The Blue Movie Murders (17 page)

“Tanner is dead. He started swinging an axe, mainly at me, and Lieutenant Powell had to shoot him.”

“My God! I guess I did miss something.”

He glanced at the suitcase on the bed. “Looks like I was about to miss something too.”

“I have to be getting back.”

“To Washington?”

Her head came up. “You know?”

“First time I ever went to bed with an investigator for a Senate committee.”

“I wish I could have told you, Mike. But I was afraid you'd tell Governor Holland. Sometimes there's a lot of political flak about the Senate sticking its nose into state business.”

“Why did they send you here?”

She shrugged. “The blue-movie business. The Senate's looking into the whole operation, preparing to write new laws. I spent last week in New York, talking to exhibitors. God, Mike—those people! Do you know they often just steal the film and never return it to the distributor? They feel that all's fair where dirty movies are concerned. I talked to them for a week, and then when Ben Sloane was murdered it seemed to tie in with what I'd been hearing about Rockview and Mann Photo Service. So I came here.”

“And now you're leaving.”

“I had to tell Verry who I was. I suppose he's spread the word all over town by now.”

“It shook up a few people,” McCall admitted.

“I have to report to the committee tomorrow. So it's back to Washington.”

“You were going to leave without telling me?”

She grinned. “I would have left you a note, with a lipsticked kiss and a picture of our President.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Mike, I've got what I need for Washington. Evidence that blue movies were made at the Mann plant and shipped across state lines. I got everything I need from Verry. The rest of it—Sloane's killing—is your job. I'm sorry, but I have to go.”

She put the last few things in her suitcase, checked the dresser drawers, then closed the lid. One more thing was over.

“I'll look you up in Washington sometime,” McCall said.

“Do that, Mike. It was fun.”

He saw her to her cab and wished her luck. Then, standing there as she was driven away, he knew exactly how a jilted lover must feel. April Evans, for all her charm, had used him as little more than the sexual object that Cynthia was forever denouncing.

He started to light a cigarette, then changed his mind and dropped it into the gutter. It was time to get on with business.

McCall found Cynthia back at the Rockview Motel, holding court with her thirty-odd followers and a dozen representatives of the national press and wire services. As the television cameras hummed, she mounted a little stage in the motel dining room and started to speak.

“It has been a great morning—a great day—for women's liberation. We regret the death of one man during the incidents at Mann Photo Service this morning, but the police have assured us it was not directly connected with our action against the plant. What is more important is that an immense network of pornographic films has been traced to one of its key sources and exposed for all the world to see. A person like Xavier Mann, who has devoted a lifetime to the degradation for profit of the American female, should learn at last that his time has come and gone, that women will no longer sit quietly while they are sold into lifetime slavery as the tool of the male ego.”

McCall circulated along the edges of the growing crowd in the dining room. He was looking for familiar faces, and especially for Ron Kozinski, the taxi driver, but he saw no one he knew except the motel manager, an unhappy man who obviously did not consider Cynthia Rhodes's presence as any sort of recommendation for the motel.

Cynthia went on for a time, talking and gesturing for the television cameras, introducing some of her fellow Raiders, and generally demonstrating a skill at showmanship that brought grudging admiration from McCall. When at last she'd finished, McCall managed to work his way through the crowd to her side.

“Could we talk somewhere? It's very important.”

“Not now, McCall. Can't you see I'm busy?”

“A term in jail can be even more time-consuming than a chat with me.”

Her head came up, eyes defiant. “And what would you put me in jail for, McCall?”

“The murder of Ben Sloane.”

“You're out of your mind!”

“Let's talk about it, shall we? My room in five minutes? You know the way.”

Cynthia Rhodes sat tensely in the chair opposite, waiting for him to begin. Her composure was beginning to crack, and he could see the look of fear in her eyes. He knew the look well.

“Three things,” he said quietly. “Maybe not enough for a grand jury, but enough to make it embarrassing for you, Cynthia.”

“What three things?”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, my right cheek is still smarting from your slap. You hit me with your left palm. Likewise, this morning, you used your left hand to get that pair of handcuffs on me. Conclusion: you're left-handed. And Powell said there was a cigarette butt in Sloane's room that might indicate the killer was left-handed. A friend told me a story about merry-go-rounds, and how they always turn counterclockwise because most knights were right-handed. It stuck in my mind, and I wondered if the left-handed business might be the clue I needed.”

“My God, McCall! What's all this about merry-go-rounds?” Some of her confidence was returning. “If we're telling stories I'll tell the one about a tortoise that was a pet of Napoleon's during his exile. It's still alive. I read it in
The New Yorker
. Got any clues there, wise guy?”

He ignored her and hurried on. “Point two. You said you'd never been in Rockview before, yet you knew the direction of the Rockview Motel from downtown.”

“Maybe I asked someone!”

“Point three. This button.” He opened his hand and showed her the
Cynthia's Raiders
button he'd found in the parking lot.

“Looks like one of mine,” she admitted.

“
Exactly
like one of yours. In fact, it's the one you were wearing at Dora Pringle's party the night before Sloane was murdered. I remember this scratch on it. The next morning, at Governor Holland's mansion, you were wearing a different one.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. He'd got to her. “That's no proof,” she said finally.

“Proof enough. You came to Rockview the night before or the morning of Sloane's murder. You visited the Rockview Motel. You visited his room. You killed him.”

“I
didn't
kill him!”

“But you were there, in his room.”

“Yes,” she answered with a long sigh. “I was there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“McCall, you're a bastard.”

“And a male chauvinist besides. Tell me about it.”

“All right. After the cocktail party I got to thinking about Ben Sloane and his visit to Rockview. I already knew it was tied in with that film he mentioned,
The Wild Nymph
. I suspected some connection between Rockview and sex movies. I came up to confront Sloane with it, and to learn what I could.”

“How did you know he was at the Rockview Motel?”

“I didn't. I phoned the Parkview first, but he wasn't there. I finally located him at the Rockview.”

McCall cursed himself. The telephone record had covered outgoing calls only. Naturally there was no record of Cynthia's incoming call. “And he invited you up to see him?”

“Yes.”

“What time was this?”

“Late. I phoned from the capital around eleven, and it must have been one in the morning by the time I got here.”

“The button in the parking lot?”

“I was getting out of the car when I realized I was still wearing it. I took it off and threw it away, rather than take the time to unlock the car again. I didn't have a purse with me, and it wouldn't fit in these pockets. And I sure didn't want to parade through the lobby at one in the morning wearing it.”

“And was the cigarette yours?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“How long did you stay in Sloane's room?”

“About an hour. I left around two and drove back to the capital.” She reached for a cigarette. “I remember the bars were closed.”

“He was alive when you left?”

“Of course he was alive!”

“How was he dressed?”

“Shirt and pants and shoes. He said he'd delayed getting ready for bed because he was expecting me.”

“A real gentleman.”

“That's right.”

“Did he make any advances?”

“None. We talked business.”

“For an hour?”

“For an hour. He told me everything—about
The Wild Nymph
, and about Mann Photo, and Xavier Mann.”

“What about Mann's wife?”

Cynthia seemed puzzled. “She wasn't mentioned.”

“All right. He told you this. What did he expect you to do with the information?”

“He made me promise I'd do nothing with it. But when he was killed I felt that released me from my promise.”

“Go on. What else did he say?”

“That he'd been gathering information about Mann Photo for some time, in his efforts to locate Sol Dahlman. He was even paying someone in Rockview for information.”

“Ron Kozinski?”

“He didn't tell me the name, but it was someone whose brother worked for Mann.”

McCall nodded. “That would be Kozinski.”

“And of course he'd sent out those letters. He was planning a real investigation. He'd even brought along his secretary to transcribe any meetings he had with people in Rockview. He was determined to find Sol Dahlman.”

“Miss Walsh didn't transcribe your meeting with him.”

“No. I came to ask questions, not answer them.”

“It's odd that he willingly gave you so much information.”

She smiled. “It turned out he was an old admirer of my books and articles. A fan.”

“But no sexual advances?”

“God, McCall, don't you know Ben Sloane was queer?”

“I know it now. I didn't know it then.”

“It was as safe as being with my brother. There's nothing more harmless than an elderly homosexual, even if he is a movie producer.”

“Tell me, during your conversation did he ever mention the name Lash Damlon?”

She looked puzzled. “No, I don't believe so.”

“One hour was a long time to be alone with him—especially the hour between one and two in the morning.”

“We talked some about women's liberation. I told you he admired my writings, and he was more than sympathetic to our cause. He said he'd talked about it in the car with his secretary, but she didn't share his enthusiasm.”

McCall thought of Suzanne Walsh. “No, I guess she wouldn't.” He reached for one of his cigarettes. A sudden thought had struck him. “How did you know the number of Ben Sloane's room?”

“How? He told me.”

“Oh. On the phone?”

“Certainly.”

“But the motel had him registered in the wrong room. How did you reach his room when you first called?”

“Oh, that! They gave me the secretary's room, and she told me the right number. She couldn't get the switchboard back, though, so I had to call again.”

“Did she recognize your voice?”

“I doubt it. I didn't identify myself.”

McCall brooded about it, and finally stood up. “All right. I guess you can go.”

“You're not going to arrest me?” she asked mockingly. Her confidence had returned.

“Not today.”

“Tell me, McCall, do you really think I killed him?”

He smiled slightly. “Not really. The clues I mentioned indicate that a left-handed person like yourself spent some time in Sloane's hotel room. But there's nothing to pin the killing on that left-handed person. You had no motive. And Sloane was killed a little before eight. You were at Governor Holland's mansion with your demonstrators shortly after that. You couldn't have got back to the Capital that fast, even if you'd flown.”

“Then why did you—?”

“I needed to know if you came here to see him that night. Scaring you a bit was the quickest way to find out.”

“You're a bastard, McCall. Or have I told you that already?”

He smiled as he led her to the door. “Seems like I heard it somewhere.”

SEVENTEEN

Sunday, May 16

McCall called Jack Kozinski on the phone. “I'm looking for your brother. Been trying to reach him for a couple of days, in fact.”

Jack was suspicious and noncommittal. “I haven't seen him myself since yesterday noon. He might be off fishing or something.”

“I see. Thanks anyway.”

He hung up and pondered his next move. Ron Kozinski seemed to have dropped from sight sometime since Saturday afternoon. Three other things had happened at about the same time. The strike had been settled, Tanner had left jail, and George Watts had mysteriously disappeared from his house. It seemed reasonable to assume that Kozinski's absence was connected with one or more of these happenings. McCall decided to go hunting.

Downtown Rockview was peaceful and almost deserted on a Sunday afternoon. It was as if the warmth of the May afternoon had caused the entire city to pack picnic lunches and head for the parks. The fact that the clouds overhead were growing gradually more threatening seemed to bother no one. McCall made the circuit of May Street, stopping at the hotel and the various bars, but no one admitted to having seen Ron Kozinski since the previous noon. His search came to a dead end.

That was when he spotted Elizabeth Mann, walking very fast, on the other side of the street. He crossed over and intercepted her. “Going my way?”

“What? Oh, Mr. McCall! You startled me!”

“I'm sorry about that.”