Free The Dark Farewell by Josh Lanyon

Julian.”
    “Why?”
    But he knew why even before Amy said, “Because of the things he said during his show last night. I
    think they must believe he knows about the murders.”
    Flynn could hear the murmur of voices from the front parlor. “I thought they were in Cairo last week.
    Didn’t the old man show them his train tickets?”
    “He went down to the train depot this morning and I haven’t seen him since,” Amy said. “I’ve had my
    hands full this morning.” She hesitated. “That boy isn’t… He’s not equipped to… Do you think you
    could…?”
    From the parlor he heard a voice say, “You’re some kind of colored, aren’t you?” This, followed by
    Julian’s murmured answer.
    Flynn nodded grimly to Amy and went into the parlor. There was a deputy standing inside the
    doorway, but Flynn said, “I’m representing Mr. Devereux.”
    “Are you a lawyer?”
    Julian was seated on the sofa. He had not even had time to shave before being rousted out of bed. His hair was uncombed. He wore gray flannels and a white T-shirt. He looked thoroughly disreputable as he glanced up hopelessly at Flynn’s entrance. His somber eyes lightened, but he bit his lip and said nothing.
    “Who are you?” the sheriff asked, taking a cigar from his mouth. He was a short man with a big belly, a bushy mustache and mud brown eyes.
    “David Flynn. I’m a reporter for The Atlantic Monthly .”
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    The Dark Farewell
    “A reporter! That’s what we don’t need around here.”
    “But that’s what you’ve got,” Flynn said. “I’m here to make sure this kid’s not being railroaded.”
    “Railroaded! What the hell do you mean railroaded? We’re just asking this young man a few simple
    questions about how he knows things he’s got no business knowing.”
    Julian leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, head in hands. “I don’t know anything,” he groaned. “I
    keep telling you.”
    “You got up in front of three hundred people and told them where Theresa Martin’s body was lying.”
    Julian shook his head without looking up.
    “I take it you’re not a believer, Sheriff…? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
    “McFadden. No, I’m not a-a believer . I’m a Baptist, for chrissake.”
    “Is that McFadden with an ‘Mc’ or ‘Mac’? We like to spell names right in The Atlantic Monthly. ”
    McFadden’s gaze—reminiscent of a bear’s small, suspicious eyes—flickered. “I don’t see much of a
    story here, Flynn. We’re only asking—”
    “Mr. Devereux’s cooperation? As Mr. Edgar Cayce has helped the police on occasion with their most
    difficult cases?”
    “He has?” McFadden looked plainly taken aback. “He did?”
    Flynn nodded. He had no idea if it was true or not.
    Julian raised his head. “You don’t understand. I can’t…control it. It just happens.”
    Flynn gave him a warning look and he fell silent, his mouth not steady, eyes sullen.
    “Sure, and I can see why you would think that way because it’s a great story and it would get you
    great coverage in the papers. And nothing else makes sense because the Devereuxs were in Cairo when these first murders happened.”
    “So we’ve all heard a couple a times, but can he prove that?”
    Flynn and McFadden turned to Julian. Julian sounded frightened as he said, “I gave shows Tuesday
    through Saturday at the Gem Theater on Eighth Street. And there will be the train ticket stubs. Grand-père will have those.”
    “ Grand-père ,” the sheriff said disgustedly.
    “The Devereuxs are from New Orleans,” Flynn said. This area had been settled by French and
    German and English and Irish settlers, so he wouldn’t expect to see the same prejudice that Italians or colored found.
    “I know French!” The sheriff had his dander up. “I do find it convenient his grandfather is absent this morning.”
    “The Devereuxs could hardly be performing in Cairo and committing murder two counties away.
    Unless you think