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She nodded again. I pushed her back. “York made the will,” I said. “It was his dough and I don’t care what he did with it. Take your share and go to hell with it. You probably will anyway. Tell Arthur I’ll be looking for him. When I find him he’s going to look like his brother.”

I left her looking eighty years old. William was moaning through his own blood when I went out the door. Good party. I liked it. There would be no more rides from that enemy camp. The redskins have left, vamoosed, departed.

There was only one angle to the Graham boys that I couldn’t cover. Which one of them took the shot at Roxy and why? I’ll be damned if I heard a shot. They didn’t stop long enough to say boo far less than snap off a quickie. And they certainly would have shot at me, not toward the window. I wasn’t sure of anything, but if there was money on the table I’d say that neither one had used a gun at all that night. It was details like that that creased me up. I had to make a choice one way or the other and follow it to a conclusion. All right, it was made. The Graham boys were out. Someone else fired it.

New York was a dismal sight after the country. I hadn’t thought the grass and the trees with their ugly bilious color of green could have made such an impression on me. Somehow the crowded streets and the endless babble of voices gave me a dirty taste in my mouth. I rolled into a parking lot, pocketed my ticket, then turned into a chain drugstore on the stem. My first call was back to Sidon. Harvey answered and I told him to keep the kid in the room with Roxy and Billy until I got back and take any calls that came for me. My next dime got Pat Chambers, Captain of Homicide.

“Greetings, chum,” I said, “this is Uncle Mike.”

“It’s about time you buzzed me. I was beginning to think you cooled off another citizen and were on the fly. Where are you?”

“Right off Times Square.”

“Coming down?”

“No, Pat. I have some business to attend to. Look, how about meeting me on the steps of the library. West Forty-third Street entrance. It’s important.”

“Okay. Say in about half an hour. Will that do?”

I told him fine and hung up. Pat was tops in my book. A careful, crafty cop, and all cop. He looked more like a gentleman-about-town, but there it ended. Pat had a mind like an adding machine and a talent for police work backed up by the finest department in the world. Ordinarily a city cop has no truck with a private eye, but Pat and I had been buddies a long time with one exception. It was a case of mutual respect, I guess.

At a stand-up-and-eat joint I grabbed a couple dogs and a lemonade then beat it to the library in time to see Pat step out of a prowl car. We shook hands and tossed some remarks back and forth before Pat asked, “What’s the story?”

“Let’s go inside where we can talk.”

We went through the two sets of doors and into the reading room. Holding my voice down I said, “Ever hear of Rudolph York, Pat? ”

“So?” He had.

I gave him the story in brief, adding at the end, “Now I want to see what was attached to the rest of this dateline. It’ll be here somewhere, and it’s liable to turn up something you can help me with.”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know yet, but police records go back pretty far, don’t they? What I want to know may have happened fourteen years ago. My memory isn’t that good.”

“Okay, let’s see what we can dig up.”

Instead of going through the regular library routine, Pat flashed his shield and we got an escort to where the papers were filed. The old gentleman in the faded blue serge went unerringly to the right bin, pulled out a drawer and selected the edition I wanted all on the first try. He pointed to a table and pulled out chairs for us. My hands were trembling with the excitement of it when I opened the paper.

It was there. Two columns right down the side of the page. Two columns about six-inches long with a photo of York when he was a lot younger. Fourteen years younger. A twenty-four-point heading smacked me between the eyes with its implications.