"Don't be afraid of the insurance company. That was long back."

"When I went to the Governor–" she began.

"Did you go to the Governor, too?

"After it happened–after everything–I wanted to hurt that man–I went to the Governor–"

"My God," I said.

"–and ask him to punish him–because he had taken a bribe–because he had killed my brother–but he said I had no proof, that the man was his friend and I had no proof."

"The letter, did you show him the letter?"

"Yes, I had the letter."

"Did you show Governor Stanton the letter?"

"Yes–yes–and he stood there and said, 'Miss Littlepaugh, you have sworn that you did not receive that letter, you have sworn to a lie, and that is perjury and the penalty for perjury is severe, and if that letter becomes known you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.' "

"What did you do?" I asked.

The head, which was nothing but gray hair and yellow skin stuck on bone, and old memories, wavered on its thin stalk of a neck, lightly and dryly as though touched by a breeze. "Do," she echoed, "do," shaking her head. "I was a poor woman, alone. My brother, he had gone away. What could I do?"

"You kept the letter," I affirmed, and she nodded.

"Get it," I said, "get it. Nobody will bother you now. I swear it."

She got it. She clawed into the mass of yellow and acid-smelling papers and old ribbons and crumpled cloths in a tin trunk in the corner, while I leaned over her and fretted at the palsied incompetence of the fingers. Then she had it.

I snatched the envelope from her hand and shook the paper out. It was a sheet of hotel stationery–the Hotel Moncastello–dated August 3, 1915. It read: Dear Sister, I have been this afternoon to see Governor Stanton and told him How I have been thrown out of my job like a dog after all these years because than man Irwin was bribed to let up on the suit against the Southern Belle Fuel people and how he now has my place at a salary they never paid me and I gave them my heart's blood all these years. And they call him vice-president, too. They lied to me and they cheated me and they make him vice-president for taking a bribe. But Governor Stanton would not listen to me. He asked me for my proof and I told him what Mr. Satterfield told me months ago how the case had been fixed and how in our company they'd take care of Irwin. Now Satterfield denies it. He denies he ever told me, and looks me in the eye. So I have no proof, and Governor Stanton will not investigate.

I can do no more. I went as you know to the people who are against Governor Stanton in politics but they would not listen to me. Because that blackguard and infidel McCall who is their kingpin is tied up with Southern Belle. At first they were interested but now they laugh at me. What can I do? I am old and not well. I will never be any good again. I will be a drag on you and not a help. What can I do, Sister?

You have been good to me. I thank you. Forgive me for what I am going to do, but I am going to join our sainted Mother and our dear Father who were kind and good to us and who will greet me on the Other Shore, and dry every tear.

Good-bye until the happy day when we shall meet again in Light.

MORTIMER

P. S. I have borrowed against my insurance a good bit. On account of bad investments. But there is something left and if they know I have done what I am going to do they will no pay you.

P. S. Give my watch which was Father's to Julian, who will respect it even if he is only a cousin.

P. S. I could do what I am going to do easier if I were not trying to get the insurance for you. I have paid for the insurance and you ought to have it.

So the poor bastard had gone to the Other Shore, where Mother and Father would dry away every tear, immediately after having instructed his sister how to defraud the insurance company. There it all was–all of Mortimer Lonzo–the confusion, weakness, piety, self-pity, small-time sharpness, vindictiveness, all of it in the neat, spidery, old-fashioned bookkeeper's sort of hand, a little shakier than ordinary perhaps, but with all the t's crossed and the i's dotted.

I replaced it in the envelope and put it in my pocket. "I am going to have it photostated," I said, "and you may have it back. I'll have the photostat certified. But you must make a statement before a notary about you visit to Governor Stanton. And–" I went over to the table and picked up the two bills and handed them to her–"there will be another one coming to you after you make your statement. Get you hat."

So I had it after all the months. For nothing is lost, nothing is ever lost. There is always the clue, the canceled check, the smear of lipstick, the footprint in the canna bed, the condom on the park path, the twitch in the old wound, the baby shoes dipped in bronze, the taint in the blood stream. And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us.

That is what all of us historical researchers believe.

And we love truth.

Chapter Six

It was late March in 1937 when I went to see Miss Littlepaugh in the foul, fox-smelling lair in Memphis, and came to the end of my researches. I had been on the job almost seven months. But other things had happened during that period besides my researches. Tom Stark, a sophomore, had made quarterback on the mythical All Southern Eleven and had celebrated by wrapping an expensive yellow sport job around a culvert on one of the numerous new speedways which bore his father's name. Fortunately, a Highway Patrol car, and not some garrulous citizen, discovered the wreck, and the half-empty bottle of evidence was, no doubt, flung into the night to fall in the dark waters of the swamp. Beside the unconscious form of the Sophomore Thunderbolt lay another form, conscious but badly battered, for in the yellow expensive sport job Tom had had with him a somewhat less expensive yellow-headed sport job, named, it turned out, Caresse Jones. So Caresse wound up in the operating room of the hospital and not in the swamp. She obligingly did not die, though in the future she never would be much of an asset in a roadster. But her father was less obliging. He stamped and swore that he was going to have blood, and breathed indictments, jail, publicity, and lawsuits. His fires, however, were pretty soon banked. Not that it didn't cost some nice change. But in the end the whole transaction was conducted without noise. Mr. Jones was in the trucking business, and somebody pointed out to him that truck ran on state road and that truckers had a lot of contacts with certain state departments.

Tom wasn't hurt a bit, though he lay up in hospital unconscious for three hours while the Boss, pale as a starched sheet, and with his hair hanging and his eyes wild and sweat running down his cheeks, paced the floor of the waiting room and ground one fist into the palm of the other hand while his breath made a labored sound like the breath of his son in the room beyond. Then Lucy Stark got there–it was about four in the morning then–her eyes red but tearless and a stunned look on her face. They had quite a row. But that was after the word had come out that Tom was all right. Up till then he had paced the floor breathing hard, and she had sat and stared straight into the blankness. But when the word came, she got up and went over to stand before him, and say, "You must stop him." Her voice was scarcely above a whisper.

He stood there staring heavily, uncomprehendingly into her face, then put one hand out to touch her, like a bear touching something with a clumsy exploratory paw, and said, through dry lips, "He's–he's going to be all right, Lucy. He's all right."