Peter Link said, “If you ever plan to die, Driscoll, this would be the neighborhood to do it in.”

Ed Driscoll nodded. He had instinctively cut his speed down to twenty-five miles per hour, and he noticed that the other cars were moving slowly also. There were few pedestrians to be seen. Few signs of life.

He drove another hundred yards, then parked in front of an old frame house with a sign in front of it which read: Haller Bros.—Mortuary.

“You want a shot of it?” Link asked.

“Might as well.”

Link got out of the car and took a number of pictures of the establishment; then he and Driscoll walked to the front door.

A balding Negro in a black suit answered. His voice was soft. “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“In a way,” Driscoll said. “We’re looking for a fellow named Preston Haller.”

“That’s my son,” the man said. “He’s in the back, working. You want me to call him?”

“We’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly. Come in, gentlemen.”

Driscoll and Link stepped into a dimly lit living room. It was neat and heavy with the sweet smell of flowers. They sat down on a couch and waited quietly. Then a young, handsome man in his middle twenties came in.

“I’m Preston Haller,” he said. “Dad says you wanted to see me.”

Driscoll proffered his hand. “We’re reporters, Mr. Haller,” he said. “We’re doing a story on Adam Cramer. Maybe you’ll help us.”

The young man’s expression grew suddenly hard.

“He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?” Driscoll asked.

“Who told you that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

Preston Haller walked over to the window and stood there for a time. “It used to be true,” he said finally.

“Then I suppose you’ve read about his activities.”

“Yes, I’ve read about them.”

There was a silence. “Mr. Haller, Adam Cramer is a pretty big news item these days. We’re trying to do a story on him, but we’re not going to be able to unless you give us a hand. You can see why, can’t you?”

“I think so. Because I’m colored.”

“Because you’re colored and because you were close to him. If the two of you are friends and he’s out to stop integration, well—there are quite a few questions to be answered.”

Preston Haller smiled, but without amusement. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance to you. I don’t know the answers to those questions.”

“But you do know Cramer well?”

“No. I thought I did, once; but I was wrong. So were a lot of other people.”

“Will you tell us about it?”

“About what? I could only tell you what he was, mister, or what I, anyway, thought he was. That fellow in the South—he doesn’t know me and I don’t know him.”