Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  Which was good, ’cause I was doing a pretty good job of blaming myself.

  “It’s not your fault,” Alice said. It was not the first time she’d uttered those words.

  Or the first time they’d fallen on deaf ears. “I wish you’d stop saying that,” I said.

  “Why? You want it to be your fault?”

  “Alice.”

  “That’s understandable, because it’s easier,” Alice said. “Just accept the fact it’s your fault, and wallow in it.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Not that I’m accusing you of wallowing,” Alice said. “But it’s perfectly understandable that that’s how a person would naturally feel.”

  I wanted to strangle her. Why couldn’t she be like those nine out of ten other women and tell me it was my fault? But, no, I had to go through pseudosupportive psycho-babble. Only, pseudosupportive is unfair, since I’m sure Alice really means it. Not that that makes it any easier to live with. Harder, in fact, since I can’t blame her for it.

  “Alice,” I said. “Thank you. I know you mean well. But the fact is, I fucked up. I should have listened to you yesterday. If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Nonsense,” Alice said. “Don’t you remember what I said? I told you this one actor wasn’t any more important than the rest of them.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Sure I did. Wasn’t I bitching and moaning ’cause you’d only called on this one guy?”

  “Well ...”

  “You don’t remember that?”

  “Bitching and moaning is not the way I’d have phrased it.”

  “No, but you get the idea. Don’t you remember discussing that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There you are.”

  “Alice, you also said his reaction to pornography was important. You even suggested I take it to the cops.”

  “I didn’t suggest that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t. I asked you if you were going to take it to the cops.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not at all.”

  Which is another excellent example of why I can’t argue with Alice. If she had wanted it to be the same thing, it would have been.

  “When was he killed?” Alice asked.

  “They didn’t say.”

  “But you got a feeling, didn’t you?”

  “Only generally.”

  “Wasn’t the impression you got that the cops tried to call on Fargo yesterday, but they couldn’t reach him because he was dead?”

  “That’s right.”

  “See? So when we were talking about it, the odds are he was already dead. Isn’t that right?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It’s more than possible. It’s likely. And if you’d gone to the cops, no difference.”

  “Maybe not then. But I’m a big boy. I didn’t need you to point that out to me. I could have gone to the cops right away.”

  “Maybe they listened and maybe they didn’t. And maybe while they were listening, Jack Fargo was getting killed. So the end result—no difference.”

  I took a breath, blew it out again. “There’s the other thing, Alice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “However you want to slice it, basically the guy got killed because I called on him.”

  Alice shook her head. “See now, there’s another example of wrong thinking.”

  Wrong thinking. How does she do it?

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Alice spoke to me as if addressing a small child. “Stanley. Jack Fargo did not get killed because you called on him. Jack Fargo got killed because he got involved in blackmail and murder. He may have got involved in pornography too, but that’s somehow beside the point.”

  “Not if he knew the blackmail victims.”

  “Big deal. There’s no evidence that he did. That’s mere supposition on your part.”

  “It’s a logical inference.”

  Alice shrugged. “Well, if you’re determined to wallow.”

  “Damn it, Alice.”

  “No, no. I quite understand,” Alice said. “It makes perfect sense that you would want to. And I suppose you can make a case for feeling guilty. Even if you have to stretch the facts a bit to make it hold water.”

  Jesus Christ.

  I had to hand it to Alice. If I wound up solving this crime, I would owe it all to her.

  I’d have done it in self-defense.

  35.

  MACAULLIF LOOKED UP FROM HIS desk. “What’s the matter?” he said. “You avoiding me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was another murder yesterday. It’s been a whole day and you haven’t been in.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I heard. Star witness. You and Baby-Face must be getting to be real buddies.”

  “I don’t think Thurman likes me much.”

  “Really? Give him time. By the fourth or fifth murder, maybe he’ll come around.”

  “Yeah. You pull the case file on Fargo?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Mind telling me the time of death?”

  “Day before yesterday between two and four in the afternoon.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Includes the time you were there, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s not what bothers me.”

  “Feel like you killed him?”

  “Feel like I caused his death, yes.”

  “That’s stupid. You do what you do, and what happens, happens. If I figured like that, I probably caused a lot of deaths. You can’t figure like that.”

  “I can’t see why not.”

  “Bullshit. If the guy got croaked, it’s ’cause he was dirty. It’s not your fault if he was dirty.”

  “No? And if I don’t go see him, what are the chances he’s alive today?”

  MacAullif shrugged. “Better than they are now. But there’s no way you could know that.”

  “That doesn’t make it any better.”

  “I know that. Nothing makes it any better. Which is why you have to let it go. At least deal with it on a nonpersonal level. Say, ‘Yeah, that’s the fact. I call on this guy and now he’s dead. Is this cause and effect? And if so, I wanna figure out why.’ See what I mean?”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Bullshit. You think this doesn’t happen to me? It happens to me all the fucking time. And you know what? Sometimes it’s my fault and sometimes it ain’t. And I can’t spend all my time trying to figure out if it is.

  “Now, in your case, I can’t see how it’s your fault at all. Not that that’s gonna make you feel any better, knowing you. But there you are. Anyway, you call on this guy and now he’s dead. That’s a fact. You can either examine it or wallow in it.”

  I blinked at the echo of Alice.

  “What is it?” MacAullif said.

  “Nothing. All right. Let’s examine it.”

  “Okay,” MacAullif said. “The way I see it, you call on a guy and now he’s dead. That makes you a living-poison, rotten scumbag son of a bitch.”

  “Hey.”

  “If you don’t like that interpretation, that makes him a living-poison, rotten scumbag son of a bitch. Which is why he got killed. And the interesting part of him getting killed is it followed right on the heels of you calling on him.”

  “Nice of you to say so.”

  MacAullif raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Rather than concluding he was killed while I was there.”

  “Don’t be dumb,” MacAullif said. “Even Thurman doesn’t think that. The point is, your visit triggers Fargo’s death.”

  “You have to keep harping on it?”

  “That’s the premise. If that’s true, we gotta figure out why. ’Cause the why is hard, let’s figure out how. You called on him, you dropped your bombshell about pornography, and you left. Within two hours the man is dead. Now how’d he get
dead?”

  “Like you said. Because of what I told him about pornography.”

  “Right,” MacAullif said. “But how did anybody know that? I don’t recall any other people present at this conversation.”

  “True.”

  “So are they psychic? How do they know this revelation is taking place?”

  “Fargo must have called someone.”

  “That’s one possibility,” MacAullif said.

  “You got another?”

  “Always. You always got another. ’Cause there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “It’s a good bet he called someone. Though that is as yet unconfirmed by the phone company. But say he did call someone. Who’s he gonna call?”

  “The people in the pictures.”

  “Of course. That’s the only thing that makes sense. That’s the only way he winds up dead. Plus, it fits in with the theory of the other murders—people bein’ blackmailed kill rather than pay off.”

  “If it’s that easy, why can’t we solve this damn case?”

  “Maybe ’cause the moron who saw the pictures couldn’t describe his own ass.”

  “Fuck you. It happens my wife gave a pretty good description.”

  “Of your ass?”

  “I thought we didn’t have time to fool around.”

  “No. You don’t have time to fool around. I’m in charge. I got time to do any fuckin’ thing I want.”

  MacAullif had a cigar on his desk, already unwrapped. He picked it up, sniffed it.

  “Where were we? Oh yeah. The only people it makes sense he calls are the people in the pictures. If that’s true, they came and killed him.”

  “Which one?”

  “What’s the difference? This is all supposition. But as a guess, probably the guy. A mess like that. A bunch of knife wounds. If he’s shot, it’s just as easy a woman. But a guy gets stabbed, it’s usually another guy. Unless it’s in the back, and this wasn’t in the back. Anyway, that certainly would seem to be the way it plays out. There’s only one other scenario that makes sense.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You were followed.”

  “What?”

  “You were followed to Fargo’s. The killer sees you got a line to Fargo, he knows Fargo’s gotta go.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Whatsa matter? Make you feel more guilty? I thought your guilt level was already at the max.”

  “It’s a disturbing thought.”

  “Hey, this whole thing’s disturbing. But the way I work it out, that’s the only other solution. If Fargo didn’t call the killer, then the killer followed you.”

  “Yeah, but ...”

  “But what?”

  “Well, nobody knew I was going to Fargo’s. Except Bradley Connely. And he’s the one who gave me the lead.”

  “That don’t mean he didn’t kill him. I admit it makes no sense. I see what you’re saying—if Jack Fargo’s the guy he’s trying to keep you away from, there’s no reason to tip you off to him. Unless it’s an elaborate double bluff to draw suspicion away from himself.” MacAullif shook his head. “But that doesn’t fly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he kills him after you go to see him. If Fargo’s going to spill the beans at all, he’s likely to do it the first time. You ask him and he talks. Or you ask him and he doesn’t talk. The only scenario that killing him after your first visit guards against is, you ask him, he doesn’t talk, but he’s likely to later. But you got a killer figuring like that, you really got no problem, ’cause the dumb boob’s gonna fuck up all over the place. So, yeah, the idea of the husband is rather farfetched. Not impossible, just not likely. But you see where you fuck up?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “Hey, who came to whose office? Now look here. You say, like a moron, that nobody but this Connely guy knew you were going to Fargo’s. The point is, who gives a shit? You’ve been involved in this blackmail scheme from the beginning. You’re the murderer’s tool. So you got one or two possibilities. Either the murderer’s keeping tabs on you, or the murderer ain’t done playin’ with you. Either way, say he’s following you. He’s not following you because he knows you’re going to Jack Fargo’s apartment. He’s following you because he wants to see where you go. And believe it or not, he doesn’t start when you leave the Connely apartment. Most likely he’s been followin’ you all day. Now, what did you do in the morning?”

  “I called on the producer and director. I got a program from the show.”

  “Right. And the killer’s following you and sees you doing all that. He’s interested, ’cause this shows you’re on the right track. Then you go see Connely, obviously lookin’ for a lead. He wonders if Connely gave you one. You leave Connely’s and where do you go? Straight to Jack Fargo. Bingo. Bump-off time. Can we conclude? Producer and director have no information of any importance. Fargo did.”

  “Damn.”

  “Hey, it’s not necessarily lost forever. Most likely what he had was a lead to the people in the pictures. But that’s only the one possibility. There may be a lot we don’t know. Then there’s the other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That the killer is not the people in the pictures, but the mastermind behind the blackmail. The conspiracy theory, right? Everyone setting you up. Though why he would bump off his henchmen before the sting went down—that’s a little hard to figure. Afterwards, sure. But before he got the money?” MacAullif shrugged. “Makes no sense.” He drummed the cigar on the desk a couple of times. “Anyway, you call on any of these other actors?”

  “Actors from the showcase?”

  “No, the cast of Chorus Line. I know you’ve had a hard day, but get with the picture.”

  “No, I didn’t. But Thurman did.”

  “Yeah, but so what? This guy doesn’t have to be the swiftest thing in the world to realize Thurman ain’t no threat. His talkin’ to these actors doesn’t have to scare him. On the other hand, if you talked to them ...”

  “Are you suggesting I should?”

  “No, I was just wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “If you were to talk to another actor in the show ...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whether he’d die.”

  36.

  IT WAS KIND OF TOUGH after that. The thing is, I’m basically a nice guy. And I did want to talk to the other actors. But after MacAullif saying that, I just couldn’t do it. Because if I called on one of them and he got killed, I could never forgive myself. I was having a hard enough time over Jack Fargo. And I didn’t know anything when I went to see him. But with the idea in my head, to deliberately go see someone—I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Maybe with police backup I would have. With cops there to protect the guy. In fact, it might have been a fine idea. Setting a trap. But somehow I couldn’t see Sergeant Thurman going along with me.

  I thought of calling them on the phone, which would be next to useless—no one tells you anything on the phone. So talking with the actors was out.

  Fortunately, I had other fish to fry.

  Sergeant Thurman had come up with one solid lead. Come up with is probably too strong a phrase—it was actually dropped in his lap. It wasn’t in Jack Fargo’s file. It was an addition to Cliff McFadgen’s.

  His girlfriend.

  Her name was Martha Penrutti. She was—what else?—an actress. She lived with four other actresses in a six-room apartment on Riverside Drive.

  The first thing that struck me about her was she had red hair. I couldn’t help picturing her with Cliff, imagining them with little red-haired kids.

  She had green eyes that welled with tears every two or three minutes, which made conversation slow. At least she was willing to talk to me. I imagined I owed some of that to Sergeant Thurman—after chatting with him, I probably seemed somewhat pleasant.

  The fact tha
t I had no real status in the case didn’t matter a bit. I admitted right up front that I wasn’t a cop, just a private detective. Martha couldn’t have cared less, but her roommates were downright thrilled. Apparently they didn’t know Cliff McFadgen that well, and his demise was pretty exciting to them. Having a real-life P.I. in their living room was just the icing on the cake.

  The actresses were young, attractive, and impressionable. They were also apparently unemployed, since all of them were home at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning. Anyway, I found their attention flattering. At least until it occurred to me to wonder if my being there was putting them in danger. But by then it was too damn late—if I’d done it, I’d done it, and I might as well ask my questions.

  Which I did.

  Not that Martha Penrutti was particularly helpful. Naturally, she knew nothing whatever of any blackmail scheme.

  “Cliff wouldn’t do that,” she said, then had recourse to tears.

  It was several minutes before I could get her back in the frame of mind to discuss what Cliff would do. Which was basically act. According to Martha, it was all the guy talked about. It was certainly all Martha talked about. Classes, auditions, casting agents. A world I knew well. A world I’d left behind.

  A world I didn’t give two shits about now.

  “Did you notice anything different about him recently? Say, in the last two weeks?”

  “No,” she said. “Why should I?”

  That was the type of stupid question I could think of no response to that wasn’t devastatingly cruel. I said gently, “In light of what happened.”

  Which was devastatingly cruel, and brought on a fresh torrent of tears.

  That was sort of the way it went. Me tiptoeing through the tulips and treading on each tender blossom, until the poor damsel could take it no more and retreated to the bathroom.

  Which was actually helpful, because it left her roommates free to talk.

  When the bathroom door shut, as if on cue, all giggled.