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

right-hand coat pocket, ‘but—’ He stopped. His left hand went into his left coat pocket. Both hands came out and delved into their respective trousers pockets. ‘Guess I must ’a’ dropped it,’ he said. ‘I had one.’

      ‘You’re sure you had one?’

      ‘M’hm. Had it when I come here.’

      ‘When you came into this room?’

      ‘No. When I first went in the front room. I was a little nervous-like. I wiped my face with it. I think I put it—’

      ‘Is that the last time you recall having it—when you first went into the front room?’

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘Can you describe it?’

      Perhaps this odd insistence on anything so unimportant as a handkerchief put Jinx on his guard. At any rate he dodged.

      ‘What difference it make?’

      ‘Can you describe it?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘No? Why can’t you?’

      ‘Nothin’ to describe. Jes’ a plain big white handkerchief with a—’ He stopped.

      ‘With a what?’

      ‘With a hem,’ said Jinx.

      ‘Hm.’

      ‘Yea—hem.’

      ‘A white hem?’

      ‘It wasn’ no black one,’ said Jinx, in typical Harlemese.

      The detective fell silent a moment, then said:

      ‘All right, Jenkins. That’s all for the present. You go back to the front room.’

      Officer Brady escorted Jinx out, and returned.

      ‘Brady, tell Green, who is up front, to take note of everything he overhears those people in there say. You come back here.’

      Obediently, Officer Brady turned away.

      ‘Light!’ called Dart, and the bluecoat in the hall pressed the switch that turned on the extension light.