The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen Page A

involved, it’s your people who are playing it, Mr. Horton.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” Horton sounded indulgent.
    â€œI’ll lay it on the line, Mr. Horton. I’m convinced that the charge against Harlan James and this one against LeRoy Rawlings are both calculated political maneuvers by District Attorney Volper. I think Volper wants to strain further the already tense race situation in this town in order to attract the votes of working-class whites to your law-and-order platform. I don’t accuse you of being a party to this, Mr. Horton—”
    â€œThank you,” Horton said dryly.
    â€œâ€”but on the other hand I’m not assuming your innocence, either.”
    â€œWho appointed you judge of my character, McCall?”
    â€œI’m not judging you, sir. I’m here as an investigator, and any investigator worth his salt makes no unsupported assumptions.”
    â€œMy whole career—”
    â€œThe political bug, Mr. Horton, invades the human economy in strange ways. However, that’s not the point. The point is that stirring up a racial stew here for political reasons was Volper’s obvious motive in recommending this unconscionable bail to a handpicked judge. You may win the election by not lifting a finger to get that bail reduced, Mr. Horton, but you won’t have as large a constituency to govern, because a lot of the voters will be dead.”
    Horton no longer sounded indulgent. “I regard this, McCall, as defamation of character!”
    â€œSo sue me,” McCall suggested. “Meanwhile, let’s stick to the immediate issue. Doesn’t what I’ve said affect your attitude on the high bail in any way?”
    â€œNot one damn bit!” Horton snapped, and he hung up with a crack.
    When McCall returned to the table Laurel asked, “Any luck?”
    â€œOh, yes,” McCall said. “All bad. I got hold of him, but he won’t lift a finger. You think Mayor Potter or this lawyer Duncan he’s backing to succeed him would have any influence with the judge?”
    Laurel looked incredulous. “You must be kidding, Mike. Edmundson is a Horton man. Besides, he’s a segregationist.”
    McCall shrugged. “Forget it, baby. While the city burns, let’s fiddle.”
    So they spent the rest of the evening enjoying themselves. They watched the nine o’clock floor show, which was first-rate, and danced for a while. After the Capri they stopped into two other clubs. They had several more drinks apiece. Laurel became neither stupid nor sick. McCall allowed her only anemic gin-and-tonics.
    He got her home after one in the morning. With what he hopefully interpreted as regret, she apologized for not inviting him in—she had to be up in six hours, she said, and she faced a big day.
    â€œI’m one of those dreary people who need eight hours’ sleep to function. I hope you don’t mind, Mike.”
    â€œThat’s like asking the condemned man if the rope feels uncomfortable,” McCall said. “Do I rate at least a good-night kiss?”
    What happened then, brief as it was, made McCall curse his bad judgment all the way back to his hotel for not having got Laurel home earlier.

TEN
    He was up by eight. He picked up a Post-Telegram to read with breakfast. The arrest of LeRoy Rawlings was not the lead story—a new Middle East eruption blasted it out of that position—but it was on the front page.
    The story was headlined NO. 2 BLACK HEART CHARGED WITH CONSPIRACY. A subhead read Bail Fixed at $50,000 . The story itself was an unsalted account of the facts.
    McCall turned to the editorial page. The Post-Telegram vigorously disapproved of the excessive bail; it had nothing to say about the charge itself. Nor was there any comment about the possibility that the arrest might set off racial violence. Perhaps, McCall thought, it was just as well.
    After breakfast he headed for Mayor