"I see. Well, thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Swanson."

"Not at all. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."

One thing to do. One thing that must be done.

Motors over the mountains. And riding with them, the numb resolve.
Motors over the salt pans, the wheat lands, the corn belt.

The stewardess stops again. "Coffee, sir? A sandwich, perhaps?"

"I beg your-- Oh, no. No, thanks."

She watches him covertly, uneasily, longing for the end of the run.

Mo