The Blue Movie Murders (11 page)

“Sloane's murder.”

“God! You really keep your mind on your job, don't you?”

“Most of the time.”

“Well? With all that thought you should know who killed him.”

“But I don't.” He pondered another moment. “How about you?”

She shrugged. “Probably a man. He was wearing his robe over pyjamas. Wouldn't he have got dressed if he was expecting a lady visitor?”

“Not if they were lovers.”

“God, Mike! He was an old man!”

“Not that old.” He thought about it while he dressed. “April, why does a man take his secretary with him on a business trip?”

“Only two reasons—either they're lovers or he has work for her to do.”

“That's the way I see it.”

“You think this Suzanne Walsh—”

“I don't know. There's a big difference in their ages, and she seems more the spinster type. But—could be.”

“Does she have any idea who killed him?”

“I think she figures it was Dahlman, trying to cover his tracks for some reason. After all, that's what brought Sloane to Rockview.”

“You said last night that you saw the film.”

“Did I say that?”

She nodded. “In one of your more passionate moments you even compared me with the girl in
The Wild Nymph
.”

He grinned and bent in front of the mirror, brushing back his cowlick. “There are similarities.”

“So what else was in the movie? Any clues to Dahlman's identity?”

“Not a thing. But it was filmed around here. The interiors at Mann's plant, apparently, and the rest of it out in the woods.”

“Twenty years ago. That's a long time.”

“A long time. I wonder—”

The telephone interrupted him, and he glanced automatically at his watch. It was just after nine o'clock, and he knew this would be Governor Holland again, wanting a progress report.

But he was wrong. The voice on the other end sounded sleepy and far away. “Mike, this is Parker, out in L.A.”

“Parker! Isn't it still the middle of the night out there?”

“Damn right it is! But I wanted you to know I've been working for you.”

“You've got the information?”

“I've got it. The newspapers and trade press kept pretty close track of him in those days. I'm mailing you a full report, but I thought you might want the highspots.”

McCall flipped open his pocket notebook. “Fire away.”

“He was mostly in Hollywood, producing pictures, during the period in question. Starting with 1947 he produced at least one film a year, sometimes more—
Adam and Eva
, a remake of
Robin Hood
, a remake of
Robinson Crusoe
, then
The Africans. All the Way Down
, a war picture called—”

McCall interrupted. “I'm mainly interested in his travels away from Hollywood.”

“Well, part of
Crusoe
was shot on an island off the coast of Mexico, and he probably visited the set a few times, but the rest were strictly back-lot affairs. In 1954 he went to Germany to attend a film festival, where his picture
Golden Age
took first prize. And in 1956 he filmed parts of
Native Daughter
in the south.”

“Look,” McCall explained patiently, “what I need is a gap of about three or four months, when he might have come east. Anything like that?”

“I checked the
L.A.-to-N.Y
. and
N.Y.-to-L.A
. listings in
Variety
for all those years, Mike. He's listed here and there, but never for more than a week at a time. He stuck pretty close to home.”

“What about girls? I know his marriage was annulled long before that, but he was still a fairly young man. There must have been somebody.”

The line crackled somewhere between Los Angeles and Rock-view. “There was someone, all right. Fran Lowder. They lived together during this whole period, in Sloane's Beverly Hills mansion.”

“Where is she today?” McCall asked.

“Fran Lowder was a man, Mike. Sloane was queer, or didn't you know that?”

McCall bit at the lining of his cheek. “No, I didn't know that.” He thought of Suzanne Walsh, and decided she hadn't been along for love. “Well, what happened to Lowder?”

“Died in an accident about ten years back. His auto smashed into a tree. There was some talk of suicide among those who knew the setup.”

“No replacement?”

“Nobody regular. Sloane was getting along in years, you know.”

“Aren't we all?”

“What else do you need, Mike?”

“When did he start directing?”

“Let's see … he directed
The Africans
in 1949 and early '50. He'd fired the original director after the first week and took it over himself. Got an Oscar nomination for it, but didn't win that time.”

McCall did a quick run through
The Wild Nymph
. It had been summer in the film, but summers looked very much alike. “How about vacations?” he asked. “Sloane must have got away in the summertime.”

“He had a place in Acapulco, where he used to go with Lowder on weekends.”

“Nothing back east? No mention of Rockview or this state?”

“Not a thing, Mike.”

“All right. Send me the report, along with your bill.”

“I hope it helped you.”

“To be truthful, I don't know if it did or not. But thanks for doing such a fast job. Now get some sleep.”

“You bet!” Parker said, and hung up.

Throughout the conversation April Evans had perched on the edge of the bed, taking in every word at McCall's end. Now she hopped up and linked her arms around his neck. “What was that all about?”

“Just a wild idea I had. It didn't turn out.”

“What sort of wild idea?”

“That Ben Sloane himself might have been the mysterious Mr. Dahlman.”

“Oh?”

“But there's not a shred of evidence to back it up. I struck out. All I learned was that Sloane was a homosexual.”

“I'd heard rumours about that.”

He lifted her arms gently off his neck. “Then why in hell didn't you tell me?”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

“Then that's why I didn't tell you. What does it have to do with the case, anyway? Do you think one of his boy friends followed him here and killed him?”

“Stranger things have happened. Maybe after his secretary went to bed he strolled down to the bar and picked up someone for the night. In the morning the guy killed him. Happens often.”

But April shook her head. “You're forgetting the gun, Mike. It happens with a knife or a fist or a shove out the window. But most queers don't go around armed with a pistol.”

He sighed. She was pretty good. “You're right, of course,” he admitted. “But the gun could have belonged to Sloane.”

“Then the killer would have been more likely to simply wipe it off and leave it—or tried to fake a suicide. And no gun was found. The killer had to take it because it belonged to him—or her.”

“Maybe,” he said absently.

She finished applying her lipstick. “Are you going to buy me breakfast before you drive me back to my car?”

“Sure. I never send anyone away hungry.”

ELEVEN

Saturday, May 15

McCall dropped April at the airport, promising to call her later, and drove on out to Xavier Mann's home. When he was still a quarter of a mile away, he found his path suddenly blocked by a Rockview Police patrol car.

“What seems to be the trouble here?” he asked the cop who came forward, hands on hips.

“Road's closed, buddy. Turn around and go back.”

“I believe this is a state highway.”

“It's still closed.”

McCall showed his shield. “Still closed?”

The cop debated for a moment. “I'll have to check with Lieutenant Powell. Just keep cool.” He went back to use the radio.

McCall sat in his car and waited. Presently another patrol car appeared over the hill and came to a jarring halt. Lieutenant Powell eased himself out of the front seat and strolled over. His feet were still hurting him.

“Good to see you again, Lieutenant. I seem to be having a little trouble getting through your roadblock.”

“That's what roadblocks are for, McCall. There's been too much trouble with strikers down around the Mann home, throwing rocks and making threats. We decided to keep them far away.”

“I'm not a striker. Besides, it's a state highway, Lieutenant.”

Powell shifted his weight, searching for the right words, then answered, “It's still blocked today. Sorry.”

“I'm going through.”

“Damn it, McCall, we've taken just about enough of you in Rockview. It's time you and Governor Holland let us run our own affairs!”

“Are you ordering me out?”

“Damn right I'm ordering you out.”

McCall nodded. “Better tell your officer to move that car. I'm going through.”

“Do I have to use force, McCall?”

“What are you going to do—shoot out my tyres?”

“If you pass this roadblock and enter the Mann home you'll be arrested when you leave.”

McCall gunned the motor. “We'll see about that.” He shot ahead, swerving to the left to miss the parked patrol car. He topped the hill and then was out of sight before Powell could act.

There was another police car in the Mann driveway, and the officer eyed him curiously as he entered the house. Elizabeth Mann was waiting in the inner hallway, and she waved away the maid who'd opened the door. “My husband is not here, Mr. McCall. He's at a meeting with the strikers.”

“It was you I came to see.”

“Oh?”

She was still a beautiful woman, with hair as black as a raven's feathers, and a straight slim body which could still arouse passion. Seeing her now, he saw her again as she had been by that pond in the film—naked and alive and very, very beautiful. There was no doubt in his mind. It was the same woman.

“Can we talk somewhere?”

“I can see no reason for it, Mr. McCall.”

“Yesterday I saw the film
The Wild Nymph
for the first time.”

Her face clouded. “Come into the study,” she said. “This way.”

She closed the door and stood facing him, waiting for his next words. “I consider the film a genuine work of art,” he said.

“I'm glad. Those are my feelings about it. You must believe that it was not made simply as a piece of pornography.”

“But I'm interested in the circumstances of its production.”

She sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. He took a chair opposite her. “You're trying to get something on Xavier, aren't you? Trying to ruin him.”

“Not at all. I'm investigating sex films as part of a general study on behalf of the Governor's office. And as part of that I'm also looking into the murder of Ben Sloane.”

“I'm happily married, Mr. McCall. I don't want anything to spoil that.”

“What could spoil it? Since your husband financed the film, he must certainly know of your role in it.”

“Yes, he knows.” She smiled slightly at the memory. “I suppose that's why he married me, if the truth were known. His first wife had just died, and he was still a fairly young, vigorous man.”

“Did he ever visit the set?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He supplied the money, but never came around.”

“And Frank Jordan? I understand he was plant manager about that time.”

“We never saw him either. There were only the actors and the kids who worked on the film. We were all terribly young.”

“Just when was it?”

She drew on her cigarette, and her eyes clouded again with the memory of it. “The summer of 1950. The Korean War had just begun. I think we were all a little uptight about it, and about the boys having to go off to the army. I suppose that's why we did it. We wanted to leave behind some statement of the way we felt. I wasn't a—a prostitute or anything like that, Mr. McCall. The boy in the film was only a few years older than me, though he was made up to look older for the role of the engineer. We'd been living together for some time, and I suppose we were planning to get married. His name was Fred, and he'd just finished college.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was drafted in early August, just after we finished shooting the film. They gave him sixteen weeks of infantry training and shipped him off to Korea. He'd been there less than a week when he was killed in a Chinse mortar attack on November 30th. It was at Anju, on the Chongchon-gang River. It's funny how I still remember those names.”

“I'm sorry,” McCall said, and he meant it. Having just seen Fred in the film, it was hard to believe that he'd been dead and gone and forgotten all these years. Forgotten by everyone except Elizabeth Mann. Then, “What about the man who directed the film?”

“Sol? I knew very little about him, actually. He was a friend of Fred's from college. No one else knew him, really. He just directed and that was it. He never stayed around for the parties and things.”

“What did he look like?”

She shrugged. “A boy. Very young. Of course, he couldn't have been as young as he looked. He must have been Fred's age, or even older, but you had the impression that he hadn't really developed yet.”

“He was a genius with a camera.”

“Yes, he often filmed the scenes himself, just to get the right camera angles.”

“What happened to him?”

Another shrug. “I never saw him again after the last day of shooting. In fact, it was years later before Xavier showed me the completed film. It was processed in the plant, of course, and then Sol cut and edited it himself during the fall of 1950. After that he dropped from sight. Xavier never even met him.”

“People with his talent don't just drop from sight.”