With this promise Mrs. Harper had to be content. Her fears allayed, Kenneth kissed her and helped her up the stairs to her room. Going back to his office, he put the things in his bag he would be likely to need, went out to the garage in the rear, cranked up the Ford, and drove over to Georgia Avenue to treat a white patient less than seventy-two hours after the double catastrophe which had descended upon him and his family at the hands of those same white people.
As he drove out of the yard, he heard his mother call from her window: “Hurry back, sonny.” It had been more than fifteen years since she had last called him that. … He drove through the darkened streets of Central City-down Lee Street past the deserted business houses, past the Confederate Monument, and on across that intangible, yet vivid line that separated the élite of the whites of Central City from the less favoured. …
His mind intent on his own tragedy, Kenneth drove on, guiding his car without conscious volition, mechanically. His conscious mind was too busy revolving the string of events and trying to find some solid spot, it mattered not how small, on which he could set mental foot. …
XXII
Fifteen men sat around a table in an office on Lee Street. There was above them a single electric-light bulb, fly-specked, without a shade over it. At eleven o’clock they had silently crept up the stairs after looking cautiously up and down the deserted expanse of Lee Street to see if they were observed. Like some silent, creeping, wolf-like denizen of the forest, each had stolen as noiselessly as possible up the stairs. The window carefully covered, no ray of light could be seen from the outside. Though unsigned, the mysterious note each of the fifteen had received that morning had brought them all together promptly.
A fat man, with tiny eyes set close together, looking from amazing convolutions of flesh which gave him the appearance of a Poland-China hog just before slaughtering-time, was giving instructions to the men as they eagerly and closely followed his words. He occasionally emphasized his points by pounding softly on the pine table before him with large, oversized fists covered profusely with red hair. He was clad in a nondescript pair of trousers, a reddish faded colour from much wear and the red dust of his native hills, a shirt open at the neck and of the same colour as the trousers, the speaker’s neck innocent of collar and tie. He was ending his instructions:
“… Now you-all mus’ r’member all I said. You mus’n’ fail! When the accident happens”—here he laughed softly as he emphasized the word “accident,” and was rewarded by an appreciative titter from his audience “when the accident happens, you ain’t t’breathe a word to anybody ’bout it! Even th’ others here tonight!”
He paused impressively and allowed his eyes slowly to traverse the group, resting upon each man in turn a penetrating, malevolent stare. Measuring his words carefully, he spat them out like bullets from a Browning gun.
“Th’ mos’—important—thing—you got to r’member is this! You’re not—to repo’t—back to me or any off’cer—of the Invis’ble Empire!” He paused again. “After—the ‘accident’—happens!” he added.
“I reck’n that’s all you need to know,” he said in dismissal. “He came back t’night from Atlanty! We’ve got the newspaper fixed! Ef any of you is arrested, I don’t reck’n She’ff Parker’ll hol’ you long!” he concluded with a confident laugh in which his companion joined. …
Though there was none to hear or see, they dispersed with silent and cautious movements and voices. They crept down the unlighted stairs, hands extended, fingers touching the walls on either side to aid them in making as little noise as possible. As the foremost reached the landing at the botton, he drew back sharply as he was about to step into the street.
“Sh-h-h-h!” he cautioned the others behind him. “Somebody’s comin’ lickety-split down the road in a Ford!”
They all waited with bated breath. The leader peered forth cautiously to see who it was stirring about at that time of night. The others waited, poised on the stairs above him.
Lee Street was bathed alternately in moonlight and shadow as a vagrant moon wove its way in front of and behind small patches of clouds. The clattering car approached—came abreast the doorway—and passed rapidly by.
“It’s that damn nigger himself!” he exclaimed to the men behind him. “What’n th’hell’s he doin’ out this time of night ’round here? An’ headed towards Georgy Avenue, too! It’s damn funny!”
There was an outburst of excited whispering. Various speculative surmises were offered. None was able to offer a sensible reason for Kenneth’s nocturnal pilgrimage. One proposed that Kenneth be followed to see where he went and why he went there. Afar off could be heard the puttering of the engine. And then it stopped.
“Ain’t gone far,” one of them declared. They set out to trail the automobile. Before they had gone two blocks, they saw Kenneth down the street as he tinkered with the engine of the car, the hood raised. One of the wires connecting with a sparkplug had become loosened. He quickly screwed it tight again, started the engine, and drove off, as he was closely watched from the shadows of trees and fences by his trailers. They pushed forward to keep as close as they could, hoping to be guided by the sound of the engine.
He drove but a few yards more and then drew up and stopped in front of Roy Ewing’s house. Getting out, he took his bag from the floor of the car and entered the house quickly as the door opened to admit him.
There was another short session of excited whispering among the watchers.
“What’n the hell’s he goin’ to Roy Ewing’s house for?” one of
