There was a burst of music from the house, shrill clarinets and drooling saxophones. Sugar Blues. I looked at the red bulb in the front window, hanging between the pane and the drawn blind. The music had stopped pretending to have a tune and was pumping rhythmically at a single theme.
I moved around to the side of the house. The dingy white paint was peeling off it and the windowsills were rotting. The blinds were drawn in the side windows, too, but I stood on tiptoe at the window where the music seemed to be and looked past a torn corner of the blind.
There were several people at tables in the room, three men I didn’t know and Shiny. He was sitting at a round table by himself with a glass of beer in front of him. Two young men sat at another table with whiskey-glasses, and an old man in shirtsleeves was in the far corner beside a record-player, tapping his knee with a finger in time to the music.
I heard the high giggle of a woman from an upstairs room. The music went on pumping. Finally, it went out with a whine and the old man got up with difficulty and turned the record.
Shiny sat over his beer, moving only to smoke and drink. The two young men were arguing with drunken extravagance, as if something mattered very much and they knew what it was. One turned to the old man and said, “Bring us another, pop,” very loudly. The old man hobbled over and took their glasses.
I went back to the front of the house, climbed the porch, and knocked on the front door. There was a sound of dragging steps and the door opened six inches. I saw a porous, red-veined nose and drooping eyes like an old hound’s.
The old man whispered, moving his stubbled lips like an elocutionist, “What you want?”
“A drink,” I said. “And a fried egg sandwich if you can make it.”
“You got us wrong, friend, this is a private house.”
The woman’s voice came from upstairs in a high, thin scream which fluttered down into a giggle, “Stop it.’
“There’s a friend of mine in here. Shiny.”
“Shiny? Say, you ain’t one of the boys from the university that got us knocked off last year?” He was still whispering.
“Do I look it?”
He opened the door wider and looked at my face. “Who scratched your face?”
“My wife.”
“What happened to your clothes? You’re all mud.”
“I fell down,” I said. “I was walking along in a field and I fell down.”
“Drunk?”
“I’m always drunk. When I have the money.”
“Well, come on in.” He opened the door wide for me. “You look kind of tuckered out.”
His breath as I passed him was like alcohol spray. He closed the door and shuffled down the worn, brown-painted hall. A narrow staircase rose from the hall to the second floor and I saw a light at the top.
The old man pointed to a door opposite the staircase. “Just go in and sit down. Shiny’s in there. What’ll you drink?”
“Bring me the egg sandwich first. Empty stomach.”
“We don’t usually serve vittles,” the old man whispered. “It’ll cost you thirty-five cents.”
“All right. And a glass of beer.”
He looked at me suspiciously. “I thought you said you drank.”
“I alternate beer and whiskey,” I said. “When I can’t get grain alcohol.”
“I got grain alcohol,” he whispered proudly.
“That’s great,” I said. “Bring me some with my sandwich.”
He hobbled off down the hall to the back of the house and I opened the door and went in. The young men were still arguing, “–I tell you she’s frigid–”
Shiny looked up and saw me and half rose from his chair. “Professor! What are you doing here?”
“Shut up, Shiny,” I said. “I came here for a drink.” Before he could say anything else, I walked over and sat down opposite him and whispered, “If you want to talk, whisper. Everybody’s doing it.”
“What’s the matter with your face?”
“A cat scratched it. One of my many cats.”
“Jeez, professor, you’re a mess.” He hadn’t heard that I was wanted for murder.
“I’m in a mess,” I said, still whispering. The men at the other table went right on arguing. “The people who killed Alec Judd are after me. I’ve been running across country.”
“You look it. Jeez, why don’t you get police protection?”
“I can’t,” I said. “The police are after me, too.”
“Why? Whatja do?”
“Nothing. But they think I killed a man.”
“Who?”
“A Nazi spy,” I said. “But they don’t know it.”
“Christ, did you kill Mr. Judd, professor?”
“Do you think I did?”
“No.”
“Then drive me into Ohio. I’ll pay you double rates.”
“I can’t do that, professor. I’m on a call.”
“Call another taxi for your call. I’ll pay for it.”
“Hell, I can’t drive a fugitive from justice, professor.”
“Then give me your keys. Tell them I stole your car. I’ve got to get away.”
“I can’t do that.” His whisper was getting hoarse with fright and I couldn’t afford to frighten him.
I said, “All right, Shiny.” I was too tired to run much more – my legs were thirty years old and felt sixty – and if I was caught running away I’d probably be shot. Maybe if I stayed here and gave myself up to the police in the morning, I’d be able to talk myself out of a murder charge. Maybe more evidence would turn up.
The room was battered and dirty and run-down, but it was warm and bright. I didn’t want to leave it for the dark fields.
Shiny was sitting, watching me with some suspicion and more curiosity. One of the young men said, “Yeah, but when I went into the bedroom she was in bed and this guy was standing there with just the tops of his pyjamas on. That’s gotta mean something.”
The other said, “They’re all whores. Especially the frigid ones.”
The first wept brokenly in a high drunken voice, “She’s a whore. She’s a whore. And I loved her so truly.” He sobbed gustily and added, “And I’m a low-down bastard myself.”
Shiny said to me, “Who else got killed? You said the police thought you killed somebody.”
“Where have you been since I saw you in front of McKinley?”
The old man came in and put a large fried egg sandwich on a cracked plate in front of me. He stood there until I gave him thirty-five cents, and shuffled off.
“Bring me whiskey,” I said. “Two whiskeys.”
“I thought you said grain alkie,” he whispered in a disappointed way.
“Make it whiskey.” I ate my sandwich.
Shiny said, “Hell, I’ve been driving this call all over hell and gone trying to find a dame for him. He’s got no nose and none of the hookers in town will take him. He said he only had seven dollars.”
“Where is he now?”
“Upstairs with Florrie. She takes anybody. The funny thing is, though, he said he lost his nose in an industrial accident. Clipped right off.” He illustrated with his hands.
“Who’s Florrie?”
“The old man’s daughter. We call him the Tube.”
“The Tube?”
“Yeah, he eats through a tube. Cancer of the throat. You oughta see him pour whiskey down that tube.”
He remembered his curiosity and said, “Who got killed?”
“Schneider,” I said. “Dr. Schneider. He was a spy.”
“Who killed him if you didn’t?”
“Nobody you know. His son, and a woman called Ruth Esch. Listen, Shiny.”
“Yeah?”
“When you get back into town, tell the police to start looking for them. They probably won’t believe it but tell them anyway. This is, if I get away.”
“Not me. If you killed him that makes me a accessory or something. Listen, professor, you better get out of here. I won’t tell anybody I saw you.”