Monday, June seventh’s opening g*n was a call from Jake which came through shortly after lunch.
“I’ve heard from Los Angeles,” Jake said, “and it’s just possible that Jaffries may have run onto a lead.”
They could forget the crank and threatening-letter stuff, or at any rate it could be put on ice. Jaffries was satisfied there was nothing more to it than the district attorney or the postal people had thought.
The former Tyler home and its neighbors also seemed to have offered nothing which could be considered helpful. They remembered the Tylers quite vividly, but only from the sudden-inheritance angle, the pot-of-gold stuff at the rainbow’s end. Henry’s knife hurling, at which he kept, in practice in the back yard, was ignored with Hollywoodian indifference, and his tattooing left them
