by David Fulmer
Joe heard voices. One of the other guests had apparently been eavesdropping on the racket from their room and now made some lewd comment, to which Adeline, young lady that she was, snapped back a hearty “you can fuck yourself, mister!” The bathroom door slammed shut, shaking the walls.
Joe ran into girls like her wherever he traveled: wild, crude, and with little shame, no matter what the family background. He’d heard people claim it was the Great War that had done it, something about letting loose as the world came to an end. He didn’t know about that. He had been over there for the months right before the armistice and had seen it all: the total obliteration of the landscape; the blind, lame, and insane soldiers; the dead bodies stacked high with horrible contortions frozen on the faces of those who’d been gassed. He had felt death passing close by like a cold wind as he spent his days keeping himself alive, all the while never quite believing that he could. He knew he’d never forget it, and yet he still didn’t understand why it turned good girls back home into rambunctious harlots.
Joe guessed it had as much to do with the vote. With that right, women started believing that they could enjoy the same abandon as the men, and were making up for decades of corsets, petticoats, and the chastity those devices helped enforce. Crowning all this was a sudden revolt against those pious zealots who had spent the past two decades trying to shove their chosen morality down the throats of one and all.
Whatever the cause, Joe was pleased with the results. Wild girls like Adeline had a yen for dangerous men, especially those who had seen death at close range, and so he had no trouble luring her into his web. She was ready to go. He also knew that once she’d had her time with him and whichever other rounders she could bed, she’d be ready to leave, and find herself a decent man so she could settle into the safety of marriage. Though she would remember the likes of Joe Rose to the end of her days.
So much for her. As he stared out at the gray morning, his absent thoughts drifted to Little Jesse and the strange violence that had unfolded on Courtland Street. Whatever had happened on that dark street, Little Jesse was about to pay for it with the last breaths of his life.
Four
The detectives who had been in and out of the Payne mansion since the middle of the night hadn’t learned a thing, except that objects that had been stored away in the master bedroom at the beginning of Saturday night’s charity soiree were gone when it was over. Pricey jewelry that should have been stashed in one of the wall safes had been taken out for the ladies—mother, daughter, aunts, and several cousins—to pick over as they dressed. The box was placed in the top drawer of the dressing table because no one dreamed a thief would have the gall to slip in and out during the Christmas gala. There had been more than a hundred people in the house. And not just people; a fair number of the city’s wealthiest citizens were in attendance.
The officers working the case had been instructed to show up in rough clothes, but that fooled no one, as the word had already started to seep out, just as Mayor Sampson had feared.
When nothing came to light by midmorning, Chief Troutman swallowed his bile. Unable to reach Captain Jackson at his house on Plum Street, he sent a message by way of Lieutenant Collins. Though the Captain’s methods were sometimes astonishingly brutal and his moods completely unpredictable, it was also true that he could get a case opened and closed faster than any other officer on the force. Still, it was true that he had been passed over when the mayor and Chief Troutman doled out the good jobs, and the chief wondered frankly if he would seize this moment to extract his revenge.
He needn’t have worried, because when the Captain finally called back he was cooperative, promising in his blunt way that he’d deliver on the burglary as if it was a foregone conclusion. It was exactly what the chief wanted to hear, and he called the mayor right away to pass on the good news.
The name on his papers was Grayton Jackson, but he was to one and all “the Captain.” By most accounts, and for as long as anyone could recall, he had been commonly regarded as a son of a bitch.
He was a good-sized man, right at six feet and topping two hundred pounds on the scale, and tended to walk hunched over, with his arms hanging straight at his sides and his head thrust forward like a pug or a gorilla. His angular face was too thin for his body and a splotchy white. He was square and solid, and whether he was slapping some dirt-mouthed whore in the lockup or perjuring himself in a courtroom to get some worthless nigger or white-trash tramp sent up, he always put his full weight behind it.
His disposition, already sour, had after the chaos following the election of the new mayor gone absolutely acrid. The only time he laughed was when someone spun a joke or a funny story about some hapless person of color: a coon, Chink, dago, or Jew. Then his mouth would stretch and his eyes would squint and he would make a weird hacking sound high in his chest.
He rarely smiled. When he did, it was usually when a superior happened by, and it came on so suddenly that it was as if a switch had been thrown. The transformation from pinched and angry to grinning and groveling was a bizarre sight, and his fellow officers had a good time miming the weird rubbery contortions of his face. On the occasions when former chief Pell made an appearance, the Captain all but rolled over and pissed on himself like some groveling mutt. The instant the chief left, however, he snapped right back to his old self.
Though nobody liked him, it could not be denied that he was an effective law enforcement officer. The cases that crossed his desk were closed, and he was such an ominous presence that Negro parents around the city admonished their children with a warning that the Captain would get them if they didn’t behave. Though, like two-thirds of the Atlanta police force, he was a member in good standing of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and shared eagerly in the graft, he was not accepted into the cabal that operated as a second force within the department. Even corrupt and hateful men couldn’t stand him, and so he was ignored when the new mayor and new chief started doling out the good assignments. Which had him simmering with a cold fury that radiated from his eyes with a physical force.
He felt a touch of that same bile, a harsh spike of resentment that stuck in his throat when they pulled the Ford to the curb. He sat staring at the wrought-iron gate of the Payne mansion. There he was, a Christian white man saddled with the responsibility of guarding these wealthy citizens from the imprecations of the lower races, and the only time he was welcome at the door was when some of their trinkets went missing.
He let that dark cloud pass and pushed his thoughts into a more positive direction. Who knew what might happen once he closed this case? It could be his moment, as long as he made sure everyone knew he was the hero of the tale. Already seeing the grateful smiles and hearing the praise for a job well done ringing in his ears, he stepped out of the car and into the midday drizzle. With Lieutenant Collins following a step or two behind, he crossed the sidewalk and passed through the tall gate.
The junior officer announced them by dropping the heavy brass knocker that echoed in the chilly air. They were ushered into the house by a Negro butler, short, stout, gray-haired, and serious. He said his name was Nathan and that he had been told to expect them.
As they waited in the foyer, the Captain managed his pique only by keeping his eyes off the appointments and the art on the walls, all of which was of the finest quality. Collins gazed about, murmuring in frank wonder and irritating his superior officer until the Captain glared at him to shut up.
After some minutes went by, a gentleman came out of an adjacent sitting room to introduce himself as Charles Marks, the family’s attorney. He was small and precise, in a perfect suit, like a toy man. His bald pate and spectacles gleamed under the chandelier, and his cheeks and chin were as smooth and shiny as an infant’s. He kept his voice low, as if he was in church, and he described the prior evening’s event and the crime that had taken place.
The Captain took a deliberate pause to pose his lips in a stiff smile, then asked about the possibility of questio
ning the guests to find out if anyone recalled anything unusual.
Marks cleared his throat as a signal to the arrival at a delicate subject. “The family would much prefer you pursue another course,” he murmured. “This problem is discomfiting in a number of ways . . . I’m sure you understand.”
Captain Jackson nodded sourly. He did understand. Good lord, yes. The last thing he wanted to do was cause anyone embarrassment! He went about stalling for a few moments, asking useless questions, hoping that some member of the family would wander through so he could display his talents. When none appeared, he gave up.
“What’s the possibility that the thief slipped in with the guests?” he inquired.
“That’s not likely,” Marks said. “It was an invitation-only event.”
“Someone could have stolen an invitation. Or forged one.”
The attorney nodded toward the butler, who was standing by. “Nathan would know every guest on sight.”
“Is that right, Nathan?” the Captain inquired without looking at him.
“It is, yes, sir,” Nathan said quietly.
Captain Jackson caught Collins’s eye. The detective nodded and addressed the attorney. “Is the entire staff on hand?”
“They’re all here,” Mr. Marks said.
“What about the help that was hired for the evening?”
“Yes, they’re here also,” the lawyer murmured.
The Captain said, “How many?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Is anyone missing?”
“No, sir,” Marks said in his prim voice. “We managed to assemble all of them.”
The Captain nodded gruffly. “Then let’s have the regular staff first.”
Marks gestured to Nathan, who was waiting next to the doorway to the dining room. The gray-haired Negro slid the doors open and spoke a few words, and the house staff filed into the foyer.
There were thirteen in this group, counting the butler, eleven colored and two whites. Nine of the eleven Negroes and both whites were women, ranging from a girl who looked about fourteen to a fat cook in her sixties. Most were in their good clothes, not long from Sunday services. They stood silently under the Captain’s frigid stare as he went from one face to the next.
He finished with the last woman and glanced at Marks. “They can go,” he said.
Marks nodded to Nathan, who waved a hand. The men and women dispersed in different directions, and not one of them looked back. Once they were gone, the butler passed along another sign and the temporary staff filed in, eight colored women, the youngest sixteen and the oldest only in her twenties. Most of these women were also in their Sunday best.
Marks handed the Captain a sheaf of papers, explaining that they were the applications that each person had given when they came to work for the employment agency. Jackson had ordered the agent to be roused from bed and carried to the agent’s Mitchell Street office to produce the papers that he now held in his hand. He knew the new chief would be finicky about details, and wanted no holes in his investigation.
He went through the sheets, barely glancing over the information. More than half the documents had been completed by the same hand, one person writing on behalf of those who couldn’t. When he finished, he raised his head and studied the eight women. Three of them were light-skinned and would be considered comely for those who had a taste for that sort of girl. One was very dark, with a look about her that made her stand out. Though the others were not quite so striking, it was obvious that someone had screened for attractive faces. They stared straight ahead, their gazes blank, except for one who was wearing a smile, looking inexplicably dazed and happy. The Captain’s gaze landed on her and stayed.
“She can’t help it, sir,” the dark-skinned girl said. “She’s slow.”
The Captain’s eyes shifted to the one who had spoken up. Her features were distinctly African, with high cheekbones, slanting eyes, a deep chocolate face, and an earthy, buxom body. He noticed a certain light in her gaze that might have been a challenge or a defense. Whatever it was, she wasn’t flinching.
“Your name?” he inquired in his clipped cop voice.
“It’s Pearl,” the woman said.
Captain Jackson looked past her. “Pearl what?” he asked.
“Spencer.”
The Captain’s eyes flicked once, though his face showed nothing as he went on to ask each of the other girls for a name and glance at her corresponding sheet.
When he got to the end of the line, he dismissed six of the eight out of hand. They were simple maids for hire who wouldn’t have the wits or the will to get involved in a criminal scheme. None of them displayed a guilty look, though who really knew? Negroes were capable of hiding anything. Only the remaining two were worth his interest. The first was the youngest of the lot, the kind who looked eager to please and might do some sharp’s bidding. The other one was Pearl Spencer.
The Captain had Collins take her back into the dining room while he spoke to the young one.
They were finished in a few minutes. The girl’s name was Sally Frost and, though plainly nervous, she was ready to cooperate. Within her first few sentences, she mentioned church a half-dozen times. There was nothing devious about it; she was a devout Baptist, and a gold cross hung prominently from the chain around her neck. She explained exactly where she had been in the house and what she had been doing throughout the evening. After a few more questions, the Captain told her she could go.
She smiled, thanked him, and went on her way. As she turned to leave, he caught a small gleam in her eye, a look that made him wonder if he had missed something and should have kept her longer. It was too late, though; she was already at the door, and he’d look like a fool in front of Collins if he called her back. He could always find her again if the need arose. And anyway, he was impatient to get to the one remaining.
“All right, let’s have her,” he said.
The doors slid open, and Pearl Spencer stepped into the room, moving in a cautious way, all watchful, keeping her face fixed in the kind of mask that few white people could read. Of course, the Captain had encountered this sort of facade before, and it always angered him. For all she gave away, she could be thinking about a recipe for corn bread or about cutting his throat with a straight razor.
It made him want to slap the skin right off of her. He had tried that tactic in the past with her kind, only to find an even harder mantle underneath. He knew for a fact that there were blacks who would let themselves be beaten to death before they’d give an inch. Pearl Spencer had that look, though it was displayed without a shred of insolence. She might well have been a statue carved from mahogany for all she was revealing.
At the same time, a certain spark lit up her black eyes as she leaned just a little forward, shoulders back and chest and chin pushed forward. Whether she intended the posture as an invitation, a trick, or an attack was anyone’s guess.
The Captain studied her sheet without reading a word, hiding his face as his mind went into a busy jumble. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across the name Pearl Spencer. He knew of her by reputation, too. Now, meeting her for the first time in the flesh, he could imagine her in carnal pictures, the type to work a man until he was ground down to nothing, drown him in her juices, and leave him broken into pieces, though with a memory he might not believe. He knew this was true, because like a lot of other white men, he held the secret of having once dallied with a colored woman. Though it had happened a long time ago, the recollection of the girl’s raw and primitive power still vexed him. So he wasn’t about to allow a creature like Pearl Spencer any ground at all.
That she had been at the scene of the burglary the night before was all the more reason for him to stay on top of her. They waited in echoing silence while the detective stepped into the dining room and came back with a straight-backed chair, which he placed directly behind the black woman.
“Sit,” Captain Jackson said, and Pearl sat. It was a ploy he used often, especially with
female suspects, another symbol of his power over them. It didn’t seem to bother Miss Spencer, though; she stared straight ahead, unfazed. The way she held her body and the odd, fixed light in her eyes had the Captain flustered, and he knew he’d have to take care that he didn’t give anything away.
“You know why we’re here?” he said, keeping his voice tight.
“Some things got stolen,” Pearl said.
The Captain stared at her. “Was it you stole them?”
Pearl blinked up at him. “I didn’t take anything, no, sir.” There was no brass in her tone; in fact, she sounded almost bored, and the Captain realized that although at his mercy, she was exerting a certain devilish control over the situation.
He plunged on, determined to keep ahead of her. “No?” he said. “Then maybe you were helping someone. You want to go down for hard time? You know what I’m talking about? You’ll get tossed in with them bulls in the women’s prison. They’ll take care of you, but good.”
Pearl Spencer listened to this rabid recitation with a puzzled expression, as if the Captain was speaking Chinese. It was all bluster. He had nothing on her and was letting his temper get the better of him while she just sat there, impassive, revealing nothing. Lieutenant Collins observed the exchange with a little surprise and then much interest.
He detected something that he couldn’t quite discern brewing just below the surface. The two of them were going around in a strange dance, like onetime sweethearts or former enemies who had a secret history.
“Well?” Jackson muttered. “What have you got to say?”
Pearl shrugged slightly. “Nothing, sir. It wasn’t me stole those things.”
