Hobgood’s edits. And I’d have to remind Mr. Hobgood how helpful the sheriff had always been to me. I knew Mr. Hobgood would respond the way he always did.
“My job is to sell newspapers, Mears. I can’t help it if the old rooster gets his feathers ruffled once in a while.”
I decided to put off stopping by the sheriff’s office until later in the day.
The offices of the Hobbs-Newby Equipment Co., Inc., were in the Seaboard Bank Building in Norfolk. I smoked a cigarette in the lobby and took the elevator to the fifth floor. When I opened the door into the Hobbs-Newby offices, I was surprised to see the Commonwealth’s attorney, Edgar Montague, talking to a short, balding man. They were sitting in leather chairs beside a small lamp table across from a secretary’s desk. The secretary had her hair arranged in combs atop her head. She sat erect as she typed, her back and wrists gracefully arched.
“Well, Mears,” Montague said. He was a heavyset man rumored to be in poor health. He had a bright, florid complexion and thick, sandy hair. He wheezed when he spoke. “I see you’re hard at work. On the Christian matter?”
“Yes, sir. Any news about the trial?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Pace when he came by the office. The grand jury convenes Monday morning. Evidence from the coroner’s inquest suggests a heinous crime has been committed. While it is up to the grand jury to make the determination to move forward, I will tell you—and you may put this in your story, Mears—that the office of the Commonwealth’s attorney is aware of the consternation aroused in the community by this brutal act and is absolutely certain of its ability to prosecute the case successfully and see justice done if and when a trial is set.”
Montague leaned forward in the chair. He was wearing a brown tweed suit and vest that bulged with his paunch. A brown fedora sat on the table by his chair. From a vest pocket hung a gold watch fob. Montague touched the chain for a moment when he finished speaking. Then he pulled out the watch and checked the time. His hand trembled slightly. The secretary stopped typing and scrolled out her sheet from the platen.
“I’d better get back to the office,” Montague said. There were tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip and his face looked clammy.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Montague,” the small man said. “I know Lewter was expecting you. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”
Montague stood and the small man rose, too. Montague picked up the hat and smoothed the brim.
“It’s quite all right, Howard. No doubt I’ll see him this afternoon at the club. I’ll see you at the courthouse Monday, Mears.”
“Thank you, Mr. Montague. Any other comments?”
“Each individual must understand his place under the law, colored and white alike,” Montague said. “That understanding represents the pediment and harmony and endurance of our culture. We have endured assaults on that understanding, Mears, especially of late, but the rule of law has always prevailed. As it will in this case.”
The secretary sat at her typewriter, rapt. The small man cleared his throat and adjusted one of the garters on his sleeves. Montague placed the fedora carefully on his head and tipped the brim. He strode from the office.
“Who are you again, son?” the small man asked.
“Charlie Mears,” I said. “I work for the Times-Herald. I wanted to see Mr. Hobbs.”
“Well, sit here. Perhaps he’ll see you when he comes in. I don’t know how any of us can get any business done with all this commotion. We have to make a living, after all. Rose, will you take care of Mr. Mears?”
“Of course, Mr. Newby.” The secretary scrolled another sheet of letterhead into the typewriter.
Newby walked quickly back to an office with a window overlooking the room where I sat with the secretary and closed the door.
“Would you like to look at some catalogs?” the secretary asked. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
For the next hour I looked through pages of rebuilt locomotive steam boilers and train cars mounted with cranes, massive steam shovels on caterpillar tracks, concrete mixers powered by Lambert engines with dual flywheels so big they looked like side-paddle Mississippi steamboats, and enormous steam hoists powered by coal-fired boilers the size of a house. I added another catalog to the stack on the table.
“I’ll try to catch Mr. Hobbs another time,” I said. “Thank you for your hospitality.” I stood to leave.
The secretary touched her hair. “Do you have a card? I’ll see that Mr. Hobbs gets it.”
“Yes.”
She studied the card I gave her. “Have you worked at the paper long?”
“Almost a year now.”
“This is hard to read. I think I need glasses. Have you worn yours a long time?”
“Since grade school.”
“Do you think glasses would make me look old?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I think you would look very attractive. I mean, you are very attractive.” I could feel myself blushing. She dropped her eyes, then shot a glance back.
“That’s sweet,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the lobby I smoked a cigarette and made notes of Montague’s comments.
I had carried The Pilgrim’s Progress with me in the breast pocket of my coat. I decided to stop by Mrs. Wright’s to leave it for Harriet.
The steam ferry to Newport News was right on time. The day had turned sunny. I took off my cap and put my feet up on the rail. There was a slight chop and the breeze freshened over the Roads. On a tall piling ospreys were building a nest. At the landing I caught the trolley to the Wrights’ neighborhood and started walking.
Approaching on the sidewalk was a man in his thirties. He was not wearing a hat. His black hair was slicked back straight from a broad forehead. His moustache was black and curled at the ends. He was wearing a dark blue suit and he handled the umbrella he carried like a cane. His stride was brusque and powerful. He looked as fit as a wrestler.
“Mr. Hobbs?” I said. “I’m with the Times-Herald.” It was a lucky guess.
“Not now, boy,” he said. “I don’t have time.” He brushed past me and turned the corner. I looked after him for a moment and continued on my way.
As soon as I got to the street, I recognized the cottage. I opened the gate and stepped up the walk to the stoop. I removed the volume from my pocket and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Wright opened the door immediately. She looked at me and smiled faintly. She seemed distracted.
“Mr. Mears,” she said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I won’t keep you, Mrs. Wright,” I said. “I brought this book for Harriet.” I held
