“Yes.
Then what?”
“That’s for you to say.”
He could smell the honeysuckle as it bore up the silver slope, and he heard the whippoorwill, liquid, plaintful, reiterant.
“You mean, you know where she is?”
Snopes said nothing.
“And that for a price you’ll tell?”
Snopes said nothing.
Horace shut his hands and put them in his pockets, shut against his flanks.
“What makes you think that information will interest me?”
“That’s for you to judge.
I aint conducting no murder case.
I wasn’t down there at Oxford looking for her.
Of course, if it dont, I’ll dicker with the other party.
I just give you the chance.”
Horace turned toward the steps.
He moved gingerly, like an old man.
“Let’s sit down,” he said.
Snopes followed and sat on the step. They sat in the moonlight.
“You know where she is?”
“I seen her.”
Again he drew his hand across the back of his neck.
“Yes, sir.
If she aint—hasn’t been there, you can git your money back.
I caint say no fairer, can I?”
“And what’s your price?” Horace said.
Snopes puffed the cigar to a careful coal.
“Go on,” Horace said.
“I’m not going to haggle.”
Snopes told him.
“All right,” Horace said.
“I’ll pay it.”
He drew his knees up and set his elbows on them and laid his hands to his face.
“Where is—Wait.
Are you a Baptist, by any chance?”
“My folks is.
I’m putty liberal, myself.
I aint hidebound in no sense, as you’ll find when you know me better.”
“All right,” Horace said from behind his hands.
“Where is she?”
“I’ll trust you,” Snopes said.
“She’s in a Memphis ’ho’-house.”
23
As Horace entered Miss Reba’s gate and approached the lattice door, someone called his name from behind him.
It was evening; the windows in the weathered, scaling wall were close pale squares.
He paused and looked back.
Around an adjacent corner Snopes’ head peered, turkey-like.
He stepped into view.
He looked up at the house, then both ways along the street.
He came along the fence and entered the gate with a wary air.