CHAPTER 35IT WAS AFTER five o’clock the next afternoon when John Kleban left the hotel. Crossing the railroad tracks, he came into Frenchy Armaud’s place and found the saloon’s proprietor against his own bar.
Armaud snowed his surprise at the unexpected visitor by arching his eyebrows slightly, and indicated his office door with a little motion of his head. Once inside, Kleban came to the point at once.
“Have you heard anything from Bruce Powell?”
Armaud drew a long, crooked cheroot from the pocket of his ornate vest and lit it carefully before he answered. “And what makes you believe that I would have heard from Powell?”
Kleban was strangely embarrassed. “You have been friendly with the Powells,” he said slowly. “I have an idea that he would trust you sooner than he would trust anyone
