“Give him a kiss, Delphine,” she says to her daughter.
The men in Klan robes hoist the old black man to the roof of the police van, and one of them makes a noose, which he slips over the black man’s head. They tie the other end to an overhanging branch. A policeman shoots his service pistol at the sky, and the van accelerates away.
The black man dangles in the air. Applause and rebel yells boom out. I stare at the black man’s jerking feet. I feel Delphine’s hand on my arm and turn toward her. She flicks her wavy blonde hair away from her face and her other dark green, reptilian eye. She grabs my head and kisses me hard on the lips, her tongue darting inside my mouth. She tightens her arms around me and grinds her pelvis into me, moaning. As the crowd passes the police van, they give it a friendly knock. The knocking gets louder and louder, drowning out Delphine’s moans . . .
The knocking got louder, and I heard a voice shouting downstairs “Mr. Brown, Mr. Uhby Brown. It’s uhgent!” I looked at the clock. It was 9:00 a.m. I ran to the door and shouted, “I’m coming. Give me a minute to get dressed.”
I quickly threw on a sweater and some slacks and socks and shoes. I bolted down the steps and found Barnet Robinson III pacing back and forth in front of my office door. He was red-faced with anger, disheveled, trembling, and shaking a sheet of paper around in his hand like a madman.
“You better take a look at this, Mr. Brown. It’s a damned ransom note!” My look of surprise was real. A ransom note was not part of Stanley’s plan. One glance told me that Buster had written the note. I knew because I taught him how to write. It was the punishment Father Gohegan gave me for beating up Buster at St. Vincent’s those many years ago. For all my efforts, all I could get out of Buster was a messy scrawl. I stared at the words; they weren’t Buster’s. There was no way on earth that Buster could come up with this:
Dear Mr. Robinson,
I am holding your daughter hostage for a ransom of one hundred thousand US dollars. I have no intention of harming her if you are good enough to cooperate with my demands. Any attempt on your part to bring the police into this matter or to alert the press will result in fatal damage to your daughter. I will communicate the time and the place where you are to leave the ransom money in a few hours, to enable you to make the necessary arrangements. Half the money should be in small denominations, not exceeding twenty US dollars, and the bills should be used and contain no markings, consecutive serial numbers, or any other means of identifying them. The other half should be in untraceable gold bullion. I have experts at my disposal who will check that the ransom is sound before I release your daughter. I hope that this affair reaches a felicitous conclusion.
Thank you in advance for your understanding. I remain your obedient servant, Bartholomew Lincoln Thigpen Junior, alias Buster Thigpen.
Robinson III observed me intently, awaiting my judgment.
“It’s definitely his handwriting, but somebody else came up with the words.”
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent. I’ve seen his writing before. The man’s nearly illiterate. Somebody’s masterminding this.”
I also knew that Buster would not be taking part in any kidnapping because I had cast him into the Seine a few hours ago. Buster, and whoever he was in cahoots with, must have set their scheme in motion just after I had seen the Count on Wednesday about Buster taking part in the rehearsal and the charity concert. Barnet Robinson III was standing there, twisting his hands together, giving himself an Indian burn.
“It’s just like what happened to Chahlie Lindbug’s baby. I got the money together for Chahlie Jr.’s ransom. The demand is the same, small dollah denominations, except we slipped in some gold certificates. Maybe a worldwide kidnapping organization’s at work.”
At the mention of the gold dollar certificates, I got angry, remembering what Stanley had said, but Robinson III was not watching my reaction. I said, “I’ll go photostat this ransom note in the back of my office.”
Barnet Robinson III hesitated, as if wondering whether he should let me deal with the matter or go to the police.
“Don’t think about going to the police,” I said. “Buster is a desperate man, and he’ll carry out his threats,” I lied. “Let me handle the kidnapping investigation, and I suggest that you think about how to come up with the money, in case it comes to that.”
He had waved his hand dismissively when I said “money,” as if that was the least of his worries. “Ah you sure that you can get my Daphne back safe and sound? Chahlie Jr.’s kidnappers said not to go to the police, and we paid the ransom and they killed him anyway.”
“I can guarantee that you’ll get her back safe and sound. Trust me. But you mustn’t tell a soul about the kidnapping and the ransom note. Give me a day to investigate this. I’ll report back to you at noon tomorrow. Do you know the Coupole in Montparnasse?”
“Isn’t that the hangout of a lot of those . . . intellectuals?”
“Yes, but we’ll be less conspicuous there than at the Select or the Dome because they’re always crowded on Sundays with people looking for actors and music hall celebrities. If.”
“If what, Mr. Brown?”
“Maybe you could wear more . . . wintry clothes to the Coupole.”
He smiled for the first time.
“I’ll reserve a table for one o’clock. In my name.”
“I understand. Incognito. No gaudy Princeton stuff,” he said. He threw me his intense look again.
“No offense meant, Mr. Robinson,” I said.
He gave me a really warm smile, the first one since we’d met.
“You know, Mr. Brown, the more I get to know you, the more I think Mr. O’Toole was right to suggest you for this job. I think you’ll bring my Daphne back to me safe and sound.”
“Thanks,” I said. Unfortunately, I was far from sharing his confidence. When Robinson III finally left the office I made two photostats of the ransom note, put the original and a copy in my safe, and took one with me to meet up with Stanley to plan our next move. Our faked abduction scheme was dead in the water.
Stanley had never learned to read or write words or music. He had me read the ransom note out loud and then, resplendent in his chartreuse silk dressing gown, he leaned back in his armchair, scratching his chin. He sat like that in silence for a long time, and then he signaled for me to get some rye from his liquor cabinet and to bring two of his Bohemian crystal glasses.
It was ten in the morning, but Stanley was well into his day in terms of eating and drinking. Stanley lit up a Cuban panatela cigar and eased himself back into his futuristic armchair.
“You say this be Buster handwritin’, but Buster be floatin’ with the fishes, no?” I nodded and he went on. “I done believe all along that Buster want to make some money off’n his rich goldilocks and her daddy to feed his nose and whatnot. His usual style be to pimp his women for dough, but goldilocks he cain’t pimp ’cause she too high-toned. So, Buster gone to study how to pocket her daddy money. Be what I be thinkin’ all along.”
He flicked the ash from his cigar into a gaudy pink crystal ashtray. He went on, as if talking to himself.
“That be why I wants to pull off our snatch first and get her daddy to pay you your money before Buster pull off somethin’ like this.” Stanley picked up the ransom note and said angrily, “But this here note mean Buster be playin’ us. He weren’t never studyin’ to turn up for no charity concert tonight.” Stanley started laughing with his whole body, slapping a thigh and dancing around. He managed to wheeze out, “Old Buster had him some style, after all.” Stanley cricket-laughed and then went on.
“But there ain’t no way Buster be usin’ words like thems in that note, what come from another planet to Buster. So who put them words in Buster’s mouth, Urby? Onliest colored men I know can make such words be Langston Hughes, Baby Langston, and you. And, it ain’t be you nor Langston Hughes.” Stanley lit up a panatela.
“You think Baby Langston was in on it with
Buster?” I asked.
Stanley took a long swig of rye and studied the light playing through its amber color. “Might be your Count in there somewhere, too, holdin’ the whip hand over Buster. But I be thinkin’ that Baby be the last one left with goldilocks. Urby, I want you to go out to the stables and have a look-see. Baby Langston still be there with her, that let him out. They be gone, that open up a whole new can of worms. Like Hambone Gaylord and them Corsicans be in on it. Or your daddy, the Count.”
I’d been keeping my connection to the Count secret from Stanley, but he always ended up finding things out. He passed me the keys to one of his cars and told me to go to Pine Thicket Drive and then foot it from there, making sure no one was tailing me. When I left Stanley’s, we agreed to meet back at his apartment as soon as I scouted out the stables.
Stanley had lent me his blue Citroën C4G Berline, which was the least conspicuous of his fleet of cars. The traffic was light but it was cold outside, and snow flurries were brushing against the windshield. I turned on the wipers and the heat. I kept myself awake by humming Armstrong’s trumpet riffs. Then Stanley’s soprano sax riffs. The music was coming back.
I reached Bosquet des Pins Street and parked the car behind a coal truck. Despite my fatigue, I’d been keeping my eyes peeled to make sure that I hadn’t been followed. As I walked toward the cutoff into the Bois de Boulogne, the first sign of trouble was the blaring of the sirens of the fire engines speeding past. They were stopped up ahead, surrounded by rubberneckers. I kept hearing the words “Etables incendiés,” stables burned down. People in this wealthy part of the sixteenth district of Paris were blaming the fires on the Communists, the Socialists, and the anarchists, although it was their own kind, the Fascists and the monarchists, who had been putting parts of Paris to the torch and trying to bring down the government.
“They’re even attacking horses now!” someone shouted indignantly, the Longchamps racetrack being nearby. I could sense the panic in the well-heeled people questioning the firemen. I kept thinking that these rich folks were the natural allies of the Count and his Fascist and royalist supporters. They had a deep blood memory of the French Revolution and the Paris Commune Workers’ Revolt of 1871. The events of last Tuesday had them feeling the blade of the guillotine, still in use for public executions, whispering on their necks. They could picture snipers perched in every leafy horse chestnut tree, aiming their guns at them. They were prepared to do anything to save their lives and their wealth, even if it meant going to war with their fellow Frenchmen. I reckoned that they would readily jump into bed with Hitler and Mussolini and the Count himself to halt the spread of the Red Menace in France.
I saw smoke and flames pouring from Stanley’s stables which were clearly visible now that the dense thicket concealing them had burned to a crisp. My heart started pounding as I thought of Daphne, and I sprinted toward the smoldering remains of the hideout. Scores of firemen were directing their hoses at it, and more firemen and policemen were arriving in waves, their sirens blaring. I spotted a young fireman with an elaborate mustache who was looking angrily at the rich gawkers commenting on the scene. Figuring that I was a working-class man like himself, he answered truthfully my fearful question about possible victims. “There are no victims,” he said. “Just razed, dilapidated stable blocks. There were some pieces of old furniture and some framed paintings that went up in flames. Perhaps they had some value. But, frankly, comrade, my lieutenant thinks that it’s the work of professional arsonists working for property developers who will now try to buy up the land and”—nodding with disgust toward the elegant buildings nearby constructed by Baron Haussmann in the late nineteenth century—“construct more buildings for those wealthy parasites.”
“Thank you for your frankness, comrade,” I said, relieved. I didn’t know where Daphne was, but at least she hadn’t burned to death in Stanley’s stables. I was going to find her, but first, I needed to check out the scene for clues to what had happened. The young fireman smiled when I whispered to him, “The party was publishing tracts in those stables, to help the cause. We suspected that the Fascists were wise to us, so, fortunately, we removed our printing presses to a safe place. Between us, I think the Fascist militias have set the blaze. Is there any way that I can get a little closer to inspect the site?”
The fireman nodded for me to follow him. He picked a spare respirator off his fire engine and passed it to me.
“The police,” he said to any firemen who challenged me.
Whoever had set the blaze had done a thorough job of it. I paced the length of the smoking stable block and saw places where the fire seemed to have burned more intensely than in others. There was no trace of Daphne or of Baby Langston. No burned corpses. Maybe Baby had been in cahoots, as Stanley thought. But as I walked in the burnt-out thicket near the stables, I saw a half-burned safety match and some charred bits of newspaper.
The fireman was right; this was the work of professionals. My memory of the fire at St. Vincent’s all those years back made me think of Pierre, which, in turn, made me see the Count’s hand behind Buster’s ransom demand. I wondered whether he had been involved in this business all along. Maybe he had masterminded Buster’s kidnap attempt and dictated the ransom note, possibly for funds to get his Oriflamme movement back on its feet again after its lost battle of last Tuesday.
That would mean that the Count had found out Stanley’s hideout for holding Daphne and Buster. Maybe my instincts about Redtop and me being followed had been right, and we had led him to them. Or had Baby Langston tipped them off? And, if he had, were Hambone and the Corsicans involved? They weren’t the Count’s natural allies, so it had to be a question of hard, cold cash.
And where did Daphne fit into the puzzle? She was obviously the prize, since Robinson III would only fork out a hundred thousand dollars if she were returned to him without a scratch.
I thanked the “comrade fireman” when I returned the respirator to him. He looked around and, surreptitiously, gave me the clenched-fist anti-Fascist salute. I gave it back to him and then headed to Stanley’s Citroën C4G and climbed in, just as more police cars and fire engines arrived.
I had to report to Stanley about what was going on, but I needed more rest first. I drove to my apartment building, managing to stay awake just long enough to park the car, slouch up the stairs to my apartment again, and throw myself into bed. There were no nightmares this time,just flat-out sleep.
CHAPTER 12
Paris, Saturday afternoon, February 10, 1934
I arrived at Stanley’s four hours later at around half past three in the afternoon. The events of last night and the early morning seemed a long way away. Stanley was still sitting in his futuristic tiger skin armchair, as if he hadn’t moved since I left him.
The only difference was that the ashtray was overflowing with panatela cigar butts, and Stanley was well on his way into finishing another quart of rye. It didn’t seem to have any effect on him, though.
He motioned for me to pour myself some rye and sit down. He had gone quiet the way he did whenever something important was on his mind.
“They gone,” he said. It was a statement of fact, as if he had been at the scene himself.
“Yeah,” I said. “No sign of the girl or of Baby Langston. Your stables have burned to the ground.”
Stanley lit up another panatela and smiled.
“I done sold them six month ago and collect cash money. Sure hope the new owner got him some fire insurance.” He passed me the bottle of rye; I poured myself a good shot of it.
He said, “I figure they be gone. I reckon Hambone and them Corsicans done snatch the girl, and they goin’ for the hundred grand ransom.” He was so calm that I thought he would fall asleep.
“Stanley, I promised the girl’s daddy that I would have news for him tomorrow about the kidnapping and the ransom,” I said, exasperated.
Stanley wheezed some laughter. “You goin’ to have news, Urby. We just won’t know what new
s until after the gig tonight.”
“We’re going to go through with the charity concert at La Belle Princesse?”
“Sure. We goin’ to play out our hand to the last card. I already got Lonny Jones to be drummer, ’stead of Buster. Lonny near kissed my hands when I told him he was gone to be playin’ besides me . . . and you.”
“I haven’t played in a long time,” I said.
Stanley sighed and looked me straight in the eye. “Urby, you was the best Creole clarinet when you was a boy in knee pants, and you still the best. I know you ain’t played since Hannah done left, but, boy, you got to get back on that bone. You got mo’ music inside yo’ pinky than most musicianers has in they whole body.”
I thought about Stanley’s words, and I knew that he was right. Hannah’s leaving me had dried up my music, but since I’d first set eyes on Daphne, I felt the hunger for the music coming back. The time had come for me to do more than just hum Louis Armstrong’s and Stanley’s riffs, which I was doing more and more when I was alone. Stanley and I looked at each other, and I nodded. He flashed a smile at me, knowing what I’d say.
“I’ll be ready, Stanley,” I said.
“Urby. You gone be fine. I wants you to bring yo’ clarinet and yo’ Colt, ’cause I reckon we goin’ to have a showdown with the Hambone and his Corsicans. They be tryin’ to steal that ransom money for they own self. They crazy axin’ for a hundred grand to give the man his own daughter back. That just ain’t righteous.”
The odds didn’t look good to me. I’d have my Colt, and Stanley would have his own Colt within easy reach. Hambone Gaylord had never had any of his patrons at La Belle Princesse frisked, but he might try to pull something different if he and Baby Langston and the Corsicans were behind the double cross. And he knew that the Count and his Oriflamme storm troopers, as well as the workers, would be crowded together in the small space of his nightclub.
There was likely to be bedlam and brawling and that meant cops. The Count was coming with five of his goons, including his main man Pierre. They would see that Buster was missing, and they would suspect that Stanley and I had something to do with that because of the way Buster had played us. The Oriflamme would all be packing some kind of weapon, and Pierre, especially, was fixing to wring my neck unless I told the Count why Buster hadn’t turned up for the concert.
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