Grave Digger belched as the ancient elevator creaked upward.
“That lets us out,” Coffin Ed said. “Gentlemen don’t belch.”
“Gentlemen don’t eat pig ears and collard greens,” Grave Digger said. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
The old man gave the appearance of not hearing.
Casper had the whole top floor to himself. It had originally been built for two families with facing doors across a small elevator foyer, but one had been closed and plastered over and there was only the one red-lacquered one left, with a small, engraved brass nameplate in the middle of the upper panel, announcing: Casper Holmes.
“Might just as well say Jesus Christ,” Grave Digger said.
“Go light on this lady, Digger,” Coffin Ed cautioned as he pushed the bell buzzer.
“Don’t I always?” Grave Digger said.
A young black man in a spotless white jacket opened the door. It opened so silently Grave Digger blinked. The young man had shining black curls that looked as though they had been milled from coal tar, a velvet-smooth forehead slightly greasy, and dark-brown eyes, with whites like muddy water, devoid of all intelligence. His flat nose lay against low, narrow cheeks slashed by a thin-lipped mouth of tremendous width. The mouth was filled with white, even teeth.
“Mister Jones and Mister Johnson?” he inquired.
“As if you didn’t know,” Grave Digger said.
“Please come right this way, sirs,” he said, leading them to a front room off the front of the hall.
He came as far as the doorway and left them.
It was a big room with windows overlooking Central Park. In the distance, over treetops, the towers of Rockefeller Center and the Empire Sate Building loomed in the murky haze. It remind in Ed of the lounge of the City Club.
Grave Digger lifted his feet high to keep from stumbling over the thick nap of the Oriental rugs, and Coffin Ed eyed the ornate furniture warily, wondering where he should sit.
Jazz classics were stacked on a combination set, and at their entrance Louis Armstrong was doing an oldy called Where The Chickens Don’t Roost So High.
“Me and my old lady used to dance to that tune at the Savoy-before they tore it down,” Grave Digger said, and started cutting the rug.
He still had on his hat and overcoat, and he was performing the intricate steps of an old-time jitterbug with great abandon. His swollen lips were pecking at the perfumed air, and his overcoat tails were flapping in the breeze.
Coffin Ed stood beside a Louis XIV love seat, scratching his ribs.
“Digger, you’re a pappy,” he said. “Those steps you’re doing went out with zoot suits.”
“Don’t I know it,” Grave Digger said, sighing.
Mrs. Holmes swung into the room from an inner doorway like a stripteaser coming on stage. She stopped short in open-mouth amazement and put her hands on her hips.
“If you want to dance, go to the Theresa ballroom,” she said in a cool contralto voice. “There’s a matinee this afternoon.”
Grave Digger froze with a foot in the air, and Coffin Ed laughed: “Haw haw.”
In unison they turned and stared at Mrs. Holmes.
She had the type of beauty made fashionable in the 1930’s by an all-colored musical called Brownskin Models. She was rather short and busty, with a pear-shaped bottom and slender legs. She had short wavy hair, a heart- shaped face, and long-lashed, expressive brown eyes; and her mouth was like a red carnation.
She wore gold lame slacks which fitted so tight that every quiver of a muscle showed. Her waist was drawn in by a black leather belt, four inches wide, decorated with gilt figures. Her breasts stuck out from a turtleneck blue jersey-silk pullover as though taking dead aim at any man in front of her. Black, gilt-edged Turkish slippers turned up at the toes made her feet seem too small to support her. The combination of gold fingernail polish, sparkling rings and dangling charm bracelets gave her hands the appearance of jewelry-store windows.
Both men whipped off their hats and stood there, looking gawky and sheepish.
“I was just relaxing a bit,” Grave Digger lisped. “We’ve had a hard night.”
She glanced at his swollen lips and broke out a slow, insinuating smile. “You shouldn’t love so strenuously,” she murmured.
Grave Digger felt the heat spread over his face. Coffin Ed seemed to be having trouble figuring what to do with his feet.
She walked toward a pair of divans flanking an imitation fireplace on the far side of the room. Her hips rolled with the slow tantalizing motion of a natural-born teaser. Grave Digger was thinking how he could put his hands about her waist, while Coffin Ed was telling himself that she was the type of female who would set a man on fire and then direct him to a river.
Electric logs gave off a red glow. She sat down with her back to the windows and tucked a leg beneath her. She knew the red light on the colors of her skin and ensemble made her look exotic. Her eyes became luminous.
She waved them to a seat on the facing divan. Between them there was a huge circular table about knee- high, made by cutting down a dining room table. It was littered with the Sunday papers. Casper’s face peered out from beneath the headlines about the robbery.
“You want to talk to me about my cousin,” she said.
“Well, it’s like this,” Coffin Ed said. “We’re trying to find the connection between Black Beauty and a man named Baron.”
She frowned prettily. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t know anyone named Black Beauty or Baron.”
The detectives stared at her for a moment. Grave Digger leaned forward and placed his hat atop the newspapers. Neither of them had removed their overcoats.
“Black Beauty’s your cousin,” Grave Digger lisped.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve never heard him called by that name. Who told you that?”
“It’s in the newspapers,” Coffin Ed said.
Her eyes widened. “Really.” She shifted slightly so that the red light shone on her black belt with its tracery of gilded designs. “I didn’t pay any attention. I was so upset.” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. Her breasts trembled. Looking at them, Grave Digger wondered how she did it.
“I understand,” Coffin Ed said sympathetically. “What I don’t understand is how did you know he was your cousin, Junior Ball, since all the papers referred to him as Black Beauty.”
She took her hands from her face and stared at him haughtily. “Are you cross-examining me?” she asked in a cold, imperious voice.
“More or less,” Grave Digger lisped, his voice getting dry.
She jumped to her feet. “Then you may leave,” she said.
Coffin Ed gave Grave Digger an accusing look, then looked up at Mrs. Holmes and spread his hands entreatingly.
“Listen, Missus Holmes, we’ve had a long hard night. We’re just trying to catch the bandits who robbed your husband. We know you want them caught as much as he does. We’re not trying to antagonize you. That’s the last thing we want to do. We’re just following a thin lead. Won’t you bear with us for a few minutes?”
She looked from him to Grave Digger. He looked back at her as though he would like to whip her.
But he said in a thick, dry lisp, “I didn’t mean it the way you took it. My nerves are kind of raw.”
“So are mine,” she said in a voice that had roughened.
She kept staring into Grave Digger’s hot, rapacious gaze until her body seemed to melt; and she sat down again as though from lack of strength.
“But if you are civil I will help you all I can,” she relented.
Coffin Ed was fumbling about in his mind for a way to phrase his questions. “Well, the thing is,” he said. “We’d like to know what Ball did-his occupation.”
“He was a dress designer,” she said. “And he made articles from leather.”
She noticed Grave Digger staring at her belt and squirmed slightly.
