Росс Макдональд - Trouble Follows Me

“My sole stock in trade. Information about what?”

“I understand that you know a lot about the Negro population of Detroit.”

“I’ve been studying them for years. A great people. You may have seen my book on the riots?”

“Not where I’ve been. We think we’re lucky to get the pony edition of Newsmagazine the Weekly Newsmagazine.”

“But that’s beside the point. It’s funny, isn’t it, how hard it is for an author not to mention his book?”

“I was told you know a good deal about Negro social organizations. Did you ever hear of Black Israel?”

“Why, yes. I believe I have. I’ve heard it mentioned, that is. I was never able to get inside of it, so to speak.”

“It isn’t some sort of a Black Hand organization, is it?”

“Good lord, no. At least I don’t think so. It’s a racist organization, standing for greater equality, more rights for the Negro, and so forth. There are a good many of them.”

“So far as you know, then, there’s nothing criminal or sinister in Black Israel. Nothing that would lead to murder.”

“I’ll tell you frankly, Mr. Drake, my study has been chiefly concerned with organizations that might have had a bearing on the Detroit race riots. Black Israel wasn’t active at that time, to my knowledge. When I examined the situation I found that similar racist societies among the Negroes had little or nothing to do with precipitating the riots. They were a product of many factors: economic competition and jealousy, Negro progress coming into conflict with the reactionary attitudes of Southern whites who have settled in Detroit. Attitudes which were deliberately encouraged and inflamed by certain demagogues and, in some cases, at least, by enemy agents.”

I had no time to listen to a lecture, so I said: “Thank you very much. May I use your phone?”

“Certainly. I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your specific question. Black Israel is rather mysterious in that it never gets in the limelight, though it may be quite important. I’d suggest that you ask some intelligent Negro what it’s all about. They know what’s going on among their own people.”

“Thanks, I’ll try that.”

I took the desk phone and dialled Eric’s number. When he answered I said: “Sam speaking. I’m in Ann Arbor, and I’m coming right over.”

“Where are you now?”

“Angell Hall.”

“I’m coming into town. Why not meet me at Davenport’s?”

“Say in half an hour?” I hung up.

Davenport’s is an ancient saloon and restaurant just off Main Street. I walked there and had ham on a bun and a bottle of beer while waiting for Eric. When he came in I ordered the same for him and another beer for myself. Then I noticed that he had a fresh Detroit newspaper in his hand, and a face which was partly very red and partly very white.

“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me this over the phone?” he said when he’d sat down.

“Dr. Wanless was sitting beside me. I thought you mightn’t want your interest in the case known.”

“Yes. I see. What in hell does it mean? What sort of a thing are we mixed up in anyway?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The police are calling it suicide again. That gives us two suicides in two weeks, one on Oahu, one in Detroit. Maybe it’s a coincidence that I discovered the body both times. And maybe that coincidence has me unjustifiably convinced that there’s a connection between the two deaths. But by God I am convinced, and I don’t think either of them was suicide.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to tie the two together and make a case out of them. You haven’t even got a real suspect.”

“Hector Land was in a position to kill Sue. How many days ago did he leave the ship?”

“Let’s see. Three. Four tonight.”

“He could be in Detroit now. And there’s another thing. Bessie Land mentioned her husband’s joining Black Israel, and saying after that that he’d run away from the Navy.”

“I remember,” Eric said. “What is Black Israel?”

“I don’t know, but I’m bloody well going to find out. The man next to her at the bar practically threatened her to make her shut up. This morning she was dead. It could be that Black Israel is a sort of Maffia, and Hector Land one of its thugs.”

“It could be that it’s as harmless as the Baptist Church. You seem to be making a great deal out of nothing at all.”

“Two murders are not my idea of nothing at all. I admit that Wanless thinks Black Israel is harmless. But there’s one other thing, that I can’t help thinking is connected with the case.”

“Now what?” Eric said wearily. He ordered two more bottles of beer.

“Do you remember the conversation we had before supper the night Sue was killed?”

“How enemy agents would be able to get information out of Oahu, you mean?”

“And you remember what Gene Halford said, that information actually was leaking out? I think that Sue’s death may be connected with that fact.”

“I don’t see how.”

“She worked in a broadcasting station. She had access to means of communications–”

“What damned nonsense!” Eric exploded angrily.

“You didn’t let me finish. I’m not accusing her. She could have been approached by an enemy spy with a proposition, turned it down, and been killed to keep her quiet. I can’t explain the thing. All I’m trying to get at is that these deaths need more looking into. Are you with me?”

“No,” Eric said stonily. “I’ve got a certain responsibility to my wife–”

“I know. And two days left. All right, I’ll do what I can by myself.”

I left Eric sitting with his half-finished bottle of beer and caught a train to Detroit. From the station I took a cab to the black town, then walked through bleak streets of slum houses, every second one of which had a service star in a window, to the Paris Bar and Grill. When I got there twilight was gathering like soot in the low sky over the icy roofs of the tenements.

The booths inside were empty, but there were a few people at the bar, and the same bartender was there in the same greyish white apron. I walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. The bartender gave me a hard look but said nothing. I gave him a dollar for a forty-cent whiskey and told him to keep the change. Then I said:

“It was a terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Land last night.”

“Yeah.” His round black face set sullenly.

“How did she act before she left here? Did she show any signs of depression?”

“She was feeling lousy. She was dead drunk.”

“There wasn’t anybody with her?”

“Look, mister,” he said in a grudging whine. “I had the cops sitting in my lap this morning. I told them what I knew. There wasn’t anybody with her. How about letting me forget it?” He began to scrub the pock-marked surface of the bar with a wet rag. He scrubbed furiously, as if he were expunging all traces of the memory of Bessie Land.

The front door opened and let in a gust of winter which swept the length of the room. The bartender looked over my head. There was a look in his eyes, a glazed look of surprise and warning, which made me turn. A tall thin Negro in a tan overcoat and tan fedora paused at the door, caught my eye, turned and went out.

I ran the length of the room and went out after him. It was the Negro who had warned Bessie Land not to talk. When I got to the street he was already at the corner, walking swiftly with his head thrust forward and his coat-collar turned up. He looked back over his shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of his lean harried face in the glare of the corner streetlight. He began to run, and I ran after him, my feet sliding on the packed snow.