Three Days Before the Shooting ... (130 page)

“Officer,” Wilhite was saying, “what
is
this mare’s nest, some kind of storeroom for second-hand goods?”

“I’m still not sure,” the detective said, “but it’s a hell of a mess to find in a historical building.”

“Historical,”
Wilhite said, “are you serious?”

“Why not?” the detective said. “This is one of the District of Columbia’s oldest areas.”

“So there you go, A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “the old saying holds true even up here in Washington. What comes around,
goes
around! So now here’s a historical building that’s ended up in the care of Aubrey McMillen!”

“That is if he’s actually the janitor,” the detective said, “and I doubt it.”

“Either way,” Wilhite said, “he’s still in the picture. But what
I
don’t get, is why everything out front is so neat while this part of the house is so junky. It reminds of my grandfather’s advice when he gave me a pony. ‘Take good care of him, Primus,’ he said, ‘because a man who doesn’t appreciate his belongings is sure to abuse them.’ ”

“Yes, Deacon,” Hickman said with a nod toward the detective, “and having been a slave he knew that even if the owner took care of his property other folks would abuse it. And all the more if his property was black. Because if he struck back the next thing he knows all hell would erupt with folks arguing over whether his property had human rights. And next thing he knows everybody’s waving a gun in the air.”

“Don’t worry,” the detective said with a shrug, “because at least this one’s on safety. What’s more, I agree with his grandfather’s advice, a man
should
look out for his property. But as far as this gun is concerned I’d prefer not to use it. That’s right, but since it could make the difference between living or dying I’m ready and willing to use it.”

“I understand,” Hickman said, “but would you actually have fired that thing in that hall full of people?”

“Only if I had to, but then, as a wise man once said, one never knows
—do
one?”

“No,” Hickman said with a start. “One never
do.”

And, surprised that a man whose attempt at jive talk had been so inept would now take a potshot at proper English—and before two Southern Negroes—he felt partially disarmed. And watching the detective punctuate his remark by spinning the gun like a sheriff in an old Western movie, he chuckled.

“No, sir,” he said, “one never knows, but it’s unusual to hear a policeman quoting Fats Waller. So now maybe you’ll explain why you hurried us out of the hall….”

“Because I have orders to learn what you two are doing here at this time of night. Which was impossible with that loudmouth exciting a riot.”

“Oh, come on, Officer,” Wilhite said. “Down South we call that ‘barking at
the big gate.’ Barnes reminds me of a character I knew years ago who hobbled around Atlanta with empty pockets and broken-down shoes while claiming he was building a nationwide movement which would boycott General Motors until they renamed the Cadillac in honor of Abraham Lincoln and Booker T. Washington!”

“He
what?”

“That’s right,” Hickman said, “I remember.”

“I’ve never heard of such a character,” the detective said, “but it sounds as though he and Barnes might be one and the same. Still, with his friends chiming in things were beginning to sound pretty serious.”

“Sure,” Wilhite said, “because most folks out there were already upset by having you policemen swoop down on this place in the middle of the night. But Barnes? Shucks, he’s just putting on an act. And as long as anyone listens he’ll woof and growl ‘til he foams at the mouth. You heard him, he thinks he’s a militant leader, so having an audience who couldn’t escape he felt free to bass at the law and badmouth us strangers. That’s what was happening, and if you two hadn’t stopped me I’d have taught him a lesson.”

“He needs one,” the detective said, “but I had enough on my hands without you adding to it. What happened, did you two have a hassle with him on some other occasion?”

“Why, no,” Hickman said, “this is the first time we’ve ever seen the man.”

“And you’ve never been on these premises before?”

“Never!”

“And how about you?”

“Neither of us,” Wilhite said, “and that’s the truth.”

“Then why …”

“Listen, Officer,” Hickman said, “as I tried to tell you out in the hall, Aubrey McMillen is the brother of one of our members and …”

“… Members? Members of
what?”

“Of our
church
, our congregation….”

“Are you telling me that you two are actually
preachers?”

“Now let’s get this straight,” Hickman said, “as leaders of our church we work together, but
officially
my friend here is a deacon and I’m a minister. Which means that he assists me in everything from conducting sacred services to sharing the burden of seeing to the needs of our members.”

“Very well,” the detective said, “but my chief wants to know your personal relationship with this fellow McMillen.”

“Good! And since we can save time by our telling him directly, where is he?”

“He’s here on the scene, but since he’s having trouble getting a fix on exactly what happened here tonight it’s best that we don’t disturb him.”

“I see,” Hickman said, “but no matter what happened he’ll discover that we had nothing to do with it! And all we know is that we came here on behalf of one of our members who’s terminally ill.”

“And who would that be?”

“McMillen’s sister, Mrs. Caroline Prothoroe. And since he’s her only survivor she wants to see him before it’s too late. That’s why we came here hoping to persuade McMillen to see her while she’s still alive.”

“That sounds reasonable,” the detective said, “but why did you pick this time of nigh
t?”

“Simply because we thought it would give us the best chance at catching McMillen at home.”

Studying his face as though weighing his answer the detective removed a notebook and pen from inside his jacket.

“Reverend,” he said, “give me your name and address.”

“My name is Alonzo Z. Hickman, and I live with Deacon Wilhite and his wife at number ———— Street, Waycross, Georgia.”

“What does the ‘Z’ stand for?”

“For ‘Zuber.’ My mother’s people were Zubers….”

“And is preaching your full-time profession?”

“Yes, sir, preaching and performing the duties that go with my ministry. Such as coming here in the middle of the night on behalf of one of our oldest and most respected members.”

“And that’s your only reason for entering these premises?”

“No, not altogether. Because I also wanted to have a talk with a man I haven’t seen for years.”

“I see,” the detective said as he wrote in his notebook and turned to face Wilhite.

“And your name?”

“Primus Davidson Wilhite.”

“First born and son Number One, eh? And you came here with Doctor Hickman as a favor for McMillen’s sister?”

“Yes, sir, and she well deserves it.”

“Very well. But now, Doctor Hickman, I’ll have to point out an inconsistency in what you’ve told me. Because while
you
say that you’ve never visited this house before, that hysterical woman out there seems to have known you. Can you explain that inconsistency?”

“I can’t, but maybe it’s because preachers have a certain look about them—with or without the collar. She might have guessed it, or heard me preach on some occasion.”

“Heard you where?”

“I wouldn’t know. Being evangelists, Deacon Wilhite and I do quite a bit of traveling.”

“But you’ve never seen
her
before?”

“No, sir, not that I recall.”

“And you, Deacon?”

“No, sir, before tonight I’ve never laid eyes on the woman. But I can tell you this: If I’ve ever seen a woman who’s high-tensioned nervous she’s one of the worst. And when a woman in her condition gets excited she’s liable to see preachers and policemen
everywhere
. And the sad thing about it is that she’s apt to confuse either one with some boyfriend she had, or
thinks
she had, or
wishes
she’d had—you heard that business about her having a bridegroom! That type of nervousness can cause a woman to see things which normal folks wouldn’t even imagine. She’s like a time bomb just waiting for something to explode her, so maybe something you said got her going….”

“Oh, no,” the detective said, “I was only following procedures. But when I ordered them to clear the hall she got upset. Then you two showed up and she
really
got raving. I tell you, believe it or not, these days there’s at least
one
screwball in every crowd, and with Barnes on the scene I’ve had the bad luck of dealing with
two
! But tell me, Reverend, how long have you known this fellow McMillen?”

“Since he was a boy,” Hickman said, “but it’s been years since I’ve seen him.”

“It’s the same with me,” Wilhite added, “we both knew him as a boy, but when he reached his twenties he took off for Kentucky. And after a few years or so he stopped coming home, even for visits. Back in those days he was following the horses.”

“Horses?”

“Racehorses,” Wilhite said. “He worked around the racetracks.”

“Now that’s interesting,” the detective said. “What was he doing?”

“I can remember when it was exercising and grooming,” Hickman said. “Aubrey
loved
horses—but where do you have him? We’d like to give him his poor sister’s message and get out of here.”

Turning, the detective pointed to the tall double doors at the end of the room, “He’s in there, being questioned.”

“Is he under arrest?”

“If not by now, he’s well on his way.”

“And what are the charges?”

“That’s depends on the chief, but it could be anything from bootlegging to something far more serious.”

“Like what?”

“That’s up to the chief, but I’d bet on homicide….”

“Homicide!
So who did he kill—don’t tell me it was his employer, his friend….”

“I’m afraid so, but that’s not unusual. Homicide victims usually turn out to be close friends of the culprit, or members of his or her family.”

Shaking his head, Hickman turned.

“Wilhite, does that sound believable, McMillen a
murderer
?”

“Listen, Reverend,” the detective said with a burst of emotion, “these days
there’s
nothing
so outrageous that it can’t be believed! Not when you see life from my perspective! Just last week, right here in Washington, a Southern congressman—who should damn well have known better—violated everything he holds sacred by turning up in a colored whorehouse where he gets himself beaten to a pulp, robbed of two thousand dollars, and thrown into the street—and I mean naked as a jaybird!”

“What!”

“You see? It sounds improbable, but it happened! Evidently on an earlier visit he rubbed one of the girls the wrong way and she complained to the madam that she’d been sexually molested. So this time the madam had a gang of pimps waiting, and once the honorable gent got stripped for action they broke into the room and gave him one hell of a whipping.”

“They actually
whipped
him?”

“That’s right! They made a premeditated attack on a United States
congressman
with rawhide whips!”

“What do you mean by premeditated?” Wilhite said.

“Planned in advance!”

“Oh, I know the meaning of the word,” Wilhite said, “but I don’t see …”

“Hell,” the detective said, “it
had to
be! The whips were so new that they still had Kentucky sales tags glued to the handles!”

“Now I’ve never heard
everything,”
Hickman said. “But it sounds as though he ran into some fellows who were making an act of personal revenge look like a new form of political protest. Which is most unusual, even for pimps….”

“Unusual? Not with fellows like Barnes politicizing everything from assault and battery to sleeping in doorways!”

“Maybe so,” Hickman said, “but if a thing like that can happen in
Washington
, this country must be changing faster than I thought.”

“And for the worse,” the detective said. “Even the kids are losing respect for the law. Last week I picked up a ten-year-old
white
runaway and she came at me with a knife—and a
switchblade
at that! And only a few weeks earlier I had to arrest the teenage son of one of the District’s wealthiest families for attempted rape of his
mother!
Which is incest! So don’t tell
me
that there’s anything unbelievable about a Neg … about … about a black bootlegger murdering his friend!”

Studying the detective’s flushed face, Hickman leaned forward and frowned with the implications of what the white man had said, started to say, and left
unsaid
echoing in his mind.

“So you see, Reverend,” the detective said, “you men of the cloth might know all about the human
soul
, but when it comes to what’s happening in the area of
crime
, those of us who have to deal with it daily are much better informed. And by the way, if you ever think of reporting me for what I’m saying, my name is Morrison. Detective Morrison.”

“I get your point,” Hickman said, “but am I to take it that you’re convinced that McMillen actually took his friend’s life?”

“That’s exactly how it shapes up for me.”

“Then his trouble is
tripled…
.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That in taking a man’s life he’s also lost a friend, and when the news reaches his sister it’ll probably destroy her….”

“Well, at least you appreciate his predicament. Would either of you mind telling me if he had someone phone you to get over here?”

“Now wait,” Hickman said. “Why would he do that?”

“To have you advise him … get him a lawyer….”

“But how could he? The man doesn’t even know we’re in Washington.”

“By now he does, because he’s been told of your being here on the premises. Still, he could have known that already. So how about you, Deacon?”