The Investigations of Avram Davidson

by Avram Davidson

  “Get away from here, you mud-sills!” He was almost squeaking in his rage.

  “I reckon you don’t own the sidewalks,” they muttered. “I reckon every white man in this state is as good as any other white man,” they said; but they gave way before him. The old man stamped back into his office and slammed the door.

  * * *

  IT WAS BAILISS’S custom to have his supper in his own house, a two-story building just past the end of the sidewalk on Rampart Street; but tonight he felt disinclined to return there with no one but rheumaticky old Edie, his housekeeper-cook, for company. He got on his horse and rode down toward the cheerful bustle of the Phoenix Hotel. Just as he was about to go in, Sam Worth came out. Worth was a barrel-shaped man with thick short arms and thick bandy legs. He stood directly in front of Bailiss, breathing whiskey fumes.

  “So you won’t settle?” he growled. His wife, a stout woman taller than her husband, got down from their wagon and took him by the arm.

  “Come away now, Sam,” she urged.

  “You’d better step aside,” Bailiss said.

  “I hear you been making threats against me,” Worth said.

  “Yes, and I’ll carry them out, too, if you bother me!”

  A group quickly gathered, but Mrs. Worth pulled her husband away, pushed him toward the wagon; and Bailiss went inside. The buzz of talk dropped for a moment as he entered, stopped, then resumed in a lower register. He cast around for a familiar face, undecided where to sit; but it seemed to him that all faces were turned away. Finally he recognized the bald head and bent shoulders of Dr. Pierce, who was slumped at a side table by himself, muttering into a glass. Bailiss sat down heavily across from him, with a sigh. Dr. Pierce looked up.

  “A graduate of the University of Virginia,” the doctor said. His eyes were dull.

  “At it again?” Bailiss looked around for a waiter. Dr. Pierce finished what was in his glass.

  “Says he’ll horsewhip you on sight,” he muttered.

  “Who says?” Bailiss was surprised.

  “Major Jack Moran.”

  Bailiss laughed. The Major was a tottery veteran of the War of 1812 who rode stiffly about on an aged white mare. “What for?” he asked.

  “Talk is going around you Mentioned A Lady’s Name.” Pierce beckoned, and at once a waiter, whose eye old man Bailiss had not managed to catch, appeared with a full glass. Bailiss caught his sleeve as the waiter was about to go and ordered his meal. The doctor drank. “Major Jack says, impossible to Call You Out—can’t appear on Field of Honor with slave trader—so instead will whip you on sight.” His voice gurgled in the glass.

  Bailiss smiled crookedly. “I reckon I needn’t be afraid of him. He’s old enough to be my daddy. A lady’s name? What lady? Maybe he means a lady who lives in a big old house that’s falling apart, an old lady who lives on what her Negro blacksmith makes?”

  Dr. Pierce made a noise of assent. He put down his glass. Bailiss looked around the dining room, but as fast as he met anyone’s eyes, the eyes glanced away. The doctor cleared his throat.

  “Talk is going around you expressed a dislike for said Negro. Talk is that the lady has said she is going to manumit him to make sure you won’t buy him if she dies.”

  Bailiss stared. “Manumit him? She can’t do that unless she posts a bond of a thousand dollars to guarantee that he leaves the state within ninety days after being freed. She must know that free Negroes aren’t allowed to stay on after manumission. And where would she get a thousand dollars? And what would she live on if Micah is sent away? That old lady hasn’t got good sense!”

  “No,” Pierce agreed, staring at the glass. “She is old and not too bright and she’s got too much pride on too little money, but it’s a sis”—his tongue stumbled—“a singular thing: there’s hardly a person in this town, white or black or half-breed Injun, that doesn’t love that certain old lady. Except you. And nobody in town loves you. Also a singular thing: here we are—”

  The doctor’s teeth clicked against the glass. He set it down, swallowed. His eyes were yellow in the corners, and he looked at Bailiss steadily, save for a slight trembling of his hands and head. “Here we are, heading just as certain as can be towards splitting the Union and having war with the Yankees—all over slavery—tied to it hand and foot—willing to die for it—economy bound up in it—sure in our own hearts that nature and justice and religion are for it—and yet, singular thing: nobody likes slave traders. Nobody likes them.”

  “Tell me something new.” Bailiss drew his arms back to make room for his dinner. He ate noisily and with good appetite.

  “Another thing,” the doctor hunched forward in his seat, “that hasn’t added to your current popularity is this business of Domino. In this, I feel, you made a mistake. Caveat emptor or not, you should’ve sold him farther away from here, much farther away, down to the rice fields somewhere, where his death would have been just a statistic in the overseer’s annual report. Folks feel you’ve cheated Sam Worth. He’s not one of your rich absentee owners who sits in town and lets some cheese-paring Yankee drive his Negroes. He only owns four or five, he and his boy work right alongside them in the field, pace them row for row.”

  Bailiss grunted, sopped up gravy.

  “You’ve been defying public opinion for years now. There might come a time when you’d want good will. My advice to you—after all, your agent only paid $100 for Domino—is to settle with Worth for five hundred.”

  Bailiss wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He reached for his hat, put it on, left money on the table, and got up.

  “Shoemaker, stick to your last,” he said. Dr. Pierce shrugged. “Make that glass the final one. I want you at the jail tomorrow, early, so we can get the catalogue ready for the big sale next week. Hear?” The old man walked out, paying no attention to the looks or comments his passage caused.

  On his horse Bailiss hesitated. The night was rather warm, with a hint of damp in the air. He decided to ride around for a while in the hope of finding a breeze stirring. As the horse ambled along from one pool of yellow gaslight to another he ran through in his mind some phrases for inclusion in his catalogue. Phyllis, prime woman, aged 25, can cook, sew, do fine ironing …

  When he had first begun in the trade, three out of every five Negroes had been named Cuffee, Cudjoe, or Quash. He’d heard these were days of the week in some African dialect. There was talk that the African slave trade might be legalized again; that would be a fine thing. But, sho, there was always such talk, on and off.

  The clang of a hammer on an anvil reminded him that he was close to Black Micah’s forge. As he rounded the corner he saw Sam Worth’s bandy-legged figure outlined against the light. One of the horses was unhitched from his wagon and awaited the shoe Micah was preparing for it.

  A sudden determination came to Bailiss: he would settle with Worth about Domino. He hardly bothered to analyze his motives. Partly because his dinner was resting well and he felt comfortable and unexpectedly benevolent, partly because of some vague notion it would be the popular thing to do and popularity was a good thing to have before and during a big sale, he made up his mind to offer Worth $300—well, maybe he would go as high as $350, but no more; a man had to make something out of a trade.

  As he rode slowly up to the forge and stopped, the blacksmith paused in his hammering and looked out. Worth turned around. In the sudden silence Bailiss heard another horse approaching.

  “I’ve come to settle with you,” the slave trader said. Worth looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot. In a low, ugly voice Worth cussed him, and reached his hand toward his rear pocket. It was obvious to Bailiss what Worth intended, so the slave trader quickly drew his own pistol and fired. His horse reared, a woman screamed—did two women scream? Without his meaning it, the other barrel of his pistol went off just as Worth fell.

  “Fo’ gawdsake don’t kill me, Mister Bailiss!” Micah cried. “Are you all right, Miss Elizabeth?” he cried. Worth’s wife and Miss Whitford suddenl
y appeared from the darkness on the other side of the wagon. They knelt beside Worth.

  Bailiss felt a numbing blow on his wrist, dropped his empty pistol, was struck again, and half fell, was half dragged, from his horse. A woman screamed again, men ran up—where had they all come from? Bailiss, pinned in the grip of someone he couldn’t see, stood dazed.

  “You infernal scoundrel, you shot that man in cold blood!” Old Major Jack Moran dismounted from his horse and flourished the riding crop with which he had struck Bailiss on the wrist.

  “I never—he cussed me—he reached for his pistol—I only defended myself!”

  Worth’s wife looked up, tears streaking her heavy face.

  “He had no pistol,” she said. “I made him leave it home.”

  “You said, ‘I’ve come to get you,’ and you shot him point-blank!” The old Major’s voice trumpeted.

  “He tried to shoot Miss Whitford, too!” someone said. Other voices added that Captain Carter, the High Sheriff’s chief deputy, was coming. Bodies pressed against Bailiss, faces glared at him, fists were waved before him.

  “It wasn’t like that at all!” he cried.

  Deputy Carter came up on the gallop, flung the reins of his black mare to eager outthrust hands, jumped off, and walked over to Worth.

  “How was it, then?” a scornful voice asked Bailiss.

  “I rode up … I says, ‘I’ve come to settle with you’… He cussed at me, low and mean, and he reached for his hip pocket.”

  In every face he saw disbelief.

  “Major Jack’s an old man,” Bailiss faltered. “He heard it wrong. He—”

  “Heard it good enough to hang you!”

  Bailiss looked desperately around. Carter rose from his knees and the crowd parted. “Sam’s dead, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Worth’s only reply was a low moan. The crowd growled. Captain Carter turned and faced Bailiss, whose eyes looked at him for a brief second, then turned frantically away. And then Bailiss began to speak anxiously—so anxiously that his words came out a babble. His arms were pinioned and he could not point, but he thrust his head toward the forge where the blacksmith was still standing—standing silently.

  “Micah,” Bailiss stuttered. “Ask Micah!”

  Micah saw it, he wanted to say—wanted to shout it. Micah was next to Worth, Micah heard what I really said, he’s younger than the Major, his hearing is good, he saw Worth reach …

  Captain Carter placed his hand on Bailiss and spoke, but Bailiss did not hear him. The whole night had suddenly fallen silent for him, except for his own voice, saying something (it seemed long ago) to young lawyer Wickerson.

  “It makes no difference what Micah saw! It makes no difference what Micah heard! Micah is property!… And property can’t testify!”

  They tied Bailiss’s hands and heaved him onto his horse.

  “He is fettered fast by the most stern bonds our laws take note of … can’t inherit—can’t bequeath … can neither sue nor prosecute—”

  Bailiss turned his head as they started to ride away. He looked at Micah and their eyes met. Micah knew.

  “… it’s basic principle of the law that a slave can never testify in court except against another slave.”

  Someone held the reins of old man Bailiss’s horse. From now on he moved only as others directed. The lights around the forge receded. Darkness surrounded him. The necessity of his condition was upon him.

  THOU STILL UNRAVISHED BRIDE

  ALMOST AS REMARKABLE as Avram Davidson’s startling originality was his ability to take the familiar, even the hackneyed, and make it new once again. The story of the disappearing bride dates at least as far back as Guy de Maupassant (nor would it surprise me should some scholar trace this theme still further), and has been revisited by such distinguished authors as Cornell Woolrich.

  But in “Thou Still Unravished Bride” (Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1958), Avram gave the story at least two startling twists and made this new version entirely his own.

  The editors of EQMM said that the story takes place in a “big city in the United States.” Grania feels that Avram had Yonkers in mind. While I am willing to defer to her judgement, I must say that to me the story feels more like one of those middle-size New Jersey towns: Teaneck, or Elizabeth, or East Orange. When the story was adapted for the Alfred Hitchcock Presents television series (March 1965), the producers moved the setting to England; the superb cast included Sally Kellerman, Ron Randall, Michael Pate, and David Carradine. It was directed by David Friedkin. Perhaps these different readings arise from the universality of the story’s themes.

  “Thou Still Unravished Bride” introduces Police Captain Foley and Detectives Bonn and Steinberg. I don’t know of any classic-type, contemporary police procedural stories among Avram’s output, but he could use the paraphernalia of convention when it suited his purpose … as it did in this search for the so-missing Miss Sally Benner.

  —RAL

  It used to be said, in some circles, that “a lady” had her name in the newspapers exactly three times: when she was born, when she was married, and when she was buried. It was never altogether true, for “a lady” was entitled to be mentioned when she became a mother, too.

  Of course, there are ladies who, even today, are not likely to be seen in the public print at all. This is not because they are hyper-ladylike; it is because they live in large cities and are obscure—and poor. Sally Benner was certainly a lady of this class. And yet she received attention enough in the newspapers because—it appeared—she was not going to be married, and perhaps not buried, either.

  Mrs. Benner heard Sally stirring at six in the morning. At seven Sally started to get up, but her mother pushed her back. “There’s plenty of time,” Mrs. Benner said. “You didn’t get to bed till late, and you need your rest. I’ll tell you when to get up.” So the young woman said, “Yes, Mother.”

  She was a very obedient daughter. That was what made it all so odd.

  At eight Mrs. Benner let her get up. Sally took a shower and came down to breakfast, kissed her father, kissed her mother. The two women clung to one another, shed a few tears. Old Joe Benner looked up from his coffee and waffles and growled a bit. “Women,” he said, addressing the canary. “The way they cry about weddings makes you wonder why they bother about ’em at all.”

  “You shut up,” said his wife, without malice. “You were so pale at your own wedding that the minister didn’t know whether to marry you or bury you.” And she gave a little whimper of laughter.

  “I’ve often wished it was the last,” Joe said—and pretended to duck as Mrs. Benner gave him a light smack on the cheek with her hand. “That’s for being so fresh,” she said. He captured his wife’s hand and held onto it and told Sally that he hoped she’d be as happy with her Bob as he and her mother had been with each other.

  That was the way the start of the day went. No sparkling dialogue, exactly, no dramatics. The Benners were respectable working-class people. They had four children. The other girl, Jeannie, the eldest, had been married off long enough ago for Mr. B. (he said) to recoup his fortunes for the wedding of his youngest.

  There was going to be a reception at the church, then a family supper at Leary’s Restaurant, then a big reception (with dancing) at Anderson Hall. After that the newlyweds would take off on their honeymoon at—but of course no one presumably knew where that was to be except Sally and Bob. Mrs. Mantin, Sally’s mother-in-law-to-be, had thrown out some pretty strong hints that Someone ought to know Where (meaning: She ought to).

  “Suppose there’s an emergency of some sort comes up?” Mrs. Mantin had asked her son more than once, with a snivel standing by in case her son—whom she was now about to Lose Forever—should talk sharply to her.

  “Keep the old man out of the bottle and there won’t be no emergency,” Bob said. But he told her after a while that his older brother Eddie was privy to the secret, and she had to be content with that.

  After Sa
lly went in to dress and her mother attacked the dishes and her father (he had his own plumbing business) prepared to just step around and check up on the arrangements, Mrs. Benner remarked, “Well, never let it be said again in my presence that the Lord don’t answer prayers. How many years I been praying for Sally to find a nice fellow!”

  “He took His time, though, didn’t He? Seeing how Bob lives right down the block here. But,” Mr. Benner hastened, as Peg Benner turned on him ready for battle, “I’m not complaining. Long as they’re suited, I’m suited.” But he didn’t get off that easily; his wife let him know that it was seldom enough that he went to church, and it wasn’t him who had the heartbreak all these years waiting and watching and worrying, and it was all for the best because early marriages weren’t near as likely to last.

  After he left, his married daughter Jeannie came over, and so did their two daughters-in-law, and so did Sally’s best friend, and also Mrs. Benner’s sister Emma. They examined the bridal gown and the guest list and the presents and they hugged Sally and started crying a little, to warm up for the evening. Suddenly it was ten o’clock and they looked up as the church clock started chiming and there was Sally, dressed to go out.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Aunt Emma demanded, in a mock-ferocious tone. “You better behave—you’re not too big to be hit, you know!”

  Sally said she was just going out to pick up a few things at the store. She was a tall, quiet girl; pink and slow and sweet. The failure of the male race to snap her up years ago had long been held against it by all distaff branches of the Benner family.

  “What things?” demanded Aunt Emma. “What could you buy that ain’t been bought already?”

  Her best friend said she’d go with Sally. Her sister Jeannie said to wait just a minute, she’d drive them down. But Sally, for all her quiet and obedience, had a mind of her own. She said, “No, I’ll just go by myself.”