“Max and Myrtle slid apart a little while after that. No row or anything⁠—they just slid apart. I don’t think she ever felt easy around him again, though so far as I know he never suspected her of knowing anything. She’s sick now, as I told you, and hasn’t got long to live. I think she’d not so much mind telling the truth if she were asked. MacSwain’s still hanging around town. He’d talk if there was something in it for him. Those two have got the stuff on Max⁠—and wouldn’t Noonan eat it up! Is that good enough to give your stirring-up a start?”

“Couldn’t it have been suicide?” I asked. “With Tim Noonan getting a last-minute bright idea to stick it on Max?”

“That four-flusher shoot himself? Not a chance.”

“Could Myrtle have shot him?”

“Noonan didn’t overlook that one. But she couldn’t have been a third of the distance down the slope when the shot was fired. Tim had powdermarks on his head, and hadn’t been shot and rolled down the slope. Myrtle’s out.”