Part 11

Young Allen put an incredulous finger on the handcuffs. “What’s the idea?”

Pringle smiled ironically. “Just a little joke of your father’s. He pretended he thought I was the murderer. He was for taking me back to Walden’s Glen.” He stopped, overcome with a passion for self-accusation, self-abasement: “Just as I wanted to take you back.... Yes, on the surface he was as self-righteous and smug as I was. But he didn’t fool me. I knew that he intended to murder me in cold blood--to save your hide and incidentally his.... Well, I blew out the candle as you did--to--to save myself.”

A curious look came over Sam Allen’s face. Walton Pringle had a feeling that for the second time that night he had delivered himself into the hands of the enemy.

“You were a fool to tell me that,” Sam Allen drawled, with a hint of his father’s biting irony in his voice. “I wouldn’t have thought of such an easy way out--all by myself.... Yer know what I mean, don’t yer?”

Pringle felt himself grow unnaturally calm. “You mean you could shoot me down and settle everything for yourself?... Yes, you could. Dead men tell no tales, and in this case three dead men would be even more silent than two.... I can’t say that I blame you. I didn’t give any quarter in your pinch; why should you spare me?”

Sam Allen gave an impatient cough and his words vibrated with sudden and strange maturity as he said coldly:

“I’m trying to figure it out.... It _would_ be simpler to kill you.” He held up the pistol, gazing at it with the tragic fascination of a stripling who has tasted his first victory--drawn his first blood. His whole body seemed animated with some strange new power that still struggled for foothold. Was the spirit of Hank Allen so soon fighting for a place in which to lodge its sinister corruption?... Suddenly he began to shiver violently. “No, it wouldn’t be simpler,” he half whispered--“not in the long run.... What do you say? Shall we go back to Walden’s Glen--together?”

A faint blur dimmed Pringle’s gaze. “I don’t deserve it!” he cried with a vehement passion. “Upon my word, I don’t!”

Sam Allen laid the pistol on the table. “Shucks!” he said simply, “everybody makes mistakes.”

And at that moment Walton Pringle fancied that the pinched, yellow, wistful face before him re-created with a curiously poignant glory the face of Lizzie Allen, born Evans--the girl who had “worked out”!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1926, by Charles Caldwell Dobie.

THE CITY OF REFUGE[8]

By RUDOLPH FISHER

(From _The Atlantic Monthly_)

I

Confronted suddenly by daylight, King Solomon Gillis stood dazed and blinking. The railroad station, the long, white-walled corridor, the impassible slot-machine, the terrifying subway train--he felt as if he had been caught up in the jaws of a steam-shovel, jammed together with other helpless lumps of dirt, swept blindly along for a time, and at last abruptly dumped.

There had been strange and terrible sounds: ‘New York! Penn Terminal--all change!’ ‘Pohter, hyer, pohter, suh?’ Shuffle of a thousand soles, clatter of a thousand heels, innumerable echoes. Cracking rifle-shots--no, snapping turnstiles. ‘Put a nickel in!’ ‘Harlem? Sure. This side--next train.’ Distant thunder, nearing. The screeching onslaught of the fiery hosts of hell, headlong, breath-taking. Car doors rattling, sliding, banging open. ‘Say, wha’ d’ye think this is, a baggage car?’ Heat, oppression, suffocation--eternity--‘Hundred ’n turdy-fif’ next!’ More turnstiles. Jonah emerging from the whale.

Clean air, blue sky, bright sunlight.

Gillis set down his tan-cardboard extension case and wiped his black, shining brow. Then slowly, spreadingly, he grinned at what he saw: Negroes at every turn; up and down Lenox Avenue, up and down One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth Street; big, lanky Negroes, short, squat Negroes; black ones, brown ones, yellow ones; men standing idle on the curb, women, bundle-laden, trudging reluctantly homeward, children rattle-trapping about the sidewalks; here and there a white face drifting along, but Negroes predominantly, overwhelmingly everywhere. There was assuredly no doubt of his whereabouts. This was Negro Harlem.

Back in North Carolina Gillis had shot a white man and, with the aid of prayer and an automobile, probably escaped a lynching. Carefully avoiding the railroads, he had reached Washington in safety. For his car a Southwest bootlegger had given him a hundred dollars and directions to Harlem; and so he had come to Harlem.

Ever since a traveling preacher had first told him of the place, King Solomon Gillis had longed to come to Harlem. The Uggams were always talking about it; one of their boys had gone to France in the draft and, returning, had never got any nearer home than Harlem. And there were occasional ‘colored’ newspapers from New York: newspapers that mentioned Negroes without comment, but always spoke of a white person as ‘So-and-so, white.’ That was the point. In Harlem, black was white. You had rights that could not be denied you; you had privileges, protected by law. And you had money. Everybody in Harlem had money. It was a land of plenty. Why, had not Mouse Uggam sent back as much as fifty dollars at a time to his people in Waxhaw?

The shooting, therefore, simply catalyzed whatever sluggish mental reaction had been already directing King Solomon’s fortunes toward Harlem. The land of plenty was more than that now: it was also the city of refuge.

Casting about for direction, the tall newcomer’s glance caught inevitably on the most conspicuous thing in sight, a magnificent figure in blue that stood in the middle of the crossing and blew a whistle and waved great white-gloved hands. The Southern Negro’s eyes opened wide; his mouth opened wider. If the inside of New York had mystified him, the outside was amazing him. For there stood a handsome, brass-buttoned giant directing the heaviest traffic Gillis had ever seen; halting unnumbered tons of automobiles and trucks and wagons and pushcarts and street-cars; holding them at bay with one hand while he swept similar tons peremptorily on with the other; ruling the wide crossing with supreme self-assurance; and he, too, was a Negro!

Yet most of the vehicles that leaped or crouched at his bidding carried white passengers. One of these overdrove bounds a few feet and Gillis heard the officer’s shrill whistle and gruff reproof, saw the driver’s face turn red and his car draw back like a threatened pup. It was beyond belief--impossible. Black might be white, but it couldn’t be that white!

‘Done died an’ woke up in Heaven,’ thought King Solomon, watching, fascinated; and after a while, as if the wonder of it were too great to believe simply by seeing, ‘Cullud policemans!’ he said, half aloud; then repeated over and over, with greater and greater conviction, ‘Even got cullud policemans--even got cullud----’

‘Where y’ want to go, big boy?’

Gillis turned. A little, sharp-faced yellow man was addressing him.

‘Saw you was a stranger. Thought maybe I could help y’ out.’

King Solomon located and gratefully extended a slip of paper. ‘Wha’ dis hyeh at, please, suh?’

The other studied it a moment, pushing back his hat and scratching his head. The hat was a tall-crowned, unindented brown felt; the head was brown patent-leather, its glistening brush-back flawless save for a suspicious crimpiness near the clean-grazed edges.

‘See that second corner? Turn to the left when you get there. Number forty-five’s about half-way the block.’

‘Thank y’, suh.’

‘You from--Massachusetts?’

‘No, suh, Nawth Ca’lina.’

‘Is ’at so? You look like a Northerner. Be with us long?’

‘Till I die,’ grinned the flattered King Solomon.

‘Stoppin’ there?’

‘Reckon I is. Man in Washin’ton ’lowed I’d find lodgin’ at dis ad-dress.’

‘Good enough. If y’ don’t, maybe I can fix y’ up. Harlem’s pretty crowded. This is me.’ He proffered a card.

‘Thank y’, suh,’ said Gillis, and put the card in his pocket.

The little yellow man watched him plod flat-footedly on down the street, long awkward legs never quite straightened, shouldered extension-case bending him sidewise, wonder upon wonder halting or turning him about. Presently, as he proceeded, a pair of bright green stockings caught and held his attention. Tony, the storekeeper, was crossing the sidewalk with a bushel basket of apples. There was a collision; the apples rolled; Tony exploded; King Solomon apologized. The little yellow man laughed shortly, took out a notebook, and put down the address he had seen on King Solomon’s slip of paper.

‘Guess you’re the shine I been waitin’ for,’ he surmised.

As Gillis, approaching his destination, stopped to rest, a haunting notion grew into an insistent idea. ‘Dat li’l yaller nigger was a sho’ ’nuff gen’man to show me de road. Seem lak I knowed him befo’--’ He pondered. That receding brow, that sharp-ridged, spreading nose, that tight upper lip over the two big front teeth, that chinless jaw-- He fumbled hurriedly for the card he had not looked at and eagerly made out the name.

‘Mouse Uggam, sho’ ’nuff! Well, dog-gone!’

II

Uggam sought out Tom Edwards, once a Pullman porter, now prosperous proprietor of a cabaret, and told him:--

‘Chief, I got him: a baby jess in from the land o’ cotton and so dumb he thinks ante bellum’s an old woman.’

‘Where’d you find him?’

‘Where you find all the jay birds when they first hit Harlem--at the subway entrance. This one come up the stairs, batted his eyes once or twice, an’ froze to the spot--with his mouth open. Sure sign he’s from ’way down behind the sun an’ ripe f’ the pluckin’.’

Edwards grinned a gold-studded, fat-jowled grin. ‘Gave him the usual line, I suppose?’

‘Didn’t miss. An’ he fell like a ton o’ bricks. ’Course I’ve got him spotted, but damn ’f I know jess how to switch ’em on to him.’

‘Get him a job around a store somewhere. Make out you’re befriendin’ him. Get his confidence.’

‘Sounds good. Ought to be easy. He’s from my State. Maybe I know him or some of his people.’

‘Make out you do, anyhow. Then tell him some fairy tale that’ll switch your trade to him. The cops’ll follow the trade. We could even let Froggy flop into some dumb white cop’s hands and “confess” where he got it. See?’

‘Chief, you got a head, no lie.’

‘Don’t lose no time. And remember, hereafter, it’s better to sacrifice a little than to get squealed on. Never refuse a customer. Give him a little credit. Humor him along till you can get rid of him safe. You don’t know what that guy that died may have said; you don’t know who’s on to you now. And if they get you--I don’t know you.’

‘They won’t get _me_,’ said Uggam.

* * * * *

King Solomon Gillis sat meditating in a room half the size of his hencoop back home, with a single window opening into an airshaft.

An airshaft: cabbage and chitterlings cooking; liver and onions sizzling, sputtering; three player-pianos out-plunking each other; a man and a woman calling each other vile things; a sick, neglected baby wailing; a phonograph broadcasting blues; dishes clacking; a girl crying heartbrokenly; waste noises, waste odors of a score of families, seeking issue through a common channel; pollution from bottom to top--a sewer of sounds and smells.

Contemplating this, King Solomon grinned and breathed, ‘Dog-gone!’ A little later, still gazing into the sewer, he grinned again. ‘Green stockin’s,’ he said; ’loud green!’ The sewer gradually grew darker. A window lighted up opposite, revealing a woman in camisole and petticoat, arranging her hair. King Solomon, staring vacantly, shook his head and grinned yet again. ‘Even got cullud policemans!’ he mumbled softly.

III

Uggam leaned out of the room’s one window and spat maliciously into the dinginess of the airshaft. ‘Damn glad you got him,’ he commented, as Gillis finished his story. ‘They’s a thousand shines in Harlem would change places with you in a minute jess f’ the honor of killin’ a cracker.’

‘But I didn’t go to do it. ’Twas a accident.’

‘That’s the only part to keep secret.’

‘Know whut dey done? Dey killed five o’ Mose Joplin’s hawses ’fo he lef’. Put groun’ glass in de feed-trough. Sam Cheevers come up on three of ’em one night pizenin’ his well. Bleesom beat Crinshaw out o’ sixty acres o’ lan’ an’ a year’s crops. Dass jess how ’tis. Soon’s a nigger make a li’l sump’n he better git to leavin’. An’ ’fo long ev’ybody’s goin’ be lef’!’

‘Hope to hell they don’t all come here.’

The doorbell of the apartment rang. A crescendo of footfalls in the hallway culminated in a sharp rap on Gillis’s door. Gillis jumped. Nobody but a policeman would rap like that. Maybe the landlady had been listening and had called in the law. It came again, loud, quick, angry. King Solomon prayed that the policeman would be a Negro.

Uggam stepped over and opened the door. King Solomon’s apprehensive eyes saw framed therein, instead of a gigantic officer, calling for him, a little blot of a creature, quite black against even the darkness of the hallway, except for a dirty, wide-striped silk shirt, collarless, with the sleeves rolled up.

‘Ah hahve bill fo’ Mr. Gillis.’ A high, strongly accented Jamaican voice, with its characteristic singsong intonation, interrupted King Solomon’s sigh of relief.

‘Bill? Bill fo’ me? What kin’ o’ bill?’

‘Wan bushel appels. T’ree seventy-fife.’

‘Apples? I ain’ bought no apples.’ He took the paper and read aloud, laboriously, ‘Antonio Gabrielli to K. S. Gillis, Doctor----’

‘Mr. Gabrielli say, you not pays him, he send policemon.’

‘What I had to do wid ’is apples?’

‘You bumps into him yesterday, no? Scatter appels everywhere--on the sidewalk, in de gutter. Kids pick up an’ run away. Others all spoil. So you pays.’

Gillis appealed to Uggam. ‘How ’bout it, Mouse?’

‘He’s a damn liar. Tony picked up most of ’em; I seen him. Lemme look at that bill--Tony never wrote this thing. This baby’s jess playin’ you for a sucker.’

‘Ain’ had no apples, ain’ payin’ fo’ none,’ announced King Solomon, thus prompted. ‘Didn’t have to come to Harlem to git cheated. Plenty o’ dat right wha’ I come fum.’

But the West Indian warmly insisted. ‘You cahn’t do daht, mon. Whaht you t’ink, ’ey? Dis mon loose ’is appels an’ ’is money too?’

‘What diff’ence it make to you, nigger?’

‘Who you call nigger, mon? Ah hahve you understahn’--’

‘Oh, well, white folks, den. What all you got t’ do wid dis hyeh, anyhow?’

‘Mr. Gabrielli send me to collect bill!’

‘How I know dat?’

‘Do Ah not bring bill? You t’ink Ah steal t’ree dollar, ’ey?’

‘Three dollars an’ sebenty-fi’ cent,’ corrected Gillis. ’Nuther thing: wha’ you ever see me befo’? How you know dis is me?’

‘Ah see you, sure. Ah help Mr. Gabrielli in de store. When you knocks down de baskette appels, Ah see. Ah follow you. Ah know you comes in dis house.’

‘Oh, you does? An’ how come you know my name an’ flat an’ room so good? How come dat?’

‘Ah fin’ out. Sometime Ah brings up here vegetables from de store.’

‘Humph! Mus’ be workin’ on shares.’

‘You pays, ’ey? You pays me or de policemon?’

‘Wait a minute,’ broke in Uggam, who had been thoughtfully contemplating the bill. ‘Now listen, big shorty. You haul hips on back to Tony. We got your menu all right’--he waved the bill--‘but we don’t eat your kind o’ cookin’, see?’

The West Indian flared. ‘Whaht it is to you, ’ey? You can not mind your own business? Ah hahve not spik to you!’

‘No, brother. But this is my friend, an’ I’ll be john-browned if there’s a monkey-chaser in Harlem can gyp him if I know it, see? Bes’ thing f’ you to do is to catch air, toot sweet.’

Sensing frustration, the little islander demanded the bill back. Uggam figured he could use the bill himself, maybe. The West Indian hotly persisted; he even menaced. Uggam pocketed the paper and invited him to take it. Wisely enough, the caller preferred to catch air.

When he had gone, King Solomon sought words of thanks.

‘Bottle it,’ said Uggam. ‘The point is this: I figger you got a job.’

‘Job? No I ain’t! Wha’ at?’

‘When you show Tony this bill, he’ll hit the roof and fire that monk.’

‘What ef he do?’

‘Then you up ’n ask f’ the job. He’ll be too grateful to refuse. I know Tony some, an’ I’ll be there to put in a good word. See?’

King Solomon considered this. ‘Sho’ needs a job, but ain’ after stealin’ none.’

‘Stealin’? ’Twouldn’t be stealin’. Stealin’ ’s what that damn monkey-chaser tried to do from you. This would be doin’ Tony a favor an’ gettin’ y’self out o’ the barrel. What’s the hold-back?’

‘What make you keep callin’ him monkey-chaser?’

‘West Indian. That’s another thing. Any time y’ can knife a monk, do it. They’s too damn many of ’em here. They’re an achin’ pain.’

‘Jess de way white folks feels ’bout niggers.’

‘Damn that. How ’bout it? Y’ want the job?’

‘Hm--well--I’d ruther be a policeman.’

‘Policeman?’ Uggam gasped.

‘M-hm. Dass all I wants to be, a policeman, so I kin police all the white folks right plumb in jail!’

Uggam said seriously, ‘Well, y’ might work up to that. But it takes time. An’ y’ve got to eat while y’re waitin’.’ He paused to let this penetrate. ‘Now, how ’bout this job at Tony’s in the meantime? I should think y’d jump at it.’

King Solomon was persuaded.

‘Hm--well--reckon I does,’ he said slowly.

‘Now y’re tootin’!’ Uggam’s two big front teeth popped out in a grin of genuine pleasure. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

IV

Spitting blood and crying with rage, the West Indian scrambled to his feet. For a moment he stood in front of the store gesticulating furiously and jabbering shrill threats and unintelligible curses. Then abruptly he stopped and took himself off.

King Solomon Gillis, mildly puzzled, watched him from Tony’s doorway. ‘I jess give him a li’l shove,’ he said to himself, ’an’ he roll’ clean ’cross de sidewalk.’ And a little later, disgustedly, ‘Monkey-chaser!’ he grunted, and went back to his sweeping.

‘Well, big boy, how y’ comin’ on?’

Gillis dropped his broom. ‘Hay-o, Mouse. Wha’ you been las’ two-three days?’

‘Oh, around. Gettin’ on all right here? Had any trouble?’

‘Deed I ain’t--’ceptin’ jess now I had to throw ’at li’l jigger out.’

‘Who? The monk?’

‘M-hm. He sho’ Lawd doan like me in his job. Look like he think I stole it from him, stiddy him tryin’ to steal from me. Had to push him down sho’ ’nuff ’fo I could git rid of ’im. Den he run off talkin’ Wes’ Indi’man an’ shakin’ his fis’ at me.’

‘Ferget it.’ Uggam glanced about. ‘Where’s Tony?’

‘Boss man? He be back direckly.’

‘Listen--like to make two or three bucks a day extra?’

‘Huh?’

‘Two or three dollars a day more’n what you’re gettin’ already?’

‘Ain’ I near ’nuff in jail now?’

‘Listen.’ King Solomon listened. Uggam hadn’t been in France for nothing. Fact was, in France he’d learned about some valuable French medicine. He’d brought some back with him,--little white pills,--and while in Harlem had found a certain druggist who knew what they were and could supply all he could use. Now there were any number of people who would buy and pay well for as much of this French medicine as Uggam could get. It was good for what ailed them, and they didn’t know how to get it except through him. But he had no store in which to set up an agency and hence no single place where his customers could go to get what they wanted. If he had, he could sell three or four times as much as he did.

King Solomon was in a position to help him now, same as he had helped King Solomon. He would leave a dozen packages of the medicine--just small envelopes that could all be carried in a coat pocket--with King Solomon every day. Then he could simply send his customers to King Solomon at Tony’s store. They’d make some trifling purchase, slip him a certain coupon which Uggam had given them, and King Solomon would wrap the little envelope of medicine with their purchase. Mustn’t let Tony catch on, because he might object, and then the whole scheme would go gaflooey. Of course it wouldn’t really be hurting Tony any. Wouldn’t it increase the number of his customers?

Finally, at the end of each day, Uggam would meet King Solomon some place and give him a quarter for each coupon he held. There’d be at least ten or twelve a day--two and a half or three dollars plumb extra! Eighteen or twenty dollars a week ‘Dog-gone!’ breathed Gillis.

‘Does Tony ever leave you here alone?’

‘M-hm. Jess started dis mawnin’. Doan nobody much come round ’tween ten an’ twelve, so he done took to doin’ his buyin’ right ’long ’bout dat time. Nobody hyeh but me fo’ ’n hour or so.’

‘Good. I’ll try to get my folks to come ’round here mostly while Tony’s out, see?’

‘I doan miss.’

‘Sure y’ get the idea, now?’ Uggam carefully explained it all again. By the time he had finished, King Solomon was wallowing in gratitude.

‘Mouse, you sho’ is been a friend to me. Why, ’f ’t hadn’ been fo’ you--’

‘Bottle it,’ said Uggam. ‘I’ll be round to your room tonight with enough stuff for tomorrer, see? Be sure’n be there.’

‘Won’t be nowha’ else.’

‘An’ remember, this is all jess between you ’n me.’

‘Nobody else but,’ vowed King Solomon.

Uggam grinned to himself as he went on his way. ‘Dumb Oscar! Wonder how much can we make before the cops nab him? French medicine--Humph!’

V

Tony Gabrielli, an oblate Neapolitan of enormous equator, wabbled heavily out of his store and settled himself over a soap box.

Usually Tony enjoyed sitting out front thus in the evening, when his helper had gone home and his trade was slackest. He liked to watch the little Gabriellis playing over the sidewalk with the little Levys and Johnsons; the trios and quartettes of brightly dressed, dark-skinned girls merrily out for a stroll; the slovenly gaited, darker men, who eyed them up and down and commented to each other with an unsuppressed ‘Hot damn!’ or ‘Oh no, now!’

But tonight Tony was troubled. Something was wrong in the store; something was different since the arrival of King Solomon Gillis. The new man had seemed to prove himself honest and trustworthy, it was true. Tony had tested him, as he always tested a new man, by apparently leaving him alone in charge for two or three mornings. As a matter of fact, the new man was never under more vigilant observation than during these two or three mornings. Tony’s store was a modification of the front rooms of his flat and was in direct communication with it by way of a glass-windowed door in the rear. Tony always managed to get back into his flat via the side street entrance and watch the new man through this unobtrusive glass-windowed door. If anything excited his suspicion, like unwarranted interest in the cash register, he walked unexpectedly out of this door to surprise the offender in the act. Thereafter he would have no more such trouble. But he had not succeeded in seeing King Solomon steal even an apple.