“I don't know, Brooks something-or-other. Kay calls him B.H.” She shook her head. “Forget about him; he's been out in St. Louis opening a new station for Central. Kay mentioned he had phoned her from there this afternoon.”
“You said you hadn't seen Kay since yesterday morning.”
“She phoned me at school, during lunch hour, to—to tell me she was leaving me.” Bobby began to weep.
I stood there, listening, for some stupid reason, to her crying. It didn't sound phony. Things had been simple when I came up here: I was a dead duck with one possible out— find Kay and get the truth from her, beat it out of her if necessary. Now...? I didn't rule Kay off the list, not till I knew where she'd been when Thomas was killed. But I'd been certain she'd framed me from the go, and that wasn't so. Now...? Now I realized the only way to save my neck was to find the killer before the police found me. I was mixed up: somehow relieved and even encouraged by knowing Kay hadn't double-crossed me, and a little frightened that I was on my own. I really wasn't a detective but a strong-arm bouncer, a slob good at scaring women like Mrs. James. And no one but me, a lousy detective, could save my life!
I began pacing the room again, trying to think logically. From the little I'd seen of Tutt-Thomas he appeared to be a hard-working joker, living down his past. That didn't rule out the possibility he was in a jam here, but it was unlikely.... He had a record, would be careful. If he was doing anything shady here, why would he be sweating at the freight company, going to a trade school? Hell, he hardly had enough free time to get in trouble. He was strictly small time, a home-town hoodlum.... Only one thing would make sense: some old buddy had knocked him off for revenge. But how did I fit into that picture? And if it was an old buddy, why wait all these years? Perhaps he'd just located Thomas, or maybe been released from a pen a couple days ago, went gunning for Thomas. But how would he—or she—know about me, about Kay? Of course Kay said they'd already interviewed people in Thomas's home town.... Sure, this joker had been hunting for Thomas for years, and the TV idea gives him his lead. Suppose he was tailing Kay and Thomas? That made hard sense. Unknowingly Kay had taken him to Thomas and to me; from that point it wouldn't take a genius to set me up for murder.
I felt much better, as if I'd accomplished something. But there was one loose end I had to tie. I said, “It was a horrible sight, Thomas' bald head split open, his rooms ransacked.”
Bobby didn't say a word, dried her eyes with her sleeve. Okay, I was clumsy, I didn't trip her. I stopped being cute. “When was the last time you saw Thomas?”
“I never saw him. I—” She looked up at me. “Are you crazy, Touie, first accusing Kay and now me?”
“Look, there's only four people knew I was hired to shadow Thomas: Kay, myself, B.H., and you.”
“Oh, for goodness' sake, I've been home all night. You know that—you called me early in the evening and again about an hour ago. It was after your second call I took the sleeping pills.”
That was good enough for me, even if it wasn't air tight. I couldn't see Bobby having the guts to kill. I waved my hands. “I have to consider all angles. Bobby, Kay said the TV show had a complete file on Thomas; did she ever tell you any of the details?”
“Vaguely, something about rape. I wasn't too interested in such sordid matters. She has some files in her desk; Kay often works here afternoons, and evenings.”
I followed her into the bedroom to an oval-shaped desk of ebony wood at one window. There was a typewriter on top of a small file cabinet next to the desk. She leafed through the cabinet, handed me a fairly thick folder with a neatly typed sticker TUTT-THOMAS pasted on it.
It was a good file, names, dates, interviews, and even a few pictures. I rolled it up, shoved it in my pocket. I felt almost happy; I could really work with this. It meant I'd have to get to his home town, Bingston, Ohio, damn fast. That wasn't a bad idea either; it would be dangerous for me to hang around New York.
“I'm going now. Bobby, can I trust you? Are you going to phone the police as soon as I leave?”
“Certainly not.”
“My life is at stake, melodramatic as it may sound. I need time. Do you think you can convince Kay and the TV studio not to say anything about Thomas for a few days?”
“Kay will have to do whatever Central does, but if I know TV and their fear of adverse publicity, they won't make any fuss unless forced to. Toussaint, I'm terribly sorry you're involved in this. I truly don't believe you would kill a person.”
“Thanks.” We were walking toward the door.
“Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
I wanted to ask her for money but couldn't bring myself to do it. “Barbara, if this gets messy, I mean, if I'm caught, our story is I dropped up here to shoot the breeze, stole this file while you were in the John. That will leave you in the clear. One thing you can do, find Kay and tell her to keep quiet.” I added a cover-up: “I'll be hanging around the city, hiding out, so tell Kay not to make any effort to contact me.”
At the door she squeezed my hand and began weeping again as she said, “Good luck, Toussaint. May God be with you.”
I was jittery riding down the elevator, looking up and down the empty street. Then I suddenly laughed and walked boldly over to Third Avenue, waited for a bus. I was fairly safe. The police would be looking for a Negro— but to whites we all look alike, and that was my protection. Except for my size, which fitted the usual “burly” Negro type the papers blame for anything and everything, I wasn't in much danger. Although by this time the cop would have given them a description of my clothes.
On the ride uptown I read through the file carefully, making notes of what sounded important. I decided I couldn't risk going home. I only had thirty-eight dollars on me. I needed money, but I doubted if Ollie would still have the rent dough around I'd left for him. I got off at 149th Street, walked toward the Drive.
I had to ring Sybil's bell four times before she came to the door in a sheer nightgown, asked, “Are you off your head, Touie? It's almost— Why it is three in the morning! I told you I had to be up early....”
“Honey, I'm in a rough jam. I can't tell you about it—it's best you don't know. But I have to leave for Chicago at once and I need money.”
“A jam? With that Madison Avenue woman?”
“Honey, don't ask questions. And it hasn't anything to do with her. Sybil, I have to grab a plane at once. How much can you lend me?”
She shook herself awake. “I still have the eighty-five dollars you gave me.”
“Any more?”
She went to a drawer and took out her purse; a sleepy, flatfooted walk. “I knew it was too good getting that money from you. Here, I have seven, eight—nine dollars more. That makes ninety-four dollars. When am I going to get this back?”
“Soon. Now, honey, if the police come here and—” Her eyes came wide awake as she cut in with “Police? Touie, what kind of trouble are you in?”
“Don't ask. And for everybody's sake don't say anything about this, talk around. But if the cops do question you, tell them the truth. I borrowed some money and I'm on my way to Chicago and Canada. Now I have to rush. 'Bye, baby.”
“But...? That's ninety-four dollars you owe me, Touie Moore.”
“Don't worry about it.” I blew her a kiss and walked up to where I'd parked the Jag. I drove across the George Washington Bridge, half expecting a road block. I got both tanks full of gas, oil, water, and a bunch of road maps at the first gas station open. I knew it would be easy to spot my Jag, something the attendant would remember. But there wasn't anything I could do about it, except steal a car, or steal different license plates.