The Blue Movie Murders (19 page)

“So where does that leave us? The killer couldn't have learned the room number from the desk, and Sloane didn't tell him the room number. Then how could the killer have known the right room? Only one person, other than Cynthia, knew which room Ben Sloane was staying in—and that person was you, Suzanne.”

She actually laughed. “A smart defence attorney would rip that to shreds, McCall. Maybe Cynthia met someone and told them the room number. Maybe Sloane happened to be standing in the hall when the murderer came up.”

“Who would Cynthia tell at two in the morning? Why would Sloane be in the hallway so early in the morning?” He took a backward step as he talked, and Suzanne Walsh moved forward, keeping the same distance between them. “But even granting the possibility, that brings us to my fourth point. Ben Sloane brought you to Rockview for one purpose—to transcribe any meetings he might have regarding the Dahlman matter. Now in view of that fact, is it probable that he would meet someone—even at seven or eight in the morning—without having you present to take notes? Sloane was a businessman, and he was in Rockview on business. He brought you along strictly for business purposes. No, Suzanne, any scheduled meeting would have included you. Since you knew of no meeting, that meant there wasn't one.”

“Perhaps it was a meeting not connected with the Dahlman matter.”

But McCall shook his head. “Highly doubtful, especially since Sloane was still in his night clothes. He'd made a point of being dressed when he received Cynthia at one in the morning.”

“And my motive? I just shoot my boss for no reason after all these years?”

“I'll admit that had me stumped for a time. But it's my fifth point: a woman scorned. How long have you loved him, Suzanne?”

Her eyes were growing misty, and the madness was drifting away. “Loved him?” she repeated.

“That's what it had to be. Even with the age difference and the hints of his homosexuality, which you must have heard. Maybe that was enough to keep you away for a time, to ease his rejection of you. But Tuesday night something happened. Cynthia Rhodes phoned your room, looking for him. After that it was easy enough for you to watch for her arrival, to hide behind one of the jutting corners of the hallway, and see her enter his room. To stay hidden there, waiting, until she left the room an hour later. A girl told me, under almost identical circumstances yesterday, that when a lady like Cynthia Rhodes is seen coming out of a man's hotel room at an odd hour, there's only one conclusion to draw. And you drew it. Ben Sloane had scorned you—for this!”

“Yes!” Suzanne screamed, her eyes blurred now with tears. “Yes! He scorned me for that damned women's lib person! She was everything I hated, everything I despised. And Ben spent an hour with her in the middle of the night! He didn't even tell me about it, so I knew it wasn't business. He needed no transcript of
that
!”

“She came to ask questions, not answer them.”

“I know what she came for! I saw them eyeing each other at the party! My God, I went back to my room and carried on all night. I couldn't sleep thinking about it, imagining them together in there! Sure, he was an old man, but I still loved him. He was a genius with film, and I loved him. I loved him.”

“What happened, Suzanne?”

“I went to his room a little before eight. I had the gun with me, but I only meant to scare him, to point it at him and tell him I was quitting, leaving him for ever. That's what I did, only he just stood there and laughed. He laughed and said it was like a scene in some old Bette Davis movie. I shot him.”

“Just like that.”

“My God, don't you understand? I loved him!”

McCall stepped back another foot, and she advanced. Now George Watts was behind her range of vision, forgotten in her tear-stained anger. McCall caught his eye and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I think I understand, Suzanne.”

In that instant she sensed something wrong and tried to turn, but Watts hit her wrist with a knifelike chop, sending the tiny gun spinning. Then McCall pinned her arms as she screamed and sobbed and tried to break free.

“Call the police,” he told Watts. “It's all over.”

NINETEEN

Sunday, May 16 and Monday, May 17

Lieutenant Powell was unhappy. The rain had stopped, giving way to a chilly evening that was unseasonably cool for May. He turned grumbling from the window and said, “I know she's confessed, damn it, but that's not how I had it figured. Not at all!”

McCall smiled and leaned back on the hard wooden office chair. He'd been through this before. Powell was not a great deal different from Lieutenant Long back in Tisquanto. “Suppose you tell me how you figured it, Lieutenant.”

“I agree with your evidence about the room numbers and all, and I'll even agree that Sloane wouldn't have arranged a meeting on the Dahlman matter without telling his secretary. And I'll rule out robbery as a motive. But why couldn't it have happened this way? Ben Sloane, an ageing homosexual alone in a strange city, wanders down to the bar in the motel, picks up some guy, and spends the night with him. In the morning the guy kills Sloane.”

McCall shook his head. “You forget that Cynthia was with him till two in the morning. The bars would have been closed by the time she left—and in fact she mentioned they were. Besides, a crime such as you imagine would almost certainly have included robbery—at least, the money in Sloane's billfold.”

“Well, I don't know.”

“Besides, I have a sixth point I never did get a chance to tell Suzanne. You might call it the clincher.”

“Let's hear it.”

“It's in two parts, really. Call it points six and seven if you want. They involve things Suzanne lied about. First, she lied about Cynthia's call, because she didn't want to attract attention to her motive for the crime.”

“Why lie about it? Why didn't she try to fix the murder on the Rhodes dame?”

“Because Cynthia Rhodes left Sloane's room a full six hours before he was shot. Suzanne knew Cynthia might have a cast-iron alibi—which in fact she did.”

“All right, she lied about Cynthia to conceal her motive. But what else did she lie about?”

“The letters Sloane sent. She said there were only four, but there had to be five. She even said there were five, the first time I asked about it. But later she changed it to four, omitting Ron Kozinski. We know Kozinski received a letter because he passed it on to George Watts. And we also know it because Sloane included him in the Tuesday-night phone calls. But Suzanne lied about it later because Kozinski had already got in touch with her by then, threatening blackmail. She had to keep his name out of the investigation until she decided how to deal with him.”

“Why would Sloane send Kozinski a letter if Kozinski was already feeding him information?”

“To let him know when he'd be in town. Kozinski passed the word to Watts, and later when Watts was scared off by Tanner, Kozinski hid him at his apartment. Then he phoned Suzanne in New York to set up the blackmail payment at Watts' house on Sunday. Poor Watts was caught in the middle. Kozinski figured he was safe dealing with a frightened woman. He ran into that house this afternoon with all the confidence in the world. And Suzanne Walsh shot him dead. By that time, I suppose, she didn't really care any more. The second murder's easier, they say.”

Powell nodded his head. “And that's it?”

“That's it. She lied about the number of letters, lied about Cynthia's phone call. She was the only suspect who knew Sloane's room number, and we've agreed he'd have told her about any business meeting. Cynthia's visit triggered her motive.

That would probably be enough even without the gun and the confession.”

Powell nodded. “We can always try her for Kozinski's murder. George Watts is an eye-witness to that one.”

“That puts it all together. Now I'll be getting back to the capital.”

“What about Xavier Mann?”

“I think the newspapers will deal with him. Governor Holland probably won't even need a new law.”

“And Sol Dahlman?”

McCall shrugged and stood up. “Somebody told me he died in Korea. Maybe he did.”

He stayed one more night in Rockview, rising at dawn to pack his bag and drive back home. Somewhere in the midst of the packing he came upon the sheet of paper he'd used Saturday night to write out the names:

SOL DAHLMAN

LASH DAMLON

For a long time he stood looking at it, then stuffed it away in his bag.

The day was warmer, but the drive south was not a pleasant one for McCall. He brooded about the case, and about the passion which had driven Suzanne Walsh to murder and the brink of insanity. But mostly he brooded about the blue movies Xavier Mann had financed for all those years.

Finally, when he reached the capital, he drove directly to Governor Holland's mansion. The guard at the gate nodded and waved him through, and he pulled into his accustomed parking place. The place seemed strangely quiet without the chanting of Cynthia Rhodes and her followers, and it was hard to remember that her march on the mansion had occurred only five days earlier. It had been a busy time for McCall.

Governor Holland was waiting for him in the familiar panelled office. He rose from his chair, tall and imposing as ever, and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Mike. I couldn't have asked for a finer job. I've just been reading the newspaper accounts, and they give you full credit.”

“It was a puzzling case, Governor. I'm glad I could crack it.”

“And the blue-movie business?”

McCall sighed. “I believe you'll have word of a Congressional investigation very shortly. A girl named April Evans turned up, and it developed she was a Senate committee investigator.”

“Good! Let them take it off my hands!” Sam Holland sat down, smiling. “Maybe what we need are new laws from Washington.”

“Maybe,” McCall agreed. “But after seeing
The Wild Nymph
, I'm undecided as to just how far such laws should go. Sex and pornography are two different things.”

“Yes,” Governor Holland mused. “
The Wild Nymph
. You never did turn up this man who directed it, did you? This mysterious Sol Dahlman?”

“I turned him up,” McCall said.

“You did? You mean he's still alive, Mike?”

McCall leaned forward in his chair. It was the most difficult moment of his life. “Governor, you made that film. You are Sol Dahlman.”

TWENTY

Monday, May 17

Sam Holland's face went white, and he turned for a moment towards the window, perhaps looking out at some distant past. Then, almost immediately, he wheeled around and said, “Mike, how did I ever think I could deceive you? I should have told you the entire story from the beginning.”

“I wish you had, Governor.”

“But how …? Was it the name?”

“Mostly that,” McCall admitted. “But there were other things, when I started thinking about it on the drive down here this morning.”

“Tell me, Mike.”

“Well, there was the name, though I must admit I never noticed anything unusual about Sol Dahlman at first. It wasn't until I was looking over the records at Mann Photo and learned that certain equipment during the summer of 1950 had been signed out by Lash Damlon. This was obviously an anagram for Sol Dahlman, but I thought no more about it till this morning. I found a sheet of paper with the two names written on it, and I started making other anagrams.”

“Yes,” Governor Holland said quietly.

“It wasn't difficult. If the director of
The Wild Nymph
had made an anagram of his name once, then why not twice? If Sol Dahlman and Lash Damlon were the same person, why couldn't both be anagrams of the director's real name?”

McCall laid the sheet of paper on the desk between them. Now it read:

SOL DAHLMAN

LASH DAMLON

SAM HOLLAND

“Yes,” the Governor said with a nod. “That was how it happened. First I used the name Lash Damlon, but somehow it seemed too strange, too unusual. I finally settled on Sol Dahlman as being more inconspicuous, and that was the name the others knew me by, the name which appeared on the final film.”

“I had two hours to think about it during the drive this morning, and I gave you the benefit of every doubt. I even considered the possibility that this whole affair was a clever political manoeuvre to discredit you. But Lash Damlon's name appeared in a sign-out book over twenty years old, and Sol Dahlman's name has been on that film for nearly as long. The names existed and were recorded long before you became Governor or even entered politics. So it couldn't be a fake or a frame-up.”

“It's not.”

“And the more I thought about it, the more supporting evidence came to light. Your interest in the whole affair, your special interest last Wednesday morning when I mentioned the reason for Sloane's trip to Rockview—and of course your sending me there in the first place. Your reasons for investigating Sloane's death and the blue-movie business were vague at best. You said it was to satisfy Cynthia's demonstrators, but of course my trip was supposed to be secret and therefore would accomplish little in the way of public relations.

“No, Governor, the real reason you sent me to Rockview was to solve Sloane's murder and clear Sol Dahlman of the crime. Because if the papers got wind of the Dahlman business, and started publishing stories linking the missing Dahlman to the killing, sooner or later some astute reader might tumble to the anagram business. Even though you were here in the capital at the time of the killing, there'd be some effort to link you to it—or to discredit you simply for having made
The Wild Nymph
.”

“You're right, all the way. That's what I feared most, I suppose.”