Читать книгу The Conjure-Man Dies: A Harlem Mystery - Stanley Ellin - Страница 14

‘WHAT do you think of Jenkins’ story?’ Dr Archer asked.

‘Well, even before he balked on the handkerchief,’ answered Dart, ‘I couldn’t believe him. Then when he balked on describing the blue border, it messed up the whole thing.’

‘He certainly was convincing about that interview, though. He couldn’t have just conjured up that story—it’s too definite.’

‘Yes. But I’m giving him a little time to cool off. Maybe the details won’t be so exact next time.’

‘As I figure it, he could be right—at least concerning the time the fatal attack occurred. It would be right at the end of the one-half hour period in which I first estimated death to have taken place. And in the state of mind he was in when Frimbo seemed to be performing miracles of clairvoyance, he might easily have failed to hear the attack. Certainly he could have failed to see it—he didn’t see me standing here beside you.’

‘You’re thinking of the crack on the head. You surely don’t suppose Jenkins could have failed to see anyone trying to push that handkerchief in place?’

‘No. But that could have been done in the minute when he ran up front to get Bubber. It would have to be fast work, of course.’

‘Damn right it would. I really don’t believe in considering the remote possibilities first. In this game you’ve got to be practical. Fit conclusions to the facts, not facts to conclusions. Personally I don’t feel one way or the other about Jenkins—except that he is unnecessarily antagonistic. That won’t help him at all. But I’m certainly satisfied, from testimony, that he is not the guilty party. His attitude, his impossible story, his balking on the blue-bordered handkerchief—’

‘You think it’s his handkerchief?’

‘I think he could have described it—from the way he balked. If he could have described it, why didn’t he? Because it belonged either to him or to somebody he wanted to cover.’

‘He was balking all right.’

‘Of course, that wouldn’t make him guilty. But it wouldn’t exactly clear him either.’

‘Not exactly. On the other hand, the Frimbo part of his story—what Frimbo said to him—is stuff that a man like Jenkins couldn’t possibly have thought up. It was Frimbo talking—that I’m sure of.’

‘Through a neckful of cotton cloth?’

‘No. When he was talking to Jenkins, his throat was unobstructed.’

‘Well—that means that, the way it looks now, there are two possibilities: somebody did it either when Jenkins went up front to get Bubber or when Bubber went to get you. Let’s get the other woman in. All right, Brady, bring in the other lady. Douse the glim, outside there.’

Out went the extension light; the original bright horizontal shaft shot forth like an accusing finger pointing toward the front room, while the rest of the death chamber went black.

Awkwardly, not unlike an eccentric dancer, the tall thin woman took the spotlight, stood glaring a wide-eyed hostile moment, then disposed herself in a bristlingly erect attitude on the edge of the visitor’s chair. Every angle of her meagre, poorly clad form, every feature of her bony countenance, exhibited resentment.

‘What is your name, madam?’

‘Who’s that?’ The voice was high, harsh, and querulous.

‘Detective Dart. I’m sitting in a chair opposite you.’

‘Is you the one was in yonder a while ago?’

‘Yes. Now—’

‘What kind o’ detective is you?’

‘A police detective, madam, of the City of New York. And please let me ask the questions, while you confine yourself to the answers.’

‘Police detective? ’Tain’t so. They don’t have no black detectives.’

‘Your informant was either ignorant or colour-blind, madam.—Now would you care to give your answers here or around at the police station?’

The woman fell silent. Accepting this as a change of heart, the detective repeated:

‘What is your name?’

‘Aramintha Snead.’

‘Mrs or Miss?’

‘Mrs’ The tone indicated that a detective should be able to tell.

‘Your address?’

‘19 West 134th Street.’

‘You’re an American, of course?’

‘I is now. But I originally come from Savannah, Georgia.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Occupation? You mean what kind o’ work I do?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘I don’t do no work at all—not for wages. I’m a church-worker though.’

‘A church-worker? You spend a good deal of time in church then?’

‘Can’t nobody spend too much time in church. Though I declare I been wonderin’ lately if there ain’t some things the devil can ’tend to better’n the Lord.’

‘What brought you here tonight?’

‘My two feet.’

Dart sighed patiently and pursued:

‘How does it happen that a devoted church-worker like you, Mrs Snead, comes to seek the advice of a man like Frimbo, a master of the powers of darkness? I should think you would have sought the help of your pastor instead.’

‘I did, but it never done no good. Every time I go to the Rev’n the Rev’n say, “Daughter take it to the Lord in prayer.” Well, I done like he said. I took it and took it. Tonight I got tired takin’ it.’

‘Tonight? Why tonight?’

‘Tonight was prayer-meetin’ night. I ain’ missed a prayer-meetin’ in two years. And for two years, week after week—every night for that matter, but specially at Friday night prayer-meetin’—I been prayin’ to the Lord to stop my husband from drinkin’. Not that I object to the drinkin’ itself, y’understand. The Lord made water into wine. But when Jake come home night after night jes’ drunk enough to take pleasure in beatin’ the breath out o’ me—that’s another thing altogether.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ encouraged Dart.

In the contemplation of her troubles, Mrs Snead relinquished some of her indignation, or, more exactly, transferred it from the present to the past.

‘Well, lo and behold, tonight I ain’t no sooner got through prayin’ for him at the meetin’ and took myself on home than he greets me at the door with a cuff side o’ the head. Jes’ by way of interduction, he say, so next time I’d be there when he come in. And why in who-who ain’t his supper ready? So I jes’ turn around and walk off. And I thought to myself as I walked, “If one medicine don’ help, maybe another will.” So I made up my mind. Everybody know ’bout this man Frimbo—say he can conjure on down. And I figger I been takin’ it to the Lord in prayer long enough. Now I’m goin’ take it to the devil.’

‘So you came here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you happen to choose Frimbo out of all the conjure-men in Harlem?’

‘He was the only one I knowed anything about.’

‘What did you know about him?’

‘Knowed what he done for Sister Susan Gassoway’s boy, Lem. She was tellin’ me ’bout it jes’ a couple o’ weeks ago—two weeks ago tonight. We was at prayer-meetin’. Old man Hezekiah Mosby was prayin’ and when he gets to prayin’ they ain’t no stoppin’ him. So Sister Gassoway and me, we was talkin’ and she told me what this man Frimbo’d done for her boy, Lem. Lem got in a little trouble—wild boy he is, anyhow—and put the blame on somebody else. This other boy swore he’d kill Lem, and Lem believed him. So he come to this Frimbo and Frimbo put a charm on him—told him he’d come through it all right. Well you ’member that case what was in the Amsterdam News ’bout a boy havin’ a knife stuck clean through his head and broke off and the hole closed over and he thought he was jes’ cut and didn’t know the knife was in there?’

‘Yes. Went to Harlem Hospital, was X-rayed, and had the knife removed.’

‘And lived! That was Lem Gassoway. Nothin’ like it ever heard of before. Anybody else’d ’a’ been killed on the spot. But not Lem. Lem was under Frimbo’s spell. That’s what saved him.’

‘And that’s why you chose Frimbo?’

‘’Deed so. Wouldn’t you?’

‘No doubt. At just what time did you get here, Mrs Snead?’

‘Little after half-past ten.’

‘Did anyone let you in?’

‘No. I did like the sign say—open and walk in.’

‘You came straight upstairs and into the waiting-room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see anybody?’

‘Nobody but that other girl and them two fellers that was ’bout to fight jes’ now and a couple o’ other men in the room. Oh, yes—the—the butler or whatever he was. Evilest-lookin’ somebody y’ever see—liked to scared me to death.’

‘Did you notice anything of interest while you were waiting your turn?’

‘Huh? Oh—yes. When one o’ them other two men got up to go see the conjure-man, he couldn’t hold his feet—must ’a’ been drunker’n my Jake. ’Deed so, ’cause down he fell right in the middle o’ the floor, and I guess he’d been there yet if them other men hadn’t helped him up.’

‘Who helped him?’

‘All of ’em.’

‘Did you notice the mantelpiece?’

‘With all them conjures on it? I didn’t miss.’

‘Did you see those two clubs with the silver tips?’

‘Two? Uh—uh—I don’t remember no two. I ’member one though. But I wasn’t payin’ much attention—might ’a’ been a dozen of ’em for all I know. There was so many devilish-lookin’ things ’round.’

‘Did you see anyone with a blue-bordered white handkerchief—a man’s handkerchief?’

‘No, suh.’

‘You are sure you did not see any such handkerchief—in one of the men’s pockets, perhaps?’

‘What men is got in they pockets ain’t none my business.’