But it didn’t work that way.
Earl stopped for no apparent reason and stared directly at Ingram. For an instant he didn’t seem to recognize him; then his mouth fell open slowly and an almost comical expression of confusion and anger spread over his face. The cigarette he had been raising stopped short a few inches from his lips, and his whole body became tense and rigid; he stood facing them like a figure carved from stone, his eyes flicking warily from Ingram to the sheriff.
The fool, Ingram thought despairingly. Why didn’t he drift along, pretend not to notice them…
The sheriff was staring straight ahead, moving with measured, deliberate strides, seemingly unaware of Earl’s intent appraisal; but Ingram felt the man’s fingers tighten around his arm, clamping there like bands of iron.
As they passed, Earl turned and looked after them, his body motionless in the busy traffic, the cigarette burning unnoticed in his dry lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EARL STARTED after them until they turned left at the next intersection; and then he swore softly and flipped his cigarette into the street. The colored guy had got himself into some kind of trouble, ruined all their careful planning; now they were all in trouble.
Earl knew he must find out what had happened, and then decide what to do next; there was no time to contact Novak. But the responsibility didn’t worry him; his fury at Ingram crowded everything else from his mind. He walked toward the intersection, sustained and nourished by anger. A hard smile touched his mouth as he moved through the nighttime shoppers, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his overcoat.
The sheriff’s office was located in a one-story red-brick building a half block from the main street of Crossroads. A graveled driveway bordered by evergreens led up to the doorway, and encircled a small park in front of the building. In the quiet lobby Earl removed his hat and smoothed down his hair. The place was more like a respectable office than a jail, he thought, glancing around curiously. Carpeted floors, hunting prints on the walls, a rubber plant in a little reception room by the front windows. On a cork-surfaced bulletin board there was a notice of a Boy Scout meeting, and a large colored poster announcing a clothing drive by the School Improvement Society.
The look and feel of the place reassured him; this was village law and order, he thought, polite and dumb, everybody half asleep as they went around looking for chicken thieves or out-of-season gunners. To his left was an office separated from the lobby by a wooden counter. He saw a trooper working there in an atmosphere of filing cabinets, bulletin boards and telephones, the clear bright illumination shining on his serious face. The trooper sat with his back to the closed door of another office, frowning intently at a sheaf of papers on his desk.
Earl had no plan. But he had to find out what had happened to Ingram. The other office belonged to the sheriff, he guessed. Ingram was in there with him now; he could hear a murmur of voices beyond the thin partition, and he recognized the colored man’s anxious, diffident accents.
The trooper glanced up from his reports. “What can I do for you?”
Earl smiled and put his big hands on the counter. “I’m wondering if you could tell me the best way over to New York.”
“Sure thing.” The trooper took a map folder from the drawer of his desk and came over to the counter. “Take the main street out of Crossroads. Follow the signs to the Delaware Memorial Bridge.” He spread the map out on the counter, and indicated the route with a pencil. “Here we are in Crossroads. You just follow those bridge signs, and they’ll take you straight to the Jersey Turnpike. There’s no way to miss it.”
“It looks simple enough. Thanks a lot.” Earl smiled at the young trooper. “You the sheriff or constable here?”
“No, just a deputy.”
“You got a nice little town. Nice and quiet.”
“We try to keep it that way.”
Earl’s smile became insinuating. “I saw lots of colored people around. Don’t they keep you busy?”
The trooper didn’t return his smile. “Most of them were born and raised right here. There’s no reason for them to cause trouble.”
“Well, I saw a trooper bringing one in just ahead of me. I thought it was a regular thing.”
“There’s no charge against him,” the trooper said shortly. “He’s new in town and the sheriff just wants to talk with him.”
“Oh, I see,” Earl said, still smiling faintly. “Well, that’s a pretty good idea. Have a little talk with them right at the start. That makes sense.”
The trooper folded the map decisively. “Anything else, mister?”
“No, nothing at all,” Earl said. “Thanks very much.” In the shelter of the doorway, Earl lighted a cigarette and pulled his collar up about his throat. The snow had turned into a hard, purposeful rain that pounded on the wet, black streets with a sound like that of distant machine-gun fire. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was nearly seven o’clock. Just one hour left…
Pulling down his hat brim, he strode across the street and stepped into a doorway that provided some shelter from the gusting wind and rain. He threw away his sodden cigarette and shoved his hands into his pockets. In the wet, cold darkness he settled down to wait for Ingram…
Twenty minutes passed before the colored man came hurrying down the graveled path, his collar turned up against the rain and a lumpy suitcase swinging from his hand.
Earl moved out of the doorway and angled swiftly across the shining street, cutting away the distance between them with long, powerful strides. The rain muffled his footsteps as he came up behind Ingram and said sharply, “Don’t turn around, Sambo. Keep moving.”
The side street was dimly lighted and the occasional pedestrians paid no attention to them, hurrying past with eyes on the ground, and chins hidden under turned-up coat collars. “What did he want?” Earl said. He was half a stride behind Ingram, close enough to see the rain on his brown cheek, and the nerve twitching at the corner of his mouth. “What did he want? Start talking.”
“How long I planned to stay in town, what I worked at—that’s all.” Ingrain’s voice was shrill with fear. “But he got my name. I had to give him my name. You hear? He got my name.”
“I’ll be waiting for you up in my hotel room.”
“I can’t—didn’t you hear? He knows me.”
“You do what I tell you, Sambo. God help you if you don’t.”
Earl quickened his strides, passing Ingram without bothering to wait for an answer. On the main street he headed for his hotel, dodging occasionally to avoid the umbrellas wielded by women bumping and burrowing along like moles through the wet crowds. Without looking to see if Ingram was following him, he turned into his hotel and went quickly up to his room. He snapped on the lights and put his wet overcoat on the back of a chair. If he doesn’t show, Earl thought, if he rats out on us… The .38 Novak had given him was comfortable weight in the pocket of his suit coat. Just let him try, he thought, taking out the gun and hefting it in his big hand.
He put the gun away when he heard footsteps on the landing. Smiling faintly he pulled open the door. Ingram stood staring at him with wide, frightened eyes, his small body looking drenched and miserable in the drafty hallway.
“Come on in,” Earl said. “Move, damn it.”
Ingram stepped quickly inside and put his suitcase on the floor. “It’s wet, man, really wet.” His teeth were chattering and his voice sounded high and foolish in his ears. “Never saw anything like this before.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring about the room with quick, nervous eyes. “Really crazy, eh?”
“Yeah, it’s wet,” Earl said. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Ingram. “It’s wet because it’s raining, Sambo. Do you understand that?”
“I understand,” Ingram said. “You’re coming in nice and clear.”
“All right. We can skip the weather. How did you get mixed up with the law?”
“I was in a card game that ended in a fight. The sher
iff came along and took me in.” Ingram wet his lips, remembering the powerful feel of the sheriff’s hand on his arm. “He wanted to know what kind of job I was looking for, where I was going to live, stuff like that.” Ingram hesitated. “He treated me all right,” he said, prodded by Earl’s watchful silence. “He gave me the name of the hiring boss out at the mushroom farms, and told me where I could find a room. With a woman named Baker, I think he said.”
“Well, isn’t that nice?” Earl said dryly. “What else did he want to know?”
“He asked me where I learned about cards, and I told him I just picked it up here and there.”
“Why was he interested in that?”
“There was somebody cheating in the game. I had to call him out to save my own hide.”
“Judas priest!” Earl said explosively. “You were supposed to come into town and stay nice and quiet. Instead you hit here like a circus parade. Get in a fight, get yourself arrested. Is that your idea of staying nice and quiet?”
Ingram smiled nervously, knowing he couldn’t explain any of it to the Texan. The man’s mind was made up against him, sealed tight. “It just happened,” he said. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Okay, get the stuff out of your suitcase,” Earl said, glancing at his watch. “It’s seven thirty. We start moving in a half hour.”
“Listen, I can’t do it,” Ingram cried. “Don’t you understand? He’s got my name.”
“Why didn’t you give him a phony?”
“I was too scared. He’d have known if I lied to him. He’s like that. And if he got suspicious he might have went through my suitcase and found all that stuff.”
“That’s tough, Sambo,” Earl said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Real tough. You get in a fight, get yourself picked up by the cops, but you don’t have enough brains to give ’em a phony name. That’s real tough for you.”
Ingram smiled shakily. “You got to get somebody else.”
“There isn’t time, Sambo.”
“Well, we got to put the job off for a couple of weeks.”
“We’re ready to roll tonight, Sambo.” He spoke in a flat, empty voice, completely without emotion or inflection. “Burke and Novak are on their way by now. It’s too late to change anything. Get the stuff out of your suitcase.”
“You aren’t listening to me,” Ingram said frantically. “They got my name, don’t you understand? They’ll send it to every cop in the country. They’ll stake out my friends, my family, so I won’t have a prayer. You might as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. You got to get somebody else.”
Earl stood and took the .38 from his pocket. He hefted it slowly in his hand, watching Ingram’s reaction with a cold smile. “Novak gave us a job to do,” he said finally. “So get this, Sambo: we’re going to do it. Just like we planned.” Earl spoke quietly, but his voice was beginning to tremble with emotion. “You understand me? You’re going to do what you came here to do. Otherwise I’ll blow a hole right between your eyes. You believe that, Sambo?”
“You wouldn’t mind doing it, I bet,” Ingram said softly. “It wouldn’t bother you, would it?”
“I didn’t want you on this job, remember. I knew you’d rat out if you got a chance. But you’ll stick—because I’m holding a gun at your head. Now open that suitcase and save your whining for your friends.”
“Well, maybe that’s best,” Ingram said, sighing heavily. “No point depressing strangers with my troubles.” He glanced at Earl’s hard features. “Laugh, clown, laugh—that’s my motto. That’s your philosophy, too, I guess. The smiling Texan—that’s you, man.”
“Don’t bother being cute. Open the suitcase.”
Ingram sighed again and swung the overnight bag onto the bed. He released the catches, raised the lid and removed a folding tray and eight cardboard containers. Earl arranged the containers in rows on the tray, then opened a drawer and lifted out a thermos and a half-dozen cellophane-wrapped sandwiches which he had bought that morning in a town a dozen miles down the highway. While he filled the containers with coffee Ingram put on a waiter’s cap and stiffly starched jacket which he had taken from the suitcase. He adjusted the cap at a rakish angle, and buttoned the f gleaming white jacket tightly about his throat.
“At yo’ service,” he said, clicking his heels together, and bowing obsequiously to Earl. “We aim to please around this heah place.”
“You look fine,” Earl said shortly. “You’re just right for a monkey suit.”
“Thank you kindly,” Ingram murmured, smoothing down the front of the jacket.
The change in the Negro’s manner infuriated Earl, but it also made him feel awkward and uncomfortable; the man was laughing at him, he knew, but what the hell for? That’s what he couldn’t figure out: what was funny about this deal?
“Man, that coffee smells good,” Ingram said, smacking his lips with comical relish. “We got enough to spare a cup for ourselves?”
Earl saw then that Ingram was smiling with an effort; his lips were trembling with fear or cold or something. He turned away, angered and embarrassed by the sight. “If you want some, take it, for God’s sake,” he said. “You might as well get warm.”
He walked to the bay windows and pulled the curtains back with a finger. There was a crowd in the brightly lighted bank, and quite a few shoppers still hurrying up and down the sidewalks. The rain had almost stopped but it looked to him as if the weather was turning colder; he began to wonder about ice forming on the hard-surfaced roads and highways. Well, it would be there for anybody who followed him…
Earl stared down the street at the drugstore. The red neon sign above the doorway threw a circle of crimson light on the blackly shining sidewalk. He glanced at his watch. Just about twenty-five minutes more…
A footstep sounded behind him, and he wheeled quickly and pulled the gun from his pocket. Ingram said, “Hey, man!” in a soft, terrified voice as Earl jammed the gun into his side, almost knocking the container of hot coffee from his hand.
“You just relax,” Earl said, staring at Ingram’s frightened face. “You hear? Just take it nice and easy.”
“Man, you better do the same,” Ingram said, shaking his head slowly. “I was just bringing you some coffee.”
“Never mind about me,” Earl muttered, turning back to the window. “Just stand here and keep your eyes open. When you see Burke, you get ready to move…”
CHAPTER NINE
SHERIFF BURNS BUTTONED UP his long black slicker as he stepped from his small private office. Morgan, his deputy, smiled at him and said, “Good night to be on the way home, if you ask me. It’s pretty miserable, eh?”
Burns looked out the window. The rain was still lashing the sycamores behind his office, although it sounded as if it might be easing off a bit. Adjusting the chin strap of his hat, he glanced at the radio phones that kept Crossroads in direct, round-the-clock contact with the State Police substation five miles down the highway. He didn’t bother answering Morgan’s comment about the weather; Burns didn’t consider the weather a very significant topic just now. He had no prejudice against irrelevant chatter except when it wasted time; most people enjoyed wrapping themselves in cocoons of idle conversation, and he suffered this without really understanding it, victimized somewhat by his essential good humor and tolerance. Still staring at the radio phones, he said, “Who was that in here while I was talking to that colored fellow?”
“Oh—a fellow asking for directions.”
“What did he look like?”
“Let’s see: pretty big, tall and rangy. Black hair, tanned face. Kind of hard-looking.”
“Was he wearing a black overcoat and a brown felt hat?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Morgan knew something was bothering the sheriff. He waited patiently, his expression deliberately impassive; as a six-month rookie he had learned to keep his hero worship under wraps. Burns was just another man, he realized, although there were still times when he felt this judgment was ridiculously i
nadequate. Like saying Everest was just another mountain.
“Did he talk about anything else?” the sheriff said.
Morgan hesitated, reassembling every detail of the conversation. The sheriff always wanted details; nothing was irrelevant in his opinion until it had been proven so. But the conclusions he drew from details frequently bewildered Morgan.
“I got the feeling he didn’t like colored people.” Morgan was encouraged by the sheriff’s thoughtful nod. “He asked if the colored folks here gave us a lot of trouble—just like he’d ask if two and two made four. You know what I mean?”
“Did he happen to mention the colored man in my office?”
“Why, yes he did!” Morgan was excited and surprised. “He saw you bringing him in and he asked if he was in trouble.”
“So?”
“Well—” Morgan hesitated. “I said there was no charge against him.”
“That wasn’t necessary, was it?”
“No—but he got me kind of annoyed.” Morgan punched the space bar of the typewriter in exasperation. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
The sheriff pulled on his gauntlets and said, “Keep your ear close to that speaker tonight. If anything takes the State Police cars away from this area, I want to know about it. Right away. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
At the doorway the sheriff paused and glanced at Morgan with a slight smile. “Don’t blame yourself for being annoyed at that character. I’m getting annoyed with him, too.”
At the corner of Main Street the sheriff paused and glanced up and down the blocks of busy shops, his figure tall and black in the shining slicker. Everything seemed nice and quiet; people hurrying along the wet sidewalks, couples strolling into the movie, merchants making their weekend deposits in the brightly lighted bank, the traffic whizzing through the town in orderly lanes. Crossing on the green light, he stopped beside the bank and stared for a few seconds at the battered blue station wagon that was parked on the side street. It looked like a candidate for a junkyard, but the sheriff knew all about the powerful engine under its hood. Tommy Bailey at the Atlas station had told his boss about it, and the news had drifted casually back to the sheriff. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Lots of people liked to soup-up old cars. Nothing unusual about that. But then the colored man had come to town, a big-city Negro with soft hands and considerable know-how with a deck of cards. And when he’d taken him in for a little talk the tall, dark-haired man who owned that station wagon had popped right in to pump Morgan about it.
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