Within an hour, the attorney had secured a court order signed by a Supreme Court Justice for the release of Babe on twenty-five thousand dollars bail. He even visited the Bearcat in his cell to obtain the necessary details on which to build up his case.

In all this, Baldwin’s name was not mentioned. He remained in the background; the Bearcat wondered why a prominent lawyer was so suddenly interested in him, and was willing to act as his counsel without a large retaining fee in advance.

The evening newspapers blazed forth with a new crop of headlines. They re-hashed the facts given in the morning editions and presented what new developments there were:

J. C. HALLON TO CONDUCT DEFENSE OF NEGRO’S SLAYER . . . BEAUTIFUL WHITE WOMAN RESCUED FROM COLORED SUITOR’S TORRID LOVE BY PRIZEFIGHTER HUSBAND . . . COLORED ROMEO SLAIN IN ATTEMPT TO SEDUCE BEAUTIFUL WIFE OF BEARCAT DELANEY. . . .

Harlem’s underworld is seething with resentment over the slaying of one of its own—‘Money’ Johnson, ‘policy king’ and playboy of Strivers’ Row. It is reported that Johnson’s death leaves many broken hearts in the bosoms of Harlem’s dusky maidens. It is thought that the nightly influx of white visitors and patrons of the black belt’s pleasure resorts will be greatly curtailed tonight for fear of retaliation on the part of Johnson’s henchmen and others who are enraged at the killing of one of Harlem’s greatest spenders. . . .

As a matter of fact, there were many in Harlem who were glad that Money Johnson was dead. Competing racketeers were well satisfied, although they chipped in large amounts of money for the magnificent funeral that was being arranged. Already, Johnson’s own lieutenants were arguing over the distribution of his various interests.

Discussion was rife in Harlem. Buzz, buzz, buzz! Liver-lips hummed and slid over useless consonants. Everywhere, morbidity fed like a vulture on the details of the murder. Everywhere, everyone knew, or thought he knew, the concealed facts of the shooting. Nigger Gert’s was in a state of riot. The chorus girls of the revues sat the night through imbibing “corn” and gin, while they pieced together all the secret, inside facts they had knowledge of. All were certain they knew the real truth of the slaying. . . .

Big Ida sat with a gin bottle between her knees in Liza Jones’ parlor. Every light in the flat was burning. A man had been murdered upstairs, and neither Ida nor Liza was sure they wouldn’t see his ghost come walking down the stairs.

Ida took another swig of gin and wiped her eyes with a big black paw.

“Liza,” she said, “Ah’m glad he’s daid. Ef Ah couldn’ hab him to love no mo’, Ah’m glad he’s daid. Leas’wise Ah knows wheah he is at. He ain’t lovin’ no white woman wheah ever he is—An knows dat!”

Liza rocked back and forth in her chair.