the middle of the soiled rug and watched the man close the door
through which the boy had gone.
"That Charley," said George
Parks. "I've got five head and it's like to drive me crazy."
"You hired a colored woman to search
my room at the hotel," Branch said.
"I figured you was Branch," the other man said. He groped in his pocket for a cigarette which
he put into his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I did." The
cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke. "She tell you?"
"I caught her at it."
"Damned nigger woman," George
Parks said without heat. "Don't none of them have
any brains."
"What's the big idea?" Branch
asked.
"Wanted to know if she was
coming," the smaller man said. "Don't want no trouble around here."
"How did you find out about it?"
"I heard."
"Who told you?"
George Parks lighted his cigarette,
cupping his hands about it as if a wind was generally blowing when he lighted
cigarettes. He threw the match at the fireplace.
"I heard," he said without
expression.
Branch stood in the middle of the room,
looking down at him, and knew that he would never learn anything from this man.
He did not have what it took to impress George Parks or outwit him. He looked
at the sallow, boneless, unshaven face a little unhappily.
"I've got her suitcase," he
said. "You know as much as I do whether she's coming to get it. She didn't
tell me.... So don't send any more people digging in my closet, will you?"
As he turned away, the other not speaking, he saw lying in the deep round chair
in the corner, a tan leather camera case with the word Leica stamped on the cover. He walked across the porch and down to the road quickly
and away from the house, suppressing the desire to glance back at the upper
windows.
8
THE
PANEL TRUCK let him off beyond the bridge, the driver apologizing for not being
able to take him by the hotel. Branch walked rapidly through the thin rain and
felt strangely grateful to see the neat, closely spaced houses, and the stores
and the sidewalks. He always I felt like a tourist in the country: a little
ridiculous to those who lived there.
He found himself relieved to have this
business of George Parks and the colored woman fall into place with the rest of
it. There was only one man to whom an expensive camera such as he had seen
could be attributed: the stocky detective who worked for the big man, Sellers.
I used two Leicas , the detective had said, one for
each film. I ought to get out of here, Branch thought, I ought to get out of here, but quick, before the whole thing closes in on me.
He removed I his cap as he entered the hotel and shook
the rain from the black, waterproof cover and dried his glasses and went to the
desk. The clerk said there was no message. Then he changed his mind and said
there was a message. Branch stood slowly unbuttoning his damp raincoat while
the man searched for the message. He could hear his heart beating.
"A Mr. Haskell," the clerk said.
"A Mr. Frank Haskell, from Evanston, Illinois, was asking for you,
sir."
Haskell, Branch thought,
Janet Haskell. Frank Haskell. "Where is he?"
"Room 227," the clerk said, and
changed his mind again. "No, I thought I saw him go in the bar a minute
ago, sir. He came in on the noon bus."
Branch turned and strode towards the
taproom, suddenly furiously angry with an anger that was partly bewilderment.
He entered the room and walked without looking to either side between the
half-deserted tables to the bar, his open damp coat flapping about him. As he
gave his order he was aware of being joined by a short man with a smooth,
well-fed stoutness and the pink clear skin of a child.
"Lieutenant?"
"Yes," said Branch, watching his
drink approach.
"Your name wouldn't be Branch,
through which the boy had gone.
"That Charley," said George
Parks. "I've got five head and it's like to drive me crazy."
"You hired a colored woman to search
my room at the hotel," Branch said.
"I figured you was Branch," the other man said. He groped in his pocket for a cigarette which
he put into his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I did." The
cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke. "She tell you?"
"I caught her at it."
"Damned nigger woman," George
Parks said without heat. "Don't none of them have
any brains."
"What's the big idea?" Branch
asked.
"Wanted to know if she was
coming," the smaller man said. "Don't want no trouble around here."
"How did you find out about it?"
"I heard."
"Who told you?"
George Parks lighted his cigarette,
cupping his hands about it as if a wind was generally blowing when he lighted
cigarettes. He threw the match at the fireplace.
"I heard," he said without
expression.
Branch stood in the middle of the room,
looking down at him, and knew that he would never learn anything from this man.
He did not have what it took to impress George Parks or outwit him. He looked
at the sallow, boneless, unshaven face a little unhappily.
"I've got her suitcase," he
said. "You know as much as I do whether she's coming to get it. She didn't
tell me.... So don't send any more people digging in my closet, will you?"
As he turned away, the other not speaking, he saw lying in the deep round chair
in the corner, a tan leather camera case with the word Leica stamped on the cover. He walked across the porch and down to the road quickly
and away from the house, suppressing the desire to glance back at the upper
windows.
8
THE
PANEL TRUCK let him off beyond the bridge, the driver apologizing for not being
able to take him by the hotel. Branch walked rapidly through the thin rain and
felt strangely grateful to see the neat, closely spaced houses, and the stores
and the sidewalks. He always I felt like a tourist in the country: a little
ridiculous to those who lived there.
He found himself relieved to have this
business of George Parks and the colored woman fall into place with the rest of
it. There was only one man to whom an expensive camera such as he had seen
could be attributed: the stocky detective who worked for the big man, Sellers.
I used two Leicas , the detective had said, one for
each film. I ought to get out of here, Branch thought, I ought to get out of here, but quick, before the whole thing closes in on me.
He removed I his cap as he entered the hotel and shook
the rain from the black, waterproof cover and dried his glasses and went to the
desk. The clerk said there was no message. Then he changed his mind and said
there was a message. Branch stood slowly unbuttoning his damp raincoat while
the man searched for the message. He could hear his heart beating.
"A Mr. Haskell," the clerk said.
"A Mr. Frank Haskell, from Evanston, Illinois, was asking for you,
sir."
Haskell, Branch thought,
Janet Haskell. Frank Haskell. "Where is he?"
"Room 227," the clerk said, and
changed his mind again. "No, I thought I saw him go in the bar a minute
ago, sir. He came in on the noon bus."
Branch turned and strode towards the
taproom, suddenly furiously angry with an anger that was partly bewilderment.
He entered the room and walked without looking to either side between the
half-deserted tables to the bar, his open damp coat flapping about him. As he
gave his order he was aware of being joined by a short man with a smooth,
well-fed stoutness and the pink clear skin of a child.
"Lieutenant?"
"Yes," said Branch, watching his
drink approach.
"Your name wouldn't be Branch,
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