Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  MacAullif shrugged. “And that’s the situation. The woman won’t pay over the money until she sees the pictures and the negatives. So this time the payoff and delivery is the other way around.”

  MacAullif ticked it off on his fingers. “First, you meet Barry, he gives you the pix. Second, you show ’em to the woman. When she sees that they’re genuine, she gives you the cash. Which you then take to Barry.”

  MacAullif pointed at me. “From your point of view, it’s the same thing. You’re just an intermediary makin’ a pickup and delivery.”

  He shrugged. “But look at it from her point of view.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I said.

  MacAullif looked at me and shook his head.

  “So,” he said. “You finally got it.” He nodded. “That’s right.” He nodded again.

  “You’re the blackmailer.”

  28.

  I STARED AT MACAULLIF. “You gotta be kidding.”

  He shrugged. “If you ask me, that’s the way I see it.”

  “But ...”

  “But what?”

  “You’re doping this out from no information. You got nothing to go on.”

  “I got your story. The way I see it, this accounts for it.”

  “How?”

  “For one thing, it explains why someone would pay you fifteen hundred bucks for basically doing nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “No offense meant, but what the hell made you so all-fired important?”

  “She didn’t want to meet the guy herself. Not alone at a motel. An attractive girl like that. It’s perfectly understandable.”

  “Sure, if it’s legit. But the odds are, she wasn’t bein’ blackmailed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because both parties are dead. Plus, she wasn’t the girl in the pictures. Which is a biggie. No, it works just fine the way I told you. It fits in with everything else.”

  “Like what?”

  “The way they played it. You’re told it’s a pickup and delivery and you aren’t to know what’s in the package. This is stressed. So what’s the first thing that happens? The guy rips the envelope open so you can see the money. Then what does he do? He rips the other one open and shoves the pictures in your face. To make sure you see there’s no negatives, so you’re all primed for the second buy. Plus he makes sure you get a good look at the woman. So once they set the hook and shake her down, you go along without thinkin’. ’Cause her bein’ the woman in the pictures is corroborating evidence, makes you think the story is true. Actually it isn’t, and the woman bein’ her doesn’t corroborate anything at all, but you’ll take it as such. Yes, she’s the woman bein’ blackmailed, and was all along. But that bein’ true doesn’t make the rest of it true. The rest of it is bullshit.”

  “I see what you mean. I’m asking how you dope it out?”

  “’Cause they’re dead. If they weren’t in it together, it makes no sense that they’re dead. If they’re in it together, the thing starts to play.”

  “How?”

  MacAullif looked at me. “You want an awful fuckin’ lot, considerin’ this ain’t my case.”

  “No, but it’s your theory.”

  “It’s my opinion.” He shrugged. “You can’t read a case file without havin’ an opinion.”

  “That opinion must have a basis, whether you’ve actually thought it out or not.”

  MacAullif began unwrapping a cigar. It was the best news I’d had since he’d produced the file. He inspected it gloomily, then drummed it on the desk.

  “Everything points to the fact these two people were in it together. The main thing is that they’re dead. But the point is, nothing else contradicts it. If they were, it’s a sting operation. And what we’re dealing with is the result of a sting operation gone bad. If that’s the case, this shouldn’t be that hard to solve.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. How do you figure?”

  “In that case, there’s only two potential killers. One, a confederate who don’t want to split the loot. Or, two, a victim who don’t want to pay. The first case ain’t that likely. Why? Because they ain’t got the money yet.”

  “I paid five grand.”

  “Yeah, but it was their own money. They’re in it together, remember? If my theory’s right, the real money ain’t showed up yet. If you’d picked up fifty G’s from the woman in the pictures, the whole thing works just fine. The mastermind bumps off his henchmen and pockets the loot.”

  “Who’s the mastermind?”

  “How the hell should I know? Particularly since it didn’t happen that way. The way things stand, the most likely scenario is number two. The victim saves fifty grand by wipin’ the conspirators out and grabbin’ the pix. In that case, there is no mastermind and those two are it. So the brains is one of them, either the guy or the broad. She look smart enough to pull it off?”

  “If she was acting, who’s to say?”

  “Who indeed. Anyway, in that case your choice of killers is most likely limited to two. The guy and girl in the pix. Or any friend, relative, spouse, or hired employee acting in their behalf. But, basically, they’re the two with the motive. Then there’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Long shadows. These pictures aren’t dated. Could have been taken any time. Like a while ago. Even a long while ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, this woman in the pictures—maybe it’s her son trying to keep Mommie out of the tabloids.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Hey, just a thought. Anyway, that’s the way it plays best. With the facts we now have.” He shrugged. “We get some more facts, maybe we go back to theory number one.”

  “Which was?”

  “Mastermind wipes out gang. In which case, mastermind is most likely an actor. I understand the broad’s husband is an actor, which would make him suspect number one.”

  I frowned. “I see.”

  “You don’t like that?”

  “Having met the guy, I just can’t see it at all.”

  MacAullif nodded. “With your track record, that should clinch the case. Shall I get the handcuffs ready now?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Plus, the guy gets five points for bein’ her husband. That in itself makes him a logical choice.”

  “That’s hard to buy in this case.”

  “True, but stranger things have happened. Besides, she had money.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. An inheritance.” MacAullif shrugged. “Not that much, but enough she didn’t have to work.”

  “Even so.”

  “Yeah, I know,” MacAullif said. “The way things stand, I’d look to the victims. Particularly since it looks like a sting.”

  “You’re really sold on that idea.”

  “Well, everything points to it. The money, for instance.”

  “What about the money?”

  “We got this phony payoff to explain, right? The newsprint you were carrying around you thought was cash. Unless you still think Sergeant Thurman grabbed it.”

  “No. What about it?”

  “Well, it fits right in. With it bein’ a sting, I mean. Aside from the fifteen hundred bucks to you, no money’s actually changing hands. These guys are playin’ patty cake to suck you in.”

  “I saw the first payment myself.”

  “Sure. You were supposed to see it. But what did you see? A bundle of bills thrown on the bed. With a century note on top. You know what that was? Ten to one, it’s a Jewish bankroll. You know what that is?”

  “Aside from an offensive remark?”

  “Get real. It’s supposed to be five grand. Fifty hundred-dollar bills. Right? Wrong. It’s forty-eight ones sandwiched between two hundreds. Two hundred forty-eight dollars that looks like a million. They rip it open, throw it on the bed, as far as you’re concerned, you saw five grand.”

  MacAullif gestured with the cigar. “See? And that explains the funny money in t
he second package. The guy ain’t gonna cut it open that time, so why use real cash? Besides, they probably spent their hundreds as part of the grand they gave to you. But that’s no matter, ’cause you’re not gonna open the envelope. So you won’t see it unless he does, and he doesn’t. And if things hadn’t fucked up, as sure as you’re sittin’ here, you’d have sworn on a stack of bibles you paid the guy off.”

  I frowned.

  “See?” MacAullif said. “It all fits right in. The only thing that doesn’t wash is the timing.”

  “Timing?”

  “Yeah. These people died too soon. Killed during the second milk run. “While you’re runnin’ around with the funny money. Which is still part of the setup. They haven’t even got to the main game. So, by rights, the victim who killed ’em shouldn’t have even come into play yet.”

  “Right. So how do you rationalize that?”

  “That they’re rushin’ things along. That they’ve already made the approach. Which makes sense, in a way. Once they got you hooked, they’re not gonna want you to have time to think it over. Probably come back at you the next day. And they’ve already sent letters and phone calls to the woman bein’ blackmailed. Or the guy, if that was the target. Either way, they’re both targets. Both potential killers. They could be already putting the squeeze, and all they’re negotiating is the final payoff. Which of course will be scheduled for the next day. With you. Only, the victim sees through it and makes sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I frowned. Thought that over.

  MacAullif rolled his cigar through his hands. “It’s just my opinion,” he said. “I’m glad you’re so interested In it. But what you got in your lap there is a case file. I hate to break it to you, but it ain’t leavin’ my office.”

  I took the hint, paged through the file. It was mostly stuff I already knew. In fact, a lot of it came straight from me.

  I found one point of interest.

  “The loft was unrented,” I said.

  “Then how did they get in?”

  I referred to the paper in the file. “According to the realty company, no one’s been in the place in the last nine months. They haven’t even shown it to anyone. Prior to that it was rented out for three months. Aside from that it hadn’t been rented in over two years.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “The names of the renters are listed. I’m sure the cops checked with them, but maybe I should talk to ’em too.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if I might happen to recognize ’em from their pictures.”

  MacAullif grimaced. “That’s a real long shot. I mean, the guy’s really gonna do it in a place that can be traced to him.”

  “Just a thought,” I said. “Probably not a great one, but I guess it’s something I ought to check. I should probably check the previous one too, and—I’ll be damned.”

  “What is it?” MacAullif said.

  “This rental two years ago. That was for three months too.”

  “Really? But not by the same party?”

  “No.”

  “That is unusual. But what’s the point?”

  “A loft in SoHo rented for three months. Twice by different people. Unusual in one way, but when you think about it, it’s not. And I bet the cops never bothered to ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  “What these people were renting it for.”

  MacAullif scowled. “Are you enjoying this? Tell me what the fuck you mean. Rented it for what?”

  After all the crap I’d taken, I think I was enjoying it. I smiled.

  “To rehearse a play.”

  29.

  “I ASSUME YOU’VE BEEN TOLD?”

  Bradley Connely nodded. “Oh, yes, of course. They took me down to see the body.”

  “Did you recognize it?”

  He sighed, shook his head. “Wish I did. I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.”

  “He was an actor.”

  “I know. And so am I, and so was my wife. You might expect we’d have run into each other. But you know how many actors there are in New York City?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s been a while, but I used to make the rounds myself.”

  “Oh. Then you know. The fact is, I never met him arid I don’t think my wife ever did either.”

  “She was never in a production of a play called Footdance?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You never heard of it?”

  “No? What is it?”

  “An experimental play. It had a showcase production last fall?”

  “Why is it important?”

  “It was put on in the loft where your wife was found.”

  His face contorted slightly, but then he looked at me with interest. “When did you say?”

  “Last fall.”

  He frowned. “Last fall?”

  “I know it’s a long time. But those were the last people to use the space.”

  “I see,” he said. “I’m sorry. It means nothing to me.”

  “One of the actors in the production,” I said gently, “was the late Cliff McFadgen.”

  He blinked. “You’re kidding! Do the police know this?”

  “They do now.”

  He looked at me sharply. “You sound like you told them.”

  “I did.”

  He looked at me a few moments. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “How is it,” he said, “that you came up with this information and the police didn’t?”

  Just what I’d hoped he’d ask me. If the truth be known, I was trying to prod the gentleman into hiring me, a notion he somehow hadn’t managed to come up with himself.

  “Can I tell you off the record?”

  He frowned angrily. “Off the record, on the record. Go on, man. My wife is dead.”

  “I’m sorry. This is somewhat delicate and I wouldn’t want to be quoted. But the guy in charge of the investigation is not particularly swift.”

  “What?” Connely said. “What the hell! How do you know that?”

  “I’ve run into him on cases before. And you’ll witness the fact that I’m talking to you now, and the cops haven’t yet. And you’d think, with you and your wife being actors, this is the sort of thing they’d want to check out.”

  I didn’t mention that I’d come straight from telling Baby-Face Frost, so Sergeant Thurman was probably just hearing about it now. I figured the drunk-tank incident gave me poetic license to take a swipe.

  I hadn’t figured on Connely’s response.

  “My god,” he said. “I’ve got to get him off the case.”

  “What?”

  “This is my wife were talking about. I can’t have an incompetent investigating her death.”

  I put up my hands. “Whoa. Wait a minute. You can’t just pull a homicide cop off a case.”

  “Oh yeah? Not if he’s incompetent?”

  “I said off the record. You can’t go tell the cops I said Thurman was incompetent.”

  He looked at me and his eyes were wide. He blinked them, once, twice. “You can’t do that to me,” he said. “Tell me that I have no recourse. ‘Off the record, sir, your wife’s investigation is being botched. I’m sorry you can’t do anything about it, but that’s unofficial.’” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “How can you tell me that?”

  “I’m not telling you that. There’s a lot of things you can do. Just don’t quote me saying Sergeant Thurman’s incompetent. That’s a conclusion you can come to on your own. Believe me, it won’t be hard. But that doesn’t mean you can get him removed, and quite frankly I doubt if you can. But it’s not the end of the world. Having him on the case doesn’t mean it won’t be solved. ’Cause there’s other people working on it who’ll be figuring out things he can’t. I was only really responding to your observation that I got here ahead of the cops.”

  Damn. Instead of hiring me, he’d gone off on a tangent about firing Sergeant Thurman. Just my luck. If I was
going to investigate this thing anyway, it sure would have been nice to have someone pay for it.

  But he wasn’t biting.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I’m upset. Go on. What were you saying? About the loft and this guy being in a play?”

  “As I said, it was a showcase, went on last fall in that loft. I spoke to the producer this morning. The whole thing’s news to him. He hadn’t recognized the address of the loft in the papers, or heard about Cliff McFadgen. But he did confirm McFadgen was in the show.”

  Bradley Connely frowned. “I see.”

  “Which would explain how he had access to the key.”

  “Yes, yes. That’s obvious. But ...”

  “But what?”

  “He wasn’t the one found there.”

  “I know,” I said. “But your wife wasn’t in the showcase.”

  “No.”

  “Which reminds me. I could use a snapshot.”

  “What?”

  “Of your wife. The producer assured me he didn’t know a Patricia Connely. But I didn’t have a picture to show him, to see if he knew her under any other name.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, would you have a picture?”

  I don’t think I could have given the guy a broader hint without straight-out asking him to hire me, but he still didn’t tumble, just went in the bedroom and returned with a Polaroid of his wife.

  “Here,” he said. “Show him this. But I assure you, she wasn’t in the play.”

  I took the picture, shoved it in my jacket pocket.

  And decided to push the situation. I hated to intrude on the gentleman’s grief, but I was never going to find anything out if I didn’t ask questions. At least, that’s the way I rationalized it. Surely I wasn’t just being vindictive over not being hired.

  “Too bad,” I said. “It would have fit in with one of the police theories of the case.”

  He looked up sharply. “What theory?”

  I put up my hand. “Please understand. I’m talking tentatively here. A lot of theories kick around. The police don’t necessarily share all of them with you. Particularly, you being the husband and all. So don’t take this as the official police theory. Or even one shared by the officer in charge of the case. All I’m saying is—”