Dean returned home dreading what new tales of woe Fred O'Connor might have discovered in his absence. He plunked him­self down in the living room with a hit-me-with-your-best-shot look and lifted Mrs. Lincoln to his lap for moral support.

Fred took little time with his preamble before pushing for­ward. "I found the campground in Virginia where he stayed. It only took me six tries. Not many places are open weekdays that early in the season. Our boy was 'James Rogers from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.' He and his wife stayed one night, the third of May. But the wife didn't come to the office so he was probably faking it."

"What on earth made you think that camper was the one you were looking for?"

"Paper license tag-from Pennsylvania," Fred said smugly.

Dean sighed. "How did they happen to remember one camper nearly three weeks ago?"

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"Whoa! Give me a break! She remembered 'cause she hasn't had a dozen customers since. She didn't write down the license info-she skips that stuff unless the place is crowded. The rig was a Pace Arrow. It's a full-size motor home-around 32 feet, she guessed."

"Was he towing a car?" Dean asked.

"No. But he could have already parked it somewhere else, and then gone on to the camp ground." Fred sounded disappointed.

"Did you get her to send a copy of the registration card so we could check the signature?"

Fred shook his head. "This guy is cute. He had this rag wrapped around his right hand. Said he'd cut it on his tow bar. She wrote his name for him so there ain't no signature."

"Could she at least ID him if she saw a picture?" Fred fidget­ed. "What's a matter?"

"I don't think so. The guy had black hair and a mustache."

"Hell, Fred! It's just some guy and his wife on vacation. We don't have any more idea it's Cleary than Napoleon!" Dean strode to the refrigerator and opened a beer.

"It's a disguise! Plain as the nose on your face! It fits, don't it?"

"Might fit. That's all we keep finding. Every time something starts to make sense, up pops ten other perfectly logical answers that make a lot more sense."

"I found where he stayed in Kansas too," Fred said, but with a tad less enthusiasm than before.

"And?"

"He was Harold Syms there. He stayed one night, about three miles from Rollins, Kansas. It's the only campground near the town. Again, no signature. He came in after the office was closed, put his money in an envelope and was gone in the morning."

"Was his wife with him?" Dean's voice had a cut of sarcasm in it.




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