The Investigations of Avram Davidson

by Avram Davidson

  “He hadn’t no right to keep hold of my papers. No right a-tall,” Cudjo was saying. But this was not exactly what Hays was expecting him to say. Ah, well, wait a bit. Let the man talk. But all the talk, it became obvious, was on lines other than the first comment. Had Cudjo realized that he had started to give himself away? And, so considering, Hays realized that he himself was no longer thinking in terms of a simple murder.

  He would have to lead the conversation, after all. Well, so be it. “What were they up to, Cudjo, and just when did you find it out?”

  The man’s eyes seemed red in the candle-light. Was there cunning in them? “You says—what, sir?” Hays repeated his words. “I mean to say,” Cudjo evaded, “what was he up to, keeping my papers? Now, they was mine, legal. So—”

  “So you killed him.”

  A confident laugh. “Cap’n Pierce? No, sir! He too mean to die!”

  “Not when he’d gotten a knife in his throat, he wasn’t.” The laugh ebbed away, the man scanned Hays’s face. His huge chest swelled. He shook his head dumbly. “Mr. Breakstone! Send the woman in here.… Now, what time did your husband come back tonight?”

  “Why ’twas about—” She checked herself and looked at her husband. But he sat still, utterly still. Her voice dropped a notch, became uncertain. “Why, master, he was here all night. He never go out.” She looked from Hays to her husband, pleadingly. But neither offered aught for her comfort. She began to wail.

  Cudjo accompanied them quietly to the Watch-house.

  “If you didn’t kill Captain Pierce,” Hays asked, and asked over and over again, “then why were you so afraid when we walked in? Why did you pick up the oyster-knife? You said, ‘I didn’t know it was you. I thought—’ What did you think? Who were you expecting? Who are the ‘they’ you talked about? What was it you ‘found out they were up to’? Why was it ‘too late’ by then?”

  Then, still getting no response, Hays put to him the brutally suggestive, but terribly pertinent, question, “Cudjo, have you ever seen a man hanged?”

  Sweat popped out on the man’s broad face. He began to shake his head—and continued to shake it. It seemed he could not stop. Soon his whole body was shaking from side to side. He essayed speech, but his voice clicked in his throat. Hays brought him a mug of water, and he swallowed it greedily.

  “I will tell you, master,” he said, after a moment. “I see there is no help for it. I will tell you everything. It begin two, three months ago.”

  * * *

  TWO OR THREE months previously, Cudjo had been living in a corner of a room in the Shambles tenement on Cherry-street, in the Fourth Ward. He had had no job in a long time, and only the pittance which his wife earned by peddling hot-roasted corn through the streets kept them from actual starvation. Captain Lemuel Pierce came and offered him a berth for a coasting voyage, and Cudjo had jumped at it.

  “You got your free papers, don’t you, Cudj?” There had been no slaves in New-York State since the Emancipation of 1827, and Cudjo had been free even before then, for his owner had brought him North and manumitted him. He knew that Captain Pierce must be referring to his seaman’s papers.

  “Yes, sir. I got’m. We going South, Cap’n?”

  Pierce smiled, showed yellow teeth. “We ain’t goin’ to Nova-Scoshy. Better hand them papers over to me for safekeeping, Cudj. That way, I c’n take care.”

  Pierce was obliging enough to advance $2 on wages, which were given to Phoebe Washington, and to promise warm clothes as soon as they got aboard. The two proceeded to Staten-Island, where the Sarah was lying off a small creek which emptied into the Kill-Van-Kull. Roaring Roberts was first mate. Tim Scott and Billy Walters made up the rest of the crew. They put out to sea on the next tide.

  “He never come out of the cabin till the second day,” said Cudjo. “But I knew his face.”

  “Whose?” Hays asked.

  “Mr. Jones’s.” And who was he and what did he look like? He was a big man with a red face. Cudjo had “seen him around”; more he knew not. Mentally Hays ran over all the Joneses he could think of, from Ap Jones the cow-keeper to Zimri Jones, who sold woollens. None fitted the picture.

  The Sarah was dirty, but Captain Pierce had kept her in good shape otherwise. He and Mr. Jones had had words right from the start. Jones, who apparently had chartered the sloop, objected to any one’s—particularly the Captain’s—drinking “until the job’s done.” Pierce had said that he was master aboard his own vessel and would drink what and when he pleased; forthwith he applied himself to his demijohn.

  Neither Cudjo nor any of the three White sailors had any idea of where they were bound, except that it was, in Pierce’s words, “Somewhere South and warm.” It was after they had passed Cape Fear that Pierce and Jones revealed their destination to him. “They had to,” Washington said. “They needed me. Cap’n Pierce knew I was born in Brunswick and had sailed all those waters.”

  “You ought to know St. Simon’s Sound pretty well, I guess,” said Pierce.

  “Oh, yes, sir. My old master—”

  “Damn your old master!” said Pierce. “Do you know where Remington’s Landing is? You do. All right. You’ll pilot us there.”

  They lay well off shore till dark, then entered St. Simon’s Sound, then Tuppah Cove. Remington’s Landing lay up an inlet into the Cove. The moon was full and bright. Captain Pierce, aided by the winds, had planned well.

  “Take care, Cudj,” he said; and then a while before they came up to the wharf, “you—no noise!”

  The ship’s-lamps were extinguished. Silent as a ghost ship, the sloop moored. The shed by the wharf was full of baled cotton. Without words, directed by gestures, they all set to work loading it aboard. Even Pierce and Jones took off their coats and pitched in.

  After a while—Cudjo didn’t know how long—they became aware that some one was looking at them. It was the Negro watchman. Evidently he had been taking a nap on one of the bales. He stared at the scene—and an eerie scene it must have been, too—the six strange men toiling silently in the pool of moonlight. His voice, when he spoke, was tremulous.

  “What—what are you White men doing with that there cotton? It belongs to Master Remington, and I know it ain’t done been sold!”

  They could have told him some lie and kept him silent, Cudjo said, recounting the story to Hays. Tied him up, maybe. But Jones pulled out a knife and at the sight of it the watchman turned and was off like the wind. He had no chance, of course. They were on him before he could cry out. Cudjo, standing aghast, saw an arm rise and fall twice. Then the five men dragged the body aside into the grass. Cudjo was still standing, numbly, when they returned, and gestured him back to work.

  They were at sea again by dawn.

  “What happened to the cotton?” Hays asked.

  It was hot in the Watch-house; the wick in the whale-oil lamp needed trimming, but somehow he could not put his mind to asking the Night Constable-in-charge to take care of it. Here, then, was the story of the theft of the Sea-Island cotton in Georgia, of which he had been notified weeks back. It had been carried out by men recruited under his very nose, so to speak: Billy Walters, Roaring Roberts, Tim Scott, Captain Pierce, Cudjo Washington. Who had been behind it? Mr. Jones. Which ones were still alive? Cudjo Washington and Mr. Jones.

  “What happened to the cotton?” Hays asked again. He knew well enough what had happened to the men.

  The proprietor of The Great Republic Oyster-Cellar shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. High Constable. We put in to Philadelphia—didn’t tie up, though, just lay out in the river—and Mr. Jones and Captain Pierce rowed ashore. They come back inside of an hour and Mr. Jones had a sight of money with him. I expect he’d been to the bank. They paid us off and told us to get our gear together and go ashore. Not to come back. He warned us—Mr. Jones, I mean. ‘Don’t let me see you in New-York,’ he said. ‘I’m paying you extra for that,’ he said, ‘so you better not try to fool me.’ Said to me, ‘Send for your wife. Don’t go b
ack for her.’ He had a mean look to him. A hard man.”

  “And you took the money? The proceeds of the stolen cotton? For you knew that’s what it was, for all he paid you in advance.”

  Cudjo nodded. “He said I had to take it. Said he’d kill me if I didn’t. ‘You’re in this, too,’ he said, ‘the same as the rest of us. If I were you I’d go far away.’ So I took it. And I was afraid to say any thing. I could’ve thrown it away, all but my wages. But it was more money than I’d ever seen, almost. I thought, I’ll hold on to it for a while and study this. Then—‘Send for your wife,’ he said. I can’t write and she can’t read. I come up here to see her and study what to do. And when I saw that rat’s-hole we were living in—in the Shambles—and her tired out from crying hot-roasting-ears up and down the streets—”

  * * *

  HE HAD SUCCUMBED to the temptation and had used the money to fit up the oyster-cellar. A sailor’s life was hard, and usually, not a long one. The rest of the story was easy enough—in part—for Hays to imagine. One by one the three other sailors made their way back to New-York in defiance of “Mr. Jones’s” warning. One of them must have preferred to spend his share of the crime in Philadelphia, or—Hays remembered the worn, worn shoes found on another’s feet—or in some other place no closer to New-York.

  “Jones” must have been a fool to think they would stay away. As soon as their money was spent they must have tried to blackmail him—tried alone, almost certainly, not in concert, for each had been killed alone and separately. Perhaps Jones hadn’t even known that Cudjo had returned to New-York.

  “What happened on the sloop tonight?” Hays asked. Somewhere off in the city a church-bell sounded the hour. How quickly the night was passing!

  Washington had forgotten to ask for his free papers in Philadelphia. Presently he remembered, but did nothing. If he needed them, by some dire chance, to go to sea again, he could get another set. Chiefly, though, he worried about their remaining in the hands of Captain Pierce—Captain Pierce, whose evil reputation he knew as well as Hays did, and whose evil nature he knew even better, having sailed under him. But Pierce was off in Perth-Amboy, having the Sarah over-hauled.

  “Are you going to wait in your cellar till he picks his own time and come to kill you, like he did the others? Well, I’m not,” Pierce had said. “You’d think he’d know better than to threaten me, wouldn’t you? You’d think he’d speak sweet to me, but no. ‘Stay out of New-York, Pierce. I warn you!’” Cap’n Lem had mimicked “Jones.” Cap’n Lem had been drinking, in his little cabin there in the sloop at Bayard’s Wharf. “Well, I don’t fancy staying out of New-York, see? And I don’t relish the idea of being killed on some dark night. No, Cudj, I tell you: there’s only this—kill him before he kills us!”

  But Cudjo had had enough of that. Four men were already killed, including the slave watchman down on St. Simon’s-Island. It was Cudjo’s belief that the White men would still be living if they hadn’t tried to get more money out of “Jones.” All that Cudjo wanted was his free papers back. And Captain Lemuel Pierce refused to deliver them. He showed them, he laughed, he drew them back. They were to be the price of Cudjo’s assistance in the death of “Jones.” They had quarreled, the master of the Sarah grew ugly, Cudjo had snatched at papers and torn them from Pierce’s grasp. Then he had run off. That was all. That was his story.

  Hays was rather inclined to believe him.

  But who was “Jones”?

  * * *

  A FEW HOURS’ sleep, and the High Constable was up and on duty again. As soon as breakfast was over he stalked down-town, on his way to Ter Williger’s place of business. Old Nick would be pleased to know that the matter of theft of the Sea-Island cotton from St. Simon’s had been solved.

  And then, as if his thoughts had become tangible, the word “Gloves” appeared in front of his eyes. Hays stopped short, looked carefully. There it was, in the window of that little shop. D. MacNab, Leather and Leather-Findings. Cobbler’s Supplies. Saddlery and Harness. Books Bound. Gloves Mended. Fire-men’s and Watch-men’s Helmets.

  Hays passed under the wooden awning and walked up three steps. A bell tinkled as he opened the door.

  “What can you tell me any thing about this glove?” he asked.

  “That it’s no’ yours, Mr. Hays.”

  The High Constable laughed shortly. “I know that. And if you do, it must mean that you know whose it is, Mr. MacNab.”

  “Och aye? Must it? It’s nae muckle thing to ken whose hand fits a glove, and whose doesna.” And, as Hays digested this, and ruefully admitted the man was right, MacNab said, “But it sae happens that I do ken whose it is, for I mended it masel’. And what’s mare, I mended another for the same mon—slashed across the palm it was—and handed it back not an hour syne.”

  Not trying to conceal his excitement, Hays leaned across the counter. “What’s his name, MacNab?”

  But MacNab said, “Och, that I dinna ken. A big man, wi’ a sonsy red face on him. He didna come in himsel’, this time, he sent the coachman wi’ the money. ‘Mak’ haste,’ says the coachie, ‘for he’s complainin’ we won’t get to the Battery in time to catch the packet-ship.’ So I took the siller and gave over the glove, and that’s all I ken aboot it.”

  Calling his thanks over his shoulder, Hays ran out.

  It took three cabs, one after the other, to get him to the Battery without the horses foundering. And all the clocks along the route displayed each a truly Republican and Democratic spirit of independence, no two agreeing. He was in constant agony that he might not make his destination in time. He pondered, not for the first time, on the absurdity of the head of the only effective police-force in the State (if not the nation!) being dependent on common carriers to convey him wherever his own feet could not. He allowed himself the uncommon luxury of a dream: a light carriage, the property of the Watch, drawn by a team of swift and strong horses, ditto. But it was only a dream. “Economy in government” was the official policy—except, of course, where official corruption was the cord. So far, at any rate, the sachems of the Tammany Wigwam had refrained from taking over the Watch. Which meant economy.

  Blocks before the Battery he began to groan, for the crowds streaming away meant that all the farewells had been said and the ferry for the packet-ships had already left. The spectacle of the speeding cab (though devilish little speed could it manage in these crowded streets despite the fact that Hays was standing half-up and gesturing other vehicles aside) attracted the attention of the crowd, and there were loud comments—most of which contained the words Old Hays!

  He leapt from the cab as soon as it drew up at the wharf, and dashed through the lingering groups of people. A corner of his eye observed three known pick-pockets, but he did not stop. That is, he did not stop until he saw that the ferry had gone, gone so definitely that he could not even pick it out amidst the thronged shipping of the harbor. As he drew up short, dismay large and plain upon his rugged face, a fierce and stalwart young man, with cold blue eyes and a rather hard-looking mouth, appeared out of the crowd and demanded, “What’s up?”

  “Oh, Corneel—I’ve got to get aboard the packet-ship before she leaves—”

  “Which one? Two bound for Liverpool, two for New Orleans, and one each for London, Havre, and Charleston. Take your pick, I’ve got a steam-launch.”

  Which one, indeed? Liverpool was the cotton-port of England, and Jenkins had done business with the Captain of one of the Liverpool packets, at any rate. But, through the noise and clamor, he heard, as if in his ear, the voice of Mrs. Jenkins: Mais, ooh, la belle France!

  “The Havre packet, Corneel! That’ll be it! But can we make it in time?”

  With a flurry of oaths Corneel declared that he would soon put Hays aboard her, and ripped out orders. Almost at once a small, trim steam-launch appeared and they tumbled into it. Corneel took the wheel himself, and in another minute the paddles were thrashing and the whistle was screaming.

  “Damn my tripes!�
� Corneel shouted. “This is like the old days! Remember when I was Captain of old Gibbons’s steamer, hey?”

  Hays nodded. “In open violation of the monopoly that New-York State had given Livingstone and Fulton,” he pointed out. “Wherefore, it was my plain duty to arrest you. I told you I’d do it if I had to carry you ashore. I did do it and I did have to carry you ashore!”

  Corneel roared with laughter, damned his tripes again, and various other things, swore luridly at the pilots of any vessels which did not instantly veer out of his way at the sound of his whistle; and in very short time they had beaten a white, frothy path across the blue waters and were in the cool shadow of the huge ocean-goer.

  “Ahoy, the Hannibal packet!” Corneel shouted, his crewman seizing the ladder—which was still down to let the pilot off—with the boat-hook; then quickly fastening on with the line.

  A row of curious faces looked down at them from above. Corneel and Hays clambered up the ladder and confronted the somewhat astonished Captain. Hays lifted his staff of office. His eyes picked out one face from the crowd, and a thickly-packed crowd it was, too; for few had chosen to go below and miss the passage down the Bay and through the Narrows. It was a face easy to pick out, once it had been described. “A big man with a red face,” Cudjo had said. “A sonsy red face,” was MacNab’s description. Hays wondered at his never having made the connection.

  “What brings you aboard, Mr. Hays?” asked Captain Delano.

  “A desire to ask a question or two of your passenger, here—” Hays stopped in front of the man, who greeted him with the same affable smile he had worn at their previous meeting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hays. Have you had any success in your quest for information about Nankeen?” he inquired.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins. Yes, I have. Do you know this glove?”