The Black Hearts Murder (7 page)

“What happened after I left?”

“Volper got a big fat nothing out of Mrs. Franks and Rawlings. A little past three that black lawyer Prentiss Wade showed up with habeas corpus writs for both of them. How Wade found out they were in custody is beyond me, because Volper hadn't let either make any phone calls.”

“Were they released?” McCall asked, deadpan. Good old Maggie.

“Mrs. Franks was. Volper didn't have any grounds to hold her. Rawlings he hauled up before Municipal Court Judge Edmundson for a preliminary hearing. I don't suppose you know much about our local judges?”

“Very little. I saw District Court Judge Graham in action for a few minutes, and he impressed me as fair, even in the face of provocation. But that's the extent of my knowledge.”

“Graham's a good judge, which is why Volper picked Edmundson. Edmundson is a Horton boy and a buddy-buddy of Volper's.” The lieutenant did not add the name of Chief Condon, but McCall suspected that the omission derived from discretion rather than lack of knowledge. “Plus Edmundson's a racist. In his court disturbing the peace can get you three months in the city jail if your skin is black. If you're white he'll let you off with a fine.”

“Say no more,” McCall said. “I know the breed. What happened, Lieutenant?”

“Edmundson remanded Rawlings to jail in lieu of fifty thousand dollars' bond.”

“Fifty thousand on a charge like this?”

“And in this case, of course, it means Rawlings would have to raise the full amount personally. Since Harlan James ran out on his ten-grand bail, no bondsman would even accept a phone call from a member of the Black Hearts now.”

McCall said fretfully, “This might really trigger something on the west side. Is there a chance Judge Edmundson might reconsider and reduce Rawlings's bail to a reasonable sum if somebody pointed out that his action could avert a riot?”

“Not if the somebody was you or me, Mr. McCall. He treated Prentiss Wade like dirt in that court—wouldn't listen to him at all; Wade's fit to be tied. Oh, Edmundson'd take Volper's recommendation, because it was on the D.A.'s argument that he set this ridiculous bail in the first place. But trouble is what Volper wants. The only other man in Banbury who could influence His Honor is Gerald Horton. You know, our councilman-at-large. And candidate for mayor.”

“I know. Think Horton would listen to me?”

“He's smarter than Volper, and a politician … I just don't know, Mr. McCall. Maybe. He has an office in city hall, phone number Emerson 3-1000. Just a minute … Horton's extension is 123.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“While I'm at it, I've got two legs, too.”

McCall called the city hall number and asked for extension 123. It rang and rang. Finally the switchboard operator said in a bored voice, “Mr. Horton's probably gone home. It's almost four-thirty. 'Most everyone here starts leaving around now.”

“Ring the mayor's office, please,” McCall said. “I'm Mike McCall.”

“Yes, sir!” She knew who he was; he heard it in her changed tone. “I doubt anybody's there, either, sir. But I'll try.”

There was no answer. McCall said, “This is an early-to-quit town, isn't it? Do you happen to have Councilman Horton's home phone number, doll?”

“I don't have any special list, Mr. McCall.” He could almost see her poking her hairdo. “I know it's in the book, though. On Waxman Drive.”

“Thanks.”

McCall was about to hang up when the operator said, “Sir?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think you'll find Councilman Horton home now. I happen to know his wife is out of town.”

McCall stopped thinking of other things. “Mr. Horton doesn't go home when his wife is away?”

“Not for dinner. He usually calls some restaurant for a reservation.”

“Did he do that this afternoon?”

“Not through me. But it might have been through one of the other operators.”

“Thank you.” McCall hung up, wondering if the occupants of city hall, up to and including Mayor Potter, were aware of the freedom with which this particular operator passed out information. The whole town was loose.

There was no Gerald Horton listed in the directory but there were several G. Hortons. One was on Waxman Drive. McCall dialed the number.

No answer.

Perhaps Horton was at his radio station—it was too early for him to be having dinner. McCall consulted the phone book again for BOKO. He was memorizing the phone number when he noticed that the station address was 412 N. Grand. The address of the Banbury Plaza was a low number on Grand. McCall flipped back through the directory and found the listing for the hotel.

325 N. Grand. The radio station was less than a block away.

He brushed his teeth, showered, combed out a cowlick, dressed, and left the suite.

The radio station occupied the upper floor of a two-story building, above a furniture store and a clothing store. The wooden staircase leading to it rose between the two stores.

Inside there was a hall leading to the rear. Illuminated signs designated
STUDIOS A
,
B
and c,
PRODUCTION
,
CONTINUITY
,
CONTROL ROOM
. To his left, at the top of the stairs, was a door steel-lettered
BENJAMIN CORDES
,
MGR
.

McCall now understood why no one but Cordes had seen the messenger. The man who delivered Harlan James's letter and tape had had to pass no other doors to gain access to the station manager's office.

The door was a little ajar. McCall nudged it wider open and looked in.

It was a roomy office containing a conference table neatly punctuated by leatherette chairs and, catercornered, a large glass-topped desk. Cordes sat behind the desk writing on a pad. There was a visitor's chair opposite.

A tall beefy man wearing slacks and a gaudy sports shirt stood on a stepladder in the corner to McCall's left, working with a screwdriver on a ceiling speaker. He glanced down at McCall and went on working. From his build and features—he had the squashed nose and punch-thickened lips of a prizefighter—McCall guessed that he had once made his livelihood in the ring. He appeared in his late forties or early fifties, which would make him a relative old timer. He looked familiar to McCall.

The little man at the desk looked up. “Oh, Mr. McCall! I didn't hear you. Come in, come in. Didn't expect to see you so soon again.”

“I didn't either,” McCall said.

“Come in. Sit down—”

“I'm actually looking for Mr. Horton, Mr. Cordes. Is he here?”

“Why, no.”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

Cordes glanced at the wall clock. “He's probably on his way home, Mr. McCall. He usually leaves his office at the city hall between four and four-thirty.”

“I thought he might have stopped in at the station.”

“No, if he'd planned to stop in, Mr. Horton would have been here by now. You haven't seen him, Andy, have you?”

The man on the ladder, who had flaming red hair, shook his head.

“The switchboard operator at city hall seemed to think he wouldn't be going home, Mr. Cordes. She said he usually eats out when his wife's away.”

“Oh, yes,” Cordes looked distressed. “Wilma is off to Carson Springs, that reducing farm. I'd forgotten. Spends a couple of weeks there twice a year. I doubt Gerry will get home before eight or nine. Can't I help you, Mr. McCall?”

“I doubt it,” McCall said. “It's a political matter.”

The little man beamed. “I happen to be his campaign manager.”

McCall looked at him, astonished. Cordes nodded toward the pad he had been writing on. “His speech for tomorrow night.”

“You write his speeches?”

“Rewrite would be more accurate, Mr. McCall. I merely—well—polish Mr. Horton's thoughts. The substance is his, not mine. Our next mayor is nobody's puppet, Mr. McCall. He's a man who knows how to lead, and he'll never shirk a responsibility.”

McCall sat down in the visitor's chair. “Frankly, I'm surprised, Mr. Cordes. I'd never have suspected you of being the political type.”

Benjamin Cordes frowned. McCall even thought that he swelled a little in the chair behind the desk. The banty-rooster syndrome.

“I'm sorry,” McCall said apologetically. “I didn't mean that as a dig, Mr. Cordes. I should have learned long ago never to judge a man by his cover.”

“I should hope so.” Cordes was clearly offended. “Not that any of us can help how the good Lord made us. There are times,” he said a little hesitantly, almost shyly, “when I think of myself as … well … I suppose we all have our daydreams. What I am, Mr. McCall, is strictly a follower. I don't kid myself that I can ever be anything more. Gerald Horton is different. He's a dynamic, self-confident man with drive and vigor, and he's full of creative political ideas.”

“He is?” McCall said, fascinated.

“I can only have the greatest respect and admiration for him, and I'm doing all I can to further his political career. I know that some day Gerald Horton will be a household name far beyond the confines of this city and state. He may well become … well!” Cordes looked sheepish. “I'm making a campaign speech.”

“Such loyalty, Mr. Cordes,” McCall murmured, “just has to be deserved.”

EIGHT

“Yes,” Cordes said. “Well.” He was mollified. “Then perhaps now you'll tell me what you want to see Mr. Horton about?”

“Of course,” McCall said. “As his campaign manager, speechwriter, and so on, you must be on familiar terms with how Horton thinks. What I wanted to talk to him about was LeRoy Rawlings. Maybe you could give me some idea of what his reaction might be.”

“Reaction to what?”

“After you and I left the detective bureau today, a lawyer showed up with writs of habeas corpus for Rawlings and Mrs. Franks. Volper released Mrs. Franks, but he took Rawlings before Judge Edmundson for a preliminary hearing. Edmundson remanded him to jail in lieu of fifty thousand dollars' bail.”

The man Cordes had called Andy had climbed down from his stepladder and come around behind the station manager's desk. There was a panel with a switch and a volume control knob in the desk top. The red-haired man activated the switch.

A burst of sound came from the stereophonic speakers at the other end of the room. “—listening to the Bart Wheeler blast on Station BOKO in Banbury,” a rich male voice boomed. “Fourteen-ten on your dial. The time is exactly four fifty-seven.”

“Do you have to do that now, Andy?” Cordes snapped.

“Sorry.” The man reduced the volume. “I didn't know it was tuned so loud, Ben. It's working all right now.”

A commercial came on. The red-haired man flicked it off.

The name and the red-haired man's familiar face triggered McCall's memory suddenly. “You're Andy Whalen,” he said.

The man looked pleased. “That's right. How come you remember me? I didn't think anybody remembered me any more.”

“I saw you fight Kid Cooley in Chicago. When he was the leading middleweight contender.”

The ex-boxer wiggled his jaw. “That's when I got my face made over. The kid had a sock like Marciano. I was too old to try a comeback, but I needed the money.”

“You did pretty well for an old man,” McCall said with a smile. “You had him on the canvas twice.”

“And he got up both times,” Whalen said with a grin. “Me, when he put me down in the twelfth, I just laid there.”

“This is Mr. McCall, Andy,” Cordes said. “Mike McCall, from the capital.”

“The governor's muscle? I'm honored you remembered me, Mr. McCall.”

Whalen came back around the desk, wiping his hand on his pants. McCall shook hands with him.

“Andy is our chief electrician and general maintenance man,” Cordes explained.

“I do for Ben about what you do for the governor, Mr. McCall. Troubleshooter, that's me.”

Cordes said gently, “Dan wants you to look at that dead mike in Studio C before you leave for the day, Andy.”

“Yeah, Ben, sure.” Whalen stuck his hand out again. “Nice to have met you, Mr. McCall.”

McCall shook it and waved. The redheaded man folded his stepladder and hurried out with it.

“Not exactly punchy,” Cordes said, “but …” He did not finish. “Where were we, Mr. McCall?”

“We had Rawlings in jail, with bond fixed at fifty thousand dollars. Since Harlan James skipped, naturally no bondsman will go bail for a member of the Black Hearts.”

“You can hardly blame them.”

“No, but the black community isn't going to take kindly to the unreasonable bail. If this town is close to a race explosion, this might be the detonator. Your man Horton is the local leader of his political party. He must have some influence with the D.A. I thought he might use it to get Rawlings's bail reduced to some reasonable sum.”

Cordes looked unhappy. “The D.A. doesn't fix bail, Mr. McCall.”

“I know,” McCall said. “But according to my information he recommended the figure that was set. Also, in the opinion of somebody who knows the judge and the D.A. both, Edmundson probably would reduce bail to whatever figure Volper suggested. The D.A. ought to be persuaded to change his mind, Mr. Cordes.”

Cordes pursed his precise lips. “A phone call direct to the judge would do it, without Horton's having to use Volper as a middleman. As I mentioned before, Gerry Horton is a strong leader. He pretty well runs the local party.”

“You think he'd do it?”

Cordes pulled in his head like an alarmed turtle. “I meant he could make Edmundson change his mind if he wanted to. But I don't think he'd want to. Gerry doesn't believe in coddling these black militants.”