Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  “Back it up,” I said.

  Alice stared at me. “What?”

  “Back it up.”

  Alice pressed the rewind button. The tape lurched, and the images on the screen marched backwards.

  “Stop,” I yelled again.

  Alice released the button, let the tape play. She squinted at me sideways, puzzled that I would be so interested in a soap-opera commercial. It didn’t help that it turned out to be for a hemorrhoid preparation.

  “Freeze that,” I said.

  Alice pressed the button, froze the picture.

  As she looked at the screen, her frown disappeared and her eyebrows raised.

  I nodded. “It’s him,” I said.

  I’m not great at faces. Alice is always pointing to people on TV or in the movies and saying, “Do you know who that is?” and I never do.

  But in this case I did. There was no doubt about it.

  The face on TV with the curly red hair and the deep frown lines, supposedly brought on by his painful itch, was none other than your friendly-neighborhood blackmailer, Barry.

  22.

  IT WASN’T EASY.

  I couldn’t begin to tell you how many phone calls it actually took. All I know is it included calling the station, taking a wrong turn with the soap-opera production company, getting steered to the network to talk to an executive responsible for selling commercial time, then back to the station again to talk to the executive there in charge of selling local commercial time.

  Next, a word from our sponsor. Who wasn’t that disappointed to find I wasn’t interested in buying suppositories, and who eventually steered me to the Madison Avenue agency that had produced the spot.

  After that I only had to go through three or four people before locating the one who actually had the information. And only three or four more before obtaining clearance for that individual to release it.

  But the end result was by eleven-thirty the next morning I had a name and address, all without leaving my apartment.

  The name wasn’t Barry. It was Cliff McFadgen. I figured the McFadgen might well be genuine, but had doubts about the Cliff, which sounded like a stage name. Not that it mattered—as far as I was concerned the guy was Barry, the guy was a blackmailer, and the guy was in deep shit.

  I suppose I should have just called up Sergeant Thurman and dumped this in his lap. But I could think of a lot of reasons why I didn’t want to do that. And if revenge was one of them, so be it. If I’m going to get revenge, I might as well make a good job of it.

  I suppose I could have called up MacAullif. But after the coolness of our last meeting, I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. Actually, I figured he’d just refer me to Sergeant Thurman.

  On the other hand, I could have called Richard and told him what I intended to do. Or at the very least, I could have waited till Alice got home and told her where I was going.

  But the thing is, I never really stopped to think. I was a bloodhound on the scent, and the minute I got the name, I was out the door like a shot.

  The address was an apartment house on West Seventy-fourth between Amsterdam and Columbus. I drove down, got a parking meter on Broadway, and walked on over.

  It was a brownstone, which figured. The apartment was 3A, which was apt to be a studio on the third floor.

  I went up the front steps into the small foyer and checked the mailboxes. Sure enough, 3A was Cliff McFadgen.

  There was a buzzer, of course, with a call box. But it occurred to me I wasn’t really set with a snappy response when Cliff called down, “Who is it?” I wasn’t sure just what I could say that would get me in the door. Open Sesame? Probably not.

  The door in question had a spring lock that looked formidable, but was actually somewhat exposed. When I examined it, I found a sizable crack between the door and the frame.

  The lock itself I was sure I could never deal with, but the gizmo attached to it, the thing that sticks into the door, whatever the hell they call it, the thing detectives on TV always “loided” with a credit card, looked vulnerable as hell. If I’d tried that, I’m sure that part of the card with my name on it would have snapped off and gotten stuck in there, qualifying me for the Asshole Detective of the Year award. But there was another way. The gap between the door and the frame was so wide I was able to slide my house key into it, gouge it into the metal gizmo, and slide it back.

  And the door opened.

  I can’t tell you what a thrill that was. After all my years as a private detective, after all the cases I’ve handled, this was my first picked lock.

  Considering that, I count it to my credit I didn’t stand around admiring it. Instead I slipped right inside and closed the door. There was a door to my right marked 1A and a stairway to my left. I took the stairs up one flight to a hallway with two doors, the nearest marked 2B, and went up another flight that ended near a door marked 3A.

  There was a peephole in the door, of course. I wondered what Barry or Cliff McFadgen or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself would do when he saw me through it. I considered knocking on the door and standing off to one side so he wouldn’t see anything when he looked through. But would he open the door under those circumstances? Would anyone? No, I was perfectly content to let him get the shock of his life looking out and seeing me standing there.

  Except for two things. One, I wouldn’t be able to see his face when he did, and somehow I really wanted to. And two, if he was a killer, what if he started shooting through the door?

  I told myself that was silly. The blackmailer doesn’t kill the blackmail victim. The guy got mixed up in something that got out of hand, and it’s backfiring in his face. The poor guy probably needs help. He’ll probably be glad I found him.

  Yeah, sure.

  Maybe I should just call the cops.

  That thought was the impetus I needed. I sure wasn’t calling Sergeant Thurman. I took a deep breath, banged on the door.

  No answer. Wouldn’t you know it. I pick my first lock, then go through all that mental anguish, and the guy isn’t even home.

  I banged again with no hope. This had to be a studio apartment. There was no way the guy couldn’t hear the door. He simply wasn’t there.

  I would have liked to have gotten in, searched the place. Optimally, turned up the missing blackmail photos and clinched the case. But the police lock on the door looked prohibitive. And in this case, there was no space between the door and the jamb. Still, I tested the bolt by jiggling the knob.

  And the door clicked open.

  Uh-oh.

  This was not in the normal course of events. This did not compute. I don’t give a damn what the situation was, there was no way that door should be open.

  But since it was, I couldn’t pass it up. I had to take a shot. Much as I hated to. Getting caught in that apartment would be my worst nightmare. Either by Barry or the police. Getting caught in that apartment simply would not do.

  As I stood there vacillating, the only encouraging thought that sprang to mind, and it was small consolation indeed, was that a studio apartment would be easy to search. A studio apartment just didn’t have that many places to hide.

  I took a breath, pushed the door open.

  For once, I was right. It was a studio apartment, and there weren’t that many places to hide.

  Barry was lying right there in the middle of the floor.

  23.

  “THIS IS GETTING TO BE a very bad habit.”

  I think Sergeant Thurman enjoyed saying that. After all, it was the sort of remark he could handle. Not particularly original, but when delivered with the requisite amount of sarcasm—which Sergeant Thurman was able to apply—it made even him sound halfway intelligent.

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I just stood there and waited while he had his fun.

  We were in the street outside Cliff McFadgen’s apartment. I was in the custody of two police officers. I was grateful for their presence. I was also grateful for the fact it was a bright su
nny day. I would have hated like hell to have been alone with Sergeant Thurman in a dark alley.

  Yeah, I’d called the cops. It had occurred to me not to. It had also occurred to me to call Sergeant MacAullif instead of Sergeant Thurman. It had also occurred to me to call Richard before I called anyone. But in the end, I dialed nine-one-one like a good little boy. After all, I already had immunity on the blackmail, and I figured there was no reason to piss off the cops any more than I had to.

  That was Richard’s opinion too, when I called him after calling nine-one-one. He was on his way, but had instructed me not to wait for him and to cooperate fully with the officers on the scene.

  Particularly if that officer happened to be Sergeant Thurman.

  Thurman, having already delivered the cliché about this being a bad habit, now cocked his head to one side and delivered another.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Cat got your tongue?”

  It flashed on me, yeah, after I skinned him and put him in pajamas. I fought back what would have been a very inappropriate smile and said, “It’s your show, Thurman. Just tell me what you want.”

  “You gonna talk?”

  “I called the cops, didn’t I? I’m here waiting for you. Fire away.”

  Thurman had already been upstairs to see the body, which was lying facedown in a pool of blood and had obviously been killed by a gunshot wound to the left temple. At least that’s where the body had bled from, and there had been a gun lying right next to it.

  Thurman jerked his thumb in that general direction. “How’d you come to find him?”

  I exhaled. “You’re not going to believe this, but I saw him on TV.”

  Thurman squinted at me. “What?”

  I told him the story of Alice recording the soap opera. From the expression on his face while he listened, I might have been trying to tell him the earth was flat.

  “Gee,” Thurman said when I was done. “That certainly explains everything, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t explain a thing.”

  “Oh, really? I thought you just made this whole thing make perfect sense. Let me be sure I got it straight. You’re here today finding this guy’s body on the floor because yesterday he had hemorrhoids on TV?”

  Cooperating or not, I was damned if I was dignifying that with an answer.

  Thurman glanced at the two cops from the patrol car who had been keeping me company. “Perhaps you’re reluctant to talk in front of these other officers,” he said. “Would you prefer I sent them about their duties so we could have a little chat?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m perfectly happy to talk in their presence. Now, what was your question again?”

  “Do you expect me to buy this shit? That’s my question. You tell me some fairy tale about seeing this guy on some TV show, and the next day you’re in his living room and he’s dead.”

  “You understand the process that got me from point A to point B? If not, I’d be glad to go over it again.”

  “This guy you knew as Barry is an actor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s no question that it’s him? This is the guy, Barry? The one you saw, the one you paid the blackmail money to?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He showed you the porno pictures?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you gave him the cash?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The cash the dead woman gave you?”

  “She wasn’t dead at the time.”

  “Don’t get wise.” Thurman leveled his finger. “You’re on thin ice here. Even if you do answer my questions. You’re in deep shit. So don’t get wise.”

  “Sorry, sergeant, but we’re going over the same ground. Yes, the woman who was killed gave me the money, and I gave it to this guy, who was also killed. So we now have both ends of the transaction dead.”

  “All but the go-between,” Thurman muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t mean now, I mean then. If you saw this guy on TV and knew it was him, why didn’t you call then?”

  “I had to be sure. It’s hard to make an ID from a photograph. You know that. A thing like this, you’re gonna tell the cops a guy’s a blackmailer, you better be sure.”

  “I don’t buy that,” Thurman said.

  “No?”

  “No. I think you were sure.”

  “I thought I was.”

  “You sure now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s him?”

  “Yeah, it’s him.”

  “You know, his face is pretty well covered with blood. And he’s lying on his side.”

  “So?”

  “You can’t really get that good a look at the body. I would think you’d see him better on TV.”

  I shrugged. “Yes and no. An image flashes by on TV.”

  “I thought you had it on tape.”

  Damn, he was sharp for a dumb guy.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I had to be sure.”

  “Yeah. Right. So how’d you get in?”

  “The door was open. When I knocked and got no answer, I turned the knob and found him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “The same way you found the broad?”

  It hadn’t really occurred to me, but it was. That was a little unsettling. As if the whole thing weren’t unsettling. “How’d you get in the downstairs door?”

  “With a key.”

  His eyebrows raised. “You got a key-to the downstairs door?”

  “No, I used my house key.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, any key will do. There’s enough space between the door and the frame. You can stick it in there, push the lock back.”

  “That’s breaking and entering.”

  “Not really. According to my lawyer, there’s a question of intent.”

  “You called him?”

  “Sure. And he told me to cooperate with you fully.”

  “I bet.”

  “Hey, I’m answering your questions. Ask away.”

  “You knocked on his door, you got no answer?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you tried the doorknob?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you had the intent.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To break and enter. You’d already knocked, so you knew he wasn’t there when you tried the knob.”

  I shrugged. “That’s a matter for the A.D.A. to debate with my attorney. Assuming it ever got that far. But just between you and me?” I shrugged my shoulders again.

  “Well, I say you intended to break in.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  “Did you search the apartment?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Either before or after you called the police?”

  “I never searched the apartment.”

  “Did you remove anything from the apartment?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then I won’t find your fingerprints on the gun?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Or anywhere else in the apartment?”

  “Not except the doorknob.”

  “Inside and out?”

  “Outside only. I pushed the door open. When I saw what I saw, I closed it again.”

  “So, aside from the outside doorknob, which really counts as outside the apartment, you’re telling me your fingerprints won’t be there?”

  I started to answer, then hesitated.

  Thurman pounced on it. “Oh yeah? You suddenly remember they would be there?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t touch anything and th
ey wouldn’t. However, if you should happen to find the pictures—”

  “Pictures?”

  “Yeah. The eighty-by-ten color glossy pictures.” I couldn’t help myself. I smiled, added, “With the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one.”

  Thurman frowned. “Circles and arrows?”

  I put up my hand. “Sorry. I take it you’re not an Arlo Guthrie fan. Scratch it. I’m talking about the blackmail photos.”

  He frowned. “The ones you bought?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait a minute. You bought those from this guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And gave them to her? Patricia Connely?”

  “That’s right. I did.”

  He jerked his thumb. “Then why would they be there?”

  “Because they’re nowhere else.”

  “Huh?”

  “They weren’t on her body when she was found. And they weren’t in her apartment.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Well, were they?”

  “I’m asking the questions here.”

  “Right. And the cops aren’t telling me anything, naturally. But I gotta assume you didn’t find those pictures. Why? Because I saw ’em and you know that. If you found those pictures, first thing would happen would be you’d drag me in there to see if I could identify ’em. You haven’t done that, so you haven’t found ’em.”

  Thurman frowned. “You’re talking a lot, but you aren’t saying anything.”

  “Maybe because I’m trying to answer your questions.”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep going off on tangents. The question was, how can my fingerprints be in that apartment. I’m trying to answer it, but you keep interrupting me with all this other shit.”

  Thurman’s face darkened. “I’m having trouble following you,” he said, “because you’re starting to talk crazy. You’re not making a lot of sense. You know what that makes me think? Makes me think you might be drunk.”

  “Did I mention my lawyer was on his way over here?”

  “I thought your lawyer told you to cooperate.”

  “He did, and I am. He’s still on his way over here.”

  “Ain’t that just swell.” Thurman took a breath. “All right. Last chance. Talk straight. What’s this crap about your fingerprints?”

  “That’s the only way my fingerprints could be in that apartment. If somehow this guy got the blackmail photos. Because I handled them, see? So if you find those photos, my prints may be on ’em. But it wouldn’t mean that I’d been in that apartment.”