The Black Hearts Murder Read Free

somewhere around thirty. She had the lustrous dark eyes and high Indian cheekbones that he always found himself drawn to in a woman, although it had been said that the varieties of feminine attractions to which McCall was drawn rivaled Heinz’s products.
    â€œHi,” she said in a friendly voice. “I’m Maggie Kirkpatrick of the Banbury Post-Telegram . Who are you?”
    â€œMike McCall.”
    â€œOut-of-town paper or one of the wire services? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
    He shook his head. “I’m not a reporter.”
    â€œMike McCall.” The black eyes shimmered. “You don’t mean it! Is the Mike short for some name other than Michael?”
    â€œMicah.”
    â€œThat’s it! I can never remember it. Don’t tell me you’re really the notorious Assistant for Special Affairs to the Governor?”
    McCall grinned. “Explain the ‘notorious.’”
    â€œI wasn’t referring to your exploits as Sam Holland’s troubleshooter,” Maggie Kirkpatrick said, grinning back. “I was referring to your reputation for l’amour. ”
    â€œYou’re a rotten newspaperwoman if you believe every rumor you hear.”
    â€œThis one seems awfully persistent. The story goes that every belle in the capital has drawn a bead on you, and every mama of same gets down on her quaking knees nightly and prays that her daughter will get you to the altar before you con her into bed.”
    â€œIf so, I haven’t been caught yet.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be as slithery as an eel.”
    â€œTry me,” McCall said. “You’ll find I’m easy to catch.”
    â€œFor what purpose?” Maggie Kirkpatrick retorted.
    â€œAha,” McCall said mysteriously, and his smile closed the door on the subject. He looked around him and began studying the courtroom personnel.
    While he made his inspection, the newspaperwoman inspected him with quickening interest and admiration, as most women did. McCall did not impress people, men or women, as a big man, which was more a matter of porportion than size, as in most natural athletes. He was muscled grace even in repose. He had played halfback at Northwestern, and he had never permitted himself afterward to backslide physically. He had a solid, rugged face, the kind other men could not understand women considering handsome, and his dark hair had just the right premature sprinkling of salt.
    Maggie Kirkpatrick sighed and looked away. Mama, she thought, if you were still with us you’d be down on your knees right now.
    McCall was paying particular attention to the contending tables. At the prosecution table sat two white men. One was plump and pink, with big wet eyes and a sandy gray crewcut. The other was obviously his assistant, a young man, nervous. The defense table was occupied by a lone man, black, wearing a conservative blue business suit and a dark gray silk tie; he kept shuffling through the papers before him and casting worried glances over at the courtroom clock.
    Maggie Kirkpatrick said, “The two gents with the white skin are District Attorney Volper—he’s the pink slug with the fat eyes—and one of his assistant D.A.s. The Negro—excuse me, black—man at the defense table is Harlan James’s lawyer, Prentiss Wade.”
    â€œWhere’s his client?” McCall asked.
    Maggie shrugged. “Out on ten-thousand-dollar bond, and I think Wade is beginning to sweat. He has an assistant, too, and a few minutes ago he sent him off on an errand. Probably to get on the phone and find out why James isn’t here yet. This may be starting off with a bang.”
    Before McCall could comment, the bailiff rapped, “All rise!” and the judge flapped onto the dais from chambers.

TWO
    Judge Graham was a frail-looking man with a stubborn jaw and unruly white hair that made McCall think of the late Senator Dirksen. Court had