The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen Page B

“And I’m damned if I’m going to let you put me on the defensive! I heard you were an intelligent man. I’m beginning to doubt the rumor.”
    The black face thrust close to his. “What kind of crap you dishing out, McCall? You never counted eenie, meenie, minie, moe when you were a kid? You always called those big nuts Brazil nuts? Huh?” His big fist gathered up McCall’s jacket. “Answer me!”
    â€œLeRoy, I want you to take your hand off Mr. McCall,” the black lawyer said quietly. “Right now.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Mr. Wade,” McCall said. “I could dump your client, big as he is, on his tokus without blinking an eye if I wanted to. Listen to me, Rawlings. Oh, first let go of my coat.” Rawlings expelled some breath. Then his hand went slack. “Thank you. I grew up on Chicago’s south side. The first kid I ever had a fist fight with was black. We gave each other bloody noses, and I don’t know which of us was more surprised that we both had red blood. We became close friends. I’d never call you a nigger, Rawlings. But I’m not so sure I wouldn’t call you a jerk.”
    Rawlings grinned suddenly. “Okay, McCall, I withdraw honky. But I still can’t help you. Yesterday I got a letter in the mail from Harlan, and it said about the same thing he wrote to the radio and TV stations. He said to tell the other Black Hearts not to worry about him, that he was okay, but he wasn’t going to let any of us know where he was so the pigs wouldn’t be pressuring one of us to tell.”
    Prentiss Wade frowned. “You didn’t mention that to me, Roy. Where is this letter?”
    â€œI tore it up.”
    â€œTore it up?” Wade cried. “That letter could have helped your defense against this charge!”
    Rawlings looked crestfallen. Then he shrugged. “Too late now, Prentiss. We get our mail in the morning, and I wasn’t arrested till afternoon. How was I to know I was going to need a defense?”
    McCall said, “Let me put it this way. If Harlan James does let you know where he is, will you ask him if he’s willing to see me?”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” Rawlings said. “Where do I reach you?”
    â€œI’m staying at the Banbury Plaza.”
    Rawlings turned about. “Come on, Prentiss, I want to get home and wash the stink of that jail off me.”
    He walked away without a glance. Prentiss Wade smiled at McCall, spread his hands in humorous despair, and hurried after his client.

TWELVE
    Officer Beth McKenna lived in a better residential district and apartment building than Laurel Tate’s. Her apartment was in a twelve-unit, one-story building shaped like a squared-off C, legs pointing toward the street with a lawned courtyard between. There were outside doors to each apartment giving onto a parapeted porch that ran around the inside of the C.
    Beth’s was Apartment 3, on the left side of the porch. She came to the door in a white long-sleeved blouse with a mannish collar and a bowtie that matched her blue skirt. The ensemble managed to be anything but masculine. Her skirt was a miniskirt, the shoes were fashionable, and she had on sheer black butterfly stockings.
    Having last seen her in her uniform, with a regulation-length skirt, McCall had not noticed her legs. He noticed them now—if “notice” was the word—the instant she opened her door. They were long and svelte, from a Vargas drawing. His inspection lingered.
    â€œI have a face,” Beth reminded him from her doorway.
    â€œAnd a lovely one it is, too,” McCall said absently. “I’m not a leg man especially. Oh, I like legs, all right, but I’m really a sort of all points man—I mean all curves—with no particular anatomical hangups. May I come in?”
    â€œFrom the way you looked at them,” Beth said, not moving, “I’m not