The Conjure-Man Dies: A Harlem Mystery. Rudolph Fisher
nondescript clothing draped her too long limbs. Her squarish, fashionless hat was a little awry, her scrawny visage, already disquieted, was now inordinately startled, the eyes almost comically wide above the high cheek bones, the mouth closed tight over her teeth whose forward slant made the lips protrude as if they were puckering to whistle.
The younger woman, however, seemed not to hear. Those dark eyes surely could sparkle brightly, those small lips smile, that clear honey skin glow with animation; but just now the eyes stared unseeingly, the lips were a short, hard, straight line, the skin of her round pretty face almost colourless. She was obviously dazed by the suddenness of this unexpected tragedy. Unlike the other woman, however, she had not lost her poise, though it was costing her something to retain it. The trim, black, high-heeled shoes, the light sheer stockings, the black seal coat which fell open to reveal a white-bordered pimiento dress, even the small close-fitting black hat, all were quite as they should be. Only her isolating detachment betrayed the effect upon her of the presence of death and the law.
‘A human skull!’ repeated Bubber. ‘Yes, ma’am. Blottin’ out the moon. You know what that is?’
‘What?’ said the older woman.
‘That’s death on the moon. It’s a moonsign and it’s never been known to fail.’
‘And it means death?’
‘Worse ’n that, ma’am. It means three deaths. Whoever see death on the moon’—he paused, drew breath, and went on in an impressive lower tone—‘gonna see death three times!’
‘My soul and body!’ said the lady.
But Jinx saw fit to summon logic. ‘Mean you go’n’ see two more folks dead?’
‘Gonna stare ’em in the face.’
‘Then somebody ought to poke yo’ eyes out in self-defence.’
Having with characteristic singleness of purpose discharged his duty as a gentleman and done all within his power to set the ladies’ minds at rest, Bubber could now turn his attention to the due and proper quashing of his unappreciative commentator.
‘Whyn’t you try it?’ he suggested.
‘Try what?’
‘Pokin’ my eyes out.’
‘Huh. If I thought that was the onliest way to keep from dyin’, you could get yo’self a tin cup and a cane tonight.’
‘Try it then.’
‘’Tain’t necessary. That moonshine you had’ll take care o’ everything. Jes’ give it another hour to work and you’ll be blind as a Baltimo’ alley.’
‘Trouble with you,’ said Bubber, ‘is, you’ ignorant. You’ dumb. The inside o’ yo’ head is all black.’
‘Like the outside o’ yourn.’
‘Is you by any chance alludin’ to me?’
‘I ain’t alludin’ to that policeman over yonder.’
‘Lucky for you he is over yonder, else you wouldn’t be alludin’ at all.’
‘Now you gettin’ bad, ain’t you? Jus’ ’cause you know you got the advantage over me.’
‘What advantage?’
‘How could I hit you when I can’t even see you?’
‘Well if I was ugly as you is, I wouldn’t want nobody to see me.’
‘Don’t worry, son. Nobody’ll ever know how ugly you is. Yo’ ugliness is shrouded in mystery.’
‘Well yo’ dumbness ain’t. It’s right there for all the world to see. You ought to be back in Africa with the other dumb boogies.’
‘African boogies ain’t dumb,’ explained Jinx. ‘They’ jes’ dark. You ain’t been away from there long, is you?’
‘My folks,’ returned Bubber crushingly, ‘left Africa ten generations ago.’
‘Yo’ folks? Shuh. Ten generations ago, you-all wasn’t folks. You-all hadn’t qualified as apes.’
Thus as always, their exchange of compliments flowed toward the level of family history, among other Harlemites a dangerous explosive which a single word might strike into instantaneous violence. It was only because the hostility of these two was actually an elaborate masquerade, whereunder they concealed the most genuine affection for each other, that they could come so close to blows that were never offered.
Yet to the observer this mock antagonism would have appeared alarmingly real. Bubber’s squat figure sidled belligerently up to the long and lanky Jinx; solid as a fire-plug he stood, set to grapple; and he said with unusual distinctness:
‘Yea? Well—yo’ granddaddy was a hair on a baboon’s tail. What does that make you?’
The policeman’s grin of amusement faded. The older woman stifled a cry of apprehension.
The younger woman still sat motionless and staring, wholly unaware of what was going on.
DETECTIVE Dart, Dr Archer, and Officer Brady made a rapid survey of the basement and cellar. The basement, a few feet below sidewalk level, proved to be one long, low-ceilinged room, fitted out, evidently by the undertaker, as a simple meeting-room for those clients who required the use of a chapel. There were many rows of folding wooden chairs facing a low platform at the far end of the room. In the middle of this platform rose a pulpit stand, and on one side against the wall stood a small reed organ. A heavy dark curtain across the rear of the platform separated it and the meeting-place from a brief unimproved space behind that led through a back door into the back yard. The basement hallway, in the same relative position as those above, ran alongside the meeting-room and ended in this little hinder space. In one corner of this, which must originally have been the kitchen, was the small door of a dumbwaiter shaft which led to the floor above. The shaft contained no sign of a dumbwaiter now, as Dart’s flashlight disclosed: above were the dangling gears and broken ropes of a mechanism long since discarded, and below, an empty pit.
They discovered nearby the doorway to the cellar stairs, which proved to be the usual precipitate series of narrow planks. In the cellar, which was poorly lighted by a single central droplight, they found a large furnace, a coal bin, and, up forward, a nondescript heap of shadowy junk such as cellars everywhere seem to breed.
All this appeared for the time being unimportant, and so they returned to the second floor, where the victim had originally been found. Dart had purposely left this floor till the last. It was divided into three rooms, front, middle and back, and these they methodically visited in order.
They entered the front room, Frimbo’s reception room, just as Bubber sidled belligerently up to Jinx. Apparently their entrance discouraged further hostilities, for with one or two upward, sidelong glares from Bubber, neutralized by an inarticulate growl or two from Jinx, the imminent combat faded mysteriously away and the atmosphere cleared.
But now the younger woman’s eyes lifted to recognize Dr John Archer. She jumped up and went to him.
‘Hello, Martha,’ he said.
‘What does it mean, John?’
‘Don’t let it upset you. Looks like the conjure-man had an enemy, that’s all.’
‘It’s true—he really is—?’
‘I’m afraid so. This is Detective Dart. Mrs Crouch, Mr Dart.’
‘Good-evening,’ Mrs Crouch said mechanically and turned back to her chair.
‘Dart’s a friend of mine, Martha,’ said the physician. ‘He’ll take my word for your