The Expendable Man (16 page)

Hugh explained it. “Our own would believe me. She wants someone who would doubt.”

Edward thought about it. “She could be right, she could be mistaken. Either way you're bound to come out all right. You've done nothing wrong.”

“I wonder.” Hugh walked to the window and looked out at the black green of the lawn. “I did something foolish. And that was wrong. I let my sympathy rule my judgment when I picked her up.” He changed the subject abruptly, asking what he had to ask. “Have you ever been approached to do an abortion, Edward?”

“Of course I have.” Anxiety had gone from Edward's voice; he was on familiar ground.

It hadn't been something in Hugh then, something a girl like Iris could discern.

“I suppose most doctors are asked at some time or other,” Edward went on. “Certainly ours are. I doubt if any of them can escape that.” His face was thoughtful. “One thing I'll say, Hugh, and it's God's truth. I've never been approached by any of our people. Only by the ofays.”

The ugly word was incongruous on Edward's lips.

“Somehow they seem to think that a Negro doctor lacks morality. They become so surprised, almost affronted, when they're turned down. More coffee?”

Hugh said, “I'll get it,” returning for his cup.

Edward poured for both of them, continuing, “You'd think they would realize that only a family of better than average economic status, Negro or white, can afford to educate a son medically. Which would rule out bribery.”

Hugh lifted his shoulders. “You can't expect the kind of person who comes to you for that reason to be overly intelligent.”

“Strangely enough some of them are. Some I've met up with. In their own world, that is. It's only when they come to the dark side that their ignorance shows up.”

“They've been taught,” Hugh quoted without rancor.

“Yes.” Edward smiled reassuringly at Hugh. “Don't let it linger with you. I'm surprised you haven't been asked it before now; interns and students are always considered fair game.” He put his head back on the pillows, remembering. “One of the fellows I knew at medical school, a white, although he could have been a Negro, no race has any lien on morality—anyhow, this fellow made enough for all his office equipment before he started practice. He's an important Chicago doctor today.”

“I don't see how anyone educated in the meaning and purpose of medicine could.”

“There are amoralists in any profession.” Edward put down his cup and lit a cigarette. “I wish you'd told me about this when it happened. I would have reported it to our medical association.”

“I couldn't. You see that, don't you? I couldn't spoil Clytie's wedding. Even now—” Hugh said desperately, “Only because I must have your help.”

Edward's head lifted sharply.

“I must have the names of the abortionists in and around the city. I've got to find the man or woman who did it. The police won't. They have me.”

For too long Edward didn't speak. Then he said, “I don't know that I've heard of any cases for some time now. I suppose Mahm Gitty is still at it. She's never been caught yet. She's an old crone who's been a registered midwife for some fifty years. She has a made-to-order alibi whenever she's brought in.”

“How do I find her?”

“She's always lived in the Three Oaks district south of town. She hasn't any regular base, she moves from one cousin's shack to another. They're all
primos
in that neighborhood. I've heard the police say that the only way to find her is to poke around the district asking questions. But be careful. They don't like strangers asking questions in Three Oaks.”

Hugh said, “There must be others.”

“I'll try to get some other names tomorrow. It isn't an easy subject to approach, yet with this girl's death, there will doubtless be plenty of talk going around. I'll do what I can, Hugh.”

Hugh moved to the door. All at once he was leaden-tired. Edward must be beyond exhaustion. “One more thing. Don't let the family know anything about this. Please.”

Edward spoke quietly. “You may not be able to keep it much longer, Hugh.”

“There's no need to worry them yet.” Wishing he could hope, he insisted, “It might be they will never have to know.”

“I hope so, Hugh. But if they do”—he smiled gently—“they can take it.”

There was no opportunity for further words. A nurse rapped and flung open the door; in muted excitement she said, “Can you come now, Dr. Willis? Number One seems to be ready.”

Hugh took himself down in the elevator. The nun was no longer at the desk. The receptionist didn't speak to him.

When he was nearing the motel, he passed a police cruiser headed in the opposite direction. For a moment he thought it was Ringle at the wheel. But the car continued east; in his rear-view mirror he watched it disappear.

No further messages had been insinuated under his door. He was asleep when his head touched the pillow.

Ellen's voice on the telephone was as bright as the slant of the sun dividing the drapes on the lanai windows. “I let you sleep as long as I could.” His watch hands read quarter to ten. She was speaking with an eager carelessness, girl to boy, in case anyone was listening. “Do you want to come out and get me? I'm moving to The Palms.”

“I'll be there as soon as I check out.” He tried to shunt his voice out of sleep. “Do we have an appointment in town?”

“Noon. So don't be too long.”

“I won't.” He groaned out of bed, showered and dressed before packing his suitcases. After the shower, he was awake. When he was ready to leave, he called the desk. “This is Dr. Densmore in 126. Will you have my bill ready? I'm checking out.”

He loaded the car and drove over to the office. He hoped there would be no difficulty about a check, he didn't have fifty cents in his pocket.

The clerk on duty was an attractive woman with prematurely gray hair. “I caused you an unnecessary trip, Dr. Densmore. When I looked up your bill, I realized that you were Dr. Willis' guest. I'm sorry.”

He'd settle with Edward later—Edward, who thought of everything, even the possible financial status of an intern. Edward, who must by some miracle come up with the right name. He thanked the woman and went out to the car. He didn't leave a forwarding address. Temporarily, the unknown man would be balked in his harassment.

As he waited for traffic to subside in order to wheel into Van Buren, he wondered if the woman had spoken the truth or had purposely created a delay to give her time to report his departure to the police. Well, they already knew. He decided he believed her words. It wasn't a good habit to be suspicious of all motives.

Time was passing too quickly. He could move in on the grand-parents later, right now he'd better get Ellen. He anticipated conversation with his mother and Stacy but Ellen was alone, her two small cases in the hallway. She was wearing the same dark silk she'd changed to last night.

“Where is everybody?”

“They went to town to see the Bents off.” She pulled on a frost-white glove. “I left the big suitcase for you. It's in Clytie's bedroom.”

He fetched it and locked all the luggage in the trunk. With her beside him, he started back to The Palms. “What excuse did you give for staying on in Phoenix?”

She shrugged slightly. “Only that I'd decided to rest up for a few days.” She was a direct girl. “They think it's because you're staying over.”

“It is,” he said bluntly. But not what they thought. His anger, at her being held here by his trouble, was near the surface.

She sensed it and diverted the subject. “I had a battle to move to the motel. But I'm firm.”

He managed a smile. “You're an army with banners flying.” He didn't want to talk about the trouble, but after all that was the only reason they were together this morning. “I take it we have an appointment with a lawyer at noon.”

“Yes, he's giving up his lunch hour to see us. My father had spoken to him before he called me. He seems to think it's a good sign that Mr. Houston would make that concession. Everyone Father questioned gave the same name as first choice, so it would seem he's the lawyer we're looking for. Skye Houston. Incidentally he pronounces it the proper old way, ‘Howston.' His office is in that ancient bank building across from the courthouse.”

Hugh acknowledged the information with an inclination of his head.

“Now if we can only convince him he should take your case.”

“It's not settled?” In his alarm, Hugh almost missed the turn into The Palms.

Ellen explained, “A lawyer doesn't take a case until he has first heard the facts, Hugh.”

“I've plenty to learn,” he acknowledged. “Do you want to go inside or register from the car?”

“I'll go in. And I think you should go with me. To make it quite normal and free from any indication of hanky-panky.” She didn't have to explain that in a courtroom a prosecutor would utilize the meanest fact.

The same agreeable woman was at the registration desk. “Back again the same day?”

Hugh gave her what he hoped was a carefree smile. “Giving a lift to Miss Hamilton. She's been staying at my sister's.”

The woman turned the registry card toward Ellen. “I know. Mrs. Willis called me about it.”

Ellen's immaculately gloved hand filled in the card.

The woman glanced at it and handed over the key. “I'm afraid the room isn't made up yet, Miss Hamilton.” She smiled her eyes at Hugh. “The previous guest just checked out. But we haven't any other space unreserved right now.”

It was a lie and they all knew it was a lie, but there was no rancor among them. This clerk couldn't cancel the system; her genuine friendliness was her contribution toward eroding it. Five years ago she wouldn't have had a vacant unit; ten years ago she would have said, “We don't take Negroes,” if any had had the courage or spunk to inquire.

She said, “I'll send a maid around right away.”

Ellen told her, “There's no hurry. I have a luncheon date in town.”

He drove Ellen around to the now familiar door. He carried in her bags and they continued on toward town.

There were no meter parkings open near the courthouse; he hadn't expected otherwise, not at high noon downtown. He drove on First Avenue until he found a parking lot. Until they started walking back, he hadn't actually felt the day's heat. It could have been more than the heat affecting him. His uneasiness over meeting the lawyer throbbed in his temples. He wondered if the Judge had mentioned that Hugh was a Negro, or if when you reached Judge Hamilton's position such subtleties wouldn't occur to you. And he wondered if Ellen had this latent fear when meeting someone new. With her background, it wouldn't seem to be something she had to face, yet how could she escape it entirely? The quickening in the eyes, the certain intonation of the voice, the unspoken awareness: you are black. Even if you were brown or beige or lightly sun-tanned.

The building they approached must surely have been a relic of territorial days. The red brick was weathered to rose, the stone facings were gray not white. There was a secure feeling about its age; it had endured. They entered through the First Avenue door. There was no elevator, only an old uncarpeted stairway leading up and up. Silently they climbed it to the fourth, the top, floor. It was three minutes to twelve when they reached the top, winded, and followed the worn boards of the corridor to the door whose frosted pane was lettered:
SKYE HOUSTON, ATTY-AT-LAW
. Beneath the legend was another in smaller letters:
Aqui, Se Habla Españnol
.

Ellen murmured, “
¿Inglés, también?
” as she opened the door. Somehow the absurdity relaxed him and he followed her inside as if he were sure of welcome.

The outer office was minuscule. It resembled a territorial government office, the kind you could see in old engravings. Against the wall was a battered black oak bench with spool back and narrow arms. Behind a low railing with swinging gate were two enormous golden-oak desks, staggered in placement to leave a narrow aisle leading to the interoffice door. There was no switchboard, only a phone on each desk. The surface of one was cluttered, the other neat, which must indicate the dispositions of the two secretaries. Neither of them was in the room. The sun blazed through two long, narrow windows, looking out on the courthouse across. There was an air-conditioning box on one window ledge, otherwise the cubicle would have been stifling. Even with the box, the room was too warm.

Hugh indicated the telephones. “Should we ring him?”

While he spoke, the twelve-o'clock whistle could be heard faintly through the windows. And the inner door was opened. The tall man in the doorway said, “Hamilton and Densmore?”

Ellen smiled, Hugh inclined his head.

“Come in.” He'd known what they were, there'd been no flicker in his eyes. His face was without expression as he stood aside for them to pass through the doorway into his private office.

It was a corner room, looking out on both Washington and First Avenue. It was of old-fashioned dimensions, spacious, particularly in contrast to the anteroom. It gave a comfortable impression, deep leather chairs and couch in dark brown leather, worn in places to chestnut. Old documents rather than the ubiquitous western paintings of this country were framed on the dark paneled walls. The recessed bookshelves were crammed haphazardly, not alone with law books. A large Navajo rug of browns and grays and whites lay on the modern cork-tile flooring. The massive desk, which might have been of walnut, was too old for one to be sure. It must have been hand-hewn in the room, it would never have gone through the narrow doorways. The chair behind the desk was oversize, cushioned in flaking leather. There was no cooling system; overhead two old-fashioned ceiling fans revolved slowly. Yet the room seemed cool.