“No, sir,” he exclaimed guiltily. He felt that Lawson’s eyes were an X-ray that could look through his skull and read his thoughts. Then he wailed: “Mister, I ain’t done nothing. Honest to God, I ain’t . . .”

His voice died as the car yammered over the asphalt. The absurdity of his being carted off to jail made him want to laugh, but he checked himself. He was so confident that he could not take this seriously. So far the policemen had not accused him of anything.

“Say, mister,” he began in a high, breaking voice that carried a slight trace of reproach, “what you-all want me for?”

“What did you do with the money?” Lawson countered.

“What money?” he gasped.

“You know what we’re talking about, boy,” Lawson said in a loud voice. “The money you took after you killed ’em . . .”

Panic agitated him. His lips moved several times before words came.

“Killed who?” he wailed. His voice rushed on without waiting for an answer. “Mister, I ain’t killed nobody. Why don’t you go back and ask Mrs. Wooten . . . ?”

“Mrs. Wooten didn’t come home till late today, hunh?” Johnson asked.

“Yes, sir. Like most times I was working there by myself, polishing the car, washing the windows, painting the basement . . .”

“We know all about that,” Lawson said.

He had the terrifying feeling that these men knew what he would be doing at any future moment of his life, no matter how long he lived.

“Here, boy, straighten up,” Murphy said.

He sat up and Murphy pulled forth the roll of bills and counted them.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Murphy asked.

“I ain’t got no other money, mister. I swear I ain’t!”

As the car streaked forward, Murphy inserted the money into an envelope and put the envelope into his pocket.

“Any bloodstains on ’im?” Lawson asked.

Murphy and Johnson examined every inch of his clothing, inspected his fingers, looked at his shoes, and even probed into his hair.

“Did you change clothes today?” Johnson asked.

“No, sir.”

The car pulled into an entrance and came to a sudden halt, throwing him violently forward. Lawson got out of the front seat and slammed the door. Murphy and Johnson dragged him roughly out and pushed him through a crowd of policemen.

“What you got there, Lawson?”

“We’re cracking the Peabody job,” Lawson said.

“He sing yet?”

“Naw. We got to sweat ’im,” Lawson said.

He attempted to twist around and look at the policeman who had asked the questions, but Murphy jerked him forward. He tried hard to read the grim expression on Lawson’s face, but he could make nothing of it. They led him up a short flight of wooden stairs and into a dim hallway. They led him up another flight of narrow winding stairs and pushed him into a small, dirty room that had no window. He stood uncertainly, his eyes wandering about the walls. To his left was a single wooden chair. An electric bulb with a wide green shade swung from the ceiling. The room was filled with a musty, stale odor. In one corner he saw a porcelain spittoon full of slimy mucus. Cigarette and cigar stubs littered the floor.