The crazy kill (coffin johnson and grave digger jones)
Page 3
He sat slouched on the end of his spine in an overstuffed armchair, staring with a fixed expression toward the opposite wall.
"What the hell do you think," she said roughly. All her social affections had left since the discovery of Val's body. "You think I'd bury him if he was alive?"
"I saw it happen," Reverend Short continued as though she hadn't spoken.
She stared at him in perplexity. "Oh, you mean Val."
"A woman filled with the sin of lust and adultery came from the pit of hell and stabbed him in the heart."
His words sunk slowly into Mamie's clogged thoughts.
"A woman?"
" And I gave her space to repent of her fornication, and she repented not."
"You saw her do it?"
" For her sins have reached unto heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities."
Mamie saw the room tilt.
"May the Lord have mercy," she said.
She saw Big Joe in his coffin, the grand piano and the console radio-television set begin a slow ascent toward heaven. Then the dark maroon carpet rose slowly until it spread out before her eyes like a sea of dark, congealed blood into which she buried her face.
"Sin and lust and abomination in the sight of the Lord," Reverend Short croaked, then added in a small dry whisper, "She ain't nothing but a whore, O Lord."
5
The automatic elevator was on the ground floor, and most of the curious mourners chose to run down the stairs rather than wait for it. But they were not the first to arrive.
Dulcy and Chink stood facing each other across the basket of bread containing the body. He was a big yellow man, young but going to fat, dressed in a beige summer suit. He leaned over tensely.
The first to approach heard Dulcy exclaiming, "Jesus Christ, you didn't have to kill him!" and Chink replying in a voice choked with sudden passion, "Not even for you-" Then he broke off and cautioned in a tense whisper, speaking between set lips, "Shut up and play it dumb."
She didn't speak again until all the mourners from the wake had gathered and had their look and said their say.
"It's Val, and he's dead all right."
"If he ain't, Saint Peter's going to be mighty surprised." Alamena had wormed close enough to get a clear view of the body. She heard a dining-car waiter say, "You reckon he was stabbed where he's at?"
A voice behind her replied, "Must have been-there ain't no blood nowhere else."
The body lay at full length on the mattress of soft wrapped loaves of bread as though the basket had been fitted to its measure. The left hand, exhibiting the band of a single gold ring, lay palm upward across a heavy, black silk knitted tie knotted about the collar of a soft sandcolored linen silk shirt; the right hand lay palm downward across the center button of the jacket of an olive drab sheen gabardine suit. The feet pointed straight up, exposing the slightly worn crepe-rubber soles of lightweight Cordovan English-made shoes.
The knife protruded from the jacket just beneath the breast pocket, which was adorned with a quarter-inch stripe of white handkerchief. It was a stag-handle knife with a push-button opener and handguard, such as used by hunters to skin game.
Blood made irregular patterns over the jacket, shirt and tie. Splotches were on the waxed-paper wrappings of the loaves of bread, and on one side of the woven rattan basket. There was none on the sidewalk.
The face was set in a fixed expression of utter disbelief; the eyes, widened into protruding white-rimmed balls, stared fixedly at some point above and beyond the feet.
It was a handsome face, with smooth brown skin and features bearing a close resemblance to Dulcy's. The head was bare, revealing curly black hair, thickly plastered with pomade.
An odd moment of silence followed the last speaker's statement as the fact sunk in that the murder had been committed on the spot.
Dulcy said into the silence, "He looks so surprised."
"You'd look surprised, too, if some one stuck a knife in your heart," Alamena said grimly.
With a startling abruptness, Dulcy became hysterical.
"Val!" she screamed. "I'll get him, Val, sugar, oh God-"
She would have thrown herself atop Val's body, but Alamena quickly wrenched her away, and several of the mourners closed in and held her.
She struggled furiously and screamed, "Turn me loose, you mother-rapers! He's my brother and some mother-raper's going to pay-"
"For Jesus sake, shut up!" Alamena shouted.
Chink stared at her, his big yellow face distorted with rage. She shut up and got herself under control.
A colored patrolman came from the doorway of the adjoining building. When he saw the crowd he drew himself up and began adjusting his uniform.
"What's happened here?" he asked in a loud self-conscious voice. "Somebody get hurt?"
"You can call it that," some one replied.
The patrolman pushed in close and looked down at the body. The collar of his blue uniform was open, and he smelled like sweat.
"Who stabbed him?" he asked.
Pigmeat replied in a high falsetto voice, "Don't you wish you knew."
The patrolman blinked his eyes, then suddenly grinned, showing rows of big yellow teeth.
"What minstrel you with, sonny-o?"
Everyone stared at him, waiting to see what he would do. Their faces took dark shape in the graying light of dawn.
He stood there grinning, doing nothing. He didn't know what to do, but he wasn't perturbed by it.
The distant sound of a siren floated in the humid air. The crowd began to scatter.
"Don't nobody leave the scene," the patrolman ordered. The red eye of a patrol car came north up Seventh Avenue. The patrol car made a screaming U-turn around the park dividing the traffic lanes and dragged to a stop, double-parking beside the cars at the curb. Another red eye was coming south down the dark street in a screaming fury. A third turned the corner of 132nd Street, almost coffiding with it. A fourth turned in from 129th Street and screamed north on the wrong side of the avenue.
The white precinct sergeant arrived in the fifth patrol car.
"Keep everybody here," he ordered in a loud voice.
By then half-clad people were hanging from every front window in the block, and others began collecting in the street.
The sergeant noticed a white man clad in a shortsleeved white sport shirt and khaki trousers standing apart, and asked him, "Do you work in this A amp;P store?"
"I'm the manager."
"Open it up. We're going to put these suspects inside."
"I object," the white man said. "I've been robbed once tonight by a shine, right under my eyes, and the cop hasn't even caught the thief."
The sergeant looked at the colored cop.
"It was his buddy," the A amp;P manager said. "Where is he now?" the sergeant asked. "How in the hell do I know?" the store manager replied. "I had to leave and come back to open the store."
"Well, go ahead and open it," the colored cop said. "I'll be responsible if anything is stolen," the sergeant said.
The manager went to unlock the door without replying. An inconspicuous black sedan pulled to the curb and parked at the end of the block unnoticed, and two tall, lanky colored men dressed in black mohair suits that looked as though they'd been slept in got out and walked back toward the scene. Their wrinkled coats bulged beneath their left shoulders. The shiny straps of their shoulder holsters showed across the fronts of their blue cotton shirts.
The one with the burnt face went to the far side of the crowd; the other remained on the near side.
Suddenly a loud voice shouted, "Straighten up!" An equally loud voice echoed, "Count off!" "Detectives Grave Digger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson reporting for duty, General," Pigmeat muttered.
"Jesus Christ!" Chink fumed. "Now we've got those damned Wild West gunmen here to mess up everything."
The sergeant said, winking at a white cop, "Herd 'em into the store, Jones, you and Johnson. You fellows know how to handle 'em."
"They're going to hold prayer meeting," Coffin Ed said. As the cops were closing the door on the corraled suspects, a big cream-colored, made-to-order Cadillac convertible with the top down stopped in the street, double-parking behind the row of patrol cars.
A small white-faced playing card was embossed on each door. In the corners of each card were an inlaid spade, heart, diamond and club. Each door was the size of a barn gate.
One of the doors swung open. A man got out. He was a big man but, standing, his six-foot height lost impressiveness in his slanting shoulders and long arms. He was wearing a powder blue suit of shantung silk; a pale yellow crepe silk shirt; a hand-painted tie depicting an orange sun rising on a dark blue morning; highly glossed light tan rubber-soled shoes; a miniature ten-of-hearts tie pin with opal hearts; three rings, including a heavy gold signet ring of his lodge, a yellow diamond set in a heavy gold band and a big mottled stone of a nameless variety, also set in a heavy gold band. His cuff links were heavy gold squares with diamond eyes. It wasn't from vanity he wore so much gold. He was a gambler, and it was his bank account in any emergency.
He was bareheaded. His kinky hair, powdered with gray, was cut as short as a three-days' growth of whiskers, with a part shaved on one side. In the dim light of morning his big-featured, knotty face showed it had taken its lumps. In the center of his forehead was a puffed, bluish scar with ridges pronging off like immobilized octopus tentacles. It gave him an expression of perpetual rage, which was accentuated by the smoldering fire that lay always just beneath the surface of his muddy brown eyes, ready to flame into a blaze.
He looked hard, strong, tough and unafraid.
"Johnny Perry!"
The name came involuntarily to the lips of everyone who lived in Harlem. "He's the greatest," they said.
Dulcy waved to him from inside the store.
He walked toward the cops who were congregated about the door. His step was springy, and he walked on the balls of his feet like a prize fighter. A wave of nervous motion stirred among the cops.
"What's the rumble?" he asked the sergeant.
For an instant no one spoke.
Then the sergeant said, nodding toward the bread basket on the sidewalk, "Man's been killed," as though the words had been forced from him by the quick hot flame that began to flicker in Johnny's eyes.
Johnny turned his head to look, then walked over and stared down at Val's body. He stood as though frozen for almost a minute. When he walked back his dark face had taken on a deep purple tint, and the tentacles of the scar on his forehead seemed to have come alive. His eyes had the hot steamy glow of water-logged wood beginning to burn.
But his voice had the same slow, deep, gambler's pitch that never changed.
"Do you know who stuck him?"
The sergeant gave him back look for look. "Not yet. Do you?"
Johnny put his left hand forward, fingers stiff and splayed, then drew it in and stuck it into his coat pocket, the same as his other hand. He did not reply.
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.
6
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 ro
om? 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.