Free South Wind by Theodore A. Tinsley Page A

quiet. No noise. The cab driver recommended it”
    His wrinkled eyes smiled.
    “New Yo’k is a real homey town. As nice an’ friendly folk as you’d find in the hull of No’th Ca’lina.”
    Tracy nodded absently. Friendly, all right … The friendly hackman, cruising around Penn Station in a gyp-wagon, hauling fresh meat to the San Pueblo, pulling down his commission. The friendly Snitch Collins, steering the old guy to the Planet on the off chance that his joint might horn in on some publicity for a change. The friendly Hennessey, his Irish nose alert for a cheap hot-weather gag for his lip-reading customers … Just a great big friendly town!
    And quiet! You couldn’t find a quieter spot than the San Pueblo Hotel if you started at the Aquarium and walked all the way to Gun Hill Road. The San Pueblo specialized in dense silence. The hard-pan dicks who dropped in for an occasional chat with the guests and the management, did all the loud talking. A month back they had carried out a small blonde exhibit from a room on the fifth floor. The Tabs made an awful noise. “Dance Hostess Slain by Fiend!” But the San Pueblo merely said: “Tsk, tsk!” got a pencil and a Racing Form and stretched out in its underwear to study the Pimlico results with the shades discreetly pulled.
    Tracy said, in a flat murmur: “Yeah, it’s pretty quiet … The granddaughter’s in show bizness, you say—her name’s Alice Anne Fenn and you say she’s been up here—”
    “Fo’ years, suh. But I haven’t had any letters since—”
    “Let’s see the photograph.”
    He studied it with a scowl. The picture was about as helpful as ear-muffs in August. A faded three-quarter pose of a girl about sixteen in a fluffy white dress, with a white ribbon, on her hair and a rolled diploma in her left hand.
    “Her graduation picture,” said the old man proudly. “First in her class. Smart as a buggy whip.”
    “What’s her stage name? Never told you, eh?”
    “No, suh. I always wrote to Alice Anne at general delivery. She wasn’t much hand at answerin’ letters and for the last two years—”
    “I know.”
    Damn’ right, he knew! An actress, eh? that meant she might be anything. A waitress in Quids, a salesgirl in Gimbels basement. Or she might be demonstrating corn-razors or opening day-beds in a store window. Pounding the sidewalks of Sixth Avenue or doing a strip act in a cheap burlesque show. Hell—for all he knew she might have a coupla kids and be living in the Bronx, married to a shoe-clerk. Try to find a stage-struck kid from the South in this burg! New York was lousy with Southern gentlewomen trying to get their monickers up in the lights .
    He picked up a sheet of paper, folded it, tore a semi-circle out of the crease. He opened the paper and laid it flat on the photograph with the girl’s face in the hole.
    He studied it, looked away with eyes closed, studied it again. There was something vaguely familiar about that isolated head in the center of the white sheet. Add a few years, subtract the schoolgirl simper … Hmm … Lower-lip pout, round face and movie chin; moonlight and honey-suckle in the slow drawl of that famous second act exit …
    Behind his own closed eyelids jigsaw letters joined hands and formed a name. Lola Carfax, by ——! Lola …
    When he opened his eyes his face was wooden.
    “Can’t place her at all, Major,” he said. “Some more dirt, please.”
    “Suh?” The old man looked puzzled.
    “Details. Dope. Information.”
    Major George Fenn wiped his moist face and began tremulously to recollect. Jerry sucked a pencil end and listened.
    Alice Anne was the only kin—his only granddaughter—all he had left—he was gettin’ old, powerful lonesome. Smart little tyke; she used to play with his watch-chain an’ call him Marse Geo’ge. The Fenns came from Thunder Run, in No’th Ca’lina. Not much of a place, but pretty, suh … Saggin’ fences an’ houn’ dawgs blinkin’ lazy, with their paws