Росс Макдональд - Trouble Follows Me

I began to gain on him. He looked back and saw that I was closer. I increased my pace, coming down hard on my heels to keep my footing. Two-thirds of the way down the long block there was a building with a boarded front. He made for it, went up the snow-piled steps in two bounds, and disappeared through a narrow plank door in the boarding. I followed him as fast as I could. Once he got away into the warrens of the tenements I’d never catch him.

The plank door opened on a blackness so solid it was almost tangible, and an inhuman silence. I closed the door behind me. Probably he was crouched in the hall waiting for me, and I didn’t want to be outlined against the light from the street. Inside the building there was still no sound.

I took a cautious step forward, feeling for the floor with the toe of my shoe. There was no floor to find. I lost my balance and fell into empty blackness. After what seemed a long fall, during which I held my breath and all my muscles became rigid, I landed on all fours with a crash. Before its echoes faded, a door opened and closed above and behind me. The man I had been chasing had baited an elephant trap for me, waited inside the door for me to fall into it, and gotten away.

It felt as if I had landed on a rubbish heap. I searched with my hands and found some wire, a couple of tin cans, handfuls of what felt like dust. Then I remembered my lighter and lit it. A fat grey rat bustled out of the circle of light, his naked tail dragging behind him. I was standing up to my ankles in ashes, in a jungle of twisted pipes, charred timbers and shapeless wreckage. I understood gradually that I was in the basement of a tenement whose interior had been destroyed by fire.

I took a letter out of my pocket and set fire to it. By its light I found a blackened concrete stairway in the corner, and made my way out of the pit. I edged along the narrow ledge of the foundation to the door. There was something about the empty shell of the burnt-out building which made me shiver, like a core of desolation in the heart of the city. Even the streets of dirty snow were human and cheerful in comparison.

In the street, there was no sign of the man I had been chasing. I realized the impossibility of finding him in the black city. I had no idea of his name and only a vague impression of his appearance, and the people of his own race would hide him from me. Still, I had to try. I brushed off my trousers and overcoat as well as I could, and went back to the Paris Bar and Grill. It seemed a long way.

The bartender looked at me this time with hostility that was almost open. “I poured out your drink. I thought you wasn’t coming back.”

“I don’t care about the drink. Who was that man in the tan overcoat?”

“What man in the tan overcoat?” he said with elaborate puzzlement. “I didn’t see no man in no tan overcoat.”

“Yes you did. The man that came in just before I left. The man that ran away when he saw me.”

“Oh, him. Did he run away? I thought he just came in and didn’t like the looks of the place so he went away again.”

“He was here last night.”

“Oh no, not him. Never saw him before in my life.”

“He was sitting beside Bessie Land,” I said.

His face had gradually become an idiot mask. “I guess you know better than me, mister. Never saw him before in my life. Another drink?”

I restrained my impulse to call him a liar, and walked out. Obviously I was getting nowhere on my own. I needed professional help. I walked quick with anger, three blocks before I caught a taxi. I told the driver to take me to the Federal Building on Lafayette Street.

It was past office hours, but there was still a girl on duty on the floor occupied by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I told her that subversive activities were on my mind. She ushered me into a bare, well-lighted office which contained a polished walnut desk and four chairs. A minute later a heavy-set red-haired young man in a grey business suit came in, shook hands, and said:

“My name’s Hefler. Ensign Drake? Very glad to know you. I believe you want to lay an information, as they said in the eighteenth century.”

“Information is what I’d like to have.”

“Be glad to help in any way I can.” He darted a sharp look through his soft smooth voice. “We’re very strong on cooperation with the armed services. You’ve probably heard of some of our activities in Hawaii?”

“I should have had sense enough to go to you in Honolulu. This second death might have been avoided.”

He had begun to lean on the desk, but the word “death” straightened his thick body. “You’d better sit down, Mr. Drake, and tell me what you know.”

I told him the things, from Sue Sholto’s death to the man in the tan overcoat, which seemed to have a bearing on the case. He took shorthand notes in pencil on a memo pad. When I had finished, he went on writing for several minutes. Then he said in the tone of a lecturer:

“There are several leading questions to be answered, Mr. Drake. I realize that you can’t answer them. Maybe we can. One, is Black Israel a criminal and/or a subversive organization? Mrs. Land’s death suggests that it may be criminal. Hector Land’s announcement that he intended to desert after joining Black Israel suggests that it may be subversive. We will investigate Black Israel.”

“I went to Dr. Wanless in Ann Arbor today, but he didn’t know much about it. He advised me to try an intelligent Negro.”

“I see. Question two is closely connected with the preceding. What were and are the activities of Hector Land? Where did his money come from, and why did he run away? Did he kill Sue Sholto? Did he kill his wife, Bessie Land?”

“He was in San Diego three days ago.”

“He could be here now,” Hefler said impatiently. “We’ll trace him. The third question is so inextricably bound up with the others that if we answer them we can answer it. Assuming that they were killed, why were Miss Shoto and Mrs. Land killed? You’ve advanced a conjecture of your own, Mr. Drake, and I’ll be candid enough to say, strictly off the record, that I’m inclined to agree with you.”

“I’ve suggested several possibilities,” I said. Hunger, unbroken strain and the bright glare of the ceiling light combined to make me feel dizzy. “Which exactly do you mean?”

“In our present uninformed state,” he went on in his dry abstract language, “we won’t pin ourselves down to anything more specific than a generalization. It does, however, appear likely that the two women were killed because they knew too much, whether guiltily or innocently, about some subversive or enemy-inspired activity. Perhaps it involved suborning members of the armed forces. Perhaps it included collecting information for Tokyo. In any case, it is our task to find out. One of the first things we’ll do is see about picking up your man in the tan overcoat.”

“It’s a relief to feel that I’m not in this by myself.”

“I’m grateful to you for coming to us, and I hope we’ll be able to keep in touch with you as the matter progresses.”

I got up and started to move towards the door. The bright clean office high above the city, and Hefler’s wordy talk, made the whole affair seem unreal. I wanted to get away into the dark. “I’ll be in town for the next ten days. I’d like to call you in a day or two, and see if you’ve answered any of those questions.”

“Call here and ask for me by name. Hefler. I don’t need to tell a naval officer that this matter is confidential.”

“Naturally. Good night.”

A remarkably smooth customer, I thought, as I rode down in the elevator. If there were any more bodies to be discovered, I hoped that Mr. Hefler would discover them. At any rate, the affair was out of my hands. Or such, at the time, was my illusion.