The Blue Movie Murders (2 page)

“I don't ask for compliments and I don't welcome them when they come,” Cynthia told him. “Some of your films haven't been a great deal better than the ones we're protesting, Mr. Sloane.”

“Oh?” The smile faded from his face. “Would you care to be more specific?”

“In 1965 you produced a film called
Native Daughter
, in which a black woman is shown selling herself as a prostitute to support the man she loves. The clear implication of the film was that the female occupies a secondary position in society.”

“Oh, come now! I think you're exaggerating the point.”

“Am I? In 1959 you produced
and
directed something called
Story of a Marriage
. In this one a husband is shown to be justified when he murders his wife for having an affair with another man.”

“That's hardly the interpretation I intended.”

“But that's the one a good many of the critics drew from the picture. It's always the same—double standard, down-grade the female, keep her barefoot and pregnant.”

Ben Sloane's face was now flushed, but he kept his voice under control. “There are a number of things you should understand, young lady. I hadn't meant to get into this at a social gathering, but you leave me no alternative. First of all, I've never made a film which was consciously anti-feminine. And my films are hardly to be compared with the pornography you oppose so vocally. Secondly, even that pornography can have some merit at times. Did you ever consider the fact that even in so-called degradation the woman can exhibit strength and love and beauty?”

“I doubt that very much. Not, certainly, in any film ever produced by a male.”

“No?” Sloane pressed his attack, his face only inches from hers as McCall looked on. “Have you ever heard of a film director named Sol Dahlman? He made one feature film, twenty years ago, then vanished from sight. It was a classic then and it's a classic now—perhaps the finest pornographic film ever produced in this country.”

“That's impossible,” Cynthia Rhodes replied. “You'll never convince me that a piece of pure filth that degrades the human female can ever be considered a work of art.”

“What's the name of this amazing film?” McCall asked.

“
The Wild Nymph
. Dahlman filmed it on a limited budget right here in this state, using unknown actors. It had two performances at a Manhattan art theatre before the place was raided—yes, they still raided theatres in those days. Anyway, since that time the film has been pretty much confined to the smoker circuit in this country, although it's had some theatrical distribution overseas.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” McCall observed.

“I should. It's that film, and its director, that has brought me here. In fact, my secretary and I are on our way upstate to try and get a line on him.”

“You want to find this man?” Cynthia Rhodes asked. “What in God's name for? To give him an Oscar?”

“No, to give him a contract. Pornography may be unpopular with a large segment of the public, but these are permissive times. The man who made a film with the sheer genius of
The Wild Nymph
is capable of great things. I want to talk to him about a new film, and about releasing
The Wild Nymph
in a few selected art theatres. I'm convinced its time has come. Sol Dahlman's time has come.”

“How do you know he's still alive?” Dora asked.

“I don't. But I intend to find out. I believe that
The Wild Nymph
was filmed in Rockview, a small city upstate, and that's where I'm headed. Someone there might remember him, or might be able to give me a lead to the actors in the film. As with most of these things, they're not identified in the screen credits.”

“Well, you find this Sol Dahlman,” Cynthia told him. “You find him and his movie and you show it and we'll have a hundred pickets outside the theatre the day it opens.”

“Please don't judge it until you've seen it, my dear. Movies are my life. I've seen a great many of them, and I tell you
The Wild Nymph
is a classic.”

“You certainly make me want to see it,” McCall remarked.

“Maybe I can arrange it sometime. I own one of the few prints in existence.”

A slim woman with a rounded face appeared out of the crowd to join them. “We should be leaving, Mr. Sloane. It's a long drive up there.”

“You're right,” the producer said. “Mr. McCall and ladies, my secretary—Susanne Walsh.”

There were greetings all around, but it was obvious that Suzanne Walsh was much too efficient a secretary to be put off the track. She'd interrupted to spur Sloane on his way, and in another five minutes they were gone.

“I have to be going too,” McCall told his hostess.

“So soon, Mike?”

“Afraid so.” He turned to Cynthia Rhodes. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

“I get around on my own, Mr. McCall.”

“Sorry. I forgot. Will I be seeing you again?”

She tossed her head to get the hair out of her eyes. “Probably sooner than you'd like. Tomorrow morning, bright and early. In front of the Governor's mansion.”

TWO

Wednesday, May 12

When McCall arrived at the Governor's mansion in the morning, he found the main entrance already blocked by a lengthening serpentine queue of female demonstrators. Cynthia Rhodes was in the lead, wearing her familiar black slacks and shirt, followed by a dozen or so ardent supporters who'd apparently made the trip with her.

It was obvious at once that the demonstration was well organized, and even as McCall watched, the line of marchers grew longer. Cynthia's hard-core followers were being joined in a steady flow by local women, many of them carrying handprinted signs that lacked the professional neatness of their leaders' placards but still got their message across.

As McCall attempted to cut through the line he was almost hit by one sign reading
Pornography Degrades Women
. A large moon-faced woman in her forties blocked his path, waving another sign that read
Females Fight Filthy Films
.

Suddenly Cynthia spotted him and yelled to the others, “That's McCall! Let's get him!”

McCall tensed, imagining himself fighting for his life beneath a horde of militant women with bouncing breasts and tight jeans. But Cynthia and the others merely surrounded him while she pinned a large button on his coat. He could read the words upside down:
Cynthia's Raiders
—the same as on the bright new button she wore herself.

“Welcome to the club,” she told him. “We'll have more than a hundred women here by noon.”

“I'll tell the Governor.”

“And tell him to get those blue movies out of the theatres.”

McCall stood his ground, facing her. “You'd object to
Snow White
.”

“Damn right I would! Doing housework for all those dwarfs!”

He broke free and forced his way through to the door. Cynthia Rhodes was a wild woman when she had an audience, and he wasn't about to give her any more openings.

The guard on the door gave him a rueful grin. “They want trouble, Mr. McCall. I might have to get the police down here.”

“Don't do anything until I've talked with the Governor.”

He found Sam Holland in his private office, hidden away in the executive wing of the mansion. This was not the greeting room, or the meeting room, but simply a place where he could work alone, without interruption. Its walls were almost bare, except for a single nearly unrecognizable picture of the Governor in a college track uniform.

He glanced up as McCall knocked and entered. Then, seeing the button pinned to McCall's coat, he sighed. “Can't I even get away from them in here?”

“Sorry, Governor.” McCall slipped the button into his pocket. “What are you planning to do about them?”

“Nothing. If I took action every time a group of people showed up with signs I'd never get anything done. I've survived everything else. I'll survive Cynthia Rhodes.”

McCall dropped into his favourite chair. “There's something more to consider, Governor. The kids and the blacks didn't have most of the community on their side. People may laugh at women's lib, and make jokes about it, but not too many people are going to joke about blue films. The public seems to have had enough of sexy movies. They just might support Cynthia Rhodes on this.”

Governor Holland frowned. “The woman is nothing but an opportunist, Mike. Do you ever read any of that bilge she grinds out for the magazines?”

“I've read some of it, and I certainly don't agree with a lot of it. But she's an attractive, articulate young lady. This time she just might have a cause with meat in it.”

The Governor sighed and went to the window. “All right. What should I do? If we pass a law banning those films, the Supreme Court is bound to declare it unconstitutional.”

McCall was more a man of action than ideas, but this time he had a suggestion. “Why not appoint a distinguished committee to study the problem? The President's always doing it—why not you?”

“A committee?”

“The Governor's Commission on Pornography.”

Sam Holland shook his head. “That's already been tried in Washington and it got them nowhere.”

“Maybe they just didn't have the right people on it. I met a man last evening who'd be perfect. Ben Sloane, the film producer.”

“I heard he was in town, at Dora Pringle's party. She invited me but I had too many other things scheduled this week. My wife and family see little enough of me as it is.” He stared out the window at the line of pickets.

“We talked a little about blue movies. Sloane claims some of them have had real artistic merit. He mentioned one called
The Wild Nymph
that was made right here in this state.”

The Governor turned suddenly from the window. “Look what they're doing down there now! My God, those women should be arrested!”

McCall joined him in time to see a small group of Cynthia's followers attempting to storm the side gate where a single uniformed guard was trying unsuccessfully to hold them back. But even as he watched, two city policemen came running, and the girls retreated. “They're just trying to get arrested,” McCall decided. “They'd love to get their pictures in the paper being hauled away by some ‘brutal' cop.”

The Governor returned to his desk. “What were you saying about this man Sloane?”

“Ben Sloane. He's a fairly well-known Hollywood producer, one of the few who's managed to cling to his position during the films' changing economic times. He was here last evening on his way to Rockview. A film called
The Wild Nymph
was made there twenty years ago by a director named Sol Dahlman. Sloane wants to find Dahlman and gets him back into pictures.”

Governor Holland grunted. “Why does he think Rockview's the place to find this man?”

“I don't know. But he drove up there last night with his secretary.”

“Well, I think I should steer clear of any notion of a commission. But I wish there was something I could do to keep those women quiet.”

As they listened a shout went up from the street, then a sort of chant. McCall returned to the window and saw Cynthia Rhodes perched on a makeshift podium of wooden crates, leading the audience like an over-aged cheerleader.

“Holland! Holland! Be a man! Filthy films need a ban!”

“What do they want from me?” the Governor sighed. “Why don't they go down to Washington and parade in front of the Supreme Court?”

McCall started to offer some words of consolation when they were interrupted by the ringing of the Governor's private telephone. Only a half dozen of the state's key administrators had this private number, and when it rang, McCall knew it was something important.

“Governor Holland here.… Yes, Major. How are you this morning?… Oh? Near Rockview, you say?… Yes, yes. Thank you for calling, Major. You did the right thing.”

McCall didn't hide his interest “Rockview?”

“That was Major Hart of the State Police. He just had a report of a murder up near Rockview. Since the victim was a man of some prominence, he thought I should be informed.”

“Prominence? You mean—?”

Holland nodded. “Ben Sloane. Somebody killed him.”

The chanting was still going on outside, but McCall and the Governor were both silent for a long moment. Finally, when McCall spoke, he asked, “Do you think he found Sol Dahlman?”

“That would hardly seem a reason for his murder.”

“But why else would somebody kill him, when he'd been in Rockview for less than a day? Did Major Hart give you any details?”

“None, except that no one saw the murderer. It happened early this morning, at the motel where Sloane and his secretary were staying.”

McCall sighed. “I hope Cynthia Rhodes doesn't try to tie this killing in with her campaign against blue movies. The death of a man like Ben Sloane is going to make headlines across the country.”

Governor Holland hit the desk with his fist. “Then, damn it, Mike, we've got to make some headlines of our own! I want you to go up to Rockview and see what you can find out. Get me the real reason for Sloane's murder, and the person who killed him.”

“What if it's tied in with the sex films?”

“Then at least we'll be on the offensive. We won't be just sitting here listening to that mob outside.”

McCall had to agree. A trip to Rockview might not accomplish a great deal, but at least it would show that the Governor was acting—and that just might be enough to placate Cynthia Rhodes and her followers. If McCall was right about her, she was the sort to hop from one cause to another with the speed of a jet plane. In a few days she might forget about blue movies and be back in New York campaigning for free abortions.