In the narrow strip of interspace, a tall brown girl was doing a song and dance to the absorbed delight of the patrons seated nearest her. Her flame chiffon dress, normally long and flowing, had been caught up bit by bit in her palms, which rested nonchalantly on her hips, until now it was not so much a dress as a sash, gathered about her waist. The long shapely smooth brown limbs below were bare from trim slippers to sash, and only a bit of silken underthing stood between her modesty and surrounding admiration.
With extraordinary ease and grace, this young lady was proving beyond question the error of reserving legs for mere locomotion, and no one who believed that the chief function of the hips was to support the torso could long have maintained so ridiculous a notion against the argument of her eloquent gestures.
Bubber caught sight of this vision and halted in his tracks. His abetting of justice, his stern immediate duty as a deputy of the law, faded.
‘Boy!’ he said softly. ‘What a pair of eyes!’
Sang the girl, with an irrelevance which no one seemed to mind:
I’ll be standin’ on the corner high
When they drag your body by—
I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal you.
‘Where,’ said the unimpressionable Hanks, ‘is this bozo named Doty Hicks?’
‘If he ain’t here,’ returned Bubber, still captivated by the vision, ‘we’ll jes’ have to sit down and wait for him.’
‘I’ll stand here. You look.’
‘I’m lookin’.’
‘For Hicks, if it ain’t askin’ too much.’
Reluctantly obedient, Bubber moved slowly along the aisle, scanning the patrons at this table and that, acutely aware that his march was bringing him momentarily nearer the dancing girl. No one had he yet seen who faintly resembled Doty Hicks. The girl’s number ended just as Bubber was on the point of passing her. As she terminated her dance with a flourish, she swung merrily about and chucked the newcomer under his plump chin.
‘You’re short and broad, but sweet, oh Gawd!’
Bubber, who was as much a child of the city as she, was by no means embarrassed. He grinned, did a little buck and wing step of his own, ended with a slap of his foot, and responded:
‘You’re long and tall and you’ve got it all!’
‘O.K., big boy,’ laughed the girl and would have turned away, but he stopped her. Offering her one of his detective-cards, he said:
‘Sis, if you ever need a friend, look me up.’
She took the card, glanced at it, laughed again.
‘Here on business, mister?’
‘Business, no lie,’ he said ruefully. ‘Seen my friend Doty Hicks?’
‘Oh—that kind o’ business. Well who’s that over in the corner by the orchestra?’
He looked, and there indeed was Doty Hicks, a little wizened black fellow, bent despondently over the table at which he sat alone, his elbows resting on the white porcelain surface, which he contemplated in deep meditation, his chin in his hands.
‘Thanks, sister. I’ll do better when I can see more of you. Right now at present, duty calls.’ And lamenting the hardships of working for law and order, Bubber approached the disconsolate figure at the corner table.
Remembering how he had been received by Spider Webb, Bubber approached the present responsibility differently:
‘Hello, Doty,’ he said pleasantly and familiarly.
Doty Hicks looked up, the protrusiveness of his eyes accentuated by the thinness of his face. He stared somewhat like a man coming out of anaesthesia.
‘Don’t know you,’ he said in a voice that was tremulous but none the less positive. And he resumed his contemplation of the table top.
‘Sure you know me. You and me was at Frimbo’s tonight—remember?’
‘Couldn’t see Frimbo,’ said Doty. ‘Too dark.’ Whether he referred to the darkness of Frimbo’s room or of Frimbo’s complexion was not clear. Bubber went on:
‘Frimbo’s got somethin’ for you.’
‘Yea—talk. Thass all. Lot o’ talk.’
‘He ain’t expected to live—and he wants to see you befo’ he dies.’
For a moment the little man made no sound, his great round eyes staring blankly at Bubber Brown. Then, in a hoarse, unsteady whisper he repeated:
‘Ain’t expected to live?’
‘Not long.’ Bubber was pursuing the vague notion that by hiding the actuality of the death he would achieve easier cooperation and less enmity. ‘It took him sort o’ sudden.’
‘Mean—mean Frimbo’s dyin’?’
‘Don’t mean maybe.’
Doty Hicks, unsteadily, jerkily, more like a mechanism than like a man, got to his feet, pushed back his chair, stood teetering a dizzy moment, then rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, shook his head, became steadier, and fixed Bubber with an unwavering stare, a look in which there was a hint of triumph and more than a hint of madness.
‘It worked!’ he said softly. ‘It worked!’ A grin, vacant, distant, unpleasant to see, came over his wasted features. ‘It worked! What you know ’bout that?’ said he.
Bubber did not care for this at all. ‘I don’t know nothin’ ’bout it, but if you comin’, come on, let’s go.’
‘If I’m comin’? You couldn’t keep me ’way. Where is he?’
Bubber had to hold him by the arm on the way out, partly to support him, partly to restrain the trembling eagerness with which he sought to reach Frimbo ere the latter should die.
‘Where,’ inquired Bubber of Officer Hanks as they wedged the diminutive Doty Hicks into the already well-occupied rear seat and resumed their journey, ‘are we go’n’ put Brother Easley Jones—if any?’
‘We’ll have to drop these men off and come back for him.’
‘Won’t need no car for him—told me he lived right there in the same block, a few houses from Frimbo.’
‘You know everybody, don’t you?’
‘Well, I recognized these two in the waitin’-room there tonight. Anybody that travels the sidewalks o’ Harlem much as I do knows them by sight anyhow. This Easley Jones I struck up a conversation with on purpose. He was a jolly sort of a feller, easy to talk to, y’ see, and when I found out he was a railroad man, I knew right off I might have a customer. Railroad men is the most back-bitten bozos in the world. They what you might call legitimate prey. That’s, of co’se, if they married. Y’ see, they come by it natural—they so crooked themselves. Any guy what lays over forty-eight hours one time in New York, where his wife is, and forty-eight hours another in Chicago, where she ain’t, is gonna curve around a little in Chicago jes’ to keep in practice for New York. Y’ see what I mean?’
‘Is that what this Easley Jones was doin’?’
‘He didn’t say. But he give me the number o’ the house he rooms at in New York—his wife is in Chicago—and asked me to drop in and advise him some time.’
‘Some time’ll be tonight.’
‘Right.’
The two material witnesses were escorted back to Frimbo’s and were left on the way upstairs in Officer Small’s care. Hanks and Bubber walked the short distance back along the block to the address Easley Jones had given. Bubber mounted the stoop and rang the bell of a dwelling much like that in which the African mystic had lived and died.
After a moment the dark hall lighted up, the door opened, and a large, yellow woman wearing horn-rimmed spectacles gazed inquisitively upon them.
‘Mr Jones in?’ asked Bubber.
‘Mr who?’
‘Mr Jones. Mr Easley Jones.’
The lady glanced at the uniformed officer and said resolutely, ‘Don’ nobody stay here by that name. You-all must have the wrong address.’
‘We don’t want to arrest him, lady. We want him to help us find somebody, that’s all. He’s a friend o’ mine—else how’d I know he lived here?’
The woman considered this. ‘What’d you say his name was?’
‘Jones. Easley Jones. Light brown-s
kin feller with freckles all over his face and kinks all over his head. He’s a railroad man—runs from here to Chicago—him and me used to work together. Yes ma’am. Sho’ did.’
The horn-rimmed lenses were like the windows of a fortress. ‘Sorry—y’all done made a mistake somewhere. No sech person lives in this house. Know a Sam Jones,’ she added helpfully, ‘that lives in Jamaica, Long Island. He’s a butler—don’ run on no road, but he commutes to New York mos’ ev’y night.’
‘Too bad, lady, but we can’t take no substitutes. If it ain’t genuwine Easley, we can’t use it. Thanks jes’ the same. But if you do run across a Easley Jones, tell him Frimbo wants to see him again tonight—right away—please.’
‘Hmph!’ responded the gracious lady and shut the door abruptly.
‘That’s funny, ain’t it?’ reflected Bubber as the two turned back toward the house of tragedy.
‘It’s all funny to me,’ confessed Officer Hanks. ‘It’s all jes’ a mess, what I mean. Everybody I’ve seen acts guilty.’
‘You ain’t been lookin’ at me, is you, brother?’
‘You? You’re mighty anxious to put it on somebody else—I see that.’
Bubber sighed at the hopelessness of ever weaning a cop from indiscriminate suspicion.
CHAPTER X
THE officer who had taken the club to be examined for finger prints returned and reported that the examination was under way, that photographic reproductions would be sent over as soon as they were ready, and that a finger-print man would come with them to take additional data, make comparisons, and establish or eliminate such possible identities as Detective Dart might be seeking.
This officer was returned to his post as Doty Hicks and Spider Webb were ushered up the stairs by the gigantic Officer Small. Sensing their arrival, Dart had the extension light again turned off.
‘If those are the men we’re waiting for send them up front.’
Accordingly, Small came in alone to report. ‘We got two of ’em. Little dopey guy and Spider Webb, the number-runner.’
‘Where are the others—Brown and Jones?’
‘Brown’s gone with Hanks to get Jones—right down the street here.’
‘Good. You wait outside, Small. Brady, bring Hicks—the little one—in first.’
Doty Hicks, though of none too steady a gait, was by no means reluctant to come in. With his protruding eyes popping and mouth half open, he entered the shaft of light and stood peering into the well-nigh impenetrable blackness that obscured the seated detective and the doctor standing beside him.
Dart waited. After a long moment of fruitless staring, Doty Hicks whispered, ‘Is you dead yet?’
‘No,’ said the detective softly.
‘But you dyin’, ain’t you?’ The little fellow was trembling. ‘They tol’ me you was dyin’.’
Dart followed the obvious lead, though he could only guess its origin.
‘So you tried to kill me?’
A puzzled look came over Doty Hick’s thin black face.
‘You don’t sound right. Yo’ voice don’t sound—’
‘Sit down,’ said Dart.
Still bewildered, Hicks mechanically obeyed.
‘Why did you try to kill me?’
Hicks stared dumbly, groping for something. Suddenly his features changed to an aspect of unwilling comprehension, then of furious disappointment. He leaned forward in his chair, catching hold of the edge of the table. ‘You ain’t him!’ he cried. ‘You ain’t him! You tryin’ to fool me! Where’s he at—I got to see him die. I got to—’
‘Why?’
‘Else it ain’t no use—I got to see him! Where’s he at?’
‘Take it easy, Hicks. Maybe we’ll let you see him. But you’ll have to tell us all about it. Now, what’s the idea?’
A plaintive almost sobbing tone came into Doty’s high, quavering voice.
‘Who is you, mister? What you Want to fool me for?’
‘I don’t want to fool you, Hicks. I want to help you. You can tell me all about it—you can trust me. Tell me the whole thing, and if it’s straight, I’ll let you see Frimbo.’
‘Lemme see him first, will you, mistuh? He may die before I get to him.’
‘If he isn’t dead yet he won’t die till you get to him. You’ll have to tell your story first, so you better tell it quickly. Why did you come here tonight at ten-thirty? Why did you try to kill Frimbo, and why must you see him before he dies?’
Doty sank back in his chair. ‘All right,’ he said, dully. Then, quickened by the realization of the urgency, he leaned forward again. ‘All right—I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Listen.’ He paused.
‘I’m listening.’
Drawing a deep breath, Doty Hicks proceeded:
‘Frimbo’s a conjure-man. You know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘I come here tonight because Frimbo was killin’ my brother.’ He hesitated. ‘Killin’ my brother,’ he repeated. Then, ‘You know my brother—everybody knows my brother—Spats Oliver Hicks—runs the Hip-Toe Club on Lenox Avenue. Good guy, my brother. Always looked out for me. Even when I went dopey and got down and out like I is now, he never turned me down. Always looked out for me. Good guy. If it’d been me Frimbo was killin’, ’twouldn’ matter. I’m jes’ a dope—nobody’d miss me. But he was killin’ my brother, see? Y’see, Frimbo’s a conjure-man. He can put spells on folks. One kind o’ spell to keep ’em from dyin’ like that boy what got the knife stuck in his head. Another kind to set ’em to dyin’—like he was doin’ my brother. Slow dyin’—misery all in through here, coughin’ spells, night sweats, chills and fever, and wastin’ away. That’s what he was doin’ to Spats.’
‘But why?’ Dart couldn’t help asking.
‘’Count o’ my brother’s wife. He’s doin’ it ’count o’ my brother’s wife. Spats married a show-gal, see? And hadn’t been married a month befo’ she met up with some guy with more sugar. So she quit my brother for the sugar-papa, see? And natchelly, bein’ a regular man and not no good-for-nothin’ dope like me, my brother went after her, see? He grabbed this sugar-daddy and pulled him inside out, like a glove. And one day he met the gal and asked her to come back and she called him somethin’ and he smacked her cross-eyed. Well, ’cose, that give her a fever, and she come straight here to Frimbo. She could get plenty o’ what it took from the new daddy, and she brought it with her. Frimbo told her what to do. She made believe she was goin’ back to live with my brother, and he like a fool took her in. She stayed jes’ long enough to do what Frimbo’d told her to do, whatever it was. Day she left, my brother had a fit—jes’ like a cat in a alley—a fit. And ever since, he’s been goin’ from bad to worse. Doctor don’ help, nothin’ don’ help. Y’see, it’s Frimbo’s spell.’
‘And that’s why you tried to kill him?’
‘Yea—that’s why.’
‘How did you go about it?’
Doty Hicks looked around him into the enshrouding darkness. He shook his head. ‘Can’t tell you that. Can’t tell nobody how—that’d break the spell. All I can tell you is that they’s only one way to kill a conjure-man—you got to out-conjure him. You got to put a back-conjure on him, and it’s got to be stronger ’n the one he put on the other feller. ’Cose you can’t do it alone. Got to have help.’
‘Help? What kind of help?’
‘Somebody has to help you.’
‘Who helped you with this?’
‘Can’t tell you that neither—that’d break the spell. Can I see him now?’
‘Why do you have to see him before he dies?’
‘That’s part of it. I have to see him and tell him how come he’s dyin’, else it don’t do no good. But if I see him and tell him how come he’s dyin’, then, soon as he die, my brother gets well. See? Jes’ like that—gets well soon as Frimbo die.’
‘Did you pay the person to help you?’
‘Pay him? Sho’—had to pay him.’
‘And do you realize that you are m
aking a confession of deliberate murder—for which you may be sentenced to die?’
‘Hmph! What I care ’bout that? I been tired livin’ a long time, mistuh. But you couldn’t prove nothin’ on me. I did a stretch once and I know. You got to have evidence. I got it fixed so they ain’t no evidence—not against me.’
‘Against somebody else, maybe?’ Doty Hicks did not answer.
‘Frimbo was a pretty wise bird. He must have known you wanted to conjure him—the way he could read people’s minds. What did he say when you came in?’
‘Didn’t say nothin’ for a while. I asked him to lay off my brother—begged him, if he had to conjure somebody, to conjure me—but he jes’ set there in the dark like he was thinkin’ it over, and then he begins talkin’. Say: “So you want to die in place of your brother? It is impossible. Your brother is incurably ill.” Then he kep’ quiet a minute and he say, “You have been misinformed, my friend. You are under the impression that I have put an evil spell upon your brother. That is superstitious nonsense. I am no caster of spells. I am a psychist—a kind of psychologist. I have done nothing to your brother. He simply has pulmonary tuberculosis—in the third stage. He had had it for at least three months when your sister-in-law came to me for advice. I could not possibly be responsible for that, since until then I did not know of his existence.” ’Course I didn’ believe that, ’cause my brother hadn’ been sick a day till after his wife came here, so I kep’ on askin’ him to take off the spell, so he finally says that everything’ll be all right in a few days and don’ worry. Well, I figure he’s jes’ gettin’ rid o’ me, and I gets up like I’m on my way out and come through that side door there, but ’stead o’ goin’ on downstairs, I slips back in again and—and—’
‘Put your counter-spell on him?’
‘I ain’ sayin’,’ said Doty Hicks, ‘I’m jes’ tellin’ you enough so I can see him. I ain’ sayin’ enough to break the spell.’
‘And you refuse to say who helped you?’
‘Not till I see Frimbo die; then I’ll tell maybe. ’Twon’ make no difference, then—the spell’ll be broke. Now lemme see him, like you said.’
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 9