The Black Hearts Murder (12 page)

“So does Harlan James. Plus he's six one and weighs about a hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

McCall looked interested. “You think maybe the troubles the Black Hearts founder's been having made him blow his cool?”

“He's human, isn't he? Did Communications give you any instructions?”

“Just to stand by until the law gets here. Excuse me while I make another phone call.”

Maggie Kirkpatrick would probably not be at her newspaper this time of the evening. McCall looked up her home number.

“Mike McCall. Maggie?”

“Yes, indeedy, Mr. Big,” Maggie's voice said. “What's on your mind that won't get you in trouble with the operator, if she's listening in?”

“Haha,” McCall said. “I have another tip for you.”

“Oh?” Maggie said.

“Do you want it?”

“Between the eyes. Shoot.”

“Gerald Horton's just been shot and killed by a black man. Between the eyes, by a coincidence.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “No …” But then she said, “Tell me more, Mike!”

McCall told her.

“Thanks heaps! I owe you. Anything I can do for you?”

“Nothing at the moment, Maggie. This is just out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I've heard about your heart,” Maggie Kirkpatrick said thoughtfully. “Something tells me I'm going to pay for this. Thanks, Mike, and get off my line. I've got a story to phone in.”

Something was happening in the hall. The hush did not seem healthy to McCall.

“Why the hell weren't some regular police assigned to the rally?” he growled. “I thought every city has an ordinance to that effect. What good are these specials? Look at 'em—scared to death. What's going on?”

Beth said nervously, “It's only been a few minutes since they got the word, Mike. What are you nervous about? It's so quiet.”

“That's what I'm nervous about.”

It had been a prelude to the trouble. Because now an argument swelled near the stage, men's voices, shaky with passion. McCall seized Beth's arm and headed her down-hall.

Except for Ben Cordes, the people onstage were still near the apron, but they were no longer clustered around the body. All of them, including the doctor, now crowded at the edge of the platform looking down at the disputing parties. Cordes was still seated on his folding chair, head in his hands.

The argument was between a powerful black man and a burly white man with the veined and doughy face of a heavy drinker. McCall noted with disquiet that the black people of the audience had instinctively grouped themselves at the wall behind the black disputant, while several dozen white men had gathered behind his opponent.

The white man was saying hotly, “I ain't talking about people like you and these other black folks here tonight, Eddie. We know you're all all right. Jeeze, you guys are union brothers. But you saw what we saw—it was a black shot him.”

“So what?” the man called Eddie cried. “What's the color of his skin got to do with anything? Don't you lump me with that killer—whoever he is!”

“He's a Black Heart, Eddie—”

“How do you know what he is? I never saw him before in my life, and neither did you!”

“Ah, what are you arguing with this guy for?” one of the white men yelled. “You're wasting your breath, Joe—”

“You're the kind starts riots,” the black man yelled back. “I'm surprised you didn't come here tonight in sheets!”

“Now listen here, Eddie—” the white disputant began menacingly.

“The hell with him, Joe,” his supporter shouted. “How about we go show them Black Hearts they ain't getting away with murder in our town?”

A deep foreign voice boomed, “The niggers want war, boys. I say we go get guns and wipe out Blacktown!”

The speaker was a lanky blond with chalky cheeks and ferocious gray eyes. The black man, Eddie, stepped up to him. “You want war, Zablonski, you got it right now.” He cocked an enormous fist.

“Wait a minute, Eddie,” the man named Joe said; he had apparently been having second thoughts. “Zablonski ain't calling you a nigger. He means the ones killed Horton.”

“You don't even know who ‘they' are! All I saw was one man. You're as bad as the Klan, you people. Your idea of justice is to run riot in the black ghetto and string up the first black man you see! Well, we're not going to let it happen! We—”

“
Shut up!
”

The sharp authority of the voice from the stage stopped everything dead.

“Listen to me, all of you!”

It was, unbelievably, Benjamin Cordes. He now stood glaring down from the edge of the stage. His face was pale with rage and his blazing eyes swept over the crowd with contempt.

“You listen to me!” he cried. “Gerry Horton, our leader, lies here dead, and all you can think to do is squabble about who's to blame. For your information Gerry headed off one race riot today, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let his death set off another. I helped him with tonight's speech, so I know what he was going to say. Part of his talk was going to be a plea for racial understanding. He believed in law and order, but he believed in brotherly love, too!” His voice rose. “Nobody's going to get guns and head for the west side ghetto. So shut your face, Zablonski, and you, too, Rozak!”

The two men addressed by name gawked up at him. Cordes turned to the big black man. “Eddie, I wouldn't blame you for walking out on the party after this. But try to understand that these men don't really mean it. They're just terribly upset by what's happened. Let's all cool off and be friends again. With poor old Gerry gone there's lots of thinking and planning to do, and it's going to take all of us thinking and planning together to pick up the pieces.”

Something like a tremor went through the crowd, and then it was silent. In the silence the man with the alcohol-ravaged face threw the black man a sheepish smile and lightly punched his shoulder. The lanky Pole came over and said something. Eddie managed a smile.

“I guess Ben's right,” he said, and the three men shook hands. The tension slacked at once. A low, friendly conversation broke out all over the hall, serious, sober.

McCall breathed. “I wouldn't have believed it. That little guy just nipped a roundhouse brawl in the bud. Not to mention saving whatever black votes the party would have lost.”

“Cordes worshiped Horton,” Beth said. “You just saw a kitten turn into a tiger.”

McCall was looking around. “With five hundred other witnesses here, there's no point in us hanging around.”

“But Communications told you to wait for the police.”

“I didn't say I would. I've already told everything I know over the phone.”

“But where do you want to go?”

“To a private phone. I've got to report this to the governor.”

“You can use mine,” Beth said. “I'd just as soon spend the rest of the evening at home, anyway, Mike. This didn't exactly put me in the mood for fun.”

As they left the building they heard sirens. A city ambulance was racing up. Two police cars shot into view from opposite directions.

McCall helped Beth into the rented car, shaking his head.

McCall was still waiting for his call to get through when Beth emerged from her bedroom. She had got rid of her jacket and handbag, kicked off her shoes, removed her bowtie, and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

“I turn slob as soon as I get home,” she said, sailing by him into the kitchen. “Gin and tonic?”

“Short on the gin. It may be a long night.”

“I'll get you comfortable, too, after I mix the drinks.”

Her remark did not register. The operator chose that moment to locate Sam Holland at the gubernatorial mansion.

“Something wrong, Mike?”

“A disaster, Governor. A half hour ago Gerald Horton was gunned down by a masked black man at a political rally. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

As he recounted what had happened, Beth tugged at his coat collar. He leaned forward on the stool—her phone stood on the breakfast bar—and let her pull his right sleeve off, then his left, hardly aware of what she was doing. She took his coat into the kitchen and hung it over a chair.

When McCall finished, Governor Holland was silent. Then he said, “That black-white confrontation in the hall you just described, Mike, sounds like an omen of things to come. If the assassination arouses a strong rightwing reaction, you may face the inverse of what I sent you down there to stop—whites rioting against blacks instead of the other way around. And if a white backlash should gain any substantial support, it will take more than that radio station manager to head it off.”

Beth was removing McCall's necktie. She unbuttoned his top shirt button, knelt, and began unlacing his shoes.

McCall took a sip of his drink, wiggling the toes of his first freed foot. “Even if no racial clash develops, Governor, this may kill the party's chances in the Banbury elections. With voting more than a full month off, they still have time to pick a substitute candidate. And with the boost the law-and-order issue got tonight, they might win with almost anybody.”

Beth pulled off his other shoe.

“Do you have any idea whom they'll pick?”

“No. But Cordes ought to know. I'll drop by BOKO tomorrow and try to find out what we're up against.”

“Okay, Mike. Keep me posted.” The governor sounded funereal as he hung up.

Beth was just getting up from her knees. McCall drew her to him.

“You took advantage of a helpless man. How would you like it if I started taking off your clothes?”

“I might holler rape,” Beth said. She made no attempt to get away. Her blue-violet eyes were soft.

“With that build? What jury would believe you? No man could rape you unless he knocked you unconscious first.”

“So knock,” Beth said. “I'll try to yell before the blow lands.”

“Would you?”

“It's obvious you're no gambler.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don't you come up and try me some time?”

He spent the night there.

FOURTEEN

The masked black man was jabbing his shoulder with the muzzle of the target pistol, and every jab jarred him to his teeth. McCall opened his eyes to find Beth standing over him, poking him. She was dressed in her policewoman's uniform.

A tripartite aroma of frying bacon, toasting bread, and brewing coffee assailed his nose like an aphrodisiac.

“My God,” McCall said. “I'm absolutely starved.”

“Zoo feeding in ten minutes,” Beth said. “I set you out a reserve toothbrush, but I've got nothing for you to shave with unless you want to try the electric I use on my legs.”

“No, thanks! I'll leave the whiskers till I get back to my hotel. How about a good-morning smooch, or does the uniform make you off-limits?”

She stooped and gave him a motherly kiss on the forehead.

“Up, lover,” she said, lithely dodging his reaching arms. “Not now. I've less than an hour to be at work, and it's a twenty-minute drive.”

They parted at her front door.

“Will I see you again, Mike?” Her extraordinary eyes were sober and direct.

“After last night, isn't that a kind of silly question?” McCall murmured.

“Not really. Some men specialize in hit-and-runs. How do I know you're not one of them?”

“Even if I were, with you I'd be back for more.”

“Oh?” Beth said. “And why is that?”

“When I was a kid in Chicago, there was a mean bastard of a cop who used to rap the kids across the seat of their pants with his nightstick to hear them squeal. I've been waiting my opportunity to make a cop squeal ever since.”

Her tanned face flamed. “If you're referring to what happened last night—”

“Baby,” McCall crooned, “you've got the nicest squeal I ever did hear.”

“Also, you're no gentleman! Look, Mike, I have to run … call me—or something?” And she was gone.

McCall followed Beth's car downtown as far as the city hall, where she turned toward police headquarters. They exchanged goodbye honks, and he continued along First Street and turned right to the Banbury Plaza.

It was two minutes to nine when he stepped out of the shower. He switched the radio on and turned to BOKO to catch the news while he shaved.

The local news summary was almost entirely concerned with Gerald Horton's murder. Several black suspects had been questioned by police, the newscaster said, but all had been released; the police, who were not talking, apparently had no clue to the identity of the assassin. The newscaster did not identify the suspects questioned, but McCall had no doubt that one of them was LeRoy Rawlings.

He stopped in midstroke when the announcer moved on to Horton's party's problem of selecting a new candidate for mayor. The newscaster said:

“Banbury party chairman T. Ellsworth Yates has informed station BOKO that an emergency meeting of his executive committee was held secretly at his home last night. The committee unanimously selected BOKO station manager Benjamin Cordes as the late Gerald Horton's replacement as candidate for mayor, and Mr. Cordes was persuaded to accept the nomination, Mr. Yates said, only after long argument by the committee.

“With the election five weeks away, there is still time to meet the legal requirement to file intention to run for office thirty days in advance of election, Mr. Yates pointed out, so Mr. Cordes's name will positively be on the ballot. The chairman explained that if the election were being held just one week earlier, he would have had to rely on a write-in campaign. Mr. Yates expressed confidence that the new candidate will get the votes of all Gerald Horton's supporters.

“In his official announcement, Mr. Yates stated that Benjamin Cordes had been selected by the executive committee as the most suitable replacement for Mr. Horton for a number of reasons. As Horton's campaign manager the new candidate not only is thoroughly familiar with the campaign issues, but he played a major role in writing the party platform. Although not as well known by the general public, according to party chairman Yates, he is widely known and respected by party workers. Mr. Cordes has been particularly active, Mr. Yates said, in forming political clubs of factory employees; he has a wide acquaintanceship among the so-called blue-collar workers.