Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes Page A

“Give.”
    Kit didn’t know whether or not to tell the truth. He decided yes. He wasn’t afraid but if anything should happen to him—it wouldn’t, but just in case—no sense letting Wobblefoot go unquestioned. He said curtly, “I was following that man.”
    “Up the fire escape?”
    “No.” He wouldn’t go into those ramifications again. “I got in the only way possible for me.”
    “Who is this mysterious guy?” Tobin was skeptical. It was in his nostrils, in his acceptance of the manila folder.
    Kit spoke belligerently against that wall of indifference. “I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face. I know how he walks, that’s all. Splay-footed with the wobbles.”
    Tobin didn’t even look up. “José Andalusian was alone.”
    Kit said more belligerently, “The coppers didn’t search the rooms. They asked questions outside the doors.”
    The inspector slapped the folder together. He did it a second time. “Give.”
    “What do you want?”
    Tobin’s eyes were hard as the muscles under his too tight blue suit. “This guy?”
    “I didn’t see him. I heard him go down again.” He shook his head angrily. He wouldn’t let his throat gulp again when he mentioned that sound. He was the strong one now. He brazened, “I decided to pick a time when the cops weren’t around. I didn’t see him.” His voice faltered without reason. “I’ve never seen him.”
    Moore asked mildly, “Then you screamed down the fire escape?”
    Kit said nothing.
    “Was that the only way you could get out?” Tobin’s mouth was a lemon rind.
    Kit said slowly, truthfully, “It seemed the safest way.”
    The Inspector yawned. “What’d you come down here for? Want us to put a tail on your mystery man?”
    He asked cautiously, “Did Louie ever mention him?”
    “How would I know?” Tobin flipped the papers. “Give him a tag and I’ll tell you.”
    He tried to be patient. “I tell you I don’t know his name.” No name had ever been given him. He was very careful not to permit his stomach to turn over again. “Did—did Louie ever speak of a man who walked—like that?”
    Tobin moved slowly to his revolving chair. He put his heels on the desk. “Louie didn’t go in for fairy tales. He wasn’t a college man.”
    Kit’s jaw was rock. Just flip Louie off like that. He wouldn’t come back to Tobin again; he wouldn’t ask the question now he’d come to ask. He’d never find out here how she’d accomplished it, how Toni Donne could have pushed Louie out a window. The police were too sure that Louie had jumped. He turned his back and started away.
    Tobin drawled, “Thought you wanted to ask some questions?”
    He swung his heels. “How’s this one? Why do Louie’s folks blame you cops for what happened?” That one shook them up. Tobin’s heels came noiselessly to the floor and Moore’s face was blank as a new griddle.
    Tobin shouted, “Do you mean to stand there and tell me—”
    “They say it was the cops.” He walked out. Let them sneer that one over. He wouldn’t ask them any more questions. Not even what happened to the stuff in Louie’s pockets. He was sick of questions and lies. He’d do it on his own. He’d ask Momma about Louie’s pockets. He’d get the yarn of Louie’s fall from Toni Donne herself.
    He wouldn’t mind having a look at Det’s library. If she were out.
    She wasn’t. She looked too old. She’d been resting; her hair was disturbed; she didn’t apologize for her man’s gray robe.
    He said, “I didn’t mean to bother you—”
    “You’re no bother. I’m tired these days. I left the shop early. I have to go out tonight.” She was wary. “Is this, a call or is it something you want of me?”
    He wouldn’t pretend with her. He said, “I’d like to see where Louie—”
    She looked older. “Come along, Kit.” The library was nicer than Geoffrey’s, more comfort, and the books were less austere and proud. She said tiredly, “That window,” and sat down