The Conjure-Man Dies: A Harlem Mystery. Rudolph Fisher

There must be plenty of folks with those same teeth missing.’

      ‘True. But this bridge wouldn’t fit—really fit—anybody but the person it was made for. The models have to be cast in plaster. Not two in ten thousand would be identical in every respect. This thing’s practically as individual as a finger print.’

      ‘Yea? Well, we may be able to use it anyhow. I’ll hang on to it. But wait. You looked down Frimbo’s throat. Didn’t you notice his teeth?’

      ‘Not especially. I didn’t care anything about his teeth then. I was looking for the cause of death. But we can easily check this when the medical examiner comes.’

      ‘O.K. Now—what’s this?’ He picked up what seemed to be a wad of black silk ribbon.

      ‘That was his head cloth, I suppose. Very impressive with that flowing robe and all.’

      ‘Who could see it in the dark?’

      ‘Oh, he might have occasion to come out into the light sometime.’

      The detective’s attention was already on the third object.

      ‘Say—!’

      ‘I’m way ahead of you.’

      ‘That’s the mate to the club on the mantel in the front room!’

      ‘Right. That’s made from a left femur, this from a right.’

      ‘That must be what crowned him. Boy, if that’s got finger prints on it—’

      ‘Ought to have. Look—it’s not fully bleached out like the specimens ordinarily sold to students. Notice the surface—greasy-looking. It would take an excellent print.’

      ‘Did you touch it, Brady?’

      ‘I picked it up by the big end. I didn’t touch the rest of it.’

      ‘Good. Have the other guys shown up yet? All right. Wrap it—here’—he took a newspaper from his pocket, surrounded the thigh bone with it, stepped to the door and summoned one of the officers who had arrived meanwhile. ‘Take this over to the precinct, tell Mac to get it examined for finger prints pronto—anybody he can get hold of—wait for the result and bring it back here—wet. And bring back a set—if Tynie’s around, let him bring it. Double time—it’s a rush order.’

      ‘What’s the use?’ smiled the doctor. ‘You yourself said the offender’s probably in Egypt by now.’

      ‘And you said different. Hey—look!’

      He had been playing his flashlight over the carpet. Its rays passed obliquely under the table, revealing a greyish discolouration of the carpet. Closer inspection proved this to be due to a deposit of ash-coloured powder. The doctor took a prescription blank and one of his professional cards and scraped up some of the powder onto the blank.

      ‘Know what it is?’ asked Dart.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Save it. We’ll have it examined.’

      ‘Meanwhile?’

      ‘Meanwhile let’s indulge in a few personalities. Let’s see—I’ve got an idea.’

      ‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised. What now?’

      ‘This guy Frimbo was smart. He put his people in that spotlight and he stayed in the dark. All right—I’m going to do the same thing.’

      ‘You might win the same reward.’

      ‘I’ll take precautions against that. Brady!’

      Brady brought in the two officers who had not yet been assigned to a post. They were stationed now, one on either side of the black room toward its rear wall.

      ‘Now,’ said Dart briskly. ‘Let’s get started. Brady call in that little short fat guy. You in the hall there—turn off this extension at that socket and be ready to turn it on again when I holler. I intend to sit pat as long as possible.’

      Thereupon he snapped off his flashlight and seated himself in Frimbo’s chair behind the table, becoming now merely a deeper shadow in the surrounding dimness. The doctor put out his flashlight also and stood beside the chair. The bright shaft of light from the device overhead, directed away from them, shone full upon the back of the empty visitors’ chair opposite, and on beyond toward the passageway traversed by those who entered from the reception room. They waited for Bubber Brown to come in.

      Whatever he might have expected, Bubber Brown certainly was unprepared for this. With a hesitancy that was not in the least feigned, his figure came into view; first his extremely bowed legs, about which flapped the bottom of his imitation camels’ hair overcoat, then the middle of his broad person, with his hat nervously fingered by both hands, then his chest and neck, jointly adorned by a bright green tie, and finally his round black face, blank as a door knob, loose-lipped, wide-eyed. Brady was prodding him from behind.

      ‘Sit down, Mr Brown,’ said a voice out of the dark.

      The unaccustomed ‘Mr’ did not dispel the unreality of the situation for Bubber, who had not been so addressed six times in his twenty-six years. Nor was he reassured to find that he could not make out the one who had spoken, so blinding was the beam of light in his eyes. What he did realize was that the voice issued from the place where he had a short while ago looked with a wild surmise upon a corpse. For a moment his eyes grew whiter; then, with decision, he spun about and started away from the sound of that voice.

      He bumped full into Brady. ‘Sit down!’ growled Brady.

      Said Dart, ‘It’s me, Brown—the detective. Take that chair and answer what I ask you.’

      ‘Yes, suh,’ said Bubber weakly, and turned back and slowly edged into the space between the table and the visitors’ chair. Perspiration glistened on his too illuminated brow. By the least possible bending of his body he managed to achieve the mere rim of the seat, where, with both hands gripping the chair arms, he crouched as if poised on some gigantic spring which any sudden sound might release to send him soaring into the shadows above.

      ‘Brady, you’re in the light. Take notes. All right, Mr Brown. What’s your full name?’

      ‘Bubber Brown,’ stuttered that young man uncomfortably.

      ‘Address?’

      ‘2100 Fifth Avenue.’

      ‘Age?’

      ‘Twenty-six.’

      ‘Occupation?’

      ‘Suh?’

      ‘Occupation?’

      ‘Oh. Detective.’

      ‘De—what!’

      ‘Detective. Yes, suh.’

      ‘Let’s see your shield.’

      ‘My which?’

      ‘Your badge.’

      ‘Oh. Well—y’see I ain’t the kind o’ detective what has to have a badge. No, suh.’

      ‘What kind are you?’

      ‘I’m a family detective.’

      Somewhat more composed by the questioning, Bubber quickly reached into his pocket and produced a business card. Dart took it and snapped his light on it, to read:

      BUBBER BROWN, INC., Detective

      (formerly with the City of New York)

      2100 Fifth Avenue

      Evidence obtained in affairs of the heart, etc.

      Special attention to cheaters and backbiters.

      Dart considered this a moment, then said:

      ‘How long have you been breaking the law like this?’

      ‘Breaking