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.'
