The only way it made sense was for Dummy to be looking for the money, too, he thought; or how would he know so much about what had happened? And then, as he chewed over that, the whole picture clicked suddenly in his mind.
It all hung on the murder of the Jew. If the Jew hadn't been killed, it might have figured that whoever killed Rufus got the money. But it stood to reason that whoever killed the Jew had already sounded Rufus and was convinced he didn't have it. So he figured the Jew must have it. Because whoever it was must have been someone who had heard Alberta blabbing about her dream at the baptism. All kinds of hustlers hung around Sweet Prophet's activities, hoping some of the Prophet's money would fall off. And then this joker, whoever he was, would have found out where Alberta lived and beat it over there to burglarize the house. But he, Sugar, had got there first; then, after he had left, Rufus had come; and the Jew had arrived while Rufus was still there and had moved all the furniture. So this joker must have been watching from the street, waiting for a chance to break in, and when he saw the furniture being moved he knew somebody had already got the money. So the logical thing had been to sound Rufus first.
But after he had killed the Jew and hadn't found the money, he figured that Rufus had outsmarted him. So he laid for Rufus.
But by that time Rufus had been warned by the killer's first approach, and he wouldn't be carrying the money around on him. It was ten to one he had hidden it in his own flat, Sugar realized. He had very likely already found it by the time the Jew arrived. Suddenly Sugar understood the reason Rufus decided to sell all the furniture to the Jew-he had already found the money and used that stupid play to cover it up. Rufus must have been laughing at Sugar when they met yesterday afternoon. Yeah, he had been so cute he had gotten himself killed, Sugar thought maliciously.
And now the fact that Dummy had begun to look for it, too, meant that it hadn't been found. Dummy wasn't the kind to waste his efforts on wild-goose chases. It would be just like Dummy to know who killed Rufus and why he was killed-if he hadn't done it himself.
'Come on,' he said to the girl.
'Where you going?' she asked.
'What do you care,' he said. 'You ain't got no other place to go, have you?'
She followed him docilely, relieved at being told what to do. She had never done anything on her own initiative in her life.
He paused in the entrance of the hotel to look up and down the street. No one in sight.
'Where did Dummy go?' he asked.
'How do I know?' she replied stolidly.
'Come on.'
She started to walk along with him, but he stopped her.
'You're subject to get arrested for prostitution walking with me,' he said. 'And I don't want to get picked up, either. So you go ahead, turn down Seventh to a Hundred Twelfth Street and go over to Eighth Avenue. Wait for me on the corner.'
She started off without a word. He followed at a distance, but when she turned into the dark side street he kept on down Seventh Avenue to a once pretentious apartment house in the middle of the block.
Mammy Stormy had a six-room apartment on the top floor, where she gave parties for domestic workers every weekend. They began Saturday night and ended Monday morning. She sold food and drinks, and cut the blackjack game. She called them 'house rent' parties because, supposedly, they were for the purpose of paying her rent, but she lived from them.
Back during the depression of the 1930's, everyone who had a house threw these parties to pay their rent. However, most had quit the practice as industrial jobs opened to colored people and the pay for domestic work increased. But Mammy Stormy had kept right on; she hadn't missed one for the past twenty-eight years.
She never left the apartment. She weighed close to four hundred pounds, and she didn't trust elevators and couldn't navigate the stairs. She hadn't worn anything but nightgowns and felt slippers for a decade.
Sugar found her sitting in an ancient armchair in the kitchen, fanning herself with an undertaker's fan. Sweat flowed like a waterfall down her smooth black face. A pot of white beans and chitterlings simmered on the coal- burning stove. Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere; empty bottles were strewn about the floor.
A blackjack game was in progress in the dining room, but the players were just marking time. Other half- drunk, satiated, sleepy people wandered about the other rooms, waiting for daylight and time to go to work.
The smell of food made Sugar's stomach crawl, but he didn't have the price of a dish.
'Dummy sent me,' he told Mammy Stormy.
'What do he want now?' she asked.
'His ears hurt him; he wants you to send him some sweet oil,' Sugar said.
'Lord, why don't he do something about his ears,' she said.
'Do what?' he asked.
That stumped her.
'Look in the bathroom in the medicine cabinet and you'll find the sweet oil,' she said. 'And tell him don't bring none of his chippy whores into my house.'
'I'll tell him,' he said.
He found the bottle marked sweet oil, but while he was there he noticed one of her rose-colored nylon nightgowns hanging up to dry. That gave him an idea. He took down the nightgown, took a yellow-orange-and white-striped bath towel from the rack, rolled them into a bundle and hid them beneath his coat. He left the house by way of the parlor, and didn't see Mammy Stormy again.
It was dawn when he came out onto the street. The girl was waiting on the corner where he had told her to wait. They went toward Manhattan Avenue.
In the middle of the block he stopped in a tenement hallway, removed the label from the bottle of sweet oil and slipped the nightgown over his clothes. Then he tied the towel about his head like a turban. The girl stared at him open-mouthed. She was either too tired or too stupid to laugh.
'What is that for?' she asked.
'Never mind,' he told her. 'You just keep your mouth shut no matter what I do, and don't laugh.'
But the garish ensemble was too much even for Harlem. The crew of a garbage truck making its last round froze in openmouthed amazement as he approached.
'Great God Almighty, another prophet!' one of them ejaculated.
The girl started to giggle, but Sugar snapped at her. 'Shut up!'
They found the janitor of the apartment where Rufus had lived taking in the garbage cans. He put the empty can down and wiped his hand across his eyes. His lips moved as he mumbled something to himself.
He was a big, slow-motioned man with a dark leathery face. Short kinky hair fringed a bald bead decorated with a crescent-shaped scar. He wore faded blue demin overalls and a hickory-striped shirt, all neatly washed and pressed. His big misshapen feet were encased in dirt-splotched canvas sneakers. His faded brown eyes gave the impression of a mind that was even slower than his body.
'I'm looking for a gentleman by the name of Mister George Clayborne,' Sugar said.
The janitor stared at him stupidly. 'What you want him for?' he asked with unconscious rudeness.
'I have an appointment with him,' Sugar said.
'Is that so,' the janitor said, scratching the scar on his head. 'Who is you?'
'I'm a doctor,' Sugar said. 'This is my daughter and assistant.'
The janitor looked at the skinny anemic girl with the cheap torn dress, then back at Sugar's outlandish garb.
'A doctor,' he echoed with disbelief. 'I ain't never seen a doctor what looks like you, nor an assistant what looks like her, neither.'
'I am an African doctor,' Sugar said with dignity.
'Oh,' the janitor said, looking relieved. 'I wondered where you came from wearing them night clothes.' He appeared satisfied by the explanation, but he wanted it clarified. 'I suppose you is one of them witch doctors.'
Sugar drew himself up and gave the impression of being offended. 'I am not a witch doctor,' he rebuked. 'There are other kinds of doctors in Africa besides witch doctors. I am a baby doctor.'
'Oh,' the janitor said, looking suspicious again. 'Mr. Clayborne didn't have no babies.'
