“I think you're a liar, Mr. Jones.” She said it softly, staring up at me with bold eyes. “You told Pop you were driving all yesterday, why should you want to drive some more? You talk of New Orleans and Chicago but your car has New York plates. Exactly what are you doing in Bingston?”
“I told you, merely resting...”
“I know what you told us.”
I didn't know what to say; wondered why I was suddenly frightened of this young girl. I stood there like a dummy for a second, then for no reason I pulled out my wallet, asked, “Should I pay you now for...?”
Her eyes stopped me, although she didn't say a word for a moment; then she said, “Oh... put your damn money away! Do you think I'm asking because I'm afraid you'll run out on your bill? Maybe you're right, money-grabbing is another small-town hobby. My God, Pop and Mom, they just sock it away.... All the time I was a kid, even when I was in high school, I rarely saw Mom. She was cooking and busting suds in a white house, even bringing home leftover food for us. And Pop making as much as anybody else in town!”
She looked away and I stood there, liking Frances, feeling sorry for her—and still afraid. She broke the awkward silence with “You can stay here the night but I want you to leave in the morning. You're not a drummer. I'm a jazz nut, and I know the name of every bandman in the country. I don't believe you came up from New Orleans in that Jaguar: if you'd been in the deep South you never would have walked into the drugstore acting like you wanted to slug Mr.—the cop. Pop told me about that.”
“I seem to have been quite a conversation piece,” I said, thinking I had no choice now, I had to trust her before she asked too many questions.
“Any stranger causes talk in a small town. You want to stay in Bingston, that's your business. But you're also in our house and that makes it my business. All during supper you've been trying to quiz me about Porky Thomas and... Well, I even doubt your name is Jones.”
“You're right. I'm Toussaint Marcus Modre from New—”
She clapped her hands and laughed, the laughter lighting up her face. “How wonderful! Marcus after Marcus Garvey, of course!”
“Yeah. My father... naming me like that I don't have to tell you any more about him. Frances, you've made a lot of big talk about rights. I'm a private detective—there's a coloured man being framed for the Thomas killing back in New York. That's why I'm here. I need help badly— your help.”
She stood up. “A private eye?”
I flashed my badge.
“I'll be glad to help in any way I can, Toussaint... Touie.”
I said cautiously, “Wait up. Something else you have to know—it won't be safe or easy. Remember I said a coloured man is being framed for the murder. I certainly won't involve you, but at the same time helping me is... messy.”
“I don't care, I'll—” The bitterness came back to her face abruptly. “You?”
I nodded. “The New York City police are looking for a Negro they found with Thomas' body. That's me; I was there. You have to believe I didn't do it. New York or down in Cotton Patch Corners, when a black man is found around a body it's all the same—he's guilty.”
She was staring at me with wide eyes. “But you're a detective.”
“I was shadowing Thomas. Frances, I think the answer to the killing has to be in Bingston. I have about twenty-four hours to come up with the answer before 'a' Negro is known to be me. Still want to help?”
She was looking at me as if she was about to cry. Then she turned and started stacking the dishes in the sink. I waited a moment, feeling sick. I said, “Okay, I don't blame you. But give me one break, don't tell anyone what I've—”
“I'd like to take that ride now. I'll get my coat.”
I went upstairs and got my coat and hat. Frances was waiting at the door dressed in a plain cloth coat that looked baggy and worn, an ugly woolen stocking cap on her head. A door opened upstairs and Mrs. Davis stuck her gray head over the banister, asked, “Where are you going, Fran?”
“Mr. Jones is taking me for a ride,” she said, opening the front door.
“At this hour? Fran, I want to talk to you for a—”
“Mama, it's perfectly all right. Go to bed, please. We'll be back soon.”
Outside it was cold and dark. Unlocking the car door I turned to look at her dark face, tried to remember a poem I'd once read about the “night being dark like me.” Then I wondered if I was being taken; perhaps the ride she meant was directly to the local police station? But somehow I trusted her—not that I had any choice.
The Jag was dirty. I'd been refused service on the trip down, and had to eat in the car. “Excuse the condition of the car. I—”
“Let's drive. It's cold.” She shivered.
We got in and I backed out of the doorway and headed for noplace, just drove. I opened the heater. After a long silence Frances asked, “Can you tell me what happened, Touss... Touie?”
“Sure. I want to. All started three days ago—seems like a lifetime now. But three days ago I was sitting in my office...”
2
IT STARTED out as a big day—although I had made up my studio bed, turning my room into my “office,” how big a day it was going to be.
I share an old-fashioned railroad flat with a fireman named Ollie and a photographer called Roy, who works as a short-order cook to keep himself eating, and that's no joke. We live on the ground floor of a small semi-tenement up in what is stupidly known as Sugar Hill. It's a good deaclass="underline" splitting expenses three ways it costs each of us about twenty-five dollars a month, which is only slightly more than you have to pay per week for a room with “kitchen privileges” in most parts of Harlem. I have the front room, which doubles as my office, a simple but dignified sign in the window stating I am a licensed private investigator. Both Ollie and Roy are younger than I, and over the weekend the place is full of girls and music. Not that I play the chick field; Sybil is about all the girl I can handle, or want to.
Ollie was working a morning tour and being a sucker for horses had left six bucks on my desk with instructions for me to play a nag called Dark Sue across the board. I had the alarm set for seven, not because I had to get up for a job, but to move my car to the other side of the street, a daily game between me and the cops since they put in this alternate-side-of-the-street parking. I showered and had coffee and juice with Roy, finally found a parking space on Amsterdam Avenue, considered washing the Jaguar but figured another day's dust wouldn't hurt. I hate to be mistaken for these clowns who spend every free minute polishing their cars, take better care of them than they do themselves. I stopped off at the delicatessen, bought some milk and bread, and put in Ollie's bet; and on a hunch put down two bucks on the horse to show, for myself. The delicatessen always amazed me; although it was only a front for the numbers syndicate, the gray-haired white guy who ran it kept it spotless and well stocked, actually had it a going business—as a delicatessen.
Back in my room I dusted my modernistic furniture, which still looked pretty good, turned on the radio, and read my mail. There was a statement from the bank; my special checking account was down to sixty bucks. There was a mimeographed letter from the Post Office Department informing me I had been reached on the mail carrier's list and had two weeks in which to tell them if I wanted the job or not. There was an ad, and a letter from a downtown agency, my former boss, Ted Bailey, giving me a skip-tracing job. He always gave me the “coloured” cases. I never knew if he was afraid of the various Harlems throughout New York City or was merely throwing business my way. But I never got a “white" skip-tracing case. A woman named James had bought a combination stove and refrigerator for $320, on time of course, paid in $150 and then left her job and last known address, taking the stove-refrigerator.