Logically, running through the streets of Chelsea screaming for help was probably not a smart move, since if whoever or whatever had beaten Foghorn Leghorn to death was still there it would just alert them to Daffy’s presence. Emotionally, however, Daffy had run through his entire back stock of courage and borrowed against the next week, and he was defaulting to old habits and ingrained patterns. And those patterns were defaulting due Bugs.
“HELP! HEEEEEELP! THAVE ME! THAVE ME!!!”
It was late. There was precious little traffic around this part of town. A few people turned to look at him, but most of them probably registered him as Daffy Duck and assumed this was just another cartoon. Certainly nobody seemed inclined to stop and talk to him, let alone save him. Daffy couldn’t even begin to care about what kind of a scene he was making.
He knew where Bugs lived. He’d done his research, even though he obviously hadn’t believed Bugs had had anything to do with Granny’s death, since he’d only just arrived at the Institute a few days before Daffy himself, and he knew that despite the personal driver—who wasn’t actually a chauffeur per se, just a filing clerk who’d been recruited to drive the Head of the Institute when he needed it—he lived roughly a ten minute walk from the office, just along the river. With his speed and level of fear, he made it in six.
“HELP ME! HELP ME!!!” Daffy pounded rapidly on Bugs’ door. There were lights on downstairs, so surely he was still awake, surely this wouldn’t be disturbing him, surely—
The door creaked open. Daffy didn’t hesitate to dash inside and slam the door behind him, pressing up against it and gasping for breath for a moment. Bugs stared at him, completely unperturbed. “Eh, what’s up, Duck?”
“Hide me! Quick, pal, you gotta hide me!” Daffy begged, clinging to Bugs’ front and shaking him a little, or at least shaking the fur. Bugs was as immobile and firm as always, and right about then, that was more than a comfort.
“Slow down, Daff. Tell me what’s goin’ on,” Bugs said in the calm, slightly exasperated voice he usually used in cartoons when Daffy was overreacting to something.
He wasn’t overreacting here, and he knew it, but it did help calm him down at least a little. He gulped a couple of times and let it all out. “The table—it took Wile E—that’th who my aththithtant wath, not Ralph—I tried to dethtroy it—it got loothe—tunnelth—Woody helped—it almotht got me—Foghorn Leghorn wath down there—he wath telling me thome—and there wath too much, I had to thtep out—and thomeone murdered him, Bugth, he’th dead—they’ll come for me nextht—”
“Easy, easy,” Bugs said soothingly. “Foghorn Leghorn is dead? How?”
“Beaten to death with a pipe,” Daffy choked out. “I—my fingerprintth are going to be all over it, but I thwear, Bugth, I thwear on my life—I thwear on your life—I thwear on Eddie’th grave—I didn’t do it! I had the pipe for protection againtht the thing that wathn’t Ralph—but even when I wath talking to Foghorn Leghorn, it wath jutht to make me feel thafer, and I didn’t—I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t kill him no matter what he did—”
“I believe you,” Bugs assured him. “You’re a lot of things, but you’re not a moiderer. Even if it was self-defense, you would never have killed him.”
“You gotta hide me,” Daffy begged again. “Pleathe, Bugth, what if whoever did thith cometh for me? Or—” Panic suddenly struck him. “Or Porky or Tweety? I told them to take the nextht two dayth off, but—”
“Eh, it’s okay, Daff, dey won’t be back until Monday, and I’ll protect ‘em.” Bugs disentangled Daffy’s hands from his chest and held them. “But you can’t stay here. It’s the foist place dey’d look for you. I know you didn’t kill Foghorn Leghorn, but give me a couple o’ days to get t’ings cleaned up, an’ you can come back.”
“I can’t go home,” Daffy said, a bit pathetically. “That’th the thecond plathe they’d look.”
Bugs nodded. “Don’t worry. I know the poifect person to call. Dey’d never t’ink to look for you wit’ dem.”