Chester Himes - The big gold dream

Then the sergeant asked sarcastically, "What did He say?"

"He said He weren't going to tell," Alberta replied stolidly.

The police stenographer giggled, but the faces of Grave Digger and Coffin Ed remained impassive.

Sergeant Frick looked at them and rubbed the palm of his hand violently across his forehead. Every time he came to Harlem on on a case he got a violent headache.

"What is it you believe about this fairy tale?" he asked the colored detectives.

"What she said she did is probably true," Grave Digger replied. "Why she did it is another story."

"Do you mean to say you believe anybody is stupid enough to try to hide a murder weapon from the police without even knowing who the murderer is?" the sergeant said incredulously.

"Sure," Coffin said. "I believe it. Not that this woman is doing that, but there are people in Harlem who will."

"Why, for Christ sake?"

"Most people in Harlem consider the police as public enemies," Grave Digger elaborated. "But no doubt but what this woman has a good notion of who the murderer is."

"That's what I would think," the sergeant said, then turned back to Alberta and shot the question, "When was the last time you saw George Clayborne?"

"I ain't never heard of him," she denied.

"He was a crony of your husband's," the sergeant ventured.

"He were?" she said unconcernedly, ignoring the bait. "Do tell!"

The sergeant colored.

"What did you say your husband's name was?"

"I didn't say, but, if you wants to know, he's named Rufus Wright."

"Where does he work?"

"I don't know and I don't care. I ain't seen him in nearmost a year, and what he do don't interest me."

"Who is your man?" Grave Digger asked.

"My man? He named Sugar Stonewall."

"What was he doing at Clayborne's house?" the sergeant slipped in cleverly.

"He ain't been there," Alberta maintained doggedly. "He left for Detroit on the nine-fifteen, like I said."

"No, he didn't," the sergeant said. "He was waiting for Clayborne in front of Clayborne's house when Clayborne came home. He had some business to transact with Clayborne. You were waiting in the park for Stonewall to come and tell you the outcome of the business. When you saw the patrol car pass you knew something had gone wrong. You rushed to the scene. When you found out that Clayborne had been killed, you knew Stonewall had killed him. You found the knife Stonewall had thrown away. You recognized it. You knew it could be traced to Stonewall. That's why you were going to throw it into the lagoon. All right, Why did Stonewall kill him?"

"If you know all of that what you asking me for?" Alberta said stubbornly.

"I'm just trying to make it easy for you," the sergeant said. "I sympathize with you," he went on, looking as sympathetic as an executioner. "I don't want to see you take the rap for a no-good man who runs away leaving you holding the bag."

"He ain't left me holding nothing," she contradicted doggedly. "Sugar Stonewall wouldn't kill a fly."

"Why weren't you at home?" Coffin Ed asked.

"I told you why. I were lonesome with Stonewall gone. I just walked down to the park and watched the young folks boating in the pond. I had just set down to rest when I seen the patrol car pass."

"Alberta, I am damn tired of listening to your lies," the sergeant said. "I am going to book you on suspicion of murder and keep you in solitary confinement until you decide to tell the truth."

"The Lord will be with me," she said defiantly.

"I am going to put out a reader for this man, Sugar Stonewall," the sergeant informed the colored detectives. "And I will wire the Detroit police, too. I want you fellows to check this woman's story."

"Right," Grave Digger said. He waited until the police stenographer had followed the sergeant from the room, then turned to Alberta and said invitingly, "Now that we are all colored folks here, you can tell us the story and let's get it over with."

"I done told all there is," she maintained stubbornly.

"Okay, we'll find out," he said roughly. "Where are the keys to your flat?"

"How do I know," she muttered. "They took them at the desk."

"Let's lock her up," Coffin Ed grated. "She's getting on my nerves."

"Get up," Grave Digger said.

They took her out and turned her over to the matron.

Half an hour later they had searched her flat and found it empty. They started to leave the building, on their way back to question her again.

"Pssst!" the big fat lady who lived on the first floor of the tenement on 118th Street hissed from her front window.

It was past one o'clock, and the street was deserted. Not a window was lit. Only the rats were in evidence, scavenging among the loaded garbage cans; and the hunting cats watching them from dark corners with baleful eyes.

Grave Digger jerked his thumb toward a vaguely visible outline of a female half filling the lower part of a black-dark window. Coffin Ed nodded.

"Come inside," the woman whispered. "I got something to tell you."

They turned and re-entered the dimly lit hall.

"Never look a stool pigeon in the mouth," Grave Digger said in a low voice.

Coffin Ed loosened his long-barreled, nickel-plated. 38 caliber revolver in its oiled shoulder holster. Grave Digger noticed the gesture and thought, A burned child fears fire. He tightened with trepidation. He wondered if Coffin Ed would ever get over the memory of the acid splashing into his face. It had left him trigger-happy; and a trigger-happy detective was as dangerous as a blind rattlesnake.

To the right, a door opened cautiously a crack and then opened fully into a black-dark room.

"Get some light on," Coffin Ed grated, the revolver flashing suddenly in his hand.

"Easy does it," Grave Digger said.

A gasp was heard from the darkness, and a light came on suddenly. "Lord God, you scared me," the big fat black woman moaned. "I just didn't want nobody to see me talking to the cops."

They stepped inside, and Coffin Ed kicked the door shut behind him, holding the revolver loosely at his side. The fat lady rushed to the front window and drew the shades.

They were standing in the parlor. She offered them whiskey, which they declined.

She said with an air of secrecy, "I saw you when you came, and I knew you were going up to Alberta Wright's."

"What's happened up there?" Grave Digger asked.

The fat lady's eyes widened. "Don't you know? Her furniture was stolen while she was away at the baptism."

The detectives became suddenly alert.

"I bet you were sitting in your window with a grandstand seat," Coffin Ed said.

"I didn't see them take it away, but I saw them when they come with the moving van," she admitted.

"All right, let's have it," Grave Digger said. "And, if you are a friend of Alberta's, you'll give it to us straight."

"Lord, that child is just like a daughter to me," she said, then went on to tell with great relish the events leading up to the theft of the furniture.

"What did this Rufus Wright look like?" Grave Digger asked.

She described him as though she had been his valet.

"And Alberta knew who he was when you told her?"

"Oh, she knew him all right," the fat lady said. "Do you reckon they is relations?" She licked her lips as though it tasted good. "Maybe he's her husband; I know that other nigger ain't."

"Maybe," Grave Digger said. "You keep on watching, and if you see anything else, you call the precinct station and ask for one of us. You know who we are, don't you?"

"Lord, if I didn't know, I could guess," she said, watching Coffin Ed slip the long-barreled revolver back into its oiled shoulder holster.

She was back in her front window before the small, battered, black sedan, with Grave Digger at the wheel and Coffin Ed beside him, pulled away from the curb.