in years. They all have families here. I think this is about all I can tell you.”
“Okay. Would it do any good to see your sister?”
“She'd scream for the police. Her measure of respectability now is being anti-Negro.”
“I see. One more question. When the TV people were here, interviewing and taking pictures, didn't that start a lot of talk and renewed interest in Thomas?”
“Damn right there was plenty of talk,” he said bitterly. “There still is—everybody waiting to see themselves on the screen. And they were happy to be paid for the interviews —Judas money.”
“After you got out of the army, why did you return here?”
He looked surprised. “Why not? It's my town. One of these days May will fall—she's still my sister; I want to be around to pick her up.”
I couldn't think of anything else to ask—and he hadn't added much to what I already knew. He started his truck, said, “I hope I've been of some use—for whatever you wanted, Mr. Jones. I'm past due at work.” We shook hands and he drove off. At the edge of the clump of trees, where the ground wasn't muddy, he stopped his truck and called Frances. She drove the Chevvy up, got out and they whispered for a moment, then Tim Russell drove on.
As Frances got back in the Chevvy, she said before I could ask, “He wanted to know if you were a cop. I said you weren't.”
She waited until his truck was out of sight down the road before starting the Chevvy—I knew they'd met like this before. I asked, “Has Tim got any other brothers, any other relatives in Bingston, or anyplace else?”
“No. Except for his uncle—I vaguely remember him, a stooped old man. I don't think Tim has seen him since he was a kid.”
“Can you see Tim again, find out if he knows where the uncle is now, his name?”
“I'll ask him. Do you think the uncle might have done it?”
“Honey, I don't think anything. I'm like the bear—nowhere. Tell me, do you see Tim around, I mean every day?”
“Yes. I told you, he owns a small garage.”
“Are you sure he was in Bingston three days ago?”
She looked away from the road to stare at me with solemn eyes for a second. “He's not the killer, Touie. And I know he was here. He comes into the bakeshop every afternoon on his way home to buy bread and cake, so— I'm due at the shop right this minute. What are you going to do now?”
“I don't know.” I didn't have idea one about where to turn. I was standing still while time was rushing by me, running out.
“If you want, I can call in sick, help you.”
“Thanks, but I'd better drop you off, then I'll go back to the house, try to think. Does Tim see May now?”
“Very rarely. When he came out of the army he wanted her to give up her—business, move away and start life over again with him. He'd saved up a thousand dollars and he figured he could buy a little garage anyplace. May laughed at him. She offered to set him up in a gas station that cost ten thousand. That was the lick with them.”
She stopped in front of a small frame building with an apartment over a bakeshop with a large window, everything painted white, looking very clean. When Frances got out, I shoved over behind the wheel, feeling her warmth still on the seat. She asked, “Will I see you at supper?”
“Yeah. Look, when you speak to Tim, also ask about Thomas' father. I gather he was a no-good, but find out if Tim has any idea who the father was, where he lived, and if he thinks Thomas ever knew him.”
“I'll ask, but I'm sure Porky never knew his father. Anything else?”
“Yes—thanks for giving me your lunch hour.”
She smiled as she waved, and I watched her walk into the store. I drove to the Davis home, turned into the driveway and parked. The old lady came to the window, pulled back the lace curtains and nodded at me. I tipped my hat at her, then took out the TV data on Thomas, went over it again. Bingston was adding up to a large zero. As a real detective I was another bust. I kept staring at the papers the way I'd seen detectives do in the movies. I didn't have a smell of a hint, much less a clue. God, how I wished this were all a movie!
Still, unless it was one of these sudden dumb killings, there's always a hell of a good reason for murder, and that reason had to be someplace on this list. Thomas was on the loose for half a dozen years but was killed when the TV people got interested in his case, so... So what? For all I knew Thomas could have had something going for him in New York. Could have had a fight with his girl friend and she conked him? Only how could she have known about Kay, about me? But Ollie said a girl had phoned—could it have been her? Only she didn't look like a killer—as if I knew what a murderer looked like, as if anybody does. Suppose Thomas took her up to his room, made a pass, and she grabbed the pliers? But that didn't explain how she could know about me and Kay. I kept coming back to Kay. For all I knew the whole TV thing could be a lie... she'd paid me in cash, I didn't even know for sure that she actually worked for Central, or any TV studio. No, no, there was a TV program, they'd interviewed people here.
I kept trying to think things out and only came up with a headache and one sad fact that was for true—as a detective I was a pitiful amateur. And as the old saying goes, I sure had a damn fool for a client. I'd been crazy to think I ...
Mrs. Davis opened the front door. “Want your lunch, Mr. Jones?”
I nodded and climbed out of the car, brushed my coat with my hands. The old lady said, “I suppose Frances took you to a garage to see about fixing your car?”
“Yeah. They're sending to Cincinnati for parts,” I said, following old nosey to the kitchen.
“I have some nice hash I've just made, or you can have a slice of ham, fresh rice pudding, coffee or tea. Do you want a towel? You can wash up at the kitchen sink.”
The old lady spooked me; all this small talk about lunch as if this was just another afternoon, as if I wasn't wanted for murder. I had nothing on my mind but to decide between hash and ham! But what could I do, where else could I look? Somehow I had expected this Tim would give me a lead. I always read that when a cop was stuck he started digging into the case again. But everything was so open in this, where could I dig? Where...?
“If you like, you can have a hash and some ham, Mr. Jones.”
“I'll... eh... just a glass of milk, Mrs. Davis.
“Oh come on, a man as big as you needs more than milk to carry him. Still two dollars a day for meals, so you might as—”
“I'm full of breakfast. A glass of milk, if you have it.”
“As you wish.”
The only thing left was to see some of the people who had been interviewed. Start with people who knew Thomas as a child. What was the name of the old gal Tim said still lived on the garbage dump? I reached for the data sheets in my pocket, remembered Mrs. Davis was around. Sipping the cool milk I said, “Noticed an old shack out by the garbage dump. Anybody living there?”
“Crazy Ma Simpson. Only thing that will ever force her to move from that filth will be death.”
“White woman?”
“I'm ashamed to say she's one of our people. I declare, she could have easily moved long ago, they even found another place for her, but like I said, she's so old, she isn't all there.”
I put the empty glass on the table. “Think I'll take a drive.”
Mrs. Davis rubbed her hands together, as if she'd heard good news, gave me a knowing smile. “I once saw a show on the television about you musicians, but I never really believed you were all so restless. The music beat must get into your blood, I suppose, like an electric current.”
I started for the door. “Guess you're right,” I said, wishing she'd stop talking about electricity in my blood—it could so easily come too true.
I drove toward the main street, then turned right, toward the side of town I hadn't seen yet. There were a few cars on the road and as I reached the end of town I could see the “Hills” of garbage ahead of me. A truck passed me, cut in sharply and came to an abrupt halt. I almost put the brake pedal through the floor as the Chevvy swung around, headed for the road shoulder. I wrestled with the wheel, praying the car didn't turn over, and it was a happy prayer. For I knew it all had been deliberate, and if I couldn't find the killer... at least he was finding me.
7
AS THE Chevvy hit the soft shoulder, tires and brakes screaming, I got the wheel under control, swung sharply toward the road. The old car seemed to shiver and dip, then skidded another few feet to a stop. The truck driver was a bold cat. He'd stopped a few feet down the road and was watching me in his fender mirror. I jumped out of the car and ran toward the truck—and slowed to a walk. Lover boy Willie jumped down from the truck, hitched up his pants, and came toward me, the high shine on his boots sparkling in the sun.
I cursed him for being the village idiot under my breath, knew before he opened his silly mouth all this had nothing to do with Thomas—he was jealous of my being with Frances. I asked, “What do you think you're trying to do, junior?”
His tan face flushed at the “junior,” but his eyes had the sullen cast of a pug. Not that I was worried. In a ring maybe Willie might take me but in a free-for-all I was too much for him. He said, “Watch your fat tongue, heavy. You ought to know how to drive. I hear you're a hot rod with a foreign racing heap.”
“One of us doesn't know how to drive. If this is meant to be a big joke, I'm not for laughs.”
His smile showed even, very white teeth. He was a joker who gave the mirror a lot of time. “Maybe I was trying to see if you can take it. I don't go for no cat moving in on my time. Especially a stooge in fancy clothes. Frances may—”
The word stooge hit me where I lived. I was a prize dummy—there was somebody else in on the Thomas publicity deal I hadn't even thought of! Kay had said something about having a “stooge planted” to blow the whistle on Thomas after his case appeared on TV. That meant the stooge had to be in on things, that he—or she—either
