The crazy kill

6

The preliminary questioning was made by another sergeant, Detective Sergeant Brody from dowtown Homicide, with the precinct detectives, Grave Digger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson, assisting.

The questioning was conducted in a soundproof room without windows on the first floor. This room was known to the Harlem underworld as the "Pigeon Nest." It was said that no matter how tough an egg was, if they kept him in there long enough he would hatch out a pigeon.

The room was lit by the hot bright glare of a three-hundred-watt spotlight focused on a low wooden stool bolted to the boards in the center of the bare wooden floor. The seat of the stool was shiny from the squirming of countless suspects who had sat on it.

Sergeant Brody sat with his elbows propped atop a big battered flat-topped desk that stood along the inner wall beside the door. The desk was beyond the edge of shadow that screened the interrogator from the suspects sizzling in the glaring light.

At one end of the desk, a police reporter sat in a straight-backed chair with his notebook on the desk in front of him.

Coffin Ed made a tall indistinct shadow in the corner behind.

Grave Digger stood at the other end of the desk, his foot propped on the one remaining chair. Both had kept on their hats.

The principals-Val's friends and intimates, Johnny and Dulcy Perry, Mamie Pullen, Reverend Short and Chink Charlie-were being held upstairs in the detective bureau for the last.

The others had been herded into the bull pen downstairs and were brought out four at a time and lined abreast in the circle of light.

The sight of the corpse and the subsequent ride in the wagon had sobered them too suddenly. They were sweaty and evil, men and women alike, their haggard, wan-colored faces looking like African war masks in the dead white light.

After their names, addresses and occupations had been taken, Sergeant Brody asked them routine questions in a passionless copper's voice:

"Were there any arguments at the wake? Fights? Did any of you hear anyone mention Valentine Haines's name? Did any of you see Chink Charlie Dawson leave the room? What time? Was he alone? Did Doll Baby leave with him? Before? After?

"Did any of you see Reverend Short leave the house? Leave the sitting room? Go into the bedroom? Did you notice whether the bedroom door was open or closed most of the evening? How much time elapsed between the time he disappeared until his return?

"Did any of you notice Dulcy Perry leave the house? Before or after Reverend Short returned?

"How much time elapsed between Reverend Short's return and when all of you went to the window to look for the bread basket? Five minutes? More? Less? Did anyone else leave during that time? Do any of you know if Val had any enemies? Anyone who might have had a grudge against him? Was he in any kind of trouble?"

There were seven men in the pickup who hadn't been at the wake. Brody asked if they'd seen anyone fall from the third-story-front window; if they'd seen anyone passing along the street, walking or in a car. None admitted seeing anything. All swore that they'd been inside of their homes, in bed, and had gone out on the street after the patrol cars arrived.

"Did any of you hear anyone cry out?" Brody asked. "Hear the sound of a car passing? Any strange sound of any kind?"

His questions all drew negatives.

"All right, all right," he growled. "All of you were in bed, sleeping the sleep of the righteous, dreaming about the angels in heaven-you didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, and you don't know anything. All right…"

All were asked to identify the murder knife, which Brody exhibited to each group. None did.

In between the questions and the answers, the stylo of the police reporter was heard scratching on sheet after sheet of foolscap paper.

The contents of each person's pockets had been dumped on top of the desk as each group was ushered in. The sergeant examined only the knives. When the blades exceeded the two inches allowed by law, he inserted them into the crevice between the top of the center drawer and the desk top and broke them with a slight downward pressure. As time went on broken blades piled up inside the drawer.

When he'd finished with the last group, Brody looked at his watch.

"Two hours and seventeen minutes," he said. "And all I've learned so far is that the folks here in Harlem are so respectable their fingers don't stink."

"What did you expect?" Coffin Ed asked. "For somebody to say they did it?"

"Do you want me to read the transcript?" the police reporter asked.

"Hell no. The coroner's report says the victim was killed where he lay. But nobody saw him arrive. Nobody remembers exactly when Chink Charlie left the flat. Nobody knows when Dulcy Perry left. Nobody knows for certain whether Reverend Short even fell out of the Goddamned window. Do you believe that, Digger?"

"Why not? This is Harlem, where anything can happen."

"We people here in Harlem will believe anything," Coffin Ed said.

"You're not trying to pull my leg, are you, pal?" Brody said dryly.

"I'm just trying to tell you that these people are not so simple as you think," Coffin Ed replied. "You're trying to find the murderer. All right, I'll believe anybody did it if we get enough proof."

"Okay, fine," Brody said. "Bring in Mamie Pullen."

When Grave Digger escorted Mamie into the room, he placed the chair he'd been using for a footrest in a comfortable position so she could lean an arm on the desk if she wished, then went over and adjusted the light so it wouldn't bother her.

Sergeant Brody's first glance had taken in the black satin dress with its skirt that dragged the floor, reminiscent of the rigid uniform of whorehouse madams in the 1920's. He'd gotten a peep at the toes of the men's straight-last shoes protruding from beneath. His gaze remained longer on the two-carat diamond in the platinum band encircling her gnarled brown ring finger, and rested for an appreciable time on the white jade necklace that dropped to her waist like a greatly cherished rosary with a black onyx cross attached to the end. Then he looked at the old brown face, lined with grief and worry, sagging in loose folds beneath the tight knot of short, straightened, gray-streaked hair.

"This is Sergeant Brody, Aunt Mamie," Grave Digger said. "He must ask you a few questions."

"How do you do, Mr. Brody," she said, sticking her gnarled unadorned right hand across the desk.

"It's a bad business, Mrs. Pullen," the sergeant said, shaking her hand.

"It looks like one death always calls for another," she said. "Been that way ever since I could remember. One person dies and then there ain't no end. I guess that's the way God planned it."

Then she looked up to see the face of the cop who had been so gentle with her, and exclaimed, "Lord bless my soul, you're little Digger Jones. I've known you ever since you were a little shavetail kid on 116th Street. I didn't know you were the one they called Grave Digger."

Grave Digger grinned sheepishly, like a little boy caught stealing apples.

"I've grown up now, Aunt Mamie."

"Doesn't time fly. As Big Joe always used to say; Tempers fugits. You must be all of thirty-five years old now."

"Thirty-six. And here's Eddy Johnson, too. He's my partner."

Coffin Ed stepped forward into the light. Mamie was stunned at sight of his face.

"God in heaven!" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What hap-" then caught herself.

"A hoodlum threw a glass of acid in my face." He shrugged. "Occupational hazard, Aunt Mamie. I'm a cop. I take my chances."

She apologized. "Now I remember reading about it, but I didn't know it was you. I hardly ever go anywhere, but just out with Big Joe, when he was alive." Then she added with sincerity, "I hope they put whoever did it in the jail and throw away the key."

"He's already buried, Aunt Mamie," Coffin Ed said.

Then Grave Digger said, "Ed's having skin grafted on his face from his thigh, but it takes time. It'll take about a year altogether before it's finished."

"Now, Mrs. Pullen," the sergeant inserted firmly, "suppose you just tell me in your own words what happened in your place last night, or rather this morning."

She sighed. "I'll tell you what I know."

When she'd finished her account, the sergeant said, "Well, at least that gives us a pretty clear picture of what actually happened inside of your house from the time Reverend Short returned upstairs until the body was discovered.

"Do you believe that Reverend Short fell from your bedroom window?"

"Oh, I believe that. There wasn't reason for him to say he'd fallen if he hadn't. 'Sides which, he was outside and nobody had seen him leave by the door."

"You don't think that's extraordinary? For him to fall out of a third-story window?"

"Well, sir, he's a frail man and given to having trances. He might have had a trance."

"Epilepsy?"

"No, sir, just religious trances. He sees visions."

"What kind of visions?"

"Oh, all kinds of visions. He preaches about them. He's a prophet, like Saint John the Divine."

Sergeant Brody was a Catholic and he looked bewildered.

Grave Digger explained, "Saint John the Divine is the prophet who saw the seven veils and the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The people here in Harlem have a great regard for Saint John. He was the only prophet who ever saw any winning numbers in his visions."

"The Revelation is the fortune teller's Bible," Coffin Ed added.

"It's not only just that," Mamie said. "Saint John saw how wonderful it was in heaven and how terrible it was in hell."

"Well now, to get back to this murder, would Chink Charlie have any reason to try to kill Reverend Short?" Brody questioned. "Other than the fact the Reverend was a prophet."

"No, sir, absolutely not. It was just that Reverend Short had the sense knocked out of him by his fall and didn't know what he was saying."

"But he and Chink had been arguing earlier."

"Not really arguing. Reverend Short and him was just disagreeing about the kind of people I had to the wake. But it weren't neither one of them's business."

"Is there bad blood between Dulcy and Reverend Short?"

"Bad blood? No, sir. It's just that Reverend Short thinks Dulcy needs saving and she just takes every chance to bitch him off. But I suspects he's carrying a secret torch for her, only he's shamed of it 'cause of him being a preacher and she being a married woman."

"How was the Reverend with Johnny and Val?"

"They all three respected one another's intentions and that's as far as it went."

"How long was it between the time Dulcy left the house and you went to the window and discovered the body?"

"It wasn't no time at all," she declared positively. "She hadn't even had time to get downstairs."

He asked a few questions about the other mourners, but found no connection with Val.

The he came in from another angle.

"Did you recognize the voice of the man who telephoned you after the body was discovered?"

"No sir. It just sounded distant and fuzzy."

"But whoever it was knew there was a dead body there in that bread basket?"

"No, sir, it was just like I told you before. Whoever it was wasn't talking about Val. He was talking about Reverend Short. He'd seen the reverend fall and thought he was lying there dead, and that's why he called. I'm sure of that."

"How could he know he was dead unless he had come close enough to examine him?"

"I don't know, sir. I suppose he just thought he was dead. You'd think anybody was dead who'd fallen out a third-story window, and then lay there without getting up."

"But according to testimony, Reverend Short did get up and come all the way back upstairs on his own power."

"Well, I couldn't say how it was. All I know is someone telephoned and when I said he'd been stabbed-Val, I mean-they just hung up as if they might have been surprised."

"Could it have been Johnny Perry?"

"No, sir, I'm dead certain it wasn't him. And I sure ought to know his voice if anybody does, as long as I've been hearing it."

"He's your stepson? Or is it your godson?"

"Well, he ain't rightly neither, but we thought of him as a son because when he came out of stir-"

"What stir? Where?"

"In Georgia. He did a stretch on the chain gang."

"For what?"

"He killed a man for beating his mother-his stepfather. At least she was his common-law wife, his ma, but she was no good and Johnny was always a good boy. They gave him a year on the road."

"When was that?"

"It was twenty-six years ago when he got out. While he was inside his ma ran off with another man and me and Big Joe was coming North. So we just brought him along with us. He was just twenty years old."

"That makes him forty-six now."

"Yes, sir. And Big Joe got him a job on the road."

"Waiting tables?"

"No, sir, helping in the kitchen. He couldn't wait tables on account of that scar."

"How'd he get that?"

"On the chain gang. He and another con got to fighting with pickaxes over a card game. Johnny was always hotheaded, and that con had accused him of cheating him out of a nickel. And Johnny was always as honest as the day is long."

"When did he open his gambling club here?"

"The Tia Juana club? He opened that about ten years ago. Big Joe staked him. But he had another little houserent game he used to run before that."

"Is that when he married Dulcy-Mrs. Perry-when he opened the Tia Juana club?"

"Oh no-no-no, he just married her a year and a half ago-January second last year, the day after New Year's day. Before then he was married to Alamena."

"Is he married to Dulcy or just living with her?" The sergeant gave her a confidential look.

Her back stiffened. "Their marriage is as legal as whisky. Me and Big Joe were the witnesses. They were married in City Hall."

The sergeant turned a bright fiery red.

Grave Digger said softly, "Couples do get married in Harlem."

Sergeant Brody felt himself on bumpy water and took another tack.

"Does Johnny keep much cash on hand?"

"I don't know, sir."

"In the bank then, or in property? Do you know what property he owns?"

"No, sir. Maybe Big Joe knew, but he never told me."

He dropped it.

"Do you mind telling me what you and Dulcy-Mrs. Perry-were talking about that was so important you had to lock yourself in the bathroom?"

She hesitated and looked appealingly toward Grave Digger.

He said. "We're not after Johnny, Aunt Mamie. This has nothing to do with his gambling club or income taxes or anything concerning the Federal government. We're just trying to find out who killed Val."

"Lord, it's a mystery who'd want to hurt Val. He didn't have an enemy in the world."

The sergeant let that pass. "Then it wasn't Val you and Dulcy were talking about?"

"No, sir. I'd just asked her about a run-in Johnny and Chink had at Dickie Wells's last Saturday night."

"About what? Money? Gambling debts?"

"No, sir. Johnny's crazy jealous of Dulcy-he's going to kill somebody about that gal some day. And Chink imagines he's God's gift to women. He keeps shooting at Dulcy. Folks say he don't mean nothing by it, but-"

"What folks?"

"Well, Val and Alamena and even Dulcy herself. But there ain't no telling what any man means when he keeps after a woman unless it's to get her. And Johnny's so jealous and hot-headed I'm scared to death there's going to be blood trouble."

"What part did Val play in that?"

"Val. He was always just a peacemaker. 'Course, he was on Johnny's side. He spent most of his time, it looked like, just trying to keep Johnny out of trouble. But he didn't have nothing against Chink, either."

"Then Johnny's enemies are his enemies, too?"

"No, sir, I wouldn't say that. Val wasn't the kind of person who had enemies. He and Chink always got along fine."

"Who's Val's woman?"

"He's never had a steady. Not to my knowledge. He just plays the field. I think his latest was Doll Baby. But he wasn't intending to get corralled by no gal."

"Tell me one thing, Mrs. Pullen-didn't you notice anything strange about the body?"

"Well-" She knitted her brows. "Not as I recollect. I didn't get to see him close up, of course. I just saw him from my window. But I didn't notice nothing strange."

The sergeant stared at her.

"Wouldn't you call a knife sticking in his heart strange?"

"Oh, you mean him being stabbed. Yes, sir, I thought that was strange. I couldn't imagine nobody wanting to kill Val."

The sergeant kept staring at her though he didn't quite know what to make of that statement.

"If it had been Johnny there instead of Val it wouldn't have struck you as strange."

"No, sir."

"But didn't it strike you as strange how he came to be lying there in that bread basket just a few minutes after Reverend Short had fallen from your window into the same bread basket?"

For the first time her face took on a look of fear.

"Yes, sir," she replied in a whisper, leaning on the desk for support. "Powerful strange. Only the Lord knows how he came there."

"No, the murderer knows, too."

"Yes, sir. But there's one thing, Mr. Brody. Johnny didn't do it. He might not have had no burning love for his brother-in-law, but he tolerated him on account of Dulcy, and he wouldn't have let nobody hurt a hair on his head, much less have done it hisself."

Brody took the murder knife from a drawer and laid it on the desk top. "Have you ever seen this before?"

She stared at it, more out of curiosity than horror. "No, sir."

He let it drop. "When is the funeral to be held?"

"This afternoon at two o'clock."

"All right, you may go now. You've been a great help to us."

She arose slowly, bracing her hands on the desk top, and extended her hand to Sergeant Brody with Southern-bred courtesy.

Sergeant Brody wasn't used to it. He was the law. People on the other side of this desk were generally on the other side of the law. He found himself so confused that he clambered to his feet, knocking over his chair, and pumped her hand up and down, his face glowing like a freshly boiled lobster.

"I hope your funeral goes well, Mrs. Pullen-that is, I mean, your husband's funeral."

"Thank you, sir. All we can do is put him in the ground and hope."

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed stepped forward and escorted her with deference to the door, holding it open for her to pass through. Her black satin dress dragged on the floor, sweeping dust over her straight-last shoes.

Sergeant Brody didn't sigh. He prided himself on the fact that he never sighed. But, as he glanced at his watch again, he looked as though he would have loved to.

"It's ten-twenty. Think we can finish before lunch?"

"Let's get it over with," Coffin Ed said harshly. "I haven't had any sleep and I'm hungry enough to eat dog."

"Let's have the preacher, then."

On catching sight of the shiny wooden stool sitting in the spill of glaring light, Reverend Short drew up just inside the door and shuddered like a stuck sheep.

"No!" he croaked, trying to back out into the corridor. "I won't go in there."

The two uniformed cops who'd brought him from the detention block gripped his arms and forced him inside.

He struggled in their grip, performing exercises like an adagio dancer. Veins roped in his bony temples. His eyes protruded behind his gold-rimmed spectacles like a bug's under a microscope, and his Adam's apple bobbed like a float on a fishing line.

"No! No! It's haunted with the souls of tortured Christians," he screamed.

"Come on, buddy boy, quit performing," one of the cops said, handling him rough. "Ain't no Christians been in here."

"Yes! Yes!" he screamed in his croaking voice. "I hear their cries. It's the chamber of the Inquisition. I smell the blood of the martyred."

"You must be having a nosebleed," the other cop said, trying to be funny.

They lifted him bodily, feet and legs dangling grotesquely like a puppet's from a gibbet, carried him across the floor and deposited him on the stool.

The three inquisitors stared at him without moving. The chair in which Mamie Pullen had sat once more served Grave Digger as a footstool. Coffin Ed had retired to his dark corner.

"Caesars!" he croaked.

The cops stood flanking him, a hand on each shoulder.

"Cardinals!" he screamed. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not fear."

His eyes glinted insanely.

Sergeant Brody's face remained impassive, but he said, "Ain't nobody here but us chickens, Reverend."

Reverend Short leaned forward and peered into the shadow as though trying to make out a blurred figure in a thick fog.

"If you're a police officer then I want to report that Chink Charlie pushed me out of the window to my death, but God placed the body of Christ on the ground to break my fall."

"It was a basket of bread," the sergeant corrected.

"The body of Christ," Reverend Short maintained.

"All right, Reverend, let's cut the comedy," Brody said. "If you're trying to build a plea of insanity, you're jumping the gun. No one is accusing you of anything."

"It was that Jezebel Dulcy Perry who stabbed him with the knife Chink Charlie gave her to commit the murder."

Brody leaned forward slightly.

"You saw him give her the knife?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The day after Christmas. She was sitting in her car outside my church and thought there wasn't nobody looking. He came up and got into the seat beside her, gave her the knife and showed her how to use it."

"Where were you?"

"I was watching through a crack in the window. I knew there was something fishy about her coming to my church to give me some old clothes for charity."

"Were she and Johnny members of your church?"

"They called themselves members just 'cause Big Joe Pullen was a member, but they never come 'cause they don't like to roll."

Grave Digger saw that Brody didn't get it, so he explained. "It's a Holy Roller church. When the members get happy they roll about on the floor."

"With one another's wives," Coffin Ed added.

Brody's face went sort of slack, and the police reporter stopped writing to stare open-mouthed.

"They keep their clothes on," Grave Digger amended. "They just roll about on the floor and have convulsions, singly and in pairs."

The reporter looked disappointed.

"Ahem," Brody said, clearing his throat. "So when you first looked out of the window you saw Val's body lying in the bread basket with the knife sticking in it. And you recognized the knife as the same knife you had seen Chink Charlie give to Dulcy Perry?"

"There wasn't any bread there then," Reverend Short stated.

Sergeant Brody blinked. "What was there if there wasn't any bread?"

"There was a colored cop and a white man chasing a thief."

"Ah, so you saw that," Brody said, finally getting something tangible to put his teeth into. "Then you must have actually seen the murder being committed."

"I saw her stab him," Reverend Short declared.

"You couldn't have seen her because she hadn't left the flat then," Brody said.

"I didn't see it then. I was pushed out of the window then. I didn't see it until after I had returned to the room."

"Returned to what room?"

"The room where the casket was."

Brody stared at him and slowly began to redden. "Listen, Reverend," he warned. "This is serious. This is a murder investigation. This is no place to joke."

"I'm not joking," Reverend Short said.

"All right, then, you mean you imagined all of this?"

Reverend Short straightened his back and stared at Brody indignantly.

"I saw it in a vision."

"And it was in this vision you saw yourself pushed out of the window?"

"It was after I was pushed out of the window that I had the vision."

"Do you have these visions often?"

"Regularly, and they're always true."

"All right, then how did she kill him-in your vision, that is?"

"She went downstairs on the elevator, and when she went outside there was Valentine Haines lying in the basket where I had fallen-"

"I thought you said there wasn't any basket?"

"There wasn't at the time, but the body of Christ had turned into a basket of bread, and it was in this bread that he was lying when she took the knife from her pocketbook and went up to him and stabbed him."

"What was Val doing there?"

"He was lying there, waiting for her to come out."

"And stab him, I suppose."

"He didn't expect her to stab him. He didn't even know she had a knife."

"All right. I don't buy any of that. Did you see anyone actually leave the house-that is actually see them-while you were downstairs?"

"My eyes were veiled. I knew a vision was coming on."

"All right, Reverend, I'm going to let you go," Brody said, looking over the contents of Reverend Short's pockets lying on the desk before him. "But for a man who calls himself a minister of the gospel you haven't been very cooperative."

Reverend Short didn't move.

Brody pushed the pocket Bible, handkerchief, bunch of keys and wallet across the desk, hesitated over the bottle of medicine and on sudden impulse drew the cork and smelled it. He looked startled. He tilted it to his lips and tasted it, spat it out on the floor.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "Peach brandy and laudanum. You drink this stuff?"

"It's for my nerves," Reverend Short said.

"For your visions, you mean. If I drank this stuff I'd have visions, too." To the cops Brody said disgustedly, "Take him away."

Suddenly Reverend Short began to scream, "Don't let her get away! Arrest her! Burn her! She's a witch! She's in collusion with the devil! And Chink's her accomplice!"

"We'll take care of her," one of the cops cajoled as they lifted him from the stool. "We've got just the place for witches-and wizards, too, so you'd better look out."

Reverend Short broke from their grasp and fell to the floor. He rolled and threshed about convulsively, frothing at the mouth as though having a fit.

"I see what you mean by Holy Roller," Brody said.

The police reporter snickered.

"No, this is probably a vision coming on," Grave Digger said with a straight face.

Brody looked at him sharply.

The cops picked Reverend Short up by the feet and shoulders and carried him off bodily. After a moment one of them came back for the reverend's possessions.

"Is he crazy or just acting?" Brody asked.

"Maybe both," Grave Digger replied.

"After all, there might be something in what he said," Coffin Ed ventured. "As I recall my Bible, all the prophets were either crazy or epileptic."

"I like some of what he said, all right," Brody admitted. "I just don't like the way he said it."

"Who's next?" Grave Digger asked.

"Let's see Johnny's former wife," Brody said. Alamena came in docilely, fingering the high-necked collar about her throat, like a girl who might have been in there before and knew what to expect.

She sat down in the circle of light and folded her hands in her lap. She wore no jewelry of any kind.

"What do I call you?" Brody asked.

"Just Alamena," she said.

"Fine. Now just give me a quick fill-in on Val and Dulcy."

"There ain't much to it. Dulcy came here to sing in Small's Cabaret a couple of years ago, and after six months she'd hooked Johnny and landed on easy street. Val came for the wedding and stayed."

"Who were Dulcy's boy friends before she married?"

"She played the field, prospecting."

"How about Val? Was he prospecting, too?"

"Why should he? He had a claim staked out for him before he got here."

"He just helped out in the club?" Brody suggested.

"Not so you could notice," she said. "Anyway, Johnny wouldn't have never trusted Val to gamble his money."

"Just what was going on between Dulcy and Chink and Val and Johnny?"

"Nothing, as I know of."

"All right, all right. Who were Val's enemies?"

"He didn't have any enemies. He wasn't the type."

Blood mottled Brody's face.

"God damn it, he didn't stab himself in the heart."

"It's been done before," she said.

"But he didn't. We know that. On the other hand, there were no superficial signs of his being either drugged or drunk. Of course, the coroner can't be absolutely certain until after the autopsy. But let's just imagine he was lying there, at that time of morning, in that basket of bread. Why?"

"Maybe he was standing up and just fell there after he was stabbed."

"No, he was stabbed while he was lying there. And from the condition of the bread he knew absolutely that some one or some thing had already lain in it. Perhaps he had even seen Reverend Short fall from the window. Now I want to ask you just one simple question. Why would he lie there of his own free will, let someone lean over him with a knife and stab him to death without his even putting up any kind of defense?"

"Nobody expects to be stabbed to death by a friend they think is just playing," she said.

All three detectives tensed imperceptibly.

"You think a friend did it?"

She shrugged, gesturing slightly with her hands. "Don't you?"

Brody took the knife out of the drawer. She looked at it indifferently, as though she'd seen a lot of knives.

"Is this it?"

"It looks like it."

"Have you ever seen it before?"

"Not that I know of."

"You'd know of it if you'd seen it?"

"Everybody in Harlem carries a knife. Do you think I know everybody's knife by sight?"

"Everybody in Harlem don't carry this kind of knife," Brody said. "This is a hand-tooled, imported English knife with a blade of Sheffield steel. The only place we've found so far where it can be bought in New York City is at Abercrombie and Fitch's, downtown on Madison Avenue. It costs twenty bucks. Can you imagine a Harlem punk going downtown and paying twenty bucks for an imported hunter's knife, then leaving it sticking in his victim?"

Her face turned a strange shade of dirty yellow, and her dark brown eyes looked haunted.

"Why not? It's a free country," she whispered. "So they say."

"You're free to go now," Brody said.

No one moved as she got up and went across the floor, in the stiff, blind manner of a sleepwalker, and left the room.

Brody fumbled in his coat pockets for his pipe and plastic tobacco pouch. He took his time stuffing the battered brier pipe, then struck a kitchen match on the edge of the desk and got his pipe going.

"Who cut her throat?" he asked through a cloud of smoke, holding the pipe in his teeth.

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed avoided each other's gazes, and both appeared strangely embarrassed.

"Johnny," Grave Digger said finally.

Brody froze, but relaxed so quickly it was scarcely perceptible.

"Did she charge him?"

"No. It went as an accident."

The police reporter stopped fiddling with his notes and stared.

"How the hell can you get your throat cut accidentally?" Brody asked.

"She said he didn't intend to do it-that he was just playing."

"Playing kind of rough," the police reporter commented.

"Why?" Brody asked. "Why did he do it?"

"She hung on too long," Grave Digger said. "He wanted Dulcy and she wouldn't let go."

"And she still hangs on to him."

"Why not? He cut her throat, and now she's got him for life."

"It's a funny way to keep a man, is all I can say."

"Maybe. But don't forget this is Harlem. Folks here are happy just to be alive."