The Conjure-Man Dies: A Harlem Mystery. Stanley EllinЧитать онлайн книгу.
coat pocket, ‘but—’ He stopped. His left hand went into his left coat pocket. Both hands came out and delved into their respective trousers pockets. ‘Guess I must ’a’ dropped it,’ he said. ‘I had one.’
‘You’re sure you had one?’
‘M’hm. Had it when I come here.’
‘When you came into this room?’
‘No. When I first went in the front room. I was a little nervous-like. I wiped my face with it. I think I put it—’
‘Is that the last time you recall having it—when you first went into the front room?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Can you describe it?’
Perhaps this odd insistence on anything so unimportant as a handkerchief put Jinx on his guard. At any rate he dodged.
‘What difference it make?’
‘Can you describe it?’
‘No.’
‘No? Why can’t you?’
‘Nothin’ to describe. Jes’ a plain big white handkerchief with a—’ He stopped.
‘With a what?’
‘With a hem,’ said Jinx.
‘Hm.’
‘Yea—hem.’
‘A white hem?’
‘It wasn’ no black one,’ said Jinx, in typical Harlemese.
The detective fell silent a moment, then said:
‘All right, Jenkins. That’s all for the present. You go back to the front room.’
Officer Brady escorted Jinx out, and returned.
‘Brady, tell Green, who is up front, to take note of everything he overhears those people in there say. You come back here.’
Obediently, Officer Brady turned away.
‘Light!’ called Dart, and the bluecoat in the hall pressed the switch that turned on the extension light.
‘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