Coffin Ed made a tall indistinct shadow in the corner behind.
Grave Digger stood at the other end of the desk, his foot propped on the one remaining chair. Both had kept on their hats.
The principals—Val’s friends and intimates, Johnny and Dulcy Perry, Mamie Pullen, Reverend Short and Chink Charlie—were being held upstairs in the detective bureau for the last.
The others had been herded into the bull pen downstairs and were brought out four at a time and lined abreast in the circle of light.
The sight of the corpse and the subsequent ride in the wagon had sobered them too suddenly. They were sweaty and evil, men and women alike, their haggard, vari-colored faces looking like African war masks in the dead white light.
After their names, addresses and occupations had been taken, Sergeant Brody asked them routine questions in a passionless copper’s voice:
“Were there any arguments at the wake? Fights? Did any of you hear anyone mention Valentine Haines’s name? Did any of you see Chink Charlie Dawson leave the room? What time? Was he alone? Did Doll Baby leave with him? Before? After?
“Did any of you see Reverend Short leave the house? Leave the sitting room? Go into the bedroom? Did you notice whether the bedroom door was open or closed most of the evening? How much time elapsed between the time he disappeared until his return?
“Did any of you notice Dulcy Perry leave the house? Before or after Reverend Short returned?
“How much time elapsed between Reverend Short’s return and when all of you went to the window to look for the bread basket? Five minutes? More? Less? Did anyone else leave during that time? Do any of you know if Val had any enemies? Anyone who might have had a grudge against him? Was he in any kind of trouble?”
There were seven men in the pickup who hadn’t been at the wake. Brody asked if they’d seen anyone fall from the third-story-front window; if they’d seen anyone passing along the street, walking or in a car. None admitted seeing anything. All swore that they’d been inside of their homes, in bed, and had gone out on the street after the patrol cars arrived.
“Did any of you hear anyone cry out?” Brody asked. “Hear the sound of a car passing? Any strange sound of any kind?”
His questions all drew negatives.
“All right, all right,” he growled. “All of you were in bed, sleeping the sleep of the righteous, dreaming about the angels in heaven—you didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and you don’t know anything. All right …”
All were asked to identify the murder knife, which Brody exhibited to each group. None did.
In between the questions and the answers, the stylo of the police reporter was heard scratching on sheet after sheet of foolscap paper.
The contents of each person’s pockets had been dumped on top of the desk as each group was ushered in. The sergeant examined only the knives. When the blades exceeded the two inches allowed by law, he inserted them into the crevice between the top of the center drawer and the desk top and broke them with a slight downward pressure. As time went on broken blades piled up inside the drawer.
When he’d finished with the last group, Brody looked at his watch.
“Two hours and seventeen minutes,” he said. “And all I’ve learned so far is that the folks here in Harlem are so respectable their fingers don’t stink.”
“What did you expect?” Coffin Ed asked. “For somebody to say they did it?”
“Do you want me to read the transcript?” the police reporter asked.
“Hell no. The coroner’s report says the victim was killed where he lay. But nobody saw him arrive. Nobody remembers exactly when Chink Charlie left the flat. Nobody knows when Dulcy Perry left. Nobody knows for certain whether Reverend Short even fell out of the Goddamned window. Do you believe that, Digger?”
“Why not? This is Harlem, where anything can happen.”
“We people here in Harlem will believe anything,” Coffin Ed said.
“You’re not trying to pull my leg, are you, pal?” Brody said dryly.
“I’m just trying to tell you that these people are not so simple as you think,” Coffin Ed replied. “You’re trying to find the murderer. All right, I’ll believe anybody did it if we get enough proof.”
“Okay, fine,” Brody said. “Bring in Mamie Pullen.”
When Grave Digger escorted Mamie into the room, he placed the chair he’d been using for a footrest in a comfortable position so she could lean an arm on the desk if she wished, then went over and adjusted the light so it wouldn’t bother her.
Sergeant Brody’s first glance had taken in the black satin dress with its skirt that dragged the floor, reminiscent of the rigid uniform of whorehouse madams in the 1920’s. He’d gotten a peep at the toes of the men’s straight-last shoes protruding from beneath. His gaze remained longer on the two-carat diamond in the platinum band encircling her gnarled brown ring finger, and rested for an appreciable time on the white jade necklace that dropped to her waist like a greatly cherished rosary with a black onyx cross attached to the end. Then he looked at the old brown face, lined with grief and worry, sagging in loose folds beneath the tight knot of short, straightened, gray-streaked hair.
“This is Sergeant Brody, Aunt Mamie,” Grave Digger said. “He must ask you a few questions.”
“How do you do, Mr. Brody,” she said, sticking her gnarled unadorned right hand across the desk.
“It’s a bad business, Mrs. Pullen,” the sergeant said, shaking her hand.
“It looks like one death always calls for another,” she said. “Been that way ever since I could remember. One person dies and then there ain’t no end. I guess that’s the way God planned it.”
Then she looked up to see the face of the cop who had been so gentle with her, and exclaimed, “Lord bless my soul, you’re little Digger Jones. I’ve known you ever since you were a little shavetail kid on 116th Street. I didn’t know you were the one they called Grave Digger.”
Grave Digger grinned sheepishly, like a little boy caught stealing apples.
“I’ve grown up now, Aunt Mamie.”
“Doesn’t time fly. As Big Joe always used to say; Tempers fugits. You must be all of thirty-five years old now.”
“Thirty-six. And here’s Eddy Johnson, too. He’s my partner.”
Coffin Ed stepped forward into the light. Mamie was stunned at sight of his face.
“God in heaven!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “What hap—” then caught herself.
“A hoodlum threw a glass of acid in my face.” He shrugged. “Occupational hazard, Aunt Mamie. I’m a cop. I take my chances.”
She apologized. “Now I remember reading about it, but I didn’t know it was you. I hardly ever go anywhere, but just out with Big Joe, when he was alive.” Then she added with sincerity, “I hope they put whoever did it in the jail and throw away the key.”
“He’s already buried, Aunt Mamie,” Coffin Ed said.
Then Grave Digger said, “Ed’s having skin grafted on his face from his thigh, but it takes time. It’ll take about a year altogether before it’s finished.”
“Now, Mrs. Pullen,” the sergeant inserted firmly, “suppose you just tell me in your own words what happened in your place last night, or rather this morning.”
She sighed. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
When she’d finished her account, the sergeant said, “Well, at least that gives us a pretty clear picture of what actually happened inside of your house from the time Reverend Short returned upstairs until the body was discovered.
“Do you believe that Reverend Short fell from your bedroom window?”
“Oh, I believe that. There wasn’t reason for him to say he’d fallen if he hadn’t. ’Sides which, he was outside and nobody had seen him leave by the door.”
“You don’t think that’s extraordinary? For him to fall out of a third-story window?”
“Well, sir, he’s a frail man and given to having trances. He might have had a trance.”
“Epilepsy?”
“No, sir, just religious trances. He sees visions.”
“What kind of visions?”
“Oh, all kinds of visions. He preaches about them. He’s a prophet, like Saint John the Divine.”
Sergeant Brody was a Catholic and he looked bewildered.
Grave Digger explained, “Saint John the Divine is the prophet who saw the seven veils and the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The people here in Harlem have a great regard for Saint John. He was the only prophet who ever saw any winning numbers in his visions.”
“The Revelation is the fortune teller’s Bible,” Coffin Ed added.
“It’s not only just that,” Mamie said. “Saint John saw how wonderful it was in heaven and how terrible it was in hell.”
“Well now, to get back to this murder, would Chink Charlie have any reason to try to kill Reverend Short?” Brody questioned. “Other than the fact the Reverend was a prophet.”
“No, sir, absolutely not. It was just that Reverend Short had the sense knocked out of him by his fall and didn’t know what he was saying.”
“But he and Chink had been arguing earlier.”
“Not really arguing. Reverend Short and him was just disagreeing about the kind of people I had to the wake. But it weren’t neither one of them’s business.”
“Is there bad blood between Dulcy and Reverend Short?”
“Bad blood? No, sir. It’s just that Reverend Short thinks Dulcy needs saving and she just takes every chance to bitch him off. But I suspects he’s carrying a secret torch for her, only he’s shamed of it ’cause of him being a preacher and she being a married woman.”
“How was the Reverend with Johnny and Val?”
“They all three respected one another’s intentions and that’s as far as it went.”
“How long was it between the time Dulcy left the house and you went to the window and discovered the body?”
“It wasn’t no time at all,” she declared positively. “She hadn’t even had time to get downstairs.”
He asked a few questions about the other mourners, but found no connection with Val.
The he came in from another angle.
“Did you recognize the voice of the man who telephoned you after the body was discovered?”
“No, sir. It just sounded distant and fuzzy.”
“But whoever it was knew there was a dead body there in that bread basket?”
“No, sir, it was just like I told you before. Whoever it was wasn’t talking about Val. He was talking about Reverend Short. He’d seen the reverend fall and thought he was lying there dead, and that’s why he called. I’m sure of that.”
“How could he know he was dead unless he had come close enough to examine him?”
“I don’t know, sir. I suppose he just thought he was dead. You’d think anybody was dead who’d fallen out a third-story window, and then lay there without getting up.”
“But according to testimony, Reverend Short did get up and come all the way back upstairs on his own power.”
“Well, I couldn’t say how it was. All I know is someone telephoned and when I said he’d been stabbed—Val, I mean—they just hung up as if they might have been surprised.”
“Could it have been Johnny Perry?”
“No, sir, I’m dead certain it wasn’t him. And I sure ought to know his voice if anybody does, as long as I’ve been hearing it.”
“He’s your stepson? Or is it your godson?”
“Well, he ain’t rightly neither, but we thought of him as a son because when he came out of stir—”
“What stir? Where?”
“In Georgia. He did a stretch on the chain gang.”
“For what?”
“He killed a man for beating his mother—his stepfather. At least she was his common-law wife, his ma, but she was no good and Johnny was always a good boy. They gave him a year on the road.”
“When was that?”
“It was twenty-six years ago when he got out. While he was inside his ma ran off with another man and me and Big Joe was coming North. So we just brought him along with us. He was just twenty years old.”
“That makes him forty-six now.”
“Yes, sir. And Big Joe got him a job on the road.”
“Waiting tables?”
“No, sir, helping in the kitchen. He couldn’t wait tables on account of that scar.”
“How’d he get that?”
“On the chain gang. He and another con got to fighting with pickaxes over a card game. Johnny was always hotheaded, and that con had accused him of cheating him out of a nickel. And Johnny was always as honest as the day is long.”
“When did he open his gambling club here?”
“The Tia Juana club? He opened that about ten years ago. Big Joe staked him. But he had another little house-rent game he used to run before that.”
“Is that when he married Dulcy—Mrs. Perry—when he opened the Tia Juana club?”
“Oh no-no-no, he just married her a year and a half ago—January second last year, the day after New Year’s day. Before then he was married to Alamena.”
“Is he married to Dulcy or just living with her?” The sergeant gave her a confidential look.
Her back stiffened. “Their marriage is as legal as whisky. Me and Big Joe were the witnesses. They were married in City Hall.”
The sergeant turned a bright fiery red.
Grave Digger said softly, “Couples do get married in Harlem.”
Sergeant Brody felt himself on bumpy water and took another tack.
“Does Johnny keep much cash on hand?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“In the bank then, or in property? Do you know what property he owns?”
“No, sir. Maybe Big Joe knew, but he never told me.”
He dropped it.
“Do you mind telling me what you and Dulcy—Mrs. Perry—were talking about that was so important you had to lock yourself in the bathroom?”
She hesitated and looked appealingly toward Grave Digger.
He said. “We’re not after Johnny, Aunt Mamie. This has nothing to do with his gambling club or income taxes or anything concerning the Federal government. We’re just trying to find out who killed Val.”
“Lord, it’s a mystery who’d want to hurt Val. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
The sergeant let that pass. “Then it wasn’t Val you and Dulcy were talking about?”
“No, sir. I’d just asked her about a run-in Johnny and Chink had at Dickie Wells’s last Saturday night.”
“About what? Money? Gambling debts?”
“No, sir. Johnny’s crazy jealous of Dulcy—he’s going to kill somebody about that gal some day. And Chink imagines he’s God’s gift to women. He keeps shooting at Dulcy. Folks say he don’t mean nothing by it, but—”
“What folks?”
“Well, Val and Alamena and even Dulcy herself. But there ain’t no telling what any man means when he keeps after a woman unless it’s to get her. And Johnny’s so jealous and hot-headed I’m scared to death there’s going to be blood trouble.”
“What part did Val play in that?”
“Val. He was always just a peacemaker. ’Course, he was on Johnny’s side. He spent most of his time, it looked like, just trying to keep Johnny out of trouble. But he didn’t have nothing against Chink, either.”
“Then Johnny’s enemies are his enemies, too?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t say that. Val wasn’t the kind of person who had enemies. He and Chink always got along fine.”
“Who’s Val’s woman?”
“He’s never had a steady. Not to my knowledge. He just plays the field. I think his latest was Doll Baby. But he wasn’t intending to get corralled by no gal.”
“Tell me one thing, Mrs. Pullen—didn’t you notice anything strange about the body?”
“Well—” She knitted her brows. “Not as I recollect. I didn’t get to see him cl
ose up, of course. I just saw him from my window. But I didn’t notice nothing strange.”
The sergeant stared at her.
“Wouldn’t you call a knife sticking in his heart strange?”
“Oh, you mean him being stabbed. Yes, sir, I thought that was strange. I couldn’t imagine nobody wanting to kill Val.”
The sergeant kept staring at her though he didn’t quite know what to make of that statement.
“If it had been Johnny there instead of Val it wouldn’t have struck you as strange.”
“No, sir.”
“But didn’t it strike you as strange how he came to be lying there in that bread basket just a few minutes after Reverend Short had fallen from your window into the same bread basket?”
For the first time her face took on a look of fear.
“Yes, sir,” she replied in a whisper, leaning on the desk for support. “Powerful strange. Only the Lord knows how he came there.”
“No, the murderer knows, too.”
“Yes, sir. But there’s one thing, Mr. Brody. Johnny didn’t do it. He might not have had no burning love for his brother-in-law, but he tolerated him on account of Dulcy, and he wouldn’t have let nobody hurt a hair on his head, much less have done it hisself.”
Brody took the murder knife from a drawer and laid it on the desk top. “Have you ever seen this before?”
She stared at it, more out of curiosity than horror. “No, sir.”
He let it drop. “When is the funeral to be held?”
“This afternoon at two o’clock.”
“All right, you may go now. You’ve been a great help to us.”
She arose slowly, bracing her hands on the desk top, and extended her hand to Sergeant Brody with Southern-bred courtesy.
Sergeant Brody wasn’t used to it. He was the law. People on the other side of this desk were generally on the other side of the law. He found himself so confused that he clambered to his feet, knocking over his chair, and pumped her hand up and down, his face glowing like a freshly boiled lobster.
“I hope your funeral goes well, Mrs. Pullen—that is, I mean, your husband’s funeral.”
“Thank you, sir. All we can do is put him in the ground and hope.”
Grave Digger and Coffin Ed stepped forward and escorted her with deference to the door, holding it open for her to pass through. Her black satin dress dragged on the floor, sweeping dust over her straight-last shoes.
The Crazy Kill Page 4
