The Blue Movie Murders (5 page)

“It's not about the strike,” McCall assured him. “It's on another matter, and I'd like to talk to you both if I could.”

Xavier Mann hesitated, then said, “Come into my library and explain yourself, young man. You'd better come too, Mayor.”

McCall followed them into a high-ceilinged, book-lined study that reminded him of the reading room in a public library. There were even little green-shaded lamps scattered about the room, adding to the library atmosphere. He picked a comfortable armchair facing Mann's wide cluttered desk. “Nice place you've got here.”

Xavier Mann ignored the comment and said simply, “Now, sir, what is your business?”

“I'm looking into the murder of Ben Sloane, the film producer.”

The older man's deep-set eyes seemed to flicker with a touch of fire. “A tragedy,” he said quietly. “Mayor Jordan was just telling me about it. But how does it interest the Governor, enough for him to send you here the same day?”

“Sloane came to Rockview to find a man named Sol Dahlman, a film director. Did either of you ever hear the name before?”

“Not me,” Mayor Jordan said, shaking his white mane.

“Nor I,” Xavier Mann said.

McCall decided to get tough. “That's odd, since Ben Sloane wrote to both of you last week, mentioning the name.”

Xavier Mann's face flushed and he rose from behind the desk, his eyes flashing. “Mr. McCall, you have no right to come into my house and quiz me like this. You seem to have an overdeveloped sense of your own importance, sir. I could pick up that telephone and have Governor Holland on the line in a minute.”

“Go ahead. He sent me here to ask questions, and that's what I'm doing.”

“We both received the letters,” Mayor Jordan volunteered. “But neither of us knew this man Dahlman. We thought no more about it.”

Before McCall could say anything else they were interrupted by the appearance of a middle-aged woman with dark, glistening hair. “Xavier,” she said, “you promised to be finished by five.”

Xavier Mann sighed and nodded. “Yes, I did, my dear. Mr. McCall, this is my wife, Elizabeth.”

McCall judged her to be at least twenty-five years younger than her husband. She stood in the doorway straight and unyielding, and he had the impression that she didn't need any of Cynthia Rhodes's propaganda to be a liberated woman.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

She nodded silently, and her husband said, “I'll be finished here in just a moment, dear.”

As she started to turn in the doorway McCall asked, “Mrs. Mann, I'm here seeking information on a man named Sol Dahlman. Perhaps you've heard of him.”

“Sol Dahlman …” She repeated the name, like some half-forgotten melody.

But Xavier Mann was too fast. “I've already told him we know nothing of any such person, my dear.”

She took the cue promptly. “That's right. I've never heard the name before.”

“Satisfied, Mr. McCall?” Xavier Mann asked. There was something like triumph in his voice, as if he'd just made a skilful move at chess.

“I guess I have to be.”

Mrs. Mann left the room, and her husband leaned back in his swivel chair. McCall would have hated to be one of his employees.

“Then you'll be going, Mr. McCall?”

“Not quite yet. I have one more thing to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Ben Sloane was searching for Dahlman, and the letter told you why—because Dahlman had directed a classic pornographic film back in the early 1950's. Sloane had evidence that this film,
The Wild Nymph
, was produced at the plant of Mann Photo Service.”

Mann leaped to his feet. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Unless you have evidence to back up that statement I suggest you leave my house!”

“Then it's not true?”

“It most certainly is not! We manufacture a colour-reversal film and process colour prints and transparencies. But we do not produce pornographic films.”

“The meeting with your plant officials this afternoon—it wasn't called because of Sloane's murder?”

“Certainly not! The meeting was called to discuss progress in the strike negotiations.”

“I can back that up,” the mayor said. “The strike has two hundred people out of work, and that concerns the entire community.”

Somewhat mollified, Xavier Mann sat down again. “Do you think, Mr. McCall, that the mayor of Rockview would take part in a meeting called to discuss the making of sex films?”

“I don't know,” McCall answered frankly. “Then you're telling me you never knew Dahlman or anything about these films? Or had anything to tell Sloane?”

“That's correct.”

Out of the corner of his eye McCall caught Mayor Jordan stirring uneasily. He took a chance and asked, “Did Sloane phone you when he arrived last night?”

“He called, yes,” Mann answered. “As a follow up to his letter, I suppose.”

“And you, Mayor?”

“He phoned me too, at my home.”

“And you told him nothing.”

“There was nothing to tell.”

“Doesn't it strike you as odd that a man of Ben Sloane's reputation would conduct this sort of a search personally, rather than simply hire a private detective?”

“That's simple,” Mayor Jordan said.

“Is it?”

“He didn't want to scare Dahlman away. Private detectives sometimes uncover too much.”

“Like what?”

The mayor shrugged. “Maybe Dahlman is a respected businessman now. Maybe he doesn't want people to know he once made a dirty movie.”

“Would you call it a motive for murder?” McCall asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on the man.”

Xavier Mann was moving again. “McCall, I can't keep my wife waiting any longer. If you're married you know how it is.”

“I'm not,” McCall said, thinking of all the times Sam Holland had kidded him about his bachelorhood. “But I understand and I have no further questions.”

Xavier Mann saw him to the door. Getting into his car, McCall noticed that the mayor had lingered for a few final words. He also noticed someone at an upstairs window, and suspected it was the impatient Mrs. Mann.

FIVE

Wednesday, May 12 and Thursday, May 13

Back at the motel, the room clerk called him over to the desk. “There's someone waiting in the bar to see you, Mr. McCall.”

“Oh?”

“A black gentleman,” the clerk said, with only a hint of distaste.

McCall found him sitting on a barstool with his back to the door. There was a half-finished beer in front of him. “I'm Micah McCall. You wanted to see me?”

His skin was a deep brown, and his flattened nose seemed to spread halfway across his face. He turned and grinned, showing a double row of gleaming white teeth.

“You're the Governor's man, right?”

“That's right.” McCall slipped on to the next barstool and ordered a beer. “What can I do for you?”

“Name's George Watts. I'm one of the strikers out at the plant.”

“I'm not here about the strike.”

“I know. You're here because somebody shot that film man this morning.”

McCall's eyes narrowed. “You know something about that?”

“How much is it worth?”

“That depends.”

“I need money, mister. The strike fund's short-changing us blacks. Whitey's takin' all the money.”

“I heard one of the reasons for the strike was that they were hiring blacks at good salaries.”

“They don't like us. Especially Tanner. I hear you had a little run-in with him this afternoon.”

“News travels fast.”

“Most of the whites don't even talk to us, but that kid Kozinski does. He told me.”

“I see.”

“He said you were askin' about Sol Dahlman.”

“That's right.”

The black man pulled a folded letter from his pocket and spread it on the bar. It was one of Ben Sloane's letters, asking for information. “He mentions a reward.”

“But he's dead now.”

The black man nodded. “I thought maybe you might have the reward.”

McCall noticed the bartender moving casually closer. “Let's get out of here,” he said. “I've got a car outside.”

“Fine by me.”

The May evening had turned chilly, and although there was still another hour or more of daylight remaining, the sun had vanished behind a bank of thick clouds on the western horizon. The parking lot was almost deserted, with only a handful of cars at one end. Not many people came to Rockview this early in the season.

“All right,” McCall said. “Now what do you know?”

“They been makin' these films,” George Watts began. “Bad stuff, the kind—”

He was cut off in mid-sentence by the sudden gunning of a car motor behind them, and McCall turned in time to see a blue station wagon coming up fast. He had only an instant to act. He shoved Watts out of its path and dived to the other side as the car passed between them, then slammed on its brakes.

“Run!” Watts shouted. “I'm the one they want.” His hand vanished under his coat and came out holding a tiny pistol.

But he was not quite fast enough for the two men who jumped out of the station wagon. The nearer one hit Watts' arm a glancing blow that sent the pistol spinning to the asphalt. The door on the driver's side opened and McCall recognized Carry Tanner.

“Okay, damn you,” Tanner rasped. “Here's where we teach you black bastards a lesson!”

McCall didn't carry a gun, something he regretted at times like this. He scrambled across the asphalt for the fallen weapon, and heard Tanner shout, “Get that one and hold him! I've got a score to settle with him too!”

But McCall knew a few tricks. As the striker fell on him he rolled to one side quickly and grabbed the man's arm. He twisted it up and landed a sharp karate blow to the nerves in the man's armpit. He knew that would keep him out of the action for a time.

Then he had the gun in his hand, just as Tanner was swinging a short piece of pipe at Watts's skull. He fired one quick shot from the ground, without aiming, and when Tanner ignored it he shot the pipe out of his hand.

“Damn you!” the man screamed, turning his heavy body and clutching his bloody fingers. “I'll kill you for that!”

McCall got to his feet, still holding the gun. The third man had released Watts and was moving slowly backward. “I don't think you'll be killing anyone, Tanner. I can have you locked up right this minute.”

“Try it! Lock me up and Mann's plant will be closed till doomsday!”

McCall wasn't familiar enough with the local power structure to know just where he stood. Since Watts hadn't actually been hurt, McCall knew his hand was weak. Tanner could claim he was acting in self-defence after Watts pulled a gun, and he'd have two witnesses to substantiate him.

“All right,” McCall decided. “Pick up your friend here and get moving. I don't want to see your face again.”

Tanner took a step closer, wrapping a grimy handkerchief around his bleeding fingers. “That's twice in one day, mister. You been askin' for it.”

“Get going before I change my mind and run you all in.”

They helped the fallen man into the car as McCall watched. Then they gunned the motor and shot out of the parking lot. McCall walked over to George Watts.

“You probably saved my life,” the black man told him.

McCall handed back the gun. “Got a licence for that?”

“As much of a licence as you need in Rockview these days. Half the city goes around armed.”

“What about Mann Photo? The blue movies?”

But George Watts had become cautious. “Later, man. I gotta think this out. I got a wife and kids, and I gotta make sure they stay safe.”

McCall sighed. He knew there was no budging the man. “All right. I'll be at the motel, when you think you can talk.”

He watched the man walk quickly to his car, thinking that he'd already learned enough to confirm a key fact. They were making sex films at Mann Photo, with or without the knowledge of Xavier Mann.

It was hard to believe he'd been in Rockview for less than twelve hours. Whole days seemed to stretch endlessly behind him, with Cynthia Rhodes leading the parade. He'd had two run-ins with Tanner and his strikers, and he knew they'd be seeing more of each other. And if he was no closer to finding Sol Dahlman, at least he had gained some knowledge of the city and of the people who ran it.

Climbing into the motel bed a few hours later he knew even more. He'd spent the evening reading a few Chamber of Commerce publications that the motel thoughtfully supplied to each room. One of them had carried a brief biography of Mayor Frank Jordan. It seemed that prior to entering politics he'd been the plant manager at Mann Photo Service.

McCall had set his mental alarm clock to awaken him at eight o'clock in the morning, and so when the bedside phone rang he knew it was not yet that hour. He rolled over between the sheets, looking for his watch, and saw that it was just past 7.30. Years of training as an investigator had taught him to always check the time when an unexpected event took place.

“Hello?”

“This is Sam Holland, Mike.”

“Yes, Governor.”

“How's the investigation going?”

“Slowly. There's labour trouble here—a strike at Mann Photo Service—and the city's uptight about it.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this Dahlman fellow?”

“I've talked to everybody I could find, but no luck yet. If Dahlman killed Sloane, he's staying under cover. I learned, though, that this photo plant owned by Xavier Mann has been the source of blue movies. Apparently
The Wild Nymph
was filmed there twenty years ago, and they've been active ever since.”

“Interesting.”