“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. Happens 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.