Blackmail

by Parnell Hall

  One of them, a brunette in a purple tank top, said, “The tragic heroine. You think she does it well?”

  I frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Really,” a long-haired blonde said, with a glance at the door. “To hear her talk, you’d think she and Cliff were lovers.”

  I blinked. “Weren’t they?”

  All the girls giggled again.

  “Please,” I said. “Before she comes back. What do you mean by that?”

  The brunette, a perky young thing who seemed to be the ringleader, shut the others up and took charge. “Come on, give me a break,” she said. “She dated the guy a couple of times. Big deal.” She jerked her thumb at the blonde. “He’s asked Carol out too.”

  This was not surprising. Carol, apparently a late riser, was wearing a sheer nightie covered by a silk kimono with a tendency to gape.

  “Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrows and fighting my own tendency to gape.

  “I didn’t go,” Carol said. “But Jean’s right. He asked me, yeah.”

  “And, come on,” Jean said. “It’s not like they were living together. She’s living here with us. And seeing the guy maybe once a week.”

  “If that,” a third girl put in. Her hair was also blond, but short and curly. She was wearing a white sweater and her breasts were quite large. It occurred to me that last observation probably had nothing to do with my murder investigation.

  “Right,” Jean said. “But according to her, they were practically engaged.”

  “I see,” I said. “So when she says she doesn’t know of any scheme he could have been mixed up in ...?”

  Jean shrugged. “Right. How would she know?”

  Shit. My promising lead had come to absolutely nothing.

  “You’re saying she wouldn’t know any better than you guys?”

  Jean nodded. “That’s the truth.”

  “Well,” I said. “What about it? Did any of you notice anything different about him in the last weeks.”

  “I did.”

  I looked around in surprise.

  When I said the girls were attractive, I was making a general statement. Some, of course, were more attractive than others.

  This was one of the others. Your basic wallflower. A shy young thing with straight hair and glasses who had faded into the woodwork early on and had not uttered a word till now.

  “Oh? And what was that?” I asked her.

  The girl seemed rather pleased with herself. “He had money,” she said.

  The other girls were all over her in a moment, ridiculing that suggestion and asking her how she knew that.

  The girl held her ground. “I saw him flash it,” she said. “Last week. When he picked her up for the date.”

  That remark was greeted by cries of, “Oh yeah,” “Go on,” “No such thing,” as well as the name “Bernice,” uttered disparagingly with a heavy accent on the second syllable.

  Jean smiled. “The reason we’re so sure is Cliff was cheap.” With a glance at the bathroom she lowered her voice and said, “The dates they went out on, they were dutch.”

  “But he had the money,” Bernice said. “I saw it.”

  “Go on.”

  “No, I did.”

  “Nonsense,” Jean said. “If he’d had money, Cliff would have said so. Remember how he bragged about how much he made on that commercial?”

  “But I saw it.”

  “Oh, pooh.”

  “No, wait,” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

  Bernice stuck out her chin defiantly. “When he called on her, when he came to pick her up, she was still getting ready. He was waiting in the living room. I was in the kitchen and I saw him through the door. He pulled a wad of money out of his pocket, looked at it, and stuck it back.”

  “Bernice,” the blonde named Carol hissed. “Don’t make things up.”

  “I’m not making it up,” Bernice said angrily.

  “Bernice makes things up,” Jean said.

  “I do not!”

  “She doesn’t mean to, she just has a vivid imagination. If she says she saw the money, it means she thinks she saw it.”

  “I saw it,” Bernice insisted, “and what’s more, he saw me.”

  The girls tried to pooh-pooh that, but I shut them up. “What do you mean?”

  “He saw me. In the kitchen door. He saw me when I saw him open his wallet.”

  “You mean he knew you saw him?”

  “Exactly,” Bernice said. “Because he grinned and put his finger to his lips like this. Then he beckoned me out of the kitchen, and he made me promise not to tell anyone. He was really insistent, so I did.”

  “Then why are you telling?” Carol said.

  Bernice gave her a look. It occurred to me it must be hard to be picked on all the time. “Because he’s dead,” she said witheringly. “It’s different now he’s dead.” She looked at me. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “And this is exactly what I need. Listen, what did he say about the money? Did he explain where he got it?”

  “Yes, he did. He said he got a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Acting, of course. He said he had an acting job, but it was a surprise, he didn’t want anyone to know about it. He made me promise not to tell.”

  “He didn’t say anything about blackmail?”

  “Of course not.”

  “He let you think he got a part somewhere?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He say what it was? Dinner theater, off-Broadway, summer stock, what?”

  “No. He just said he got a part.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Yeah, but he said it was a secret. Then Martha came in and we had to stop talking about it.”

  At that moment the bathroom door opened and Martha came in and we had to stop talking about it. I suppose we could have continued, but I wasn’t up to the histrionics that would have resulted from that. So I decided to hang it up.

  I was about to go when something occurred to me. Which I suppose should have occurred to me before. But at the rate this case was popping, there was at least some excuse for getting confused. At any rate, since no one had mentioned him, it occurred to me to wonder if Sergeant Thurman had been here before or after the demise of Jack Fargo.

  Whichever it was, he sure hadn’t mentioned him. Because when I asked, no one reacted to his name.

  But then one of the girls, the curly-haired blonde whose name I didn’t know, frowned and said, “Oh yeah. The name’s familiar. Didn’t we see him in something?”

  “He was in a showcase with Cliff,” I suggested.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” she cried. “Remember, we knew we’d seen Cliff in something and that was it? Well, same thing. That’s where we saw him.” She looked at me. “Little dumpy guy, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s him.”

  “Oh, I remember him now,” Jean said. “I’ve seen him at auditions.”

  “You know anything about him?” I said. “Any connection between him and Cliff?”

  “Why? Was there any?”

  I saw no reason to drop the bombshell. “Not that I know of,” I said. “I’m just interested in any information. None of you know him well? He never asked you out on a date or anything?”

  That produced a sputter of laughter, even from the grieving Martha.

  “Gosh, no,” Jean said. “Him?”

  “A guy doesn’t have to be the most attractive man in the world to ask a girl out.”

  “But not him,” Jean said. “Heck, he’s gay.”

  I was out of there shortly after that, having neither enlightened them about the demise of Jack Fargo, nor having been enlightened by them, except in the revelation that Fargo was gay. I suppose I could have figured that out for myself, if I’d stopped to think about it. But I hadn’t. It had never occurred to me. Not that it was particularly important.

  Or was it?

  It was not until I was driving away from
the place that the thought occurred to me.

  If Jack Fargo was gay, the pornographic past that so embarrassed him was probably gay porn.

  Which kind of screwed up the idea of him having once been involved with the people in the blackmail photos.

  37.

  MACAULLIF LOOKED LIKE HE HAD a severe case of indigestion.

  “Twice in one day?” he said. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  I told him about the actresses. What I’d found out about Cliff McFadgen being flush, and Jack Fargo being gay.

  The news did not thrill him. “You came in here just for this?”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “It’s important the guy’s gay? Where’s your bleeding-heart liberalism, sayin’ a man’s sexual orientation shouldn’t matter one way or another?”

  “Give me a break. If Fargo was involved in pornography, his death made sense. He was involved with the people in the blackmail photos. He’s a threat to them, so they kill him.”

  “Please.”

  “It fit well enough. The guy practically had a coronary when I mentioned porn.”

  “It fit well enough because you made it fit. You took two vaguely related facts and jammed them together. They don’t have to mean shit. If the guy’s gay, they probably don’t mean shit. There’s no connection.”

  “The connection is, Fargo died.”

  “That I admit. But he didn’t necessarily die because he did porn.”

  “You think it’s coincidental?”

  “I think there are probably a lot more starving actors in New York City fall into dirty pictures than one might think. Actresses make fuck films and dance in topless clubs. So a gay guy does porn. Probably not that unusual.”

  “Are you telling me it doesn’t mean anything?”

  “No, no,” MacAullif said. “Everything means something. I’m telling you it probably doesn’t mean what you think it means. Most things don’t. You gather your information, you form your theories. Most of them explode in your face until one pans out.”

  I gritted my teeth. When MacAullif was expounding on his theories, I couldn’t recall him talking as if he expected them to explode in his face.

  “Fine,” I said. “But where does that leave us?”

  MacAullif looked puzzled. “That leaves us right where we were this morning. With a bunch of theories to test and data to check out. As for Fargo bein’ gay, I’m sorry it upsets you so much. Me, I can’t see it’s a big deal. But this other thing you learned—about Cliff McFadgen bein’ loaded—hey, that fits right in just fine. He was makin’ money on the blackmail scheme. Of course he won’t let on. This actress sees him with it, he makes up a story about the acting work he’s gotten, then swears her to secrecy. Because he doesn’t want the babe he’s going with to know about it. Particularly since you say he’s not really going with her, just takin’ her out once or twice. For my money, this is a fairly good piece of corroborating evidence, and you ought to be pleased instead of grousing all over the place.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “And you sure as hell shouldn’t be running into my office as if it were the end of the world. So Jack Fargo’s gay. Big fuckin’ deal. You know why it upsets you so much?”

  “’Cause I have doubts about my own masculinity?”

  “No, asshole. Because you’re obsessed with the idea you killed him. You think this fucks it up. Or it doesn’t. I don’t know. Either way. Maybe that’s it right there. You can’t tell whether his bein’ gay confirms the fact you killed him, or exonerates you from guilt. You’re desperate to know, so it makes you a little crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “You’re not the sanest son of a bitch I ever saw. Look, do me a favor. Go play in traffic or something. Till something else happens. This shit you’re bringin’ me ain’t worth the trip.”

  “I take it nothing’s come in from your end?”

  “Sergeant Thurman is not close to crackin’ the case, no. Go on, get the hell out of here, do something useful. Maybe you can capture this guy before he kills again.”

  “You think he will?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “I’m serious. These actresses I talked to—you think they’re in any danger?”

  “Anyone could be in danger. Because we don’t know who we’re dealing with. We can’t stop living because of that. Is that your idea? That everything you do makes things worse? You could be right, you could be wrong. But you can’t think about it. You pick one way or another and you hope you’re right. Investigating the crime could cost lives. It could save lives. Who’s to know?”

  “That’s a hell of an attitude for a police sergeant.”

  “Sorry to disillusion you. But I can’t solve your problems. A team of shrinks couldn’t solve your problems. Get out of here and let me do my work.”

  “Come on, MacAullif. Just between you and me. You think I’m putting people in danger?”

  MacAullif made a face. “What a pain in the ass. You can’t tie your shoes without advice? Okay, you want advice, why don’t you talk to the husband.”

  I frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “To get you out of my office.”

  “No, MacAullif. Why him?”

  “You’re so damn obsessed about putting people in danger.”

  I frowned. “Yeah. So?”

  He shrugged. “So there you are. You talked to the guy twice already, and he’s still alive.”

  38.

  BRADLEY CONNELY SEEMED ANIMATED. The most I’d seen him since his wife died. Of course I’d only seen him since his wife died, so it was the most animated I’d ever seen him. He’d been upset before, but this was different. There was light in his eyes.

  “The right track,” he said. “We’re on the right track. Jack Fargo. I knew the name was familiar.”

  “But you didn’t see the showcase?”

  “No.”

  “You still have no idea where?”

  “I’m trying to think. Christ, I’ve been doing nothing else. It just won’t come to me.”

  “And Cliff McFadgen—still no connection there?”

  He grimaced. “None whatever. But it must exist, see? Because of Fargo.”

  “I understand you saw the body?”

  His face contorted. “Yes. Yes, I did. Horrible. Hard to think about.”

  “So hard you couldn’t look at it?”

  “No. I had to know. And I’m sure. I’d never seen him before. It was just the name.”

  “And you have no idea who mentioned it?”

  He shook his head. “How many times can I tell you? No.”

  My hand reached into my inside jacket pocket. Then I hesitated, torn.

  The action was too familiar. It reminded me of reaching in, pulling out the program, showing him the names. Hearing him say Jack Fargo sounded familiar.

  In my hand now was the list of names of the actresses I’d just talked to.

  And I could see it happen. Me pulling it out, showing it to him. Him telling me he didn’t know them, but one of the names sounded familiar.

  And her winding up dead.

  So I almost didn’t.

  But I had MacAullif’s little talk prodding me, giving me a much-needed kick in the ass. A voice kept telling me, it’s not cause and effect, it’s not your fault.

  I took out the list, passed it over.

  “You know any of these women?” I asked him.

  He frowned. “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at the list. Read it over.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  You can’t imagine my relief.

  I exhaled, took back the list.

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  “Actresses who knew Cliff McFadgen,” I said. It was all I was going to tell him. I wasn’t going to single one out, make her special. I smiled, tried to pass it off lightly. “I didn’t expect you to know them.”

  He frowned. Seemed to
be trying to think of something to say.

  The phone rang.

  I expected Connely to get up, but with a clack the phone answered itself.

  I looked.

  At the far end of the room, as part of an L-shaped turn that was probably another room, was a long narrow table on which rested a computer setup, including a printer, a modem, and every available accessory. Also on the table was a phone line attached to a fax machine.

  It was this that had just answered and clicked on; a fax was coming through.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Connely said. “I think I mentioned I run my business from home. I’ve gotta get that.”

  As he stood up to get the fax, I got up and trailed along behind him. I’d like you to think it’s because I’m an ace detective and keenly observant, but if the truth be known, I had never seen a fax machine in operation before. Can one say that in this day and age without risking social disgrace? But it happened to be a fact. I was a fax-machine virgin. Which is why I was a few steps behind Connely when he took it out of the machine.

  He read the fax, frowned. He looked up, saw me, then glanced at the computer setup.

  The cover for the monitor and keyboard had been pulled off and was lying on the printer.

  Connely gave the monitor a glance, then casually picked up the cover from the printer and draped it over the back of the chair.

  Bad move.

  If he hadn’t done it, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing. But moving the cover for no apparent reason drew my attention right to it.

  Hung over the back of the chair, where Bradley Connely had placed the computer cover in an attempt to hide it, was a woman’s purse.”

  39.

  BRADLEY CONNELY’S GOT A GIRLFRIEND.”

  It was not MacAullif I was torturing with the news. Three times in one day and the guy might have had a stroke. No, I decided to pick on Alice. Spicy tidbit, right up her alley. The type of stuff her soap opera was made of. The soap opera that ran Cliff McFadgen’s commercial. I wondered if it was still running. Ironic. The good old days. When the man’s only worries were hemorrhoids. And not even real ones at that.

  “A girlfriend?” Alice said.

  “Well, that’s a conclusion on my part,” I said. “I didn’t actually see her.”