Chester Himes - The crazy kill

Dulcy had wormed between the displays close enough to the plate-glass to rap on it.

Johnny threw her a look, then said to the sergeant, "You got my old lady in there. Let her out."

"She's a suspect," the sergeant said tonelessly.

"It's her brother," Johnny said.

"You can see her at the station. The wagons will be here soon," the sergeant replied indifferently.

The flames leaped up in Johnny's muddy eyes.

"Let her out," Grave Digger said. "He'll bring her in."

"Who in the God-damned hell's going to bring him in?" the sergeant raved.

"We'll bring him in," Grave Digger said. "Me and Ed." The first of the wagons turned the corner into Seventh Avenue. The sergeant opened the door and said, "All right, let's start getting them out."

Dulcy was the third in line. She had to wait until the cops shook down the two men in front of her. One of the cops asked her to hand over her pocketbook, but she ran past him and flew into Johnny's arms.

"Oh Johnny," she sobbed, staining the front of his powder blue silk suit with lipstick, mascara and tears as she buried her face in his chest.

He embraced her with a tenderness that seemed startling in a man of his appearance.

"Don't cry, baby," he said in his changeless voice, "I'll get the mother-raper."

"You'd better get into the wagon," a white patrol cop said, approaching Dulcy. Grave Digger gestured him back.

Johnny escorted Dulcy toward his parked Cadillac convertible as though she were an invalid.

When Alamena came out, she stepped from line, walked quickly to the Cadillac and got in beside Dulcy.

No one said anything to her.

Johnny started the motor, but was held up for a moment by a car from the coroner's office that had stopped in front of him. The assistant coroner got out with his black bag and walked toward the body. Two cops came from the apartment entrance with Mamie Pullen and Reverend Short.

"Over here," Alamena called.

"Thank God," Mamie said. She made her way slowly between the parked cars and climbed into the back seat.

"There's room for you too, Reverend Short," Alamena called.

"I'll not ride with a murderer," he replied in his croaking voice, and went tottering toward the second of the wagons that had just pulled up.

The eyes of every cop went quickly from his face toward the occupants of the cream-colored Cadillac.

"Take your curse off me!" Dulcy screamed, becoming hysterical again.

"Shut up!" Alamena said harshly.

Johnny shifted into drive without looking around, and the big shiny car moved slowly off. The small black battered sedan bearing Coffin Ed and Grave Digger followed close behind.

The preliminary questioning was made by another sergeant, Detective Sergeant Brody from dowtown Homicide, with the precinct detectives, Grave Digger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson, assisting.

The questioning was conducted in a soundproof room without windows on the first floor. This room was known to the Harlem underworld as the "Pigeon Nest." It was said that no matter how tough an egg was, if they kept him in there long enough he would hatch out a pigeon.

The room was lit by the hot bright glare of a three-hundred-watt spotlight focused on a low wooden stool bolted to the boards in the center of the bare wooden floor. The seat of the stool was shiny from the squirming of countless suspects who had sat on it.

Sergeant Brody sat with his elbows propped atop a big battered flat-topped desk that stood along the inner wall beside the door. The desk was beyond the edge of shadow that screened the interrogator from the suspects sizzling in the glaring light.

At one end of the desk, a police reporter sat in a straight-backed chair with his notebook on the desk in front of him.

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, wan-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.