Trouble Follows Me

by Ross Macdonald

  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.

  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 m
y illusion.

  It was nearly nine o’clock by my wristwatch. Mary would be expecting to hear from me. I called her hotel from a pay phone in the postoffice and she answered her room phone on the first ring, “Sam?” There was impatience in her voice.

  “I’m sorry for calling so late. I had some business to attend to.” If I could avoid it, I didn’t intend to tell her about Bessie Land’s death.

  But she knew. “I saw the papers, Sam. It frightens me.”

  “It frightens me, too. That’s why I—” I broke off. Hefler had said the case was confidential. I supposed that included Mary, though she knew almost as much about it as I did.

  “Why you what?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I want to see you tonight. I need cheering up.”

  “I do, too. But I’ve got some good news to tell you. News isn’t always bad.”

  “I’ll be over right away. Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet. Give me twenty minutes to dress.”

  “Not a minute longer.”

  “You’re sweet.” She hung up, and I rushed back to the apartment to change my clothes.

  She came to dinner in a dark-blue knitted evening gown which made her shoulders dazzling. Her yellow hair was upswept from her sleek neck like a bright summer flower on a graceful stalk. The sight of her changed my mood. She symbolized all the bright soft pleasant things which I had been missing for a year. Beside her young beauty, warm and glowing across the candle-lit table, the dark things which had happened in the night outside seemed impossibly ugly and fantastic. For a time they seemed the shadow violence of fiction, the falseface evil, the wax-dummy death.

  Over our Martinis she asked me about Bessie Land’s death. But Bessie Land had receded into another country.

  “God knows what happened. I don’t. Anyway, it’s out of my hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police are handling it. It’s their business, and they think it’s suicide, so as far as I’m concerned it’s suicide.” The Martini went through my empty stomach into my veins and made me say: “I came on this leave to have some fun, and I’m going to have it if half the population of Detroit falls dead in their tracks.”

  She looked at me with a cold half-smile. “You’re pretty callous, aren’t you, Sam?”

  “Most people are. I’m just being candid about it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Most people are too busy looking out for number one to care much about anyone else.” She finished her cocktail and lowered her glass. She looked at me with the air of one who has swallowed a hard truth and been strengthened by it.

  “Of course the callousness isn’t entirely real,” I said. “Puncture the outer crust and you’ll find a weak gruel made out of sour grapes, spilt milk, and wounded feelings.”

  “Block that metaphor. Are you really such a cynic as you pretend to be?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been in the Navy so long I don’t know what I’m like. But I know what I like. You.”

  Her eyes, half-transparent and of indeterminate color in the candlelight, looked narrowly into mine. “I can’t make you out. I can’t make out whether you’re an intellectual or a roughneck.”

  “Both,” I said lightly, but I was secretly flattered by the discussion. “I’m an intellectual among roughnecks and a roughneck among intellectuals.”

  “Whatever that means. What do you care about?”

  “I used to think I wanted to be a great reporter. You know, to put my finger on the shame of the cities and all such stuff. But that petered out the last year or two.”

  “Isn’t there anything you want? And if you say me I’ll scream.”

  “I’m pretty sure I want to make money, I don’t much care how. That’s happened to more than half the men I know in the Navy. Get badly frightened a few times and you lose your idealism.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes were inwardly intent on something that she was going to say. Just then the waiter arrived with some dishes. She didn’t say it.

  We ate in silence for a minute or two. Then she said: “We won’t be seeing much more of each other.”

  “I know. Two more weeks.”

  “Two more days. I’ve been offered a job in San Diego. That’s my news.”

  “I thought you said it was good news.”

  “It is. It’s a pretty good job. In the Naval Supply Depot.”

  I didn’t like the prospect of her going away, and that made me captious. “It’ll probably fold when the war ends.”

  “I know. But while it lasts I’ll feel I’m—you know, making a direct contribution.” She flushed slightly, and her voice was embarrassed. “I went into the whole thing with the Navy today, and it’s settled.”

  All I could think of to say was: “I wish I was going with you.”

  “Why don’t you?” Her smile was challenging.

  “Maybe I will. You say you’re leaving in two days?”

  “If I can get a reservation. I have a priority.”

  “Anyway, I’ll come and see you in Diego before I go out again.”

  “Why don’t you come with me on Saturday? We could have a wonderful trip.” Her clear eyes, reflecting the flickering candles as tiny moving flames, held the promise of a warm soft-lit room.

  That night as I lay by myself in my bachelor bed, I thought of what a wonderful trip we could have. After all, there was nothing to keep me in Detroit. My girl had married and gone away. Most of my friends were in uniform and on other continents. And the one person I really liked to be with was going to San Diego and wanted me to come along.

  I went to sleep without making up my mind, but in the morning it was made up for me. I was awakened by the telephone beside my bed.

  “Ensign Drake?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Hefler. We just got a teletype I thought you’d be interested in. Keep it to yourself, of course.”

  Hangover and sleepiness made my voice a little sharp. “There aren’t more than one or two spies in the room.” Joe Scott was huddled in his blankets in the other bed, sleeping like a dead man.

  “You understand we must take precautions,” Hefler said in a school-teacher’s tone. “I called to tell you that we’ve gotten word on the whereabouts of Hector Land.”

  “Is he in Detroit?”

  “Far from it. A big Negro answering to his description crossed the Mexican border at Tia Juana three days ago. He used a stolen Identity Card and a stolen Liberty Pass. As of this morning he hasn’t re-crossed the border. A search is being made for him.”

  “I appreciate your calling, Mr. Hefler.”

  “I thought it might put your mind at rest to know that Land is nowhere near Detroit. Good morning.” He hung up.

  Joe rolled over in bed and sat up with a grunt. The early morning greyness of his face was stippled with black beard. “Who the hell makes phone calls this early in the morning?” he said.

  “A friend of mine.”

  “I didn’t know Hefler was a friend of yours. That was the name I heard, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but keep it to yourself. He asked me not to talk about it.”

  “Is he after this Hector Land?”

  “I said I wasn’t supposed to talk about it.”

  “O.K., O.K., we won’t talk about it.” He yawned elaborately, giving me a view of the fillings in his wisdom teeth. “It’s just that I came across something last night that I thought might interest you. The paper put me on the background of the Land case. Only now I can’t tell you about it on account of we took an oath not to talk about it, didn’t we?”

  I threw a pillow at his head. He caught it and threw it back.

  “Spill it,” I said. “And don’t tell me I can read it in the papers.”

  “You can’t read it in the papers,” Joe said more seriously. “It’s not that kind of a story. The city editor killed it but quick.”

  I lit a bitter early morning cigarette, tossed him the pack, and waited.

  “If L
and deserted from the Navy,” Joe said, “he had some reason for it. I’m not saying he had justification, but he had what may have looked like a reason to him. The boy had a raw deal, there’s no getting around that.”

  “What kind of a raw deal?”

  “I’m telling you. Hector Land’s brother got killed in the ’43 riots. Somebody slugged him with a club and smashed his skull. Hector was with him when it happened, and he went hog-wild. He tore into a streetful of whites and started to throw them against the walls of the buildings. It took a squad of police and a straitjacket to quiet him down. But that’s just half of it. Do you know what the cops did then?”

  “Jailed him.”

  “That’s right. On a charge of aggravated assault. For beating up a couple of thugs that maybe killed his brother, he gets three months in the clink waiting for trial. He walks out of the clink into the Navy. That’s not a hell of a good background for making a black boy all eager and excited to fight a war for democracy and equal justice. Or is it?”

  “It doesn’t excuse him for doing whatever he’s done.” I had to add: “But it helps to explain him. Is that the straight dope?”

  “Straight out of the court records.”

  “Hefler will want to know about it, if he doesn’t already.”

  “There’s something else you can tell him,” Joe said in his monotonous grating voice. “When Hector went to jail his wife got fired from her job and started hustling to make a living for herself. She’s been hustling off and on ever since, until the last few months. A few months ago she suddenly got prosperous, and quit.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “From Kate Morgan. Mrs. Land’s ex-roommate.”

  “Did Kate Morgan know where she got the money?”

  “Mrs. Land said she got it from her husband. She didn’t say where he got it.” Joe’s mind skipped to another matter then, but I could follow his train of thought: “Could Wanless tell you anything about Black Israel?”

  “Not a thing. Except that he didn’t know anything about it, and nobody else seemed to, either. They avoid publicity.”