The Blue Movie Murders (4 page)

“Any idea who killed him?”

She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. “Somebody who didn't like the questions he was asking. Somebody who didn't want him here.”

“What questions was he asking? He wouldn't have had time for many, since you just drove up here last night.”

She nodded, dangling the cigarette from a corner of her mouth. “Last week he had me send out letters to a number of people here in Rockview. The letters announced that he would be arriving last night and staying at the Rockview Motel. They requested information about a man named Sol Dahlman, who was believed to have made a movie titled
The Wild Nymph
here some twenty years ago.”

“Do you have a copy of the letter and a list of those to whom it was sent?”

“I've already given it to Lieutenant Powell, but I remember the names on the list. They were Xavier Mann, president of a film processing company and other businesses here, and Frank Jordan, the city's mayor, and some local police officials. Five letters in all.”

“You certainly don't think one of them killed him?”

“I don't know what to think, Mr. McCall. I only know the man I worked for is dead, and somebody murdered him.”

“Do you have a copy of that letter?” he asked again.

Lieutenant Powell returned at that moment, and McCall realized he was not to be left alone with Suzanne Walsh for any extended period. “What is it you want, McCall?”

“The letter Sloane sent to Rockview officials before he came here. Miss Walsh said she gave you a copy.”

The lieutenant grunted. “She didn't have to give it to me. I already had a copy. The Chief of Police passed it along to me earlier in the week.”

McCall accepted the letter Powell produced, and read through it quickly.

Dear Sir:

During my long years as a part of the motion picture industry I have always been interested in the talents and achievements of young unknown directors. Some years back my attention was attracted to the work of a virtually unknown man named Sol Dahlman. His one feature-length film,
The Wild Nymph
, was considered by many to be obscene at the time, and for the past twenty years it has enjoyed an underground reputation which limited its showing to stag smokers and back rooms. I believe now that its time has come. The changing sexual climate in America, together with relaxed obscenity laws, means that a film of true artistic merit like
The Wild Nymph
can now be shown. As a step towards arranging for the theatrical release of the picture I am attempting to locate Sol Dahlman, the genius who directed it. I am ready to offer Dahlman a contract to direct a new film for me, and to act as an adviser on other matters. But I have a problem—no one knows if Dahlman is alive or dead. No one knows where he lives, or even if Sol Dahlman was his real name. Internal evidence indicates that the film
The Wild Nymph
may have been made in or near Rockview, about twenty years ago. In my effort to locate its director, or any information about him, I plan to visit Rockview for a few days this month. I will be at the Rockview Motel from the evening of Tuesday, May 11th, till the morning of Friday, May 14th. I would appreciate hearing from anyone with information about Sol Dahlman or the film
The Wild Nymph
and I am prepared to pay a reward for such information.

Sincerely,

Ben B. Sloane.

McCall handed back the letter. “Did anyone contact you at the motel, Miss Walsh?”

“Not last night. We ate in the dining room, and then Mr. Sloane retired to his room about eleven o'clock. That was the last I saw him alive. Someone may have called him later and arranged for an early-morning appointment.”

McCall nodded. “You said he was wearing a robe over pyjamas, Lieutenant. That suggests the killer was someone he expected, and welcomed, rather than a simple thief.”

“The motive wasn't robbery. None of his money was taken.”

A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. “Lieutenant, Xavier Mann is on the phone.”

Powell hesitated, glanced at McCall, and said, “I'll take it in my office.”

When they were once more alone, McCall asked, “Isn't Xavier Mann one of the people who received that letter?”

She nodded. “I understand he's the wealthiest man in Rock-view. Mr. Sloane was especially interested in him.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you. Mr. Sloane believed that Mann Photo Service, one of the companies controlled by Xavier Mann, was really a front for the mass production of blue movies. He believed that
The Wild Nymph
was filmed there, and he felt sure Mann knew the identity of Sol Dahlman.”

“Mann Photo Service?”

“They process colour film from dealers in this part of the state. And they manufacture a line of their own film as well. Naturally they have test facilities, including a small studio. Out in Hollywood the word's been around for years that they shoot sex films there too. Recently Mr. Sloane uncovered some sort of evidence that
The Wild Nymph
was made there.”

McCall chewed at the lining of his cheek. “Did he really intend to hire this man Dahlman when he found him?”

She nodded. “Mr. Sloane considered him a genius, as he said in the letter.”

Lieutenant Powell returned, moving his bulk gingerly on tired feet. “You about finished, McCall? I really think Miss Walsh could use a little rest.”

“All finished. Thank you, Miss Walsh.”

He watched her leave and then he went out to his car. Lieutenant Powell didn't say good-bye.

FOUR

Wednesday, May 12

Twas a city, a city in Governor's Holland's state, and to McCall it was a city with its own special problems. He was about to discover what they were. He'd taken a room at the Rockview Motel, a low rambling building with architecture much too modern for its rustic surroundings. He'd even viewed the white-walled room where Ben Sloane had died. The room was exactly the same as his, and he suspected all the rooms in the place were identical. Sterile, with modernistic square corners on everything, and an inexpensive Matisse print over the bed. He could imagine some interior decorator in New York dashing off the whole thing in an hour on a bad afternoon.

On the way out he paused and asked the desk clerk, “Which way to Mann Photo Service?”

“You don't want to go there, mister. They've been on strike for two months. All closed down.”

“I have business at the office. That must be open.”

The room clerk shrugged uncertainly. “If I was you I wouldn't cross that picket line.”

“I'll take my chances,” McCall told him, and the clerk reluctantly gave him directions.

Mann Photo Service was a sprawling brick building without windows, much larger than he'd expected, with a parking lot that could have held about 200 cars. Many small companies were reluctant to give out employment figures, especially if they were not unionized, and during his days as a private detective, McCall had learned the trick of checking parking lots. A few cars in a large lot often meant recent layoffs, while a crowded lot was a sign of prosperity. The parking lot at Mann Photo was empty.

McCall parked across the street from the chain-link fence with its padlocked gate. There were only four men on the picket line in front of it, walking back and forth with an air of casual indifference. The signs they carried were standard stuff—
Mann Photo Unfair to Organized Labour
and
Strike for Higher Wages! Strike for a Living Wage!

At first they seemed to take no notice of McCall as he crossed the street and walked past the line towards a small open gate at one side. But just as he was passing the last of the men he felt a meaty hand on his shoulder.

“What in hell do you want here, mister?”

“Hands off,” McCall said quietly. “I'm here on business.”

The striker was tall and wide-shouldered, with muscles bulging from years of work. “What did you say, mister?”

“Go to hell.”

The man's beefy right fist came up like a flash. McCall ducked under his arm and caught him in the stomach with a solid right. The air went out of him like a punctured balloon, but he stayed on his feet, ready for more. McCall backed away for a clear swing, but by this time the other three were on him.

“Bash his head in!” one of them yelled, and he thought for a moment they were going to do just that. Then he twisted free and managed to land a solid blow to the first man's chin. The man tumbled backwards and hit the ground hard.

McCall backed off a few steps and flipped open his shield case. That stopped them. “I don't want trouble,” he said. “I'm not a scab.”

“Then what do you want?” one of them asked. The other two were bent over their fallen companion.

“Just information. I'm looking for Xavier Mann, or whoever's in charge here.”

“Well, you sure as hell won't find them inside, mister. They're all over at Mann's house this afternoon, havin' a meeting.”

“Where's that?”

“Other side of town. The big mansion in the flatlands.”

“Thanks,” McCall said. Then he had a sudden thought. “I don't suppose I could hire one of you to show me the way, could I?”

The man on the ground uttered a short sharp curse. But one of the others said, “Sure, mister. I'll take you there. For twenty bucks.”

It was obvious he didn't expect McCall to accept the offer, which was just why McCall decided to call the man's bluff. “You've got a deal.”

He eyed McCall doubtfully. “Twenty bucks,” he repeated. “In advance.”

McCall took out his wallet and showed the money. “Come on.”

The man exchanged glances with the others and then moved off, a bit reluctantly, with McCall. At the car he accepted the twenty dollars and then slipped silently into the front seat. He was the youngest of the four strikers, dressed in a tan sports coat and wearing long hair and sideburns. He looked to McCall more like a college kid than a striker.

“What's your name, son? Mine's Mike McCall.”

“Jack Kozinski, and I'm not your son.”

McCall watched him stuff the twenty dollars into his wallet, then started the engine. Glancing back he saw that the man he'd hit was back on his feet. “You may not be my son, but you're not a striker, either.”

“I work at Mann part time, while I'm going to college.”

“Stanyon?”

The young man nodded. “That's the only one around.”

“It's a good place. The Governor of the state was graduated from its law school.”

“I know.”

“Who are those other guys?”

Kozinski relaxed a bit. “The one you hit is Carry Tanner.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I guess you shouldn't have done it.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“He's a tough man to tangle with.”

“I didn't really have much choice under the circumstances,” McCall pointed out.

“Well, the strike has been long. Feelings are pretty bitter.”

“What's it all about, anyway?”

“Don't you know? Isn't that what brought you here?”

McCall twisted the steering wheel to avoid a tired-looking dog that had wandered into the country road. “I wouldn't be asking if I knew. My business has no connection with the strike.”

“Well,” Kozinski began, “we've got an odd situation at Mann Photo. Most of the men have been there a long time—twenty years or more. They're experts at film coating and colour-film processing. And they've been getting pretty good pay. But lately Mann's been hiring some blacks, mainly in the packaging and shipping departments. Some of them are making nearly as much as the old-timers, and it's caused a lot of bitterness.”

“That's no odd situation. That's the way it is these days.”

“Maybe.”

“What's the feeling towards Xavier Mann?”

“Not good. I can tell you that. And Mann knows it. He's supposed to be meeting this afternoon with the mayor and some of the plant officials.” They had topped a last hill and come into sight of a flat, gently rolling area. The large white house, styled in a pseudo-Colonial manner complete with pillars, was obviously the home of Xavier Mann. A half-dozen cars were parked in the great curving driveway.

“I'll have to drop you off here,” McCall said. “Can you get back all right?”

Jack Kozinski nodded. “I can get a bus at the next crossroads. It's not far.”

He started to get out of the car, and McCall asked, “One more question. Did you ever hear of a man named Sol Dahlman?”

“Dahlman? No, I don't think I ever did.”

McCall nodded and climbed out of his side of the car. He watched for a moment as Kozinski set off down the road, then he started up the curving driveway towards Xavier Mann's front door. The house was almost as large as Governor Holland's mansion, and compared to that bleak structure this seemed like a thing of true beauty—the sort one saw in motion pictures about the affluent society.

Just as McCall reached the door it opened unexpectedly and five middle-aged, well-dressed men came out, chatting among themselves. He stepped aside and they passed with only glances in his direction. Two men still stood in the inner hallway, and McCall entered the partly open door. The two men were talking intently, with their heads partly bowed. It was apparent that these were the leaders, the money and brains of Rockview.

“Thank you for coming, Mayor,” the one on the right said finally, sensing McCall's presence. The two men shook hands, and the mayor—a kindly-looking, white-haired man of sixty or so—turned towards the door. The other man, older, fatter, and balder, stared at McCall questioningly.

“Mr. Mann? I'm Micah McCall, Assistant to the Governor for Special Affairs.” He showed his shield case.

The departing mayor stopped short and turned to introduce himself. Some of the kindness had gone out of his face. “I'm Frank Jordan, mayor of Rockview. I hadn't been informed that Governor Holland was sending an investigator here.”