Death Claims by Joseph Hansen Page A

bookman," Ingalls said. "Norwood really only went into the business out of friendship." Faint smile. "He was selling insurance before." Thoughtful frown. "Oh, he might have managed, I suppose, but buying John out hurt his cash reserves." 
    "Do you know the figure?" 
    Footsteps thudded on the porch. There was a shrill squeak of little wheels, a jarring of the hollow steps again. Ingalls turned his head toward the sound. Squeak and jolt, squeak and jolt, the dolly with the oxygen tanks went up toward the street. It took a full minute, a long time. Then there was a clatter and bang of metal, the tinny slam of the tailgate on the red truck, its cab doors closing, the splutter and roar of its engine. Ingalls kept listening till there was nothing more to hear. Then he remembered Dave. 
    "I'm sorry. What did you say?" 
    "Do you know how much Norwood paid Oats?" 
    "I only know that the last time I was in the shop"—he squinted at the ceiling—"a month, six weeks ago, Eve Oats was, as my students would put it, chewing Norwood out about it. They were in the back room, hadn't heard me open the front door. She called Norwood a sentimental fool for giving her husband, her ex-husband, too much." 
    "It went for medical bills," Dave said. "That and a lot more." 
    "Norwood told her that. She said the county hospital was where he belonged. A charity case. Since he owned no part of the business, had no income, he qualified. Money was being wasted, thrown away." 
    "Delightful woman," Dave said. 
    "She's always been the hardheaded member of the firm. Money is what she understands. A shop like that has to be able to buy when the opportunity arises. Which can happen at any time. Oats and Norwood had a reputation. Fine books, scarce books. Ah, I don't know. . . ." Ingalls sighed, mouth a twist of regret. "Probably even with capital Norwood couldn't have kept things up. John did all the buying." 
    "What about Eve?" 
    Ingalls shook his head. "She'd know the price to pay. But not what to buy, when, where. You see, it's a talent, an instinct. Either you have it or you don't. John had it. And because neither Eve nor Norwood has, I don't think the shop can last. They used to put out exciting catalogues." 
    Squinting in the smoke from the cigarette fastened in a corner of his mouth, he shuffled printed matter, pulled out a saddlestitched white booklet and passed it to Dave. 
OATS & NORWOOD
    Ernest Haycox: West-Northwest 
    Original serial publications / first editions / autograph letters / holograph manuscripts / typescripts and galleys with author's changes 
    "That's the kind of coup John was famous for," Ingalls said. "He did it repeatedly. Not every catalogue had a collection like that. But the individual items were always first-rate. There were catalogues four times a year. Since he left"—Ingalls took the booklet Dave handed back to him and laid it down—"there hasn't been one." 
    "They're trying to get something together," Dave said. "I saw a box of file cards by the typewriter in the back room. Books stacked up with slips of paper in them on the desk. Along with bottles." 
    "It will have to be a strong list." Ingalls rubbed out his cigarette in the copper bowl. "They've lost ground. People are forgetting." 
    "Not you," Dave said. "You went there at least once since Oats left. It was January third, wasn't it? The day he telephoned you?" 
    Ingalls's bald head gave a slight turn to the side. He watched Dave narrowly a minute from the corners of his eyes. He moistened his lips. "Why—uh—" He worked at a little uneasy smile. "Yes, I suppose it was. Yes, it was." He nodded a quarter-inch. 
    "And before you went to the shop, you saw him. At April Stannard's place in Arena Blanca, right?" 
    "I didn't know whose house it was. He was alone there. Yes. At Arena Blanca. April Stannard, you say? She worked at the shop for a while. Pretty girl." 
    "She says you never came to see him and it hurt his feelings. He'd thought of you as his