Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  “Okay,” he said. “What I know is sketchy at best. My wife hired you to pay off a blackmailer. Why, I couldn’t imagine. Her life is beyond reproach. She’s never done anything to warrant blackmail. The whole idea is just absurd.” He paused, took a breath. “But as I understand it, the pictures you bought had nothing to do with her. They were of someone else.”

  And not you, either, was the thought that flashed to mind. Not that I’d ever thought they would be. On the other hand, there was no reason to assume they wouldn’t.

  “That’s true,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Then the whole thing makes no sense. No sense at all. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because we have to carry on as if it did.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s the whole problem.”

  “Okay, then where was I? Oh yes. The pictures. She hired you to get the pictures. From a sleazeball named Barry.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And I assume the police have looked.”

  He looked at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “For the pictures. I gave your wife the pictures. I’d assume the police made some effort to find them.”

  He nodded. “They were here, yes. Searched the place from top to bottom.” He shook his head. “Didn’t find a thing.”

  “Is there any other place your wife might have kept them?”

  “Exactly what they asked. But no, there isn’t.”

  “So she must have given them to someone.”

  “Of course. Whoever she was getting them for. Who would most likely be one of the people in the pictures.” He looked at me. “The police gave me a description. I assume that was based on your account. It was sketchy at best. I wonder if you could do any better.”

  Oh boy. My only real impression of those people was that they appeared to be porn actors. Which was a description I wasn’t eager to give, in case they turned out to be friends of his.

  I said, “There isn’t a prayer I could describe those people well enough for you to recognize them. If there was some Individual feature or mark, something distinctive. But there wasn’t. It really could have been anyone.”

  That didn’t sound too convincing to me, but he didn’t press it.

  “All right,” he said, “but what about the guy—this Barry—what was he like?”

  “Overbearing. Obnoxious. What you would expect of a blackmailer.”

  “What did he look like?”

  I had a wild impulse to say, “Connie Chung with red hair.” I can’t help it. As a frustrated writer, images flash on me, usually comic ones. And often at inappropriate times. This was sure one of them. I had to tell myself, it’s his wife, for Christ’s sake. Even so, I think the corners of my mouth quivered.

  “He was big, stocky, maybe six foot, with curly red hair. Clean shaven, no glasses, no scars, no other identifying features. He had a sardonic sense of humor, seemed to enjoy pushing me around.”

  “In what way?”

  I tried to think. “Well,” I said, “maybe this is colored by my perception. But I’d been told not to open the envelope—the one with the pictures in it. He ripped it open, made a point of showing the pictures to me. Seemed to get a kick out of doing it.”

  Connely nodded. “I see. Did he know who the people in the pictures were?”

  “If so, he didn’t let on.” I frowned. “That sounds wrong. I mean, it wasn’t like he was trying to hide anything either. What I mean is, nothing he said would tend to indicate one way or the other. See what I mean?”

  “I think so. Though it’s not particularly helpful.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Now, as I understand it, she paid you money. Is that right?”

  “Yes. She did.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred dollars the first time, a thousand the second.”

  “Fifteen hundred in all?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Plus the money you paid him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much was that?”

  “I don’t know for sure. My best guess is five thousand dollars.”

  “Based on what?”

  “What I saw. This guy Barry ripped the envelope open, dumped the money on the bed. I saw bills held together with a rubber band. The denomination I saw was a hundred. If the packet was fifty, that’s five grand.”

  Connely shook his head. “That’s what doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Patricia and I have a joint account.” He blinked. Gulped slightly. “Had a joint account. Both checking and savings. But just the two accounts. That was all. And I’ve been to the bank. Along with the cops. And the bank confirms—she didn’t take out any of that money. None of it. From either account. There are no unusual cash withdrawals.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “So everything points to the fact that she was doing this for someone else.”

  “Right,” I said. “And you have no idea who?”

  “None at all. There’s no one she’s that close to, who’s that great a friend, that she would take such a risk.”

  I didn’t comment, but I took that remark with a grain of salt. An actress in New York City just might get involved with some other actor her husband didn’t know about.

  “The paper said she was an actress,” I said. “Is that right?”

  “Aspiring actress,” Connely said. He smiled sadly. “I wonder how they missed that word. Yes, we’re both actors. Would-be actors. Aspiring.”

  “Was there anyone she was working with—who might have gotten In trouble?”

  He shook his head. “But she wasn’t, you see. She did a showcase two years ago. And we’ve both done summer stock.”

  “Recently? Do you make the rounds?”

  “We audition, yes. And we know people in the business. But no one this applies to.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “If my wife had been seeing someone, I would know. I don’t mean like that—another man. I mean if she were handling a blackmail payoff for someone. She’d have to meet them, discuss it, get money from them, give them the pictures. See what I mean? And I wasn’t aware anything like that was going on.”

  “Do you work?” I said. “I beg your pardon. Outside the home, I mean. Aside from the acting.”

  He shook his head. “I’m an investment broker,” he said. “But not on Wall Street. I have my own office here. No need to go out, with computers, modems, fax machines. I can handle everything from here quite nicely.”

  “Then didn’t your wife ever go to auditions without you?”

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “You’re saying she must have had the opportunity to meet someone. Well, that goes without saying. It happened, so she did. What’s strange is the fact that I had no inkling of it. That’s why it’s all such a shock.”

  “I understand.”

  Damn. I said it again. Fortunately, this time he took no notice.

  “Now then,” he said. “As I understand it, the second time you went out, you were to get the negatives?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Patricia gave you an envelope to make the payoff?”

  Shit. I wondered if the police had told him about the phony money.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  It turned out they had.

  “Now, this envelope had nothing in it? No money, I mean. Just paper.”

  “Newsprint,” I said. “Strips cut from newspapers.”

  He ran his hand over his head, then shook it slowly. “That’s the other thing. She wouldn’t do that. Patricia. She was the kindest person in the world. If she knows what’s in it, there’s no way she gives you that envelope.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know.”

  He nodded. “That’s the only way I can see it. And if that’s true, it’s just too cruel. It’s like she died for something she didn’t know.”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m not sure I follow that.”

&n
bsp; “If that’s why she was killed.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said. “That envelope was in my possession. Unopened. How could the killer know what was in it?”

  Connely considered that. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m upset. I’m not thinking clearly. There’s no theory accounts for that.”

  I didn’t point out a sergeant named Thurman had come up with one. In the first place, it was so convoluted I didn’t feel like explaining It. In the second place, I was glad to see someone agreeing with my opinion.

  “Right,” I said. “I think we have to conclude these are ruthless people, and the killing would have occurred whether the money was phony, genuine, or what.”

  Connely sighed heavily. “Then we’re right back where we started.”

  I had a feeling I knew where that was, but I waited for him to say it.

  He did.

  “The whole thing makes no sense.”

  21.

  “HE DID IT.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I could understand Alice’s opinion though. It was actually the same as MacAullif’s—that, in a homicide, the most likely person was usually the spouse.

  But not in this case. There were just too many other things going on.

  “Why do you say that?” Alice persisted. “Because you like him?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” I said.

  I was sure it didn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even considered the question, whether I liked Bradley Connely. I felt sorry for him, sure. But like him?

  Well, maybe. I suppose I appreciated the fact that when he found out I wasn’t from the police, he didn’t throw me out on my ear. And it didn’t hurt that he was willing to treat me as an equal and discuss the crime. But I assure you, none of that made me grateful enough to exonerate him from murder if the clues happened to point his way. If they did, I’d be perfectly happy. The fact is, they didn’t.

  “Alice, I don’t know if I like the guy or not. It’s just, logically, I don’t think he did it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Alice said.

  She was only half listening. It was later that night, and she was in our bedroom watching her favorite soap opera. She’d missed it earlier in the day by taking the car to New Jersey. But through the miracle of VCRs and video tape, we were able to have the same parade of plastic people grace our TV set at nine o’clock at night. And they say there’s no such thing as progress.

  The soap-opera dialogue was getting on my nerves. So was Alice’s insistence that Bradley Connely must be guilty. The combination of the two made me reckless, drove me to do something I should never do.

  Argue with my wife.

  “She was mixed up in a blackmail plot, Alice,” I said. “There were thousands of dollars involved. The police have been over her books. And his. The money didn’t come from their accounts. It’s not just some husband-wife tiff.”

  “I didn’t say it was simple,” Alice said. “It could be quite complicated.”

  “Such as?”

  “There could be another woman involved.”

  I jerked my thumb at the screen. “Like one of your soap-opera plots?”

  “Why not?”

  “Indeed. Why not?” I said. “So there’s another woman involved. Maybe the woman in the photographs. Having an affair with her husband. Who’s being blackmailed. So kind, broad-minded, understanding Patricia Connely does them both a favor by trying to get the pictures back.”

  “There’s no reason to be sarcastic,” Alice said.

  “I’m sorry. I just haven’t been having an easy time.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Hey.”

  Alice pressed a button on the remote control. On the television, two soap stars froze inches away from an embrace.

  “I thought we’d been over all this,” Alice said. “Your part in the case is over. Richard got you immunity and got you out of it. There’s no reason for you to do anything else.”

  “I have an obligation—”

  “No, you don’t. What, an obligation to a dead woman? To do what? Get those pictures back? Getting those pictures was your job, you didn’t get them, so you didn’t do it?”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  “No, there isn’t. She gave you play money. So there was no way you could have done the job, even if things had worked out.”

  I said nothing, which is usually my only defense in arguing with Alice.

  Tonight it wasn’t working. “You know why you’re doing this?” Alice persisted. “You know why you won’t let go?”

  “No, why?”

  “That cop. That Sergeant Thurman.”

  “You mean he’s so dumb I figure he can’t solve it himself?”

  “No,” Alice said scornfully. “Come on. That’s no motive.”

  “Motive?”

  “Yeah. For why you’re doing what you’re doing. Everyone has a motive. You just have to look for it. And a motive isn’t intellectual. It’s instinctual. It’s basic.”

  “Have you been watching PBS again?”

  Alice ignored that, bored in. “So you know what your motive is?”

  I sighed. “No. What?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s all. Revenge. Simple. Basic. The cop beat you up and threw you in the drunk tank. You’re angry and you want revenge.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Don’t be so defensive. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s perfectly natural. What’s unnatural is not being able to admit it. So look what you do. This afternoon you go down to the guy’s office to try to discuss the case. Just as if nothing had happened. Well, that’s bullshit. Because something did happen. You’re mad as hell at this guy. But you’re down there in his office, pretending to be something you’re not. Pretending you’d like to help him with the case. But you’d really like to stick a knife in his back. Show him up and let everybody see what a stupid, brutal bully he is.”

  I ran my hand over my head. “Good god.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with feeling like that,” Alice said. “You shouldn’t repress it. If that’s how you’re feeling, admit that’s how you’re feeling. Then you’ll feel better.”

  Oh boy. I didn’t need to hear that. As I say, it’s hard enough to argue with Alice anyway. But on top of that, to get an amateur psychiatric opinion of my behavior was a little much.

  Particularly when there might be a grain of truth in it. A small one, but enough to make the whole thing distressing.

  I don’t know what I would have said just then, but I was saved from having to by the VCR snapping off. It does that if you freeze the picture for too long, shuts off automatically so as not to burn the video tape. Of course, when that happened the regular TV channel came on. It was a sitcom, and it was loud as hell. That’s because the video tape doesn’t play as loud as the regular TV, so Alice had the volume way up. After the silence of the frozen soap opera, the roar of canned laughter from the sitcom was really jarring.

  Alice hit the play button on the remote control, starting the VCR again. After a moment’s delay, and a whir from the VCR, the soap-opera stars finally embraced and kissed.

  Alice let it play. Praise the lord. The soap stars finished kissing and resumed talking. I wondered for the hundredth time who writes this garbage, and for the thousandth time wished I did.

  While Alice sat up watching the soap, I lay in bed and reassessed the day in light of what she’d just said. Was I doing all this for revenge? I sure hoped not. What a petty, unflattering motive that would be.

  But why was I doing it? What did I hope to accomplish? Particularly if neither Sergeant Thurman nor MacAullif were going to cooperate. There was so much information I didn’t have access to.

  The gun, for instance. Surely by now the police had traced the gun. Knew where it came from. Knew if there were any fingerprints on it. Even knew for Christ’s sake if it had actually fired the fatal shot.

  Little things l
ike that.

  So what the hell was the point of me trying to compete with them? Unless, as Alice said, it was to take revenge against Sergeant Thurman. Because I certainly had no standing in the case.

  Though I sure wanted some. It occurred to me that the whole time I’d been talking to Bradley Connely I’d been keenly aware of the fact that here was an interested party with enough money to hire me to investigate, if he saw fit. The fact that he hadn’t had been a disappointment. And not just for the money. It would have been nice to have had official standing in the case. Only, now I wondered if part of the reason having official standing in the case would have felt nice was because it would have given me a motive other than taking revenge against Sergeant Thurman.

  Boy, can Alice fuck up my head.

  As I lay there in bed and the soap opera droned on, it occurred to me that Alice was usually right, and much as I hated to admit it, she was probably right in this case. And the best thing I could do for myself and Alice and Sergeant Thurman and Sergeant MacAullif and Baby-Face Frost and Bradley Connely and his dear departed wife and all concerned would be to butt out and go about my business. After all, I hadn’t worked for Rosenberg and Stone today, and if I didn’t work for Rosenberg and Stone tomorrow there would be no money coming in. I should call up first thing in the morning and tell Wendy/Janet I was on the beeper and I needed a case. Yeah, that was what I ought to do.

  I looked over at Alice, wondering if I should inform her of my decision. Though to do so now would look too much like I’d been beaten into it.

  A commercial came on and Alice picked up the remote control and fast-forwarded through it. It occurred to me that I wished there were parts of life you could fast-forward through. My drunk-tank experience, for instance.

  As I watched the images dance across the screen, my eyes suddenly widened.

  “Stop!” I cried.

  Alice looked at me in surprise. “What?” she said.

  To do so, she had taken her finger off the fast-forward button, and now the tape was playing at normal speed. It was a commercial for Double-Mint Gum, complete with singsong jingle.