Longarm 243: Longarm and the Debt of Honor by Tabor Evans

toward the back of the house. “You needn’t see me out,” she said over her shoulder. “I know the way.”
    Yes, he expected that she did at that.
    That was confirmed later, after he’d naturally gone to see her out, when he went into Norm’s bedroom to turn in for the night. The bed there was turned down. On both sides.
    Longarm considered it something of a pity that the preparation wasn’t being put to use.
    But Eleanor—Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he told himself somewhat sternly—was Norm’s woman. She might be a large and lusty chunk of female, but she was Norm’s, and that meant she was not up for grabs.
    After all, dammit, a man had to draw the line somewhere.
    Didn’t he?

Chapter 12
    Longarm yawned. He wasn’t tired. Hell, he was bored half into a stupor. He dragged the Ingersoll out of his vest pocket. It was 4:48 in the afternoon. Close enough to quitting time for his purposes, thank you. He bit back another attempted yawn, his teeth chattering lightly as he did so, and laid a sheet of paper into the pages of the musty, soot-stained ledger he’d been prowling through. That would mark his place for tomorrow’s labors.
    Not that he expected to learn anything really. He certainly hadn’t found anything of interest to this point. Nothing that would tell him why anyone, Norm Wold or any other human soul, should take any interest whatsoever in the continued existence of the records of Hirt County, Kansas.
    It probably would have helped a great deal, Longarm conceded, if he’d had any tiny notion of what it was he hoped to find.
    Unfortunately, he did not. Not the least lick of an idea existed at this point.
    But surely there had to be some reason why a party or parties unknown tried to do away with the damn records.
    Longarm could buy Norm’s theory that there was no deliberate attempt to frame the town marshal for the crime, that indeed it was only very bad luck that led the arsonist to hide the evidence of his crime in Norm’s unused carriage shed. Longarm could accept that. But that did not negate the fact that to prove Norm innocent would likely require proof that someone else was guilty. And the undisputed best way to get that, considering that all the evidence was aimed at Norm Wold, would be for Longarm to collar the genuine miscreant and toss the son of a bitch to the wolves of the court.
    And the only problem with that was that now Longarm was obligated to find answers for all the usual questions. Like who, what, why, where, and when.
    What, where, and when were no problem. But who remained a mystery. And with nothing else to go on, Longarm figured his best chance right now was to concentrate on why. Hence this mind-numbing stint in the county offices—to say nothing about the butt-numbing abilities of the desk chair Schooner had so generously loaned him.
    Longarm yawned again, didn’t bother trying to stop it this time, and shoved back away from the desk. “Mind if I leave the book here overnight?” he asked.
    â€œIt won’t bother me any.”
    â€œThanks. Schooner?”
    â€œMmm?”
    â€œThat invitation to join me for a drink or whatever is still open.”
    â€œThank you, Longarm, but I still better say no.” The fat man grinned. “My wife promised pot roast and new potatoes for supper, and she makes the best.” He patted his own more than ample belly as evidence of his mate’s excellence in the kitchen.
    â€œI expect I’ll be playing cards tonight at the place,” Longarm said. “I don’t know the name of it, but there’s a piano player who knows what he’s doing and the bar-tender’s name is Jake.”
    Schooner nodded. “I know where you mean.”
    â€œJoin me there for a beer if you’re of a mind to.”
    â€œI just may do that later.”
    Longarm retrieved his hat, waved good-bye to Schooner, who was busy tidying up and locking things