Room To Swing Page 13

  “No. Does Mrs. Mamie Guy live on this road?”

  “You bet. Keep going and you'll see a house on the other side of the road. Be lot of clothes hanging on the lines.” He lowered his voice. “You know my folks?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you should meet them, don't say anything about this rocket. I worked extra hard and saved to buy it, but my Pop would whale me if he knew. Someday I'm going to build a big one, take me to the moon.”

  “What's so special on the moon?”

  He looked at me with disgust, then sat down with his back to me, said, “Blast off, Mister.”

  I headed toward the car. In a minute there was the slight cough again and the rocket shot high into the air, flying in an arc. It came down several hundred feet away in the leaves of a tall young tree. The kid ran over and started throwing stones at it.

  “Why don't you climb up after it?” I called out.

  “It's Pop's new pear tree. May break and then I'd really get it. Mama's due home in half hour. I got to work fast.”

  I walked over to him. The tree was about a dozen feet high, the trunk a few inches thick. I grabbed the trunk and shook it. The rocket fell to a lower branch. I shook it again but it didn't budge. “How much do you weigh?”

  “Sixty-three pounds.”

  “Think you can hold yourself straight if I lift you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Now hold yourself rigid, or you'll fall and break both our necks.” I squatted, grabbed him around the waist and took a deep breath—as if getting ready to jerk and press a bar-bell. I got the kid up to my chest, then held him up at arm's length. He reached up and pushed the rocket out of the branches. I dropped him to my chest, then to the ground.

  “Gee, you're strong, Mister.”

  “Launch that in a field the next time,” I said, brushing my coat, wiping the sweat from my face.

  He followed me back to the car and as I drove off he asked, “What's your name?”

  “Captain Video,” I called back and had to grin. Big deal: the murderer was captured knocking a rocket ship out of a pear tree.

  The Guy house wasn't far down the road, and a copy of the other shack except it was bigger and in better condition. Clotheslines zigzagged all over the yard, with a few sheets swaying in the wind like sails.

  A thin dark woman came to the door. Her hair was uncombed and her face sweaty. She could have been thirty, or forty-five, the work-worn look all over her. “My name is Jones. Mrs. Simpson told me you knew Porky Thomas,” I said, going into my pitch about being a true-crime writer.

  “I have nothing to say. I told them television people once, I ain't got time to made mud fly. I don't believe in snooping into other people's lives.” She shut the door.

  At least she didn't know I was staying at the Davises' or that I had a Jaguar. “Mrs. Guy, I'm not with any TV studio. I only want to ask a few questions.”

  “Ask somebody who has time for loafing. I have work to do.”

  “Can I talk to your husband?”

  “That's up to him. He ain't home now.”

  I stood there for a moment, lit my pipe. Walking back to the car I saw the rocket kid watching me. He said, “Aunt Mamie is cross on the days when she does her heavy washing. You want to talk to her real bad, Mister?”

  “Yeah.”

  He called out, “Aunt Mamie.” She came to the door a moment later. “What you want, Kenneth? You know I'm rushed today.”

  “This is a nice man, Aunt Mamie. I was stuck up in a tree and he stopped his car to help me. Yes he did.”

  She wiped her wet hands on her gray dress. “I'm wasting more time not talking to you. All right, come in, if you want.”

  The kid winked at me. “Guess I'd best go home and hide my rocket good. So long, Mr. Video.”

  The kitchen of the shack had several irons heating on the big coal stove, and smelled of damp starch. She pointed to a chair between two wicker baskets of clothes, said, “You can sit there. Only reason I'm talking to you is because you're coloured. That's the truth. I didn't even open the door to those TV people. Ought to mind their business, that's what. I hear Porky was killed.” Her voice was as thin as her body.

  “That's what I want to ask about, Mrs. Guy.”

  “You wasting my time. He used to deliver laundry for me, but that was a long time ago, when my Edward was born, and he's going on ten now. I ain't seen hide nor hair of Porky since then, and just as well.”

  “Mrs. Simpson told me he stole some shirts from you, slapped your face.”

  “That old talking machine. Yes, he did take two silk shirts from a bundle he was delivering. And he did slap me when I accused him of it. But my husband took him down a peg, and that was all. Porky even continued working for me for a time, then he quit me.”

  “Did he have any enemies in Bingston—before the business with May Russell?”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. “None special. What you driving at, Mr. Jones?”

  “I thought someone from around here might have gone to New York and killed him.”

  “Folks here got more to do with their time than that. Lot of people didn't like him. I never trusted him, myself. But nobody would kill him. That's all I know. I got ironing to do. All these damn sheets got to be ironed so my husband can take them over to Kentucky after supper.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for your time. People come all the way from Kentucky to give you laundry?”

  “Shucks, all the way is less than twelve miles. I got all the work I can handle. Nobody does clothes like Mamie Guy. Especially delicate things. I never tore anything in my life. Them silk shirts Porky took a liking to, they was from a Kentucky family. Tell you the truth, the shirts was too small for him. He took 'em out of spite and meanness, get even with his cousins. It was McDonald shirts.”

  “I didn't know he had any relatives,” I mumbled, the name McDonald hitting me like a Joe Louis left.

  Not many people know the McDonalds is sort of distant cousins to Porky, on his mother's side, of course. I never heard about it myself, till he took them shirts. They never had no use for either him or his mama, never would even recognize 'em. Shame too, because they always been well off, might have helped the boy when he was running around hungry and raggedy. McDonalds been having a big store over in Scotville far back as I can recall.”

  “Is one of the McDonalds named Steve?”

  “There's Stephen and Ralph, and the girl, Betty. They all left except Ralph. He took over the store when his daddy had a stroke.”

  “What's Stephen doing?”

  “Now, mister, how would I know? I only do their washing, don't have tea with 'em. They all went off to college. Betty is married and living someplace out West. Like I said, Ralph, he's married and running the store. Stephen, he ain't been around since after the war. Look, I got to catch up on my work. I got supper to make, too.”

  “I won't keep you, Mrs. Guy. Is there a phone around anyplace I can use?”

  “Take a right at the next fork. Come to Mr. Jake's gas station. He lets coloured use his phone.”

  I thanked her again, sincerely thanked her, then sped toward the gas station like that well-known bat. As Ollie would say when a horse came in for him, I was getting “well.”

  “Mr. Jake” turned out to be an old white man with liver spots on his face, and a game leg. When I asked if I could use his phone, he nodded toward a wall phone inside his office, said, “That's what it's there for, if you got a dime.” I told him to fill the tank, see if I needed any oil—to keep him busy. Scotville was only a fifteen-cent call, and when I got the McDonald store I asked for Stephen and a man said, “I'm Ralph McDonald, his brother. Who is this?”

  “I was with Steve in the army—during basic training. I happened to be driving through and wanted to say hello to him.”

  “Steve hasn't been home in several years. He's a writer in New York city, doing very well.”

  “Come to think of it, he always talked about wanting to write. Ha
ppens I'm on my way to New York—how can I get in touch with Steve there?”

  He told me to call him care of Central TV and wouldn't I like to drop over to his house now for a drink and supper? I said I'd take a rain check but was in a big rush at the moment, and nearly laughed out loud thinking what would happen if I should stick my dark face in the McDonald doorway!

  I said good-by and hung up. He hadn't even asked my name. I was singing as I raced back to the Davis house. If I left at once, I could be in New York by tomorrow afternoon, but in the Jag I'd be as conspicuous as if I were wearing a red suit. A train would be faster and safer. When I solved things I could come back for the car, and if I didn't, I sure couldn't take the Jag with me.

  Mr. Davis was sitting in the living room, feet in slippers, smoking a cigar and reading a magazine. I told him, “I've phoned Chicago and they have to send to England for the pan to my car. So I'm leaving now. I have a supper-club job set for Chicago, and I'll return in a few weeks for the car, when I get the parts. What do I owe you?”

  “I'll have to ask Mama. Maybe we owe you; she tells me you've hardly eaten here. All rested up now, Mr. Jones?”

  “Rested? Sure, sure. Is there a bus leaving here soon?”

  “The Cincinnati bus leaves downtown at six fifteen. Should be plenty of trains from there to Chicago.”

  I went upstairs and took a shower. Then I straightened up with the old lady, who insisted I have a fast supper. I bulled with Mr. Davis about working as a mailman—he seemed to think it was the most useful job ever made. Around five thirty I was getting jumpy and then Frances came home and said she'd drive me to the bus station. One of these mild and pointless family arguments started, the old lady saying Frances should eat supper first and Frances saying she wasn't hungry and Mrs. Davis asking if she was sick. Finally the mailman said to let Frances go but to stop driving around in that rattletrap that belonged on the farm, to take their car, which turned out to be a '52 Dodge with only eleven thousand miles on it. I said good-by and Mrs. Davis suddenly asked where my bags were and I said I'd sent them ahead.

  Frances seemed to be in a bad mood. She told me Tim had no idea who Thomas' father was, nor where his own uncle was. We parked across the street from the drugstore, which was also the “bus station,” and had twenty minutes to kill. For a while we didn't talk but I was bubbling over with the McDonald thing and told her about it.

  She said, “Suppose I drive you to Cincinnati, Touie?”

  “How far is it?”

  “Seventy-four miles.”

  “Means you'll have to drive 150 miles.”

  “I don't mind.”

  “No, honey, it's too much.” She was staring straight ahead and I stared at the dark profile of her face, which seemed strong and pretty—and angry. “Look, I want you to know, no matter what happens, I won't forget what you did. You're a wonderful girl.”

  “Thanks.” Her mouth was a pretty, thick red line, and the dashboard light did things to the high cheekbones, lighting the skin to a delicious brown. “Don't worry about your car, it will be safe. When do you think you'll come back for it?”

  “Soon as I can.” When I came back I'd bring her a pair of big silver loop earrings. She had the face to carry them.

  “Are you sure this McDonald did it?”

  “I'm not sure of anything. There's also another angle I have to look into, but this is a hell of a lead, the best offer I've had. It's too much of a coincidence not to mean something.”

  “But why should he kill his own cousin?”

  “I don't know the motive, but I'll soon find out.”

  “How?”

  “Don't know that either.”

  “You might be walking into the arms of the police.”

  “If I do; you have yourself a Jaguar.”

  “I don't see the joke, Touie,” she said sharply.

  “Fran, I'm a long way from home yet on this. It can still add up to nothing, but it's all I have to work on. And if I'm joking—as the saying goes, I'm only laughing to keep from crying. I'll be careful....” A bus was coming down the street. “This mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have to sit in the back?”

  “No.”

  We walked over to the bus and I squeezed her hand and thanked her again, then I got on, bought a ticket, sat down toward the rear. I waved to Frances, blew her a corny kiss. She seemed about to say something, then she turned away and stared at the drugstore window.

  As the bus started I looked back and she was waving. In the split-second last look I had, I thought she was crying.

  8

  I REACHED New York early in the morning feeling good. I'd slept most of the way, sometimes dreaming of Mrs. James and Sybil and Frances. I also had a plan of operation.

  I breakfasted at a luncheonette in the station, bought up all the morning papers, retired to a pay booth in the men's room to read them. There wasn't a thing about the killing. A guy has to be rich, or a big shot, to last more than a brace of days in the headlines. Or a woman—for some reason people are interested in reading about dead women.

  Of course that didn't mean the cops weren't working like beavers looking for me. At nine I left my tile office, played with the idea of phoning Sybil, but didn't want to hear her wailing about money again. I had a lot of hours to kill and being out on the street made me uneasy. I took a subway up to the Paramount and got in for the early-show price. They lost money on me; I was still there at four in the afternoon. I knew the lines in the movie better than the actors, and was stuffed with popcorn and soda. At four I took a cab to Ted Bailey's office, planted myself across the street. Fortunately Ted came out alone, on his way home. I hailed another cab and picked him up before he reached the subway. Ted was dressed in his usual drab style: a gray suit that didn't fit him, an old overcoat, and a new striped tie he wore like a medal. I told the cabbie to keep driving around the block.

  Ted said, “What's wrong with that jazzy car you had, Toussaint? You crashed it?”

  “Having it checked. What's new?”

  “Same old stuff. Mrs. James came through with the money. You must be doing well, cruising around in a cab.”

  “It isn't the salary but the tips that keep me going,” I said, a kind of inside joke Ted didn't get. “I'm on a big divorce case with an expense account a yard wide.”

  “Money involved, huh?” Ted grunted. He was acting very natural, but I couldn't risk it being an act. I looked upon Ted as a friend, but when it comes to murder how friendly can you get?

  “Enough money. Anybody in your office.”

  “No. Why?”

  “I need your help. Maybe I'll hire you.”

  “Can your client afford me? I charge too much to be padded into an expense account.”

  “That's what I want to talk over.” I stopped the cabbie, paid him off. We walked down the block toward Ted's office. We passed a squad car stuck in the traffic. Ted didn't do anything. I had to test him but it was rough on my nerves. Main thing, he didn't know I was wanted.

  Once in his office I said, “It's like this, Ted, I want to rent one of your bugs, get checked out on it. Kind I can carry around on me. I'll need a record of a conversation with a guy tonight.”

  Ted belched and rubbed his pot belly. “I don't know; if you lose the bug or bust it, runs into folding money.

  Besides, that isn't worth a bad dime as evidence, only your word against his. Better tell me what you got in mind, Toussaint.”

  “Will you rent the stuff to me or not?”

  “Now don't get huffy. I been learning about this tape stuff, and I'm trying to help you. If you really want to nail down evidence, it's best to have two men listening in. What you got in mind?”

  I suddenly changed my plans, took a deep breath and plunged in—trusting a white man with my life. “I'll level with you, Ted, I'm jammed up. I want you to do me two favors. I'm going to tell you something. If you don't like the way it sounds, forget I told you a word. If, after you hear me out, well, i
f you want to help me—that's the second favor.” If Ted backed out it wouldn't be much of a fight tying him up for the night, then doing the obvious— beating the truth out of Steve.

  “You mean I'll be a little accessory to something?” he said, smiling wisely.

  “The something happens to be murder.” The smile turned false and sickly, his whole face went gray. But since I had my feet wet I had to go in all the way. Ted listened as I told him everything that had happened from the second Kay walked into my office. I talked for a long time and when I was finished Ted took a cigar from a desk box, broke off a hunk and started chewing on it, thinking. I sat on the edge of his desk, right on top of him, watching and ready for any move he might make.