The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen Page B

Potter’s office. The city hall opened for business at nine; it was about a quarter past when McCall turned into First Street.
    Even from two blocks away he could make out the crowd packing the sidewalk and overflowing into the street before the city hall. As he approached he saw that the crowd was predominantly black. The sprinkling of whites seemed young and generally long-haired. He estimated the mob at 500. Perhaps one out of five was wearing a Black Hearts jacket.
    The crowd was chanting, “Free LeRoy! Free LeRoy!”
    The chant was ugly. McCall had observed such scenes frequently enough to read the temper of a mob from its tone. Any spark could set this one off.
    The police had blocked off First Street before the city hall, apparently having abandoned an effort to keep it clear. A traffic officer was directing all vehicles to turn into Douglas Avenue, which was one-way at that point.
    McCall maneuvered into the outer lane so that he could turn left halfway between First and Second into the municipal parking lot across from the big building.
    By the time he had walked to the First Street exit from the lot, the mob had stopped chanting to watch what was going on at the top of the city hall steps. Mayor Potter stood there, rotund, white-thatched, flanked by a tall, very black man of thirty-five wearing glasses and a conservative brown suit, and a heavy, florid, fiftyish white man with graying hair. A workman in coveralls was setting up a microphone and a pair of speakers.
    The silence of the crowd was more ominous than the chanting. McCall could only hope that the men on the steps would be convincing.
    He decided to remain on the far side of the street instead of trying to force his way through the crowd.
    The man in coveralls stepped aside. Mayor Potter immediately said into the microphone, “Can those in the rear hear me all right?”
    The angry rejoinders of the crowd were hardly reassuring. The old man held up one hand.
    â€œMy friends of Banbury, I’m sure you all know these two gentlemen, but I will introduce them to any who may not. To my left is mayoralty candidate Mr. Jerome Duncan.”
    He turned in the direction of the black lawyer. There were a few cheers and some handclapping; hardly an ovation. McCall told himself that the reaction was not necessarily an index of lukewarm support by the black people of Banbury for Duncan’s candidacy; it probably meant that the mob was in no mood for cheering anyone.
    Mayor Potter nodded the other way. “To my right is Councilman-at-Large and opposing mayoralty candidate Mr. Gerald Horton.”
    A few boos; no applause. The crowd was too exercised over the Rawlings issue to be interested in political introductions.
    â€œMr. Duncan, Mr. Horton, and I have just held a conference,” the old mayor went on. “We’ve agreed that it is essential to the welfare of this city that the three of us stand shoulder to shoulder on one issue, in spite of political differences. That area of agreement is this: that violence must not be allowed to shatter the peace of our city. We want you to know that we sympathize with your cause, and we pledge our combined legitimate influence to try to bring about what you demand. If you’ll bear with us in patience, my friends, we three will confer with Judge Edmundson and request an immediate reduction of Mr. Rawlings’s bail. We will do so the moment Judge Edmundson arrives in his chambers.”
    So the sight and sound of the mob had changed Gerald Horton’s mind. McCall grinned to himself. That chanting had been considerably more convincing than a mere governor’s emissary’s voice over the telephone.
    McCall was impressed by Heywood Potter’s astuteness. The only man of the three standing before the crowd who was going to exert any influence on Judge Edmundson was Gerald Horton. But through the old man’s ploy the incensed people would give as much credit to Potter and the man