“There's a joint two blocks from the Post Office. But I don't get...”
“You arrange to meet Harry there. You have a few beers with him, string him along. Give him a line about what's in it for you if you stool on the other and...”
“If you think I'll stool on...”
“Shut up and listen. You don't mention any names, merely hint you have something to sell, ask Harry what it's worth. See, you want to make a deal. Give him some stuff that you want a statement from him clearing you of any subversive leanings... and a grand in cash. He'll counter with a lower offer. Whatever deal he offers, you tell him you have to think it over, will call him later in the day. The important thing is that when Harry comes in you either introduce him to the bartender as your friend, or talk loud... anything so the bartender notices you. Then...”
“This is all over my head. Why should I...?”
“For Christsakes, listen. As soon as Harry leaves, you have a beer with the barkeep, make some crack about Harry being a fag. That's for protection, in case things go wrong. You call...”
“I'm not interested in this,” Joe said.
“Some of the dough Mady gave you today is mine, so get interested. You call Harry later, agree to meet him in the evening, about seven, in some lonely spot in the park. Since we can't get anybody else in on the deal, I'll be there—hiding with a camera, infra-red film and a flash. Means I can take pictures without being noticed. When Harry comes, you have to get him on your lap for a second.”
“What? What the hell you saying?”
“Either you sit down before he does and pull him down on your lap, or if you can't work that, pick him up—he's small—place him on your lap. I'll get the picture. Then you push him off, slug him, make a hell of a scene about he was trying to kiss you. Harry may be armed, but I doubt it. If anything like that happens, I'll step in and help you. Now if a cop should come along, you insist Harry tried to kiss you—but don't press charges. What will probably happen is, Harry will realize he's been framed and run like a rabbit.”
Joe shivered. “No. I want no part of that—it's dirty.”
“It sure is. But once we send, Harry a print of the picture, he'll never bother you again. No, you'll take the print to him, tell him that's the deal—he lays off you and you forget the pix. That's better.”
“I couldn't do anything like that. I'd feel... like... like a queer myself.”
“You want to keep paying off the bastard?”
“No, but...”
“Harry's playing the rat—we're fighting fire with fire.”
“Suppose something goes wrong? What if he arrests me? It'd make me look like a nance.”
“That's a chance we take but it's almost a sure thing he...”
“We take? I take!”
“We. It's a thousand to one he won't go to the cops. I know, Harry framed a joker like that once. Look, if worst comes to worst I'll testify in court he is a pansy. And I can get other proof. Hell, what if you are taking a chance? I'm only doing this to get you straight, so Mady and I can have a little peace. Okay?”
He didn't answer and finally I said, “He's killing your wife with his crummy blackmail and you...”
“All right, all right!” he blurted out. “I'll do it. And God forgive me.”
“You call me at the house tomorrow, about three. I'll have the camera, and we'll go to whatever park you pick to meet him.” I went over things again, to be sure he didn't screw up—Harry was too sharp to make even a small mistake. Joe didn't like it—neither did I—but I knew he'd go through with it.
When I came back into the house, Mady was ironing in the kitchen. For some silly reason it made me feel good to see her ironing my shirts. She asked, “Finish your business? Was she pretty?”
“Sure. She was a corn blonde. Want to take a walk? I'm tired but I could use fresh air.”
She turned the iron off. “I'd love to walk. Next week it will be your turn to iron and wash.”
“It'll be what?”
“You heard me. No reason a man shouldn't do his part of the housework. Wait till I get a sweater.”
I could picture myself behind an iron or washboard.
We walked along the beach, holding hands like school kids, and I really felt tired. She knew all about shells and seaweed, pointed out the spot where we'd go surf-fishing in the morning. I said, “Best I go home and pound my ear. I've had a big day—for me—and it won't be easy to get up early.”
In the house she returned to her ironing and I took my pill, got into my pajamas, asked, “I have a problem —where do we sleep, in my bed or yours?”
“Mine, of course. The landlady always has the softest bed in the house.”
I kissed her good-night and dropped off to sleep as soon as I hit the sheets. The next thing I knew she was shaking me. I awoke with a start and she was sitting up in the dark stillness beside me. The room was full of early morning cold and I yawned, asked, “Time to go fishing?”
“No,” she said. “Hell with that. It's time for something else,” and pulled my head down into the wonderful warm firmness of her breasts.
THURSDAY
It was nearly noon when I was outside Mrs. Samuels' house. When I rang the bell she answered the door, said, “So you're the one who called. Yes, I remember you.”
“Glad of that.”
“You're late,” she said impatiently. “I've no time to wait around and gossip. I have to look for work.”
We went into the only free room in the house—outside of the John—the community kitchen, and as we sat down I asked, “Anybody around? What I have to say is strictly private.”
“Everybody is where a body should be, working or calling for their kids at school. Or calling for some white woman's kids.”
“I'll pay you for the day you've lost,” I cut in. “Now...”
“What kind of policeman are you? Paying for my time.”
“I'm not a cop. I'm... a... a friend. I need your help.”
“For what?”
“I want to know William Saxton's reasons for killing the Wilsons.”
She stared at me for what seemed a long time, her dark brown face rigid as a mask. Only her eyes moved, or seemed to move as they cut through me. Finally she said, “You're not a cop?”
“No. I used to be and.... Look, I know he killed them, and I think you do too—knew it when you took your time calling the police. Tell me why he did it and I can send him up. I think you want that, too.”
“Don't be foolish, son. You'll never send Mr. Saxton up, not in this town. My, listen to me, even now I call him mister!”
“Why not? You said that once before, in the Wilson kitchen, that's why I'm here.”
She didn't answer. We sat there for a moment, the quiet of the kitchen heavy upon us, broken only by the ticking of an old wall clock. I sat there, waiting, smelling the stale odors of recent meals, as she decided whether to trust me or not. She asked, “You hate Sax-ton real bad?”
“It isn't hate. I'm fed up with his kind, that's all.”
Her eyes studied mine and I tried not to look away, began counting the wrinkles around her eyes. I said, “Why not tell me what you know, Mrs. Samuels, let me decide if I can convict Saxton?”
She said softly, “You keep calling me Mrs. Maybe you will do something. It was a lynching.... Henry Wilson was a colored man.”
“What?” I must have shouted my surprise, the kitchen filled with the sound, echoed it.
“I shouldn't have told you, you act like it was a crime,” she said.
“It's... it's something I never thought of. You sure of this?”
“Sure I'm sure, sure as can be. Henry was one of these very light ones, more white in him than colored. See him around whites and you'd never think of him being colored. But see him around Negroes and you just naturally knows he's colored. Henry was passing. Well, that was his little red wagon and he was pulling it. I don't blame nobody for trying to escape. Me, I'm too dark to run from that old jim-crow bird. So I tries to live the best I can. More our folks stood up for themselves, we'd...”
“Take it slow. Henry ever tell you this?”
“'Course not! But I knew. And he knew I knew. There was nothing to tell or talk about.”
“You think his wife...?”
“Miss Beatrice knew. I kept house for the Saxtons since 1938. She was in college then, but she came home weekends. This was the old house over on Ridge Street. She lived there with Mr. Saxton. Henry Wilson was in the same college too, working his way through, and she took a real liking to him. Started bringing him over for supper. Miss Beatrice was in love, you can tell when a gal is in love. Of course, soon as I laid eyes on Henry, I knew.”
“You tell her?”
“What was there to tell? You think being colored meant he was no good or...?”
“I didn't mean that. They were in school—what happened?”
“One day she come home all sick, in bed for near two weeks. And after that day Henry don't come around no more. I knows what happen all right, he told her about hisself. Her soul hurt. Even old doc say he can't find no reason why she sick.”
“When was this?”
“About nineteen hundred and forty—in the Spring. Then I hear Henry go away during summer, get hisself work in another town. Never even send her a card. All time Miss Beatrice is full of misery, nervous. Mr. Sax-ton worried about her, keep sending her to doctors. No doc can help lovesickness.”
The old woman stopped, as if lost in thought. She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lit one without offering me any. “School start in Fall and Miss Beatrice begin phone him every day. Then, weeks go by, Henry come over to the house once again. Late in the evening and they thought I'd gone on home. But I was dozing in the kitchen, waiting for some bread dough to rise. Want to bake that night. I hear Miss Beatrice cry and she say, 'What you mean it won't work out? Why don't you give me the chance to decide that, to try it? Henry, don't put me out your life.... I'll go to pieces.' I heard that, then they both crying and kissing, make up.”
“That's what you heard—those exact words?” I asked, thinking she'd have to have some memory.
She looked at me angrily. “You think I'm a liar? That's what I hear, I never forget it. I like Miss Beatrice, she good... for a white woman. And I sit in the kitchen, think, 'Best they marry before she moons herself to death. He can pass and anyway, being colored ain't no disease.' Well, all rest of that year and the next they see each other like before and Miss Beatrice all fine and glowing again. Way I hear it, they going to wait till Henry graduates, then get married. Mr. Saxton, he likes Henry, all for it.”
She got up, knocked the ashes from her cigarette into the sink, sat down again. “Henry never graduate—war come. He drafted. Miss Beatrice almost crazy again. Mr. Saxton he so busy making money he didn't notice it much, but that girl sure nervous. Next I hear Mr. Henry is wounded and coming home and Miss Beatrice tell me she glad, she has him again. He wasn't wounded bad and soon he's out of the army and they marry. Saxton take Henry into the factory and I hear he do very good. Soon they move into the new house, Mr. Saxton, he gets himself an apartment. I go with them. Things run smooth as silk. Then about three-four months ago the letter come. This....”
“What letter?”
“Mr. Henry got hisself elected to some committee, and his picture in the paper. One night he comes in all upset. I got good ears and they whisper but I hear plain: the letter is from some cracker doctor down in Georgia where Mr. Henry was born, say he recognize him and want money. He and Miss Beatrice discuss what they should do. That's all.”
“That's all? What happened after that, did they pay?”
She shook her head. “No. They say they going to wait till they hear again. Mr. Henry has no folks and he say he don't believe doctor could recognize him— doc last seen him when he was a young boy. They don't hear no more. That the end of it.”
“Where's the letter now?” I asked.
“Lost. One day he asks Miss Beatrice if she seen the letter, he can't find it. They look and she say not to worry, probably destroyed or lost, to forget it.”
“Any idea when that was—when the letter was missing?”
She sent out a cloud of smoke, pursed her thin lips as if thinking aloud. “I'd say about two months ago... week or two after they first get letter.”
I drummed on the white metal tabletop with my fingernails. It added up. Saxton got hold of the letter, started working on the murder at once. Two months ago was when he purchased the cabin—in Henry Wilson's name. I asked, “You remember the name of this place in Georgia, of the doctor?”
“Never did hear name of place. Doctor was called Snell, I think.”
“Snell. Sure about that?”
“I'm sure.”
I stood up. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Samuels. Think this is what I've been looking for. Don't tell anyone else about this. It's important to keep it a secret.”
“What you going to do?” she asked, her voice weary. She went over to the sink and held the cigarette under the dripping faucet, threw the butt into a paper bag full of garbage. “Suppose it all comes out, what good will it do? This town ain't too bad for colored, but it still ain't good. What town is? You think any jury convict big-shot Mr. Saxton for killing his sister and her Negro husband? Naw, he only get off. That be worse, his getting off. Why I never tell police anything.”
