There was a long silence. Frimbo sat looking into the flickering mock-embers on his artificial hearth, seeing those faraway genuine ones of woods that burned with a fragrance like incense. John Archer was silent and still, absorbed in the other man’s fine dark face. Perhaps he was wondering, ‘Could this man have committed a murder? Whom would he want to kill? Why? What is he—charlatan or prophet? What is his part in this puzzle—what indeed is not possible to this mind that in a moment steps out of cold abstract reason into the warm symbolic beauty of a barbaric rite?’
But what the physician actually said was, ‘Rather a dangerous ceremony, isn’t it?’
Frimbo gathered himself back into the present, smiled, and answered, ‘Are conception and birth without danger?’
After a moment the doctor said, ‘My own youth was so utterly different.’
‘Yet perhaps as interesting to me as mine would have been to you.’
‘The age of twelve,’ laughed the other, ‘recalls nothing more exciting than a strawberry festival in the vestry of my father’s church.’
‘Your father was a minister?’
‘Yes. He died shortly after I finished college. I wanted to study medicine. One of my profs had a wealthy friend. He saw me through. I’ve been practicing nearly ten years—and haven’t finished paying him back yet. That’s my biography. Hardly dramatic, is it?’
‘You have omitted the drama, my friend. Your father’s struggle to educate you, his clinging on to life just to see you complete a college training—which had been denied him; your desperate helplessness, facing the probability of not being able to go on into medicine; the impending alternative of teaching school in some Negro academy; the thrill of discovering help; the rigid economy, to keep the final amount of your debt as low as possible—the summers of menial work as a bell boy or waiter or porter somewhere, constantly taking orders from your inferiors, both white and black; the licence to practice—and nothing to start on; more menial work—months of it—to accumulate enough for a down payment on your equipment; the first case that paid you and the next dozen that didn’t; the prolonged struggle against your initial material handicaps—the resentment you feel at this moment against your inability to do what you are mentally equipped to do. If drama is struggle, my friend, your life is a perfect play.’
Dr Archer stared.
‘I swear! You actually are something of a seer, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all. You told me all that in the few words you spoke. I filled in the gaps, that is all. I have done more with less. It is my livelihood.’
‘But—how? The accuracy of detail—’
‘Even if it were as curious as you suggest, it should occasion no great wonder. It would be a simple matter of transforming energy, nothing more. So-called mental telepathy, even, is no mystery, so considered. Surely the human organism cannot create anything more than itself; but it has created the radio-broadcasting set and receiving set. Must there not be within the organism, then, some counterpart of these? I assure you, doctor, that this complex mechanism which we call the living body contains its broadcasting set and its receiving set, and signals sent out in the form of invisible, inaudible, radiant energy may be picked up and converted into sight and sound by a human receiving set properly tuned in.’
He paused while the doctor sat speechless. Then he continued:
‘But this is much simpler than that. Is it at all mystifying that you should walk into a sick room, make certain examinations, and say, “This patient has so-and-so. He got it in such-and-such a way approximately so long ago; he has these-and-these changes in such-and-such organs; he will die in such-and-such a fashion in approximately so long”? No. I have merely practiced observation to the degree of great proficiency; that, together with complete faith in a certain philosophy enables me to do what seems mystifying. I can study a person’s face and tell his past, present, and future.’
The physician smiled. ‘Even his name?’
‘That is never necessary,’ smiled Frimbo in the same spirit. ‘He always manages to tell me that without knowing it. There are tricks in all trades, of course. But fundamentally I deceive no one.’
‘I can understand your ability to tell the present—even the past, in a general way. But the future—’
‘The future is as inevitably the outcome of the present as the present is of the past. That is the philosophy I mentioned.’
‘Determinism?’
‘If you like. But a determinism so complete as to include everything—physical and mental. An applied determinism.’
‘I don’t see how there can be any such thing as an applied determinism.’
‘Because—?’
‘Because to apply it is to deny it. Assuming the ability to “apply” anything is free will, pure and simple.’
‘You are correct,’ agreed Frimbo, ‘as far as you go.’
‘Why,’ the doctor continued warmly, ‘anyone who achieved a true freedom of will—a will that had no reference to its past—was not moulded in every decision by its own history—a power that could step out of things and act as a cause without being itself an effect—good heavens!—such a creature would be a god!’
‘Not quite a god, perhaps,’ said the other softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that such a creature would be a god only to those bound by a deterministic order like ours. But you forget that ours is not—cannot be—the only order in the universe. There must be others—orders more complex perhaps than our simple cause-and-effect. Imagine, for instance, an order in which a cause followed its effect instead of preceding it—someone has already brought forward evidence of such a possibility. A creature of such an order could act upon our order in ways that would be utterly inconceivable to us. So far as our system is concerned, he would have complete freedom of will, for he would be subject only to his order, not to ours.’
‘That’s too much metaphysics for me,’ confessed the physician. ‘Come on back to this little earth.’
‘Even on this little earth,’ said Frimbo, ‘minds occasionally arise that belong to another order. We call them prophets.’
‘And have you ever known a prophet?’
‘I know,’ said the other in an almost inaudible voice, ‘that it is possible to escape this order and assume another.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I can do it.’
Had he shouted instead of whispering, John Archer could not have exhibited greater amazement.
‘You can—what?’
‘Do not ask me how. That is my secret. But we have talked together enough now for you to know I do not say anything lightly. And I tell you in all seriousness that here, in a world of rigidly determined causes and effects, Frimbo is free—as free as a being of another order.’
The doctor simply could not speak.
‘It is thus I am able to be of service to those who come to me. I act upon their lives. I do not have to upset their order. I simply change the velocity of what is going on. I am a catalyst. I accelerate or retard a reaction without entering into it. This changes the cross currents, so that the coincidences are different from what they would otherwise be. A husband reaches home twenty minutes too soon. A traveller misses his train—and escapes death in a wreck. Simple, is it not?’
‘You’ve certainly retarded my reactions,’ said Dr Archer. ‘You’ve paralysed me.’
It was ten o’clock when finally the physician rose to go. They had talked on diverse and curious topics, but no topic had been so diverse and curious as the extraordinary mind of Frimbo himself. He seemed to grasp the essentials of every discussion and whatever arose brought forth from him some peculiar and startling view that the physician had never hitherto considered. Dr Archer had come to observe and found himself the object of the observation. To be sure, Frimbo had told how, as an adventurous lad, he had been sent to a mission school in Liberia; how at twenty he had assumed the leadership of his nation, his father having been fatally
injured in a hunting expedition; but after a year, had turned it over to his brother, who was ten months younger than he, and had departed for America to acquire knowledge of western civilization—America because of his American mission school beginning. He had studied under private tutors for three years in preparation for college; had been irregularly allowed to take entrance examinations and had passed brilliantly; but had acquired a bitter prejudice against the dominant race that had seemed to be opposing his purpose. Many episodes had fostered this bitterness, making it the more acute in one accustomed to absolute authority and domination. But all this, even as it was being told, had somehow increased the physician’s sense of failure in this first meeting. It was too much under Frimbo’s direction. And so he suggested another call on the morrow, to which Frimbo agreed promptly.
‘I have a little experiment in which you would be interested,’ he said.
‘I had really intended to discuss the mystery of this assault,’ the doctor declared. ‘Perhaps we can do that tomorrow?’
Frimbo smiled.
‘Mystery? That is no mystery. It is a problem in logic, and perfectly calculable. I have one or two short-cuts which I shall apply tomorrow night, of course, merely to save time. But genuine mystery is incalculable. It is all around us—we look upon it every day and do not wonder at it at all. We are fools, my friend. We grow excited over a ripple, but exhibit no curiosity over the depth of the stream. The profoundest mysteries are those things which we blandly accept without question. See. You are almost white. I am almost black. Find out why, and you will have solved a mystery.’
‘You don’t think the causes of a mere death a worthy problem?’
‘The causes of a death? No. The causes of death, yes. The causes of life and death and variation, yes. But what on earth does it really matter who killed Frimbo—except to Frimbo?’
They stood a moment in silence. Presently Frimbo added in an almost bitter murmur:
‘The rest of the world would do better to concern itself with why Frimbo was black.’
Dr Archer shook hands and departed. He went out into the night in somewhat the state of mind of one waking from odd dreams in a dark room. A little later he was mounting his own stoop. Before opening his door he stopped for a moment, looking back at the house across the street. With a hand on the knob, he shook his head and, contrary to his custom, indulged in a popular phrase:
‘What a man!’ he said softly.
CHAPTER XX
EVENING had fallen and still Bubber Brown, Inc., had not been able to decide on a proper course of action. He had wandered about Harlem’s streets unaware of its Sunday-best liveliness and colour. Sly, come-hither eyes that fell upon him had kindled no sheikish response, trim silken calves had not even momentarily captured his dull, drifting stare, bright laughter of strolling dark crowds had not warmed his weary heart. Even his swagger had forsaken him. He had rolled along, a frankly bow-legged man, and the mind behind his blank features had rolled likewise, a rudderless bark on a troubled sea of indecision.
A mystery movie in which the villainous murderer turned out to be a sweet young girl of eighteen had not at all quickened Bubber’s imagination. Leaving the theatre, he had stopped in Nappy Shank’s Café for supper; but the pigtails and hoppin’-john, which he meditatively consumed there from a platter on a white porcelain counter, likewise yielded no inspiration.
Eventually, in the early evening, his wandering brought him to Henry Patmore’s Pool Room, and after standing about for a few minutes watching the ivory balls click, he made his way to the rear room where blackjack was the attraction.
An impish fate so contrived matters that the first player he saw was Spider Webb, whose detention he had brought about the night before. Spider at first glared at him, then grinned a trifle too pleasantly.
‘Detective Brown, as I live!’ he greeted. ‘Do you guys know the detective? Who you squealin’ on tonight, detective?’
Bubber had forgotten until now Spider’s threat last night. The abrupt reminder further upset his already unsteady poise. It was clear now that Spider really meant to square the account. To conceal his discomfiture, Bubber calmly seated himself at the table and bought two dollars’ worth of chips.
‘Deal me in,’ said he casually, ignoring Spider Webb.
‘Sure—deal him in. He’s a good guy.’
Had the situation been normal it is likely that Bubber would promptly have lost his two dollars, got up, and departed. But inasmuch as his mind was now on anything but the cards, his customarily disastrous judgment was quite eliminated, and the laws of chance had an opportunity to operate to his advantage. In the course of an hour he had acquired twenty dollars’ worth of his fellow players’ chips and had become too fascinated at the miraculous, steady growth of his pile to leave the game. And of course, no one, not even an ordinarily poor gambler like Bubber, could run away from luck, not only because of what he might miss thereby but also because the losers expected a sporting chance to win back their money and could become remarkably disagreeable if it should be denied them.
But Bubber continued to win, the only disturbing part of this being that most of his gain was Spider Webb’s loss. He did not know that Spider was gambling with money collected from policy-players, money that must be turned in early tomorrow morning; but he knew that Spider was taking risks that one rarely took with one’s own hard-earned cash. And he soon saw whither this was directed. For whenever Bubber won a deal by holding a blackjack, Spider grimly undertook to break him by ‘stopping the bank’—that is by wagering at every opportunity an amount equal to whatever Bubber possessed, hoping thus to pluck him clean on the turn of a single hand.
With luck running in Bubber’s direction, however, this plunging soon proved disastrous to Spider. By the time Bubber’s twenty dollars had swelled to forty, Spider, certain that the moment was at hand when the tide must turn, ‘stopped’ the forty dollars with all he had. Chance chose that moment to give Bubber another blackjack. Spider’s curses were gems.
The heavy loser had now no recourse save to leave the game, and he did so with ill grace. A few minutes later, one Red Williams, a hanger-on at Pat’s who was everybody’s friend or enemy as profitable opportunity might direct, came into the card room from the pool parlour and called Bubber aside.
‘Is you won money from Spider Webb?’ he inquired in a low tone that clearly indicated the importance of what hung on the answer.
‘Sho’,’ admitted Bubber. ‘Does it pain you too?’
‘Listen. I heard Spider talkin’ to Tiger Shade jes’ now. Seem like Spider had it in for you anyhow. I don’t know what you done to him befo’, but whatever ’twas he could ’a’ scrambled you with pleasure. But when you ups and wins his money too, that jes’ ’bout set ’im on fire. Fu’thermo’, that wasn’t his money he los’—that was players’ money. If he don’ turn in nothin’ in the mornin’, his boss Spencer knows he’s been stealin’ and that’s his hips. If any o’ his players git lucky and hit and don’t git paid, that’s his hips too. Either way it’s his hips. So from what I heard him whisperin’ to his boy, Tiger, he’s plannin’ to substitute yo’ hips fo’ his’n.’
‘Talk sense, man. What you mean?’
‘Mean Tiger is done agreed to lay for you and remove both yo’ winnin’s and yo’ school gal complexion. Tonight.’
‘You sho’?’
‘I heard ’em. You better slip on out befo’ they git wise you onto ’em.’
‘O. K. Thanks.’
‘Thanks? Is that all it’s worth to you—much as you done won?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Bubber made extravagant excuses to the house and cashed his chips. He returned to the waiting informer and handed him a dollar. ‘Here—git yo’self a pint o’ gut-bucket. See y’ later.’
Sourly, Red Williams gazed upon the bill in his hand. ‘Hmph!’ grumbled he. ‘Is this all that nigger thinks his life is worth?’ Then he grinned. ‘But it won’t be worth this much when Tiger Shade git hold of �
�im. No, suh!’
Bubber sought to elude those who conspired against him by making a hasty exit through the barroom instead of through the poolroom, where apparently the plot had been hatched. This would have been wholly successful had not Tiger Shade already taken his stand on the sidewalk outside, between the poolroom and barroom entrances.
‘Hello, there, Bubber, ol’ boy,’ he greeted as Bubber came out and started to walk rapidly away.
It was perhaps the most unwelcome greeting Bubber had ever heard. He returned it hurriedly and would have kept going, but the Tiger called pleasantly, ‘Hey, wait a minute—I’m goin’ your way. What’s y’ hurry?’
‘Got a heavy date and I’m way late,’ came over Bubber’s shoulder.
But in what seemed like three strides, the Tiger had overtaken and was beside him. For Tiger Shade was by a fair margin the tallest, widest, and thickest man in Harlem. He was bigger than the gigantic Officer Small, one of Bubber’s companions of last night—and one for whose presence Bubber would have been most grateful now. And the Tiger was as bad as he was big. His was no simulated malice like Jinx’s, no feigned ill-humour arising as a sort of defence mechanism; no, the Tiger simply enjoyed a congenital absence of sympathy. This had been too extreme even for those occupations where it might have been considered an advantage. He might have been a great boxer, but he simply could not remember to take the rules seriously. When he got interested in putting an opponent out, he saw no sound objection to doing so by hitting him below the belt or by snapping his head back with one hand and smiting him on the Adam’s apple with the other. And when the opponent thus disposed of lay writhing or gasping as the case might be, Tiger always thought the hisses of the crowd were meant for the fallen weakling.
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 18