Trouble Follows Me

by Ross Macdonald

  “What will happen to his body?”

  “It’ll be shipped to his next of kin in Kansas City. He’s got a brother there, according to his papers. They’ll do an autopsy, of course. I would have liked to do that autopsy myself.”

  “I don’t share your wish.”

  “It’s a very interesting process. You retrieve the ether from the tissues by distillation. Gettler has described it, I believe.”

  Over our inadequate meatballs we watched the sere flat fields slide sideways past us. There was a charcoal smudge across the horizon from the carbon-burners in distant oilfields.

  “Hatcher’s death has definitely been put down to accident, then?”

  “I don’t know what else you could call it, from his point of view, that is. From the point of view of the dealer, it’s technical homicide.”

  “Isn’t it possible that the bottle was poisoned on the train?”

  “That hole couldn’t have been made on the train.”

  “But perhaps the ether was added after I opened the bottle. It was sitting in there unguarded at various times.”

  “Who would be carrying ether on a train?”

  “A doctor might,” I said at random. “Are there any other doctors on the train?”

  The suggestion didn’t please Major Wright. His round face set in a frown of offended dignity. “I don’t know, I’m sure. Members of the medical profession don’t go around putting poison in liquor bottles.”

  “Of course not,” I said soothingly. “You’re satisfied in your own mind that Hatcher died by accident, then.”

  He didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said: “From the physical point of view, yes. From the psychological point of view, it’s not so simple. Hatcher must have known that he was drinking bad liquor. You did, too, didn’t you?”

  “I knew it was bad. I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  “Still you must have known you were taking a chance. Then why did you drink it?”

  “I wanted a drink, and that was the only drink available.”

  “Precisely. You wanted a drink. Why did you want a drink? Why did Hatcher want a drink? I’ll tell you why. In a word, because life wasn’t good enough for you. You wanted a little escape, a little death. Perhaps it was the war you wanted to get away from. Basically, though, you wanted to get away from yourselves. Excessive drinking is deliberate suicide by degrees.”

  His discourse would have interested me at another time, but right now I had too many other things to think about. The night before I had intended to tell Major Wright the whole story. Now it seemed useless. His mind was made up, and it would probably be a waste of breath to try to change it. Even if I tried, what reason could I offer for Hatcher’s death? And which of the passengers would make a plausible suspect?

  I tried to go over in my mind the events which led up to Hatcher’s death. My brief period of unconsciousness hung in front of the evening like a transparent curtain which distorted it. My memories of the night were empty glasses magically refilled, a warm ballooning sensation whirling towards the edge of nausea, snatches of conversation, too many cigarettes, sudden faces in the bright light. Anderson, Miss Green, the Tessingers, Teddy Trask, the dark man in the blue suit—I still didn’t know his name, but Uriah would do. So far as I could recall, any one of them could have had access to the bottle. It had been unguarded in the smoker for at least ten minutes, while Mary and I went out on the platform to look at Topeka.

  It seemed useless to try to eliminate people I knew. There were so many other people on the train whom I didn’t know, and who might equally well have poisoned the bottle. Still, my mind had to take hold of something or it would tear itself to pieces like a motor with nothing to push.

  Least likely first. The Tessingers. Rita was no suspect. She was a sweet kid only. A bobby-soxer in a bell-jar, waiting for somebody to lift the lid. Her mother, of course, was the lid. The old lady had some fire, especially since Teddy had been blowing on the coals. But the mind had to take a great leap to imagine her in a homicidal role. Mrs. Tessinger was something of a lady, a genteel woman if not a gentlewoman. She wouldn’t permit herself to get mixed up in spying and murder, if only because they weren’t respectable.

  Major Wright. Sitting across the table from him and looking at his face was enough. He was rather pompous and self-important, probably because he had short legs. But he was a good man.

  Teddy Trask. He was an elusive character. Probably capable of a good deal of trickery, on and off the stage. But he just didn’t seem built for murder. He had too much of a sense of humor, for one thing. For another, he had paid no attention at all to Private Hatcher. Besides, I liked Teddy.

  Uriah with the short black hair. He puzzled me, and he made me angry. So far as I knew, he hadn’t said a word to anyone on the train. Yet he was constantly popping up. I had a feeling that he listened to everything that was going on, and wrote it all down in a little black book. I made a resolution to see that imaginary little black book. And I hoped I had to fight him for it.

  Miss Green. There was a good deal of experience in her face, not all of it acquired at strawberry socials and Sunday School picnics. I had seen brokendown dancers and aging party girls with the same desperate devotion to cosmetic youth as she had, and the same knowing old eyes. She looked like a woman who refused to be kidded. I wouldn’t put crime past her, but it would have to pay. And it would have to be less risky than murder.

  Mr. Anderson. A type which I had always disliked. My first impression was that he was a stupider and less interesting Babbitt. I still thought he was stupid, but he didn’t fit so neatly into the Babbitt pattern. A woman like Miss Green was apparently his meat. He had a bluff silly jovial air, but he seemed to understand situations. The things he said gradually seemed to get less stupid, though they never got past average. Perhaps the main thing which made me distrust him was an impression of power he gave. Yet his whole approach belied it. The last thing a Babbitt will let you imagine is that he has a will of his own. Still I felt there was a raw low-grade power in Anderson. That wasn’t much of a reason for suspecting him of murder, but I did.

  Major Wright had excused himself and gone away, a little displeased by my lack of interest in his ideas. The diner was empty of passengers, and the headwaiter was looking at me inquiringly. Something about the car, probably the Negro waiters in their white coats, reminded me of Honolulu House and Mrs. Merriwell.

  It occurred to me with an unpleasant shock that perhaps my prejudices limited my thinking as much as her prejudices limited hers. After all, there was plenty of reason for thinking that Hector Land had killed Sue Sholto and run away to escape the consequences. And there was a Negro porter in our Pullman, a Negro I knew nothing about. For all I knew, he could be a member of Black Israel.

  I found the porter sitting by himself at the end of our car. He was reading a magazine with such close attention that for a moment he didn’t see me standing beside him. Then he looked up, closing the magazine on a black finger. It was the Atlantic Monthly.

  Looking into his lined face, set in dignified reticence, I felt like a fool. I was about to question a man about a murder for the sole reason that he was black. Then something that Wanless had said to me came to my rescue. He had advised me to consult an intelligent Negro about Black Israel.

  “Would you object to my asking you one or two questions?”

  He stood up, leaving the magazine on the seat behind him. “No, suh. You can ask me any question. That’s one of the things I’m here for, to answer questions.”

  “My question has nothing to do with your job, but it’s important to me. Is there anywhere we can go to talk?”

  “We can go to the vestibule, suh. There’s nobody out there just now.”

  He followed me out to the vestibule, where the spring wind swept in through the open halves of the doors.

  “My name’s Drake,” I said, and held out my hand.

  He regarded it with cautious impassivity, as if it were a gift whic
h might explode in his face. Then he took it perfunctorily, withdrawing his hand quickly as if from a trap. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Drake, suh. Mah name’s Edwards, suh.”

  He held his speech carefully in the Amos ‘n’ Andy tradition, the slurred speech which whites have learned to expect of Negroes and resent the absence of.

  I realized that I was getting nowhere fast. “Look, Mr. Edwards”—I made the Mister as casual as I could—“I used to work for a newspaper in Detroit, and I’ve always tried to help your race. You’ll have to take my word for that, but it’s true. A few days ago a woman I knew, a Negro woman, was killed in Detroit. I have reason to believe that an organization called Black Israel had something to do with her death. I haven’t been able to find out anything about Black Israel. Can you help me?”

  “I don’t mess with things like that, Mr. Drake. Except for our Brotherhood, I keep myself to myself.”

  “I went to Dr. Wanless at the University of Michigan. He advised me to consult an intelligent Negro.”

  “Professor Wanless? I heard him speak at a meeting in Chicago. He was a fine speaker.” He had begun to use the plain Midwestern English which is natural to a Negro born in the Middle West and educated in the public schools. I felt that his resistance was lowering.

  “I know that Black Israel is a Negro society. I suspect that it’s the kind of thing that intelligent Negroes disapprove of. Can you tell me anything about its purposes and methods?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Drake, but what use are you going to make of anything you find out?”

  “I’ll tell you frankly I don’t know. I do know that the FBI is investigating Black Israel. If I find out anything that they haven’t already learned, I’ll turn the information over to them. You see, I discovered the body of the woman who was killed. The night before she died I heard her mention Black Israel, and I heard a man, another Negro, warn her to keep quiet. I got the impression from what she said that Black Israel was subversive.”

  “So the FBI is after them,” the black man said. “It’s about time.”

  “You have heard of Black Israel, then?”

  “I’ve been approached. But I’ll tell you, Mr. Drake, I wouldn’t touch Black Israel with a ten-foot pole. It started out respectable enough but it went downhill fast. It’s my own opinion that somebody got into it who had an axe to grind. At one time I thought it was the Nazis. That was in forty and forty-one, when Black Israel started to go rotten.”

  “The Nazis? What made you think that?”

  “We had our own investigations, Mr. Drake. Investigations of certain—certain things which threatened to do harm to our cause. There was fascism behind some of the movements which claimed to speak for the Negro in America,—it was strong in Detroit. Our Brotherhood has always looked out for things like that.”

  “But you said you no longer think that the Nazis are behind Black Israel. What made you change your opinion?”

  “The kind of propaganda they used, chiefly. You know the propaganda that some politicians put out whenever the Federal anti-poll-tax bill comes up on the floor of Congress. That the black race is inferior, unfit for political equality, closer to the apes, careless children for the white men to look after and teach to do a few simple chores?”

  I suspected that, consciously or unconsciously, he was quoting from the editorials of the racist press, but his deep voice vibrated with sincerity. He knew what he was talking about, since he had lived intimately with it for forty years.

  “I know the kind of stuff you mean. Surely Black Israel didn’t use that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Drake. That’s the point. Black Israel has the same line, but it’s on the other side of the fence. They’re just as violent for black supremacy as the Southern politicians are for white supremacy. Their line is that the day of the white races is over, and the colored races are coming into their own. It’s a line that appeals to the unconscious desires of a good many people of my race, but all it can lead to is trouble. That’s what the Nazis want, of course, but I can’t imagine Hitlerites supporting propaganda for black supremacy.”

  “I don’t know. Their motto is divide and rule, and they don’t care how they do the dividing.”

  “But they’ve been backing the other corner. I know for a fact that there were fascist agents in some of the violent anti-Negro movements in Detroit. Dr. Wanless confirmed that in his talk on the race riots.”

  “They’re quite capable of playing both ends against the middle. I’ll admit, though, that the Black Israel propaganda you’ve described sounds more like the doctrine the Japs have been using in East Asia.”

  “That’s exactly what I think, Mr. Drake. I’ve done some reading about the Japanese line in Burma, and this smells like a fish out of the same barrel.”

  “Do you know anything about the leaders of Black Israel?”

  “They stay in the dark. Black Israel is a secret society. I’ve been approached—I told you that. I’ve listened to their come-on speech and I’ve read a couple of their pamphlets. That’s all I know.”

  “Who approached you?”

  He had been looking into my face as we talked, holding my attention with intent black eyes. Now he half-turned away and looked out of the open door. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his greying wool in a nervous gesture. Finally he said: “I won’t tell you, Mr. Drake. And if you use the information I gave you, please don’t mention my name.”

  “Black Israel is dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “You said that a woman you knew got killed.”

  “I won’t mention your name. I’m very grateful for what you’ve told me. It was a pleasure to talk to you, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Thank you.” A smile kindled on his lined and rather forbidding face. “Well, I better be getting back to work.” Before he went back into the sleeping car, a definite change took place in him. His large erect torso became somehow amorphous. Meaning went out of his eyes like a snake slipping into its hole. His movements became faintly shifty and apologetic, as if all his intentions were subject to change at a moment’s notice on somebody else’s whim. His personality shrank to fit the smooth black shell which white opinion has hopefully constructed for Negroes to live in. Watching this change, which I had never seen before because I had never before seen anything but the smooth shell, I felt a movement of anger and pity stir at the bottom of my mind. I felt that I had witnessed a partial death.

  But the rest of my mind was vaguely elated. In less than three weeks I had stumbled across three bodies, each of which had seemed to be projected across my path violently and causelessly out of impenetrable darkness. Some of the shadowy horror of that darkness was beginning now to take form, becoming identifiable as a shape of human evil which I could begin to understand. Understanding it, I could fight it. I was determined to fight it. I hated the cause of those ugly deaths as intensely as I would have if Hatcher had been my brother, and the Jewish girl and the Negro woman my sisters.

  Mary came to the door and joined me on the platform. “Mmm,” she said. “I can smell spring in the air.”

  “Aren’t you sick of eternal spring, after those months in Hawaii?”

  “I was when I left, but a few days of northern winter made me homesick for spring again. Maybe I’ll never go north again.”

  “Aren’t your family in Cleveland?”

  “Oh, yes. But they can come south. I really think that’s what we’ll do. What were you talking about with the porter?”

  “I wrecked my blues last night. He’s going to clean and press them for me.”

  “I like you in greys. It took you a long time to persuade him, didn’t it?”

  “Oh, we got to talking. I’ve always been interested in the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters.”

  Later that day, when she would have less reason to connect my theory with my conversation with the porter, I brought up the subject of Sue Sholto’s death.

  “I don’t believe Sue Sholto committed suicide,” I said. “I made some
inquiries in Detroit before we left, and I found out that Black Israel is a violent and subversive organization. I believe that Hector Land belonged to it, and that his wife Bessie had learned a good deal about it, perhaps enough to put the finger on one or more of its leaders. Hector himself may be one of its leaders. In any case, I’m reasonably certain that Bessie Land was killed to keep her from talking. It’s barely possible that she was frightened into killing herself, but if so, somebody connected with Black Israel frightened her.”

  “You started to say something about poor Sue,” Mary said. She spoke as if the memory was painful to her, and I remembered the terrible jangling which Sue’s death had given her nerves. “What has Bessie Land to do with Sue?”

  “I’m becoming more and more convinced that they were killed for similar reasons, if not by the same person, by the same organization. Don’t forget that Hector Land is associated with both killings, and he is definitely a Black Israelite.”

  “That’s true,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he killed Sue after all. But why?”

  “Certainly not for the reason Mrs. Merriwell gave. Her accusation was a red herring which really served to protect him by confusing the issue. Can’t you think of a reason? I know you feel loyal to Sue’s memory, but can’t you think of anything which would connect her with Hector Land? You saw her every day.”

  “Sue lived a quite simple, ordinary life. She had love affairs, but you knew that. She wasn’t promiscuous, she was monandrous while it lasted. Of course she was a Communist, but I don’t see what that could have to do with it.”

  “She was a Communist?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that she had a party card. Nothing like that, so far as I knew. She had Communistic views on some things, that’s all. Perhaps I should have called her a fellow-traveller.”

  “What things?”

  “Government ownership of heavy industry, the race question, things like that.”

  “She did, eh? Why on earth didn’t you tell me that before?”