Sheriff Bill Catlin dumped the contents of the envelope on his battered desk and stared at the man sitting across from him, a man slightly younger than himself, who sat restlessly, listening intently. "It's hard to deal with city folks," said the sheriff. "They think we Idahoans are uncivilized. Here, this police chief named Ed Harwell, who was here three years ago, is going to I was looking for someone with memory loss. He actually wrote a two-page letter telling me how to do it and telling me what to do." Hank Lucas nodded perfunctorily as the Sheriff's piercing gaze came over his glasses.

"This fellow," went on the sheriff, "has been wounded before. He wanders around by himself, often for three months, and comes back without knowing where he's been, what he's done, what name he's living in, or where he's been. Where, stuff like that. He could leave the office at 5pm one day and go home, only to show up again 3 months later. Isn’t that remarkable?” Lucas echoed, "It's certainly worth noting." "No," the sheriff went on, "a year ago he was doing it again. Last September he disappeared, but this time he wrote a photo postcard to his wife and sent it to her in October."

"Hey, wait a minute," Hank said. "If he sent a postcard to his wife, he didn't have a total memory loss. How did he know where to send it?" The sheriff said: "I was going to get to this point, which is quite interesting. He has been married for three years, but when he wrote this postcard, he used his wife's maiden name and sent it to his wife's maiden home. He Already married to her, but still thinking of her as his lover." Hank said nothing. "As for this Ed Havel," the sheriff went on, "I think he's a great police chief back home in the East, but to put him here he's just a tourist on vacation. Three years ago When he first came to the Salmon River Tributary, he made all kinds of mistakes—even getting lost. Fortunately, he wrote to me, telling me what to do, and how to do it. At first glance Looks like I haven't done any investigative work at all. He told me the guy's name is Frank Adrian and he still uses his own name because he signed the postcards as 'Frank', And told me I might as well check the bank to see if he had an account, talk to the store owner in town, go search the outlying areas..."

"Isn't that right?" Hank interjected. The sheriff snorted disdainfully: "This is the way he told me how to find that guy! However, I don't think this is the best way." Hank asked, "Isn't it?" "Of course not," said the sheriff firmly, and then added, "A fun fact about the tourists . . . " "You said you wanted to talk to me formally, Bill." Hank interrupted him, shifting his position uneasily. "Now, don't be impatient," said the sheriff. "You look anxious, as if you hunted at a wrong time and were afraid of leaving traces."

"You should know what it's like," Hank said, "I remember before you got elected, when..." "Oh, this amnesiac," the sheriff interrupted Hank eagerly but authoritatively, "seems to be in a cabin on the Salmon River tributary. He's got a camera. , someone took a picture of him standing in front of the cabin. The picture was sent to his wife, as I said, under her girlhood name: Collis Lesson. "The postcard was sent from Twin Falls, damn it, they wasted so much time trying to get in touch with someone there in Twin Falls. Later, someone said it might be the Salmon River tributary area, and The director of the Missing Persons Department found out that Ed Havel had been here 3 years ago, so he went to Ed to find out the name of the sheriff here. Ed did not write him a letter of introduction, he took over the matter himself, Well wrote to tell me all this."

"Want to ask me something?" Hank chimed in. The sheriff pushed the photo postcard across the table: "Take a look." Hank looked at the card.The message on the back of the card read: "Collis, dear, this is where I live. It's the most desolate, remote place you can imagine. I can still feel the pain of the car accident 6 weeks ago. After effects, but climbing, venison, squatting fish, exercise and fresh air, these will make me feel better soon." The card was addressed to Miss Corliss. Hank turned the card over and looked carefully at the photo.The photo shows a small wooden house in the mountains. A man is standing in front of the house, smiling innocently at the camera. "A car accident?" Hank asked.

"According to Ed Javier, the crash happened 3 years ago. The date on the card shows that it was sent about 6 weeks after the guy went missing for the second time. Apparently his head was damaged in the crash. impact, and whenever thereafter, his memory slipped, he would return to the time of the accident, and any subsequent events would be blank." Hank is still thinking about the postcard. "What do you see?" asked the sheriff. Hank said: "It's a trapper's cabin, it's on a ridge. It was built in the fall and you can see where the trees around the cabin have been cut. Snow. This guy must be a newbie."

"Indeed," agreed the sheriff. Hank went on, "The high boots, and the tacks on them, I bet they weighed a ton. And look at the hunting knife he's hanging around his belt. Protection, if he goes hunting, jumps over a log, or crouches to start a fire, the point of the knife will go through the sheath and into his thigh, severing his main artery, and then we'll have another tourist death to deal with . . . why do you think this cabin is in the vicinity?" "Did you notice that little 'TM' mark on the corner?" Hank nodded. "That's Tom Morton's initials. He always signs the postcards he prints and puts a number on the back. I don't know what that means myself, but I see it on some photo postcards. Those numbers, those photo postcards were made by Tom, showing the fishing spots in the country and some of the sights around the town. This one was also printed by Tom, it must be true."

"Have you talked to Tom?" "Not yet, I'm waiting for you." "Wait for me? Why?" "Well," said the sheriff, "you see, here it is, Hank, I want you to help me." "Hey, wait a minute," Hank said. "Bill, from the way you talk, you've got some arrangements." "That's not surprising," said Sheriff Catlin hastily. "I've got you some customers, some tourists from the city." "Who are they?" Hank asked. "This Collis Adrian seems to be very anxious to find her husband all of a sudden. There seems to be another man by her side. Maybe she wants a divorce. In order to achieve the divorce, she will sue her husband for desertion. Husband sent him a notice. Or, in case she became a widow, she could remarry immediately. This new man has a lot of money, and he spends a lot of money. He wants to have a clue soon. The person in charge of this investigation The City Detective is a very capable fellow named James DeWitt. He's going on leave soon, so he and this Corliss Adrian will be driving up with them, and they think—"

"Absolutely not," Hank said, "I can't—" "They'll pay you the same price as a normal tourist," the sheriff concluded triumphantly. "Well..." Hank hesitated. "That's another matter. What about the other guy, the one who wants to marry her? Is he coming?" "Of course not," said the sheriff. "He's been out of sight all this time, like a young sika deer clinging to the ground, hoping no one will see him. He's a rich son of a big broker in the East. He's old Dad's name is Gridley, rich and influential in politics, a friend of Ed Havel's, which is part of the reason Ed Havel is so active. You can stand in Gridley's shoes Consider this. Suppose the police found the husband, only to find that he had lost his memory; Prosecute, or something like that. No, it's not possible, Gridley's son is perfectly safe now."

Hank said, "Well, I've got my party ready to go to a place where I can take a party into the Salmon River tributary area. Of course, I don't know who this city detective is, and— —” "Let's go and see Tom Morton," suggested the sheriff. The sheriff and Hank Lucas stepped out of the wooden county office building into the sunshine.The sprawling small town of Idaho is often an illusion for those who don't know it.There are a few frame-frame commercial buildings sparsely lining the only long street, many of which are in need of repainting.From here, nothing could be seen of the inherent prosperity of the place.Cattlemen within a radius of more than 50 miles use the town's facilities to maintain their ranches.The county is very large, but compared with some states in the east, business from all corners of the county flows into the seat of the county seat.The bank, housed in a simple one-story building, occasionally discusses financial matters, the influence of which sometimes touches a multitude of pretentious city banks. The sheriff and Hank Lucas turned into Tom Morton's doorway.The reception room was bleak and desolate, decorated with photographs of familiar faces, young men in uniform and girls graduating from high school.Surrounded by hand-coloured photographs reflecting remote mountains. The sheriff and Lucas ignored the "Ring the bell for photographers" sign and thumped along the uncarpeted corridor to the back living room and darkroom. "Hello, Tom," called the sheriff. "Hello," came the answer from behind a door marked "Dark Room." "I'm the Sheriff, what are you doing?" "Getting some film out of the developer. Wait a minute, I'll be right out." The two feel as harmonious as if they were staying at a neighbor's house, so it's very casual.They went into the living room and sat down in chairs by the pot-bellied fire.The fire gave off a pleasant warmth.They waited for Tom Morton to emerge from the darkroom. A few minutes later, the tall, thin photographer emerged, reeking of pickle-like acidic douche, and said, "What can I do for you guys?" Bill Catlin showed him the picture: "Did you make this postcard, Tom?" "Gee, I don't know." "Didn't you write those pen and ink numbers in the corner?" The photographer took the picture, turned it over, and carefully looked at the numbers in the upper right corner. "I wrote it," he said. "What's the matter?" asked the sheriff. Morton grinned: "Well, if you guys have to know something that is not relevant to you, I don't have that much time. All photographic materials have a shelf life marked by the manufacturer. During this period, the manufacturer Guaranteed their quality, but if cared for properly, these materials can last months or even years past their expiry date, and once past their expiry date, you can buy them cheaply if you know where they are sold. "Well, last year I had the opportunity to buy four batches of postcard paper that were expired. I put a number on them to indicate which batch it was, just in case I had to throw away one of them. Sometimes just before the paper starts to die, the printed The picture came out a bit blurry, but luckily I didn't have any trouble." "So you're sure it's your printed picture" "Yes, that's right." "You think about the date it was made." "My God, Bill, please spare me!" "Take a good look," the sheriff begged. Morton scrutinized the postcard while the sheriff watched him anxiously.Hank Lucas reclined in a chair, resting his boots on the arm of another chair, absorbed in an illustrated periodical. Morton checked the numbers on the postcard and said, "Oops, wait, I'm starting to remember." "Good man, go on," the sheriff encouraged. "There's something weird about it ... yeah, I remember now, the guy just wanted to print one," Morton said. "What's so strange about that?" "Oh, well, when people want to put a picture on a postcard, they usually print at least a dozen and give it to a friend. And this guy comes in and says he wants one, just one." "The film you developed? Do you remember?" "No, I didn't develop it. Here's what happened: He brought the film with him, fully developed, and then he handed me a postcard-sized negative to print on a postcard and said he wanted to give it to His girlfriend." "Remember what he looked like?" "He's the guy in the picture." "Oh, kind of interesting. Around September last year?" "I think it should be earlier, I think sometime in the summer." "It can't be in the summer, it must be in September," the sheriff said. Morton pored over the pen-and-ink numbers on the top right corner of the postcard and said, "I don't think this material was available in September. Here's a batch I got around April, and I think it's due in August." It's gone. But maybe I'm mistaken." "Oh, we know the date on the postcard and when he disappeared." "What's missing?" "There's something wrong with him, he's lost his memory, his wife is looking for him. Don't you remember anything about him? What name did he use or something?" "Yeah, can't remember. I get a lot of work from tourists in town during fishing season, but I remember their names just to send their pictures back, and forget about it afterward." "Oh Tom, take a picture of this postcard and print us 6 quick copies. Can you?" Tom looked at his watch: "When will it be?" "ASAP." "I don't know why I'm asking that question," said Morton indignantly. "You've been answering like that since you became sheriff..."