The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen

imagined the touch of a dead hand must be like. How about taking me to that rally, Mike?”
    â€œOh,” McCall said swiftly. “I wish I could, Laurel, but I’m committed elsewhere. I wouldn’t condemn you to a political speech, anyway—not one of Horton’s.”
    He wondered why she gave him such an odd look. The truth was, he had almost forgotten his date for the evening with Chief Condon’s blonde secretary, Beth McKenna.
    â€œServes me right for throwing myself at you,” Laurel said lightly. “Now I really have to get back to work.” And her typewriter began rattling away.
    McCall went into Mayor Potter’s office. The old man had just hung up.
    â€œOne of my staff,” Potter said. “BOKO’s announced over the air that another tape from Harlan James arrived in this morning’s mail. They’re going to broadcast it at ten.”
    McCall glanced at his watch. It was five of ten. “I’ll have to miss it, Mr. Mayor. I want to be in court when Rawlings gets his bail hearing.”
    The marble staircase was clogged with people who wanted to get into the courtroom. Police were clearing the jam without difficulty; the mood of the crowd was docile, even good-humored.
    McCall’s shield case got him into the courtroom again. He estimated the spectators as ninety percent black; about half the men wore Black Hearts jackets.
    Although it was now a few minutes past ten, the judge was not yet on the bench. The defendant was not in evidence, either. His lawyer, Wade, sat at the defense table, his face unreadable. But McCall thought he must be feeling good.
    Arthur Volper was not present. A young assistant D.A. sat alone at the prosecutor’s table. He seemed nervous.
    A few moments later LeRoy Rawlings was brought in by Sergeant Fenner. The black-jacket wearers gave their vice president a standing ovation when he strode in. Grinning, Rawlings clasped hands above his head like a boxer acknowledging the acclaim of his fans.
    Sergeant Fenner turned his prisoner over to a bailiff and left. He threw McCall a friendly wave as he went by.
    Rawlings had no sooner seated himself beside his lawyer than the judge stalked in and everyone rose. Edmundson was a small, twitchy man in his fifties with thinning sand-colored hair, a case of acne, and a sour expression. He rapped with his gavel and said in an irritated voice, “Be-seated-court-is-now-in-session-will-the-attorneys-of-record-approach-the-bench.”
    The hearing took minutes. The assistant district attorney entered a learned objection to any reduction in the defendant’s bail; the judge snipped him short.
    â€œThis is not an adversary proceeding. The matter is up to the discretion of the court, and my decision is made. Let’s not waste any time, Mr. Browning!”
    He then suspended bail, released the defendant on his own recognizance, and called the next case. As Rawlings started up the center aisle with his attorney, most of the spectators rose to follow. Judge Edmundson pounded with his gavel.
    â€œSpectators will remain seated!” he shouted. “I will not have my courtroom disrupted by a mass exodus! You may leave at the first recess.”
    McCall was already out in the hall. As the courtroom door closed behind the two black men, he said, “Just a minute, Mr. Rawlings.”
    Both men turned. The Black Hearts vice president said in a neutral tone, “Hello, McCall.”
    â€œThis is Mike McCall?” The lawyer held out his hand. “Roy told me how you gave Art Volper a lecture in constitutional law, Mr. McCall. Wish I’d been there to watch.”
    McCall shook it, smiling. “I think the D.A. knows his law, Mr. Wade. He just stretches the rules a little. Glad to meet you.”
    Rawlings stared at him. “Just what is Sam Holland’s interest in the Black Hearts? If he didn’t have an ax to grind, you wouldn’t be smelling