pleasure?’
‘I am pursuing a murder enquiry.’
‘Right on. Why don’t you siddown dere an’ I’ll have some mint julep sent right up, y’hear.’
Lestrade sat.
‘I hope you won’t take long. I’s expectin’ ma hominy grits in a liddle while an’ I sure hates to be kept waitin’.’
‘Atlanta Washington,’ Lestrade stood up again, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down …’
‘Now, hold it, man,’ the Negro interrupted. He looked squarely at Lestrade for a moment, ‘Aw, shit.’ He pulled off his elaborate thick, curly hair to reveal a much less impressive balding pate underneath. Next, he unhooked his immaculate false teeth to reveal a few scattered brownish ones beneath.
‘All right, Mr Lestrade, the show’s over.’ Even the phoney plantation accent had gone. ‘What am I charged with?’
Lestrade sat down, triumphant. ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘But I had to get through that barrier somehow.’
Washington grinned. ‘You’re smart and no mistake.’
‘Why do you do it?’ asked Lestrade.
‘What, the lingo? The teeth? The rug?’
Lestrade nodded.
‘It’s a long story, Inspector.’
‘Take your time, sir.’
‘My father was Booker T. Washington, a slave. Maybe you read his book,
Up From Slavery
?’
Lestrade had not.
‘Well, I was born a slave, like he was. Momma used to wash the Massa’s cloths on the plantation – Georgia. Poppa was what they call in the States an “uppity nigger”, but like all Negroes, he knew how to hide it. The lingo I was just using – and not fooling you with – is plantation jive. You see, the way to stay out of trouble and to stay alive is to act dumb, to play Sambo. Jig around a lot, roll your eyes and talk …’ and he broke into it again, ‘like de whities expec’ a Sambo tuh talk. That way,’ he said, lapsing back, ‘you don’t get noticed. When the Lincoln soldiers came in ’65 we were all told we were free. I was lucky. I went North with Poppa and learned what freedom really meant. It meant the brothers living like pigs in Harlem while the white folks get the jobs and the handouts. You know how many black police there are in the great United States? How many black doctors, lawyers, judges, teachers? None, Inspector, none. Even the nigger minstrels on the stage are whities blacked up with burnt cork. That’s the freedom Lincoln gave us. And the killed him for it. So I decided to hit back. Poppa wrote his book and got famous – and rich. So I became a celebrity – an educated nigger. Popular? No, I’m not. Whities hate me ’cos I’m black. But they’re fascinated, too. They can’t keep away because they’re afraid of me. They’re afraid that one day all my kind are going to be smart and sassie and it scares the shit out of them. So, it’s all a front, Inspector. The hair, the pearly teeth, the jive, it’s what people expect. And who am I to let them down?’ A pause. ‘Tell me, do you think my secret is safe with you?’
‘Did you kill those men?’
‘Hell, no. I may be a coon, Inspector. I may be an ornery bastard. But I’ve never killed a man and I couldn’t start now. Yes, I horse-whipped a couple a couple of weeks ago when the insults and the spittle came on a little too strong. But that’s it, as far as it goes.’
‘Do you know the studio of Lawrence Alma-Tadema?’ Lestrade surprised himself by getting it right.
‘If he’s the photographer fella in Piccadilly, yeah.’
‘What can you tell me about Aspinall’s enamel?’
Washington looked blank. ‘Nothing.’
Lestrade got up. He was impressed by the man’s sincerity.
‘Mr Washington, when are you leaving the country?’
The ex-slave put back his teeth and refitted his wig. ‘Why, any day now, suh, fo’ sure.’
Lestrade nodded his approval of that.
‘What’s gettin’ you, man? Jus’ ’cos some Massas in de cole, cole groun’.’
‘I am wondering,’
‘I am pursuing a murder enquiry.’
‘Right on. Why don’t you siddown dere an’ I’ll have some mint julep sent right up, y’hear.’
Lestrade sat.
‘I hope you won’t take long. I’s expectin’ ma hominy grits in a liddle while an’ I sure hates to be kept waitin’.’
‘Atlanta Washington,’ Lestrade stood up again, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down …’
‘Now, hold it, man,’ the Negro interrupted. He looked squarely at Lestrade for a moment, ‘Aw, shit.’ He pulled off his elaborate thick, curly hair to reveal a much less impressive balding pate underneath. Next, he unhooked his immaculate false teeth to reveal a few scattered brownish ones beneath.
‘All right, Mr Lestrade, the show’s over.’ Even the phoney plantation accent had gone. ‘What am I charged with?’
Lestrade sat down, triumphant. ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘But I had to get through that barrier somehow.’
Washington grinned. ‘You’re smart and no mistake.’
‘Why do you do it?’ asked Lestrade.
‘What, the lingo? The teeth? The rug?’
Lestrade nodded.
‘It’s a long story, Inspector.’
‘Take your time, sir.’
‘My father was Booker T. Washington, a slave. Maybe you read his book,
Up From Slavery
?’
Lestrade had not.
‘Well, I was born a slave, like he was. Momma used to wash the Massa’s cloths on the plantation – Georgia. Poppa was what they call in the States an “uppity nigger”, but like all Negroes, he knew how to hide it. The lingo I was just using – and not fooling you with – is plantation jive. You see, the way to stay out of trouble and to stay alive is to act dumb, to play Sambo. Jig around a lot, roll your eyes and talk …’ and he broke into it again, ‘like de whities expec’ a Sambo tuh talk. That way,’ he said, lapsing back, ‘you don’t get noticed. When the Lincoln soldiers came in ’65 we were all told we were free. I was lucky. I went North with Poppa and learned what freedom really meant. It meant the brothers living like pigs in Harlem while the white folks get the jobs and the handouts. You know how many black police there are in the great United States? How many black doctors, lawyers, judges, teachers? None, Inspector, none. Even the nigger minstrels on the stage are whities blacked up with burnt cork. That’s the freedom Lincoln gave us. And the killed him for it. So I decided to hit back. Poppa wrote his book and got famous – and rich. So I became a celebrity – an educated nigger. Popular? No, I’m not. Whities hate me ’cos I’m black. But they’re fascinated, too. They can’t keep away because they’re afraid of me. They’re afraid that one day all my kind are going to be smart and sassie and it scares the shit out of them. So, it’s all a front, Inspector. The hair, the pearly teeth, the jive, it’s what people expect. And who am I to let them down?’ A pause. ‘Tell me, do you think my secret is safe with you?’
‘Did you kill those men?’
‘Hell, no. I may be a coon, Inspector. I may be an ornery bastard. But I’ve never killed a man and I couldn’t start now. Yes, I horse-whipped a couple a couple of weeks ago when the insults and the spittle came on a little too strong. But that’s it, as far as it goes.’
‘Do you know the studio of Lawrence Alma-Tadema?’ Lestrade surprised himself by getting it right.
‘If he’s the photographer fella in Piccadilly, yeah.’
‘What can you tell me about Aspinall’s enamel?’
Washington looked blank. ‘Nothing.’
Lestrade got up. He was impressed by the man’s sincerity.
‘Mr Washington, when are you leaving the country?’
The ex-slave put back his teeth and refitted his wig. ‘Why, any day now, suh, fo’ sure.’
Lestrade nodded his approval of that.
‘What’s gettin’ you, man? Jus’ ’cos some Massas in de cole, cole groun’.’
‘I am wondering,’
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