The Blue Movie Murders (14 page)

She downed the rest of her drink and dropped a dollar bill on the table between them. “Women have been staying away for too long, McCall. No more, no more.” She got up to leave, then added, “If the drink's more than a dollar, send me a bill.”

He went back to the car and drove slowly out of downtown, heading for the black section where he'd visited George Watts on Thursday night. The thought had crossed his mind that Watts might not know Tanner was free, might not know the danger was immediate again. There'd been no answer to his phone call, but he didn't imagine Watts was answering many telephone calls in his present state.

McCall parked across the street from the little house with the tilting front porch. By daylight the place seemed more forlorn than ever, a story-book house that belonged in some southern novel about the downtrodden and their slave quarters. He walked across the familiar beaten earth of the front yard and mounted the slanting porch. There was no sign of Watts, or of his shotgun protruding from the lace-curtained window. Perhaps he had heard the news and gone elsewhere to hide.

McCall pushed at the front door and was startled when it moved gently inward. He stepped carefully across the threshold, calling softly as he did so. “Watts, it's me. Mike McCall. Don't shoot.”

But no sound came from the dim interior of the old house. He looked cautiously into the living room, but it was deserted. Then he spotted the shotgun on the floor, half hidden by the overstuffed chair in which George Watts had sat Thursday night. McCall bent and carefully picked it up by the barrel. It had been fired recently, and there were two used shells still in the chambers.

McCall quickly searched the house, looking especially for bloodstains, but he found nothing. He returned to the living room and started to examine the walls. Finally, on the opposite wall, almost hidden by the dingy grey of the wallpaper, he found the oval pattern of peppered holes where the twin charges of buckshot had hit. There was no break in the pattern. Whatever Watts had fired at, he'd missed.

McCall sighed and sat down for a moment. He could question the neighbours, but in this section he knew that no one would admit to seeing anything, or hearing anything that sounded like gunshots. He could call the police, but he had no body or even bloodstains to point to murder. All he knew was that George Watts had feared for his life and now he was gone.

Could Tanner have been out of jail long enough to have got out here, killed Watts, and carried off the body? McCall doubted it, but he couldn't be sure.

He left the house, carefully closing the door behind him, and returned to his car. A small black boy was playing by one fender, marching invisible armies across the smooth bright surface, and McCall asked him, “Did you see Mr. Watts today?”

The boy looked up with brown eyes wide and uncertain. “No, sir! I don't seen nothin'.”

“Did you know Mr. Watts?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you know where his children are? Where they went to stay?”

The boy thought about it a moment and then shook his head. McCall took out a shiny dime and held it in his hand. The boy thought some more, then said, “Maybe I know.”

“Where?”

He pointed an uncertain finger down the road. “They gone to grandma's.”

“Where's that? You want to go for a ride in my car and show me?”

He shook his head vigorously, but his eyes stayed on the dime. McCall added another to it. The boy grinned and nodded. “I show you,” he said, and climbed into the car.

He directed McCall down a narrow side street and across a line of bumpy railroad tracks to a row of drab but neat houses. Here at least there was grass in the yards; the driveways were blacktopped, and more children were at play. It was the other side of the tracks, in a way, though the almost identical bluish-grey houses seemed more suited to a coal-mining community.

“In here,” the boy said at last, bringing him to a halt before a house that was like all the others.

McCall parked and got out with the boy. Almost at once a young brown-skinned woman appeared in the doorway. The boy turned and ran back the way they had come, as the woman walked down the steps to confront McCall. She wore a faded pink housecoat with fur-trimmed sleeves and a hem that ended above her knees.

“You a cop?” she asked.

“No. I'm with the state. Right now I'm looking for George Watts. Do you know him?”

“I'm his wife.”

“Have you seen him recently, Mrs. Watts?”

“Not since he sent us away on Thursday. What's happened to him?”

“Nothing that I know of. But he's not at the house.”

She cursed and stared down at the ground. She might have been seeing something a great distance away. “I told him not to make that movie with that white woman. It's been nothin' but trouble from the start.”

“You knew about the movie?”

“Sure—he don't have no secrets from me.”

“What do you mean, it's been nothing but trouble?”

“That Tanner wanting to beat him up! And the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The one who asked him all the questions. That cab driver.”

McCall knew only one cab driver in the city. “Ron Kozinski?”

She nodded. “That's the name. He wanted to know all about the sex movies. He kep' askin' George questions and he said a man would come who'd pay a reward for information.”

McCall remembered his first meeting with Watts, in the bar at the Rockview Motel. The black man had shown him one of Ben Sloane's letters, but he'd never explained how he'd come by it. “Maybe that helps me, Mrs. Watts.”

“Will it help you help George?”

“I don't know. I hope so.”

She looked him in the eyes, unflinching. “Is George dead?”

“I don't know.”

She nodded, expecting no more, and turned away from him. He watched her while she mounted the steps and re-entered the house. Then he went back to his car and drove away.

FOURTEEN

Saturday, May 15

McCall spent the rest of the afternoon doing some of the things he should have checked out earlier. He drove back across town to the Rockview Motel and accosted the manager in his little office panelled in oak veneer.

He showed his shield case and came right to the point. “I need some information about the hours Ben Sloane spent here before he was killed.”

The manager, whose name was Morgan, frowned with displeasure. “Lieutenant Powell has been all over that with me, Mr. McCall. I'd suggest you get the information from him.”

“This is a separate investigation, sanctioned by the Governor's office. If you just authorize me to examine some of your records, I won't have to bother you again.”

Morgan blinked his eyes uncertainly. “What records?”

“Registration and telephone calls.”

“Telephone calls?”

“I know you make a charge for them, and since there are no instructions by the phone for direct dialling I assume they go through the switchboard. In a place this small I'd guess the operator makes a note of the actual number called, as it's given to her. It helps her to dial it, and it's useful for billing purposes later.”

Morgan nodded reluctantly. “There is such a list.”

“Then I want to see which numbers Sloane called after he checked in Tuesday evening.”

The manager left and returned presently with the registration cards and the telephone record. “You understand this is highly irregular.”

“I understand.”

“Our desk clerk says Lieutenant Powell already asked about phone calls.”

“What was he told?”

“The same thing I'm telling you, Mr. McCall. There were none.”

“
None
?”

“Not one. Look at the list yourself. Ben Sloane was registered in Room 234, and not a single call was made from there.”

McCall breathed a bit easier. “You know the murder didn't happen in 234. It was 242. As I understand it, Sloane and his secretary were mistakenly booked into the same room. When the error was discovered, she kept 234 and he got 242, down the hall.”

Morgan grunted. “I believe you're right. I wasn't here Tuesday night, but the killing certainly took place in 242.”

“What calls were made from there?”

“Let's see—there were just three of them. Here are the numbers. All local calls.”

McCall jotted down the phone numbers. “Any idea who they belong to?”

Morgan shook his head.

McCall went to his room and started dialling. The first number was easy. It was the home of Mayor Jordan. He spoke to the mayor for a few moments about the end of the strike, congratulated him on his hard work, then said, “I'm checking on calls Ben Sloane made the night before his murder. I find your number listed.”

“I thought we'd been all through that, McCall. I told you he called me. And he called Xavier Mann too.”

“I remember.” McCall bit thoughtfully at the lining of his mouth. “But Sloane didn't tell you what room he was staying in?”

“No. Why should he? I'd simply told him I had no information to give him. I had no intention of visiting his motel, though I did invite him down to my office during his visit. After all, he was an important man in the movie industry.”

McCall thanked him and hung up. The next number was Xavier Mann's home, as he'd expected it would be. Elizabeth Mann answered the phone and he asked for her husband.

“Who is this calling, please?”

“Micah McCall. I'm checking on the calls Ben Sloane made the night before he was killed.”

“My husband is at the plant, arranging for the resumption of production tomorrow morning. But I can tell you that Sloane did phone here Tuesday evening. I answered when he called, and I heard Xavier talking to him. Of course he told Sloane nothing about the film.”

“Did Sloane give his room number?”

“I don't think so. Why should he have? As I told you earlier, I'm certain Xavier never went near that motel.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Go near the motel?”

Her voice grew exasperated. “Are we back to that again, Mr. McCall? You still think I might have killed Sloane?”

“Not really,” he assured her. “But you must admit to having an awfully good motive. If the film was ever shown in theatres, everyone would know you were the star of it.”

“The only one whose opinion matters is my husband, and he already knows. I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. McCall.” The receiver clicked and the line went dead.

McCall sighed and dialled the third number on his list. He was betting on either the Chief of Police or Major Hart, but as the ringing produced no answer he began to reconsider. Sloane had called Jordan and Mann at their homes, but a quick check of the local telephone directory verified the fact that neither Chief Burns nor Major Hart was listed. Perhaps they lived outside the city or—most likely—had unlisted phone numbers.

He hung up and tapped on the telephone, staring at the open directory on the bed before him. Then he remembered what George Watts's wife had told him about Ron Kozinski, the taxi driver. He flipped through the pages to the K's and compared numbers. The third number and Kozinski's were the same. So, on the night before he died, Ben Sloane telephoned three people—Mayor Jordan, Xavier Mann, and Ron Kozinski.

There was a gentle knock at his door, and McCall closed the directory. He crossed the room with a quick, catlike movement and opened the door, careful to keep it between himself and his visitor. There was a flash of black and Cynthia Rhodes slipped through.

“My, you're careful! Expecting a murderer?”

He sighed and closed the door behind her. “You're almost as bad. What do you want here?”

She smiled sweetly. “I was wondering if I owed you anything for the drink, McCall.”

“It was ninety-five cents. You've got a nickel's change coming.”

“Keep it.”

“All right. Now let's cut the games. What brought you here?”

She sat down, crossing one black-clad leg over her knee. “I wanted to inform you—and the Governor—of our plans for tomorrow. We're quite a legitimate organization, really, and I don't believe in behind-the-back tactics. I've already called on the editor of the local newspaper, so I thought it only fair to inform you as well.”

“Good of you.”

“The first shift starts at eight tomorrow morning. I plan to be at the gate with my girls and to enter the plant with the workers. We plan a peaceful sit-in to protest the making of sex films by Xavier Mann.”

“I'm sure the police will have other ideas. I don't imagine Mann wants his workers interfered with on their first day back after a long strike.”

“They can carry us out if they want. In fact, the more publicity the better. There are still enough national press and television people around Rockview, digging into Sloane's murder, to ensure widespread coverage.”

“What will you take to call off the demonstration, Cynthia?”

“My, my! Is this a bribe?”

“Certainly not.” He remembered suddenly how he'd felt when Xavier Mann handed him the envelope of money. Was he any better? “But I'm in the midst of a state investigation here—into the subject of blue movies and Ben Sloane's death. Your demonstration tomorrow morning can only complicate things. I've been trying to get inside that plant myself all week. Tomorrow, when the opportunity finally comes, I don't want to be stopped by the police because of your carryings-on.”

He'd been standing above her, looking down, but now she stood up. She was shorter than his six feet by several inches, but just then she seemed a match for him. “McCall, you don't know the first thing about the liberated woman, but I'm damn well going to teach you! Whatever we do at Mann's plant tomorrow is just as important as any plans you might have. Governor Holland has had all the years of his term to shut down the blue-movie industry in this state. He's failed, so the women are going to show him how it's done.”