‘I still find it hard to believe that Jenkins, even for the dirty lucre you so cogently brought forward, actually did this. Jenkins is a hard one all right, but it’s all external. He’s probably got the heart of a baby, and has to masquerade as a tough customer to protect himself.’
‘As you like. But that very masquerade could lead him into something from which he couldn’t turn back.’
‘But not murder.’
‘Well, explain how he masqueraded his finger print onto that club and you’ll do him a great favour.’
‘He may be lying about not touching the club the same as he is about the handkerchief.’
‘He’s lying all right if he says he didn’t touch that club. There’s no other way the print could have got there.’
‘Isn’t there?’ the physician said, but the detective missed the scepticism in the tone and went on with his enumeration.
‘Doty Hick’s brother really is sick with T.B. and refuses to go to a hospital. I told you this morning about the killing that harmonizes with Webb’s story. And Easley Jones has been employed by the Pullman Company for ten years—the man spoke very highly of him. I went by the Forty Club last night after leaving you. Three different members told me Crouch the undertaker had been there as he said.’
‘What about the women?’
‘Well, you yourself vouched for Mrs Crouch. And I’m almost willing to vouch for that other one. If she’s got anything to do with this, I have.’
‘I was wondering about that. Have you?’
‘Sure, doc,’ Dart’s bright smile flashed. ‘I’m the detective on the case, didn’t you know?’
‘Do you know who committed the crime?’
‘Not for certain.’
‘I see. Then you couldn’t have done it yourself. Because if you had, you’d know who did it and it would be a simple matter for you to track yourself down and arrest yourself. Of course you might have done it in your sleep.’
‘So might you.’
‘I have a perfect alibi, my friend. Doctors never sleep. If it isn’t poker it’s childbirth—a pair of aces or a pair of pickaninnies.’
‘Seriously, doc, there’s one objection to your trying to get something on Frimbo tonight.’
‘What?’
‘Why do you suppose that guy was so quick to invite you back alone? Because you’re his chief worry. You may be the cause of putting him on the frying-pan. He’s evil. He must know your purpose. And if you get too warm, he’ll try to rub you out.’
‘He’ll find me quite indelible, I’m sure,’ Dr Archer said.
CHAPTER XIX
JOHN ARCHER opened a desk drawer and picked up a revolver which lay there. He gazed thoughtfully upon it a moment, then gently replaced it. He shut the drawer, turned and made his way out of the house. His front door closed behind him, and he stood contemplating the high narrow edifice across the dark street. It was two minutes to seven; the air was sharp and ill-disposed and snapped at him in passing. Absently he hunched his ulster higher about his shoulders, thrust his hands, free of the customary bag, deep into his pockets and studied Frimbo’s shadowy dwelling. Rearing a little above its fellows, it was like a tall man peering over the heads of a crowd. ‘Wonder if I’m expected?’ the physician mused. As if in answer, two second-story windows suddenly lighted up, like eyes abruptly opened.
‘I am expected.’ Slowly he crossed the dim street, halted again at the foot of the stoop to resume his meditative stare, then resolutely mounted to the door and, finding it unlocked, entered.
His host was awaiting him at the head of the stairs. Frimbo’s tall figure was clad tonight in a dressing-gown of figured maroon silk; this, with a soft shirt open at the throat, and the absence of any native headdress, gave him a matter-of-fact appearance quite different from that of the night before. Tonight he might have been any well-favoured Harlemite taking his ease on a Sunday evening in leisure which he could afford and intended to enjoy.
But the deep-set eyes still held their peculiar glow, and the low resonant voice was the same.
‘Let us go up to the library,’ he said. ‘It will be more comfortable.’
He reached into the front room as they passed and snapped a wall switch, leaving the room dark. ‘I turned those on for your benefit, doctor. We must not be disturbed by other visitors. I have been looking forward to seeing you.’
He led the way to that rear third-floor chamber which the physician had visited the night before.
‘Choose your own chair—you will find most of them comfortable.’ The man’s attitude was entirely disarming, but Dr Archer took a chair that was disposed diagonally in a corner with bookshelves to either side.
Frimbo smiled.
‘I have some fair sherry and some execrable Scotch,’ he offered.
‘Thank you. You evidently prefer the sherry—I’ll follow your example.’
Shortly the wine had been procured from the adjacent kitchen; glasses were filled—from the same container, the physician noted; cigarettes were lighted; Frimbo seated himself on the divan before the fireplace, in which artificial logs glowed realistically.
‘You were speaking,’ he said, as if almost a whole day had not intervened, ‘of Herbert Spencer’s classification of the sciences.’
‘Yes,’ the physician said. ‘Psychology considered as the physiology of the nervous system.’
Easily and quickly they began to talk with that quick intellectual recognition which characterizes similarly reflective minds. Dr Archer’s apprehensions faded away and shortly he and his host were eagerly embarked on discussions that at once made them old friends: the hopelessness of applying physico-chemical methods to psychological problems; the nature of matter and mind and the possible relations between them; the current researches of physics, in which matter apparently vanished into energy, and Frimbo’s own hypothesis that probably mind did likewise. Time sped. At the end of an hour Frimbo was saying:
‘But as long as this mental energy remains mental, it cannot be demonstrated. It is like potential energy—to be appreciated it must be transformed into heat, light, motion—some form that can be grasped and measured. Still, by assuming its existence, just as we do that of potential energy, we harmonize psychology with mechanistic science.’
‘You astonish me,’ said the doctor. ‘I thought you were a mystic, not a mechanist.’
‘This,’ returned Frimbo, ‘is mysticism—an undemonstrable belief. Pure faith in anything is mysticism. Our very faith in reason is a kind of mysticism.’
‘You certainly have the gift of harmonizing apparently opposite concepts. You should be a king—there’d be no conflicting parties under your régime.’
‘I am a king.’
For a moment the physician looked at the serene dark countenance much as if he were seeing his first case of some unusual but clear-cut disease. Frimbo, however, tranquilly took a sip of sherry, gently replaced the fragile glass on a low table at his elbow, and allowed the phantom of a smile to soften his countenance.
‘You forget,’ he said, lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘that I am an African native.’ There was a pride in the statement that was almost an affront. ‘I am of Buwongo, an independent territory to the northeast of Liberia, with a population of approximately a million people. My younger brother rules there in my stead.’ A reminiscent air descended momentarily upon him. ‘Often I long to go back, but it would be dull. I am too fond of adventure.’
‘Dull!’ Archer exclaimed. ‘Why—most people would consider that an extraordinarily exciting life.’
‘Most people who know nothing of it. Excitement lies in the challenge of strange surroundings. To encounter life in the African brush would exhilarate you, certainly. But for the same reasons, life in a metropolis exhilarates me. The bush would be a challenge to all your resources. The city is a similar challenge to mine.’
‘But you can’t be so unaccustomed to this now. You have finished an American college, you have mastered the ways of our thinking eno
ugh to have original contributions of your own to make—surely all that is behind you once and for all.’
‘No,’ said Frimbo softly. ‘There are things one never forgets.’
‘You make me very curious.’
The kindled black eyes regarded him intently a long moment. Then Frimbo said, ‘Perhaps I should satisfy that curiosity somewhat … if you care to listen …’
And the dark philosopher who called himself king, with a faraway look in his eyes and a rise and fall in his deep low voice, painted a picture twenty years past and five thousand miles away.
‘In some countries night settles gently like a bird fluttering down into foliage; in Buwongo it drops precipitately like a bird that has been shot. It is as if the descending sun backed unaware upon the rim of a distant mountain, tripped on the peak, and tumbled headlong out of sight into the valley beyond. The bright day has been mysterious enough—the blank, blue sky, the level rice fields, the arrogant palms, the steaming jungle. But it is obvious, bold mystery—it must reveal itself before it can strike. Night clothes it in invisibility, renders it subtle, indeterminate, ominous. Brings it close.
‘All day we have travelled southward—my father, a hundred fighting men, and I. I am only twelve, but that is enough. I must now begin to take part in the feasts of our tributary villages. We are on the way to Kimalu, a town of a thousand people. I am very tired—but I am the eldest son of a chief. I stride proudly beside my tireless father. Some day I shall be like him, tall, straight, strong; I shall wear the scarlet loin cloth and the white headdress of superior rank. I must not falter. We have not stopped for food or drink—for shall we not feast lavishly tonight? We have ignored the beckoning paths that lead off our main trail—paths to other villages, to cool green tributaries of the Niger, to who knows what animal’s hideout. And in the flattening rays of the sinking sun we at last see the rice fields outside our destination and presently the far off thatched roofs of Kimalu’s dwellings. We are on a slight rise of ground. Yet before we can reach Kimalu, night overtakes us and devours us.
‘But already there is the glow of village fires, a hundred spots of wavering yellow light; and shortly we enter Kimalu, my father leading, with me by his side, the men in double file behind us. All fatigue drops away as the shouts of greeting and welcome deluge our company like a refreshing shower.
‘The ceremonies are scheduled to begin three hours hence, at the height of the moon. Meanwhile preparations go on. Our company is welcomed respectfully by the elderly headman, who receives with effusive thanks our two bullocks, each suspended by its feet on a horizontal pole and carried on the shoulders of eight of our carriers. These will augment the feast that follows the ceremony and help provide for our party on the morrow. We are conducted to the central square before the dwelling of the headman, a large house, thatch-roofed, walled with palm and bamboo, and surrounded by a high rampart of tall interlaced timwe trunks, the sharpened top of each one treated with a poison that is death to touch. Even the most venomous snake could not crawl over that rampart and live. The square is large enough to accommodate all the people of the village, for here they must assemble at regular intervals to hear the issuing of edicts relative to their governing laws and their local and national taxes. Here too, the headman sits in judgment every other day and pronounces upon both moral and civil offenders sentences ranging from temporary banishment to castration—the latter a more dreaded penalty than beheading.
‘Around the enormous square, as we enter it, we see many fires, over which stews are simmering in kettles, and barbecues of boar, bullock, or antelope are roasting on poles. Savoury odours quicken our nostrils, cause our mouths to water. But we may not yet satisfy our appetites. First we must wash and rest. And so we go down to the edge of the river beside which the village lies; there is a broad clearing and a shallow bit of beach upon which more fires burn for illumination and protection. Here we wash. Then we return to the rim of the square and stretch out to doze and rest till the feast begins.
‘It is the Malindo—the feast of procreation—and of all the rites of all our forty-eight tribes, none is more completely symbolic. An extremely wide circle—one hundred and fifty feet in diameter—of firewood has been laid in the centre of the square. Outside this at intervals are piles of more firewood, short dry branches of fragrant trees.
‘At the height of the moon, the headman gives the signal for the ceremony to begin. The band of drummers, stationed to one side of the rampart gate, is ready. The drums are hollow logs; one end is open; over the other is stretched a tympanum of boarskin; they lie horizontally side by side; vary in length from two to twenty feet, but are so placed that the closed ends are in alignment facing the circle of firewood; they vary in diameter also, but even the smallest is a foot high. Each drummer sits astride his instrument above its closed end, upon which he plays with his bare hands and fingers.
‘At the chief’s signal, the player of the largest drum stretches his arms high over his head and brings the heels of both hands down hard on the face of his instrument. There is a deep, resounding boom, a sound such as no other instrument has ever produced; as low and resonant as the deepest organ note, as startlingly sudden as an explosion. A prowling cat five miles away will halt and cringe at that sound. The stillness that follows trembles in the memory of it; as that tremor dwindles the drummer strikes again—the cadence is established. Again, again. Slowly, steadily the great drum booms, a measure so large, so stately, so majestic, that all that follows is subordinated to it and partakes of its dignity.
‘The people of the village have already gathered around the margin of the square; some sit on the ground, some stand, all are raptly intent. My father is seated on a platform directly in front of the rampart gate; I am on his left, the headman on his right, our hundred men seated on the ground further along. There is no movement anywhere save the flicker of low fires, and no sound save the steady tremendous boom of the great drum.
‘But now something is happening, for a new note creeps subtly into the slow period of the drumbeat—another smaller drum, then another, then another, sounding a submeasure of lesser beats, quicker pulsations that originate in the parent sound and lift away from it like dwindling echoes. From the far side of the clearing a procession of shadowy figures emerges, and in their midst appear six men bearing on their shoulders a large square chest. The figures move slowly, in time with the fundamental measure, till they are on this side of the circle of firewood; then the six bearers turn toward the circle, and the others, in front of them and behind them, turn toward us. The bearers, still in time, move forward toward the circle, step over the wood with their burden, and deposit it in the centre of the ring, while the others, also keeping to the measure, approach our position, about face, and seat themselves on the ground to either side of our platform.
‘Still another motif now enters the rhythmic cadence—all the remaining drums, at first softly, almost imperceptibly, then more definitely, take up this new, lighter, quicker variation, which weaves itself into the major pattern like brocaded figures into damask—the whole a rich fabric of strength, delicacy, and incredible complexity of design. And now a file of torches appears far across the clearing, comes closer—they seem numberless, but are forty-eight, I know—one for each of our tribes. And we see that they are borne aloft, each in the hand of a slim naked girl whose dancing movements are in accord with the new lighter measure of the drums. The file passes before us, each member gracefully maintaining the rhythmic motif, till, equally spaced, they face the circle, each the stem of a bright flower in a swaying garland of flame.
‘For a few minutes they dance thus, keeping their relative positions around the circle, but advancing periodically a few feet toward the centre then withdrawing; and they do this so perfectly in unison that, while their feet and bodily gestures obey the lighter, quicker rhythm, their advances and retreats are tuned to the original, fundamental pulse, and the flares in their hands become jewels of flame, set in a magic ring which con
tracts … dilates … contracts … dilates … like a living heart, pumping blood. Then, with a sudden swell and dwindling of the lesser drums, there is a terminal, maximal contracture—the girls have advanced quite to the circle of firewood, dropped their torches upon it each at her respective point; have then, without seeming to lose a rhythmic movement, executed a final retreat—faded back from the circle like so many shadows, and fallen on the ground perfectly straight, each in a radial line, each as motionless as if she were bound to a spoke of some gigantic wheel.
‘The great circle of wood soon kindles into an unbroken ring of fire, symbol of eternal passion; and as the flames mount, the drumming grows louder and more turbulent, as if the fire were bringing it to a boil. A warrior, whose oiled skin gleams in the light, leaps through the flames into the inside of the circle, reaches the large square chest in the centre, unfastens and turns back the lid, and vanishes through the far rim of the fire.
‘Every eye is focused on the chest beyond the flames. There is a slight shift of the rhythm—so slight as entirely to escape an unaccustomed ear. But the dancing girls catch it, and instantly are on their feet again in another figure of their ceremonial gesture—a languorous, lithe, sinuous twist with which they again advance toward the fiery circle. They incorporate into this figure of their dance movements whereby they take branches from the extra piles and toss them into the fire. The blaze mounts steadily. No one is noticing the girls now, however; no one is aware of the pervasive incense from the fragrant burning wood. For something is rising from the chest—the head of a gigantic black python, that rears four—five—six feet above the rim and swings about bewildered by the encircling fire.
‘Now the warrior reappears, holding aloft in his two hands an infant of the tribe. Swiftly, with the infant so held as to be out of reach of the licking flames, again he bounds through the fire into the circle. At the same time the most beautiful maiden of the tribe, her bare body oiled like the warrior’s, appears within the ring from the opposite side. The python, still bewildered, swings back and forth. The warrior and the maiden dance three times in opposite directions around the serpent. And now, though none has seen it happen, the girl has the infant in her arms; the python, sensing danger in the entrapping flames and the tumult of the drums, withdraws into his chest. The warrior closes and fastens the lid and vanishes through the far wall of fire. The drums have gone mad. The girl, holding the baby aloft in both hands, faces us, dashes forward with a cry that transcends the crescendo of drumming, a shriek like that of a woman in the last spasm of labour, leaps high through the blaze, runs toward our platform, and gently lays the unharmed infant at our feet …’
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 17