I needed to talk to Katherine Goodfellowe again, but instinct said to wait. I had to be prepared before seeing her. I had to have as much information as possible.
Despite all the hoopla and hype as the hunt for Kelly heated up, the articles contained very little real information beyond the fact that Powell and Kelly had been childhood friends. They did mention, however, that Kelly had an older sister. Her name was Katie Jones and she was adamant about her brother’s innocence.
She lived in a five-flight walkup on Larchmont Avenue in the Bronx. The next day, I climbed the stairs to a dusky hallway, located Apartment 29 and rang the bell. A petite blonde answered. She opened the door without even asking me to identify myself. Amazing. In a city with as much crime as New York City, most people, not just women, exercise caution before opening the door to the unknown. Yet here she was, looking at me with open curiosity.
But all that changed seconds later.
When I identified myself and explained that I wanted to ask about her brother, her face closed and she nearly slammed the door shut. I put a hand out to stop her.
“Please. I’m not here to write anything bad about him.”
She looked me up and down. “What’s a spade doing writing anything about him at all?”
“I’m actually doing a piece on Esther Sue Todd.”
“Who’s she?”
“Name doesn’t sound familiar? About three years ago, she disappeared.”
“Yeah? And what’s that got to do with Bobby?”
“Don’t know that it does. But it might.”
For a moment, perplexity overtook suspicion, but then suspicion surged back.
“You trying to make Bobby responsible for something else that happened?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You reporters—you disgust me.” She made to swing the door shut.
“Listen, I’m giving you a chance, fair and square, to set the record straight. Nobody else did that before, did they?”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “What paper did you say you were working for? I ain’t never heard of no Negro reporters.”
“I work for a colored paper. The Harlem Chronicle.”
“Never heard of it. Who reads it?”
“Quite a few people.”
“Folks that matter?”
“White folks, you mean?”
“Ain’t that the only kind worth mentioning?”
I made an effort to check my temper. “All I can say is this: Once something gets into print, good or bad, it has a way of finding readers, and influencing belief. It doesn’t always matter whether the folks who did the writing were black or white. What does matter is that it gets written down in black and white.”
She gave me two seconds of cool appraisal. Then she stepped back and gestured for me to enter.
I walked into a small, square vestibule with a chipped green-and-white-checked tile floor, dingy mint green wallpaper and a painted tin ceiling. Nothing of Christmas cheer here. A beat-up table with playing cards sat to one side. There was a chair, too, and a pencil and pad. The setup reminded me of a hotel. One article had mentioned that Katie Jones worked at the Sunset Arms, a small lower East Side establishment that catered to the one-hour trade. She led me to a tiny living room. It was boxy, with cheap furniture and a scratched dirty wood floor.
I smelled the cat before I saw it. I like cats, but this one made me nervous. Torn ear, one eye sealed shut with dried yellow pus, the other a baleful green. Tattered dirty white fur and about the size of a small terrier.
The cat was taking up the one halfway comfortable looking seat in the room and Jones shooed the animal away. The beast sprang down with an angry yowl. Jones kicked it. The cat hissed and raised a paw to strike. Jones gave the animal a look that would’ve frozen a snake. The cat dropped its paw, flicked its tail with what dignity it could muster and stalked out. At the door, it paused, favored each of us with one evil last look and then exited.
“Don’t take Lucifer seriously,” Jones said.
“Lucifer? His name is Lucifer?”
“It’s a she.”
Right.
She sat in Lucifer’s chair and motioned for me to take a seat on the sofa. The sofa was covered with animal hair. It was also low and slumped in the middle. I perched on the edge, knowing that if I relaxed and slid backward I’d have a heck of a time getting up.
“Now you say you’re writing about somebody else—not Bobby?”
“I’m working on a column about a woman named Esther Todd. She was a pianist, a protégée of Mrs. Katherine Goodfellowe. I was wondering if your brother knew her.”
“I don’t know if he did or didn’t.”
“You never heard him mention her name?”
“She a spade?”
“Yes,” I said, bristling but trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “She’s a dark-skinned individual.”
Jones shook her head. “My brother don’t have no truck with spades. Me, I ain’t got nothing against you people. But my brother can’t stand your kind.”
That might’ve been true. He might’ve avoided blacks in the light of day. But that didn’t mean he avoided them under cover of night.
“Did Mr. Powell or your brother ever speak of a man named Sexton Whitfield?”
“Nope. Who is he?”
“Never mind. Do you have a picture of him?”
“My brother? Wait a minute.”
The only picture I’d seen of Bobby Kelly was a newspaper photo at the library. That photo was grainy and shadowed. I hoped Jones’s photo would be of better quality. I also hoped that by asking her for it and showing a bit of sympathetic interest, I’d soften her up.
She was back in a minute. The photo was no bigger than the palm of my hand, but it was clear and crisp. Bobby Kelly was in his early thirties, but had a baby face, dark curly hair, broad shoulders and the face of a youngster, with a dimpled chin.
“Nice looking,” I said and handed back the photo.
“Thanks. I keep thinking about him out there alone, scared. Too scared to even call me.”
“He got anybody other than you?”
She shook her head, gazed at the photograph for a moment, and then eyed me. “You one of them people say my brother had something to do with Eric’s death?”
“Did he?”
“’Course not. Bobby and Eric were friends from way back. We grew up together. Bobby worshipped Eric. Followed him around like a puppy. Did everything Eric ever told him to do.”
She dropped the photo on the coffee table and grabbed up her pack of cigarettes. “One time, Eric stole a box of cigs from Jimmy Lean’s grocery store. He took Bobby behind the woodshed to smoke them. Bobby had asthma. He knew he shouldna been smoking. Eric knew it too, but it didn’t matter.”
She lit herself a cigarette, shook out the match and inhaled deeply. “Bobby got real sick. Had to be taken to the hospital. Cops showed up, wanted to know where they got those cigarettes. Eric must’ve told Bobby to lie and Bobby did. Said he took him. Bobby was only nine. Sheriff knew he was lying, but he couldn’t do nothing. So they both got off scot-free. Bobby hurt Eric? Hmph, he wouldna never laid a hand on him. Woulda died for him first.”
She exhaled a stream of smoke. “The cops keep asking me if I know where he is—like I’d really tell if I did.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout where he is. I just hope he stays there till they find out who did it. Or at least, till they know he didn’t.”
“Did Bobby ever tell you about Eric having enemies?”
She gave a short humorless laugh. “He didn’t have to. Everybody knew about Eric, everybody but that high-sidity wife of his. I told Bobby to get away from Eric. I warned him, ‘Eric’s dangerous. He’s crossed the wrong people.’ But Bobby wouldn’t listen. And when Eric got blown away, some folks made sure Bobby got the blame.”
“You’re saying it was a setup?”
“I know you don’t believe me. Nobody does.” She paused. “Well, one person did. Or made out like he did. But maybe, he was lying, too. He came here, just like you, with promises about clearing Bobby’s name. Got me to talk to him. Then he left and never looked back.”
I frowned. “Who was this?”
She shrugged. “Some writer. Not like you, though.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was a writer, not a reporter.” She tapped her foot. “Look, I think this was a bad idea talking to you.”
“Could you give me his name, the writer?”
“Why?”
“Maybe we can put our heads together. Come up with something.”
She was suspicious, but then shrugged. “Fine. I think I got his card somewhere. You stay right here. Don’t start snooping.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I put my steno book away and she left the room. The minute she walked out, Lucifer skulked back in. Made me wonder whether the cat had been lurking just outside the door. The beast saw me and stopped in its tracks. I didn’t move, just watched it. The cat bared its two little fangs, gave a hiss and walked in an arc around me toward the chair.
“Coward,” I said.
Lucifer gave me one of her evil looks. I thumbed my nose at her, no longer impressed. Jones returned and handed me a little white calling card.
“Tillman Carter,” the card said. “Writer.” There was a phone number.
Carter. The name rang a bell.
“What exactly did he want to talk to you about?”
“Said he was writing a book. He wasn’t really interested in Bobby, though. It was Bobby’s relationship with Eric. He said he was talking to a lot of people who’d known Eric or handled the case: the cops, the medical examiner. I don’t think he got to talk to Mrs. Goodfellowe. He wanted to, but she turned him down flat.”
But he had spoken to her. I remembered now. She’d mentioned him. He’d made charges, she said. Asked questions—apparently, the kind she found highly insulting.
“Anyway, he’s the only one who said he didn’t believe Bobby did it.”
“Did he say why?”
She shook her head. “All I know is, he said he’d get back to me and never did.”
“You didn’t try to contact him?”
“I tried to put a call through, but the operator said the number had been changed and she couldn’t give me the new one. For all I know, he could’ve been lying about everything—just like you.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I think you should go now.”
I thought so, too.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard her call me. I looked back over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
She was standing at the top of the stairs. “If you find this Carter fellow, would you ask him why?”
“Why what?”
“Why he gave me hope, and then took it away.”