The Black Hearts Murder Read Free Page B

car?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen we have plenty of time—”
    â€œNot so. I’m not parked in the courthouse lot. I took one look at that mob in the plaza and left the car on a side street.”
    Maggie jammed her notebook into her super-giant-sized handbag and seized his arm. “Then let’s shake it. What are you doing in Banbury anyway, Mike?” she demanded as they hurried toward the door. “What’s Sam Holland’s angle on Harlan James?”
    â€œObvious,” McCall said. “The governor wants to stop trouble in Banbury.”
    â€œWhat’s this about the governor?” It was one of the other newspaper people, a man with outstanding ears.
    â€œPrivate conversation, George,” Miss Kirkpatrick said with a sweet smile, steering McCall elsewhere. “Here, I know another way out.”
    She led him down a rear stairway.
    â€œThanks,” McCall said. “I’d rather not conduct a press conference just yet.”
    â€œDon’t thank me, Mike. My motive is strictly selfish. I want an exclusive.”
    â€œSure you do. But why should I give it to you?”
    â€œBecause the Post-Telegram and I are on the governor’s side, and the other newspapers in Banbury aren’t. The Press-Times would strangle its collective children to sell another paper, so they’re all for trouble, the more sensational the better; the News-Mirror is lock, stock and barrel in Gerry Horton’s camp. And the outside papers don’t count. That adds up to let’s-you-and-me-play-ball on my scorecard. How about you?”
    â€œYou plead a persuasive case,” McCall said. “Okay, I’ll check your information out, and if you’re leveling you’ve got a deal.”
    â€œI’m leveling,” Maggie Kirkpatrick said.
    He made a snap decision; her ice-gray eyes had remoteness, but not dishonesty. “Shake,” he said.
    She shook his hand like a man. “I’m taking this to mean you’ll keep no secrets from me.”
    â€œWhoa, Maggie,” McCall smiled. “I didn’t agree to any such thing. My book says ‘exclusive’ means that when I decide to tell the media anything I’ll let you in on it first.”
    Maggie shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Do you remember my name?”
    â€œKirkpatrick? Sure. I dig the Gaelic ones.” He gave it a touch of burr.
    â€œScottish?” Maggie said, surprised. “Somehow I took you for one of us—Irish.”
    â€œA little of each-each,” McCall said. He glanced at his watch. “Two minutes to go. Want to listen with me, Maggie?”
    â€œNo, I’ve got to run back to the shop. I’ll catch it in my car—I parked it on the street, too.” She turned away with a businesslike, almost a curt, nod.
    He watched her get into a dusty, fender-dented Olds about ten years old and shoot away from the curb like a cop. McCall climbed into the Ford, still smiling. He quickly tuned the radio dial to BOKO’s frequency. He turned on his motor, let the engine idle, and snapped the radio switch.
    A disk was coming to an end. It was followed by a commercial for a local shlock outfit, a discount clothing store. Then an announcer with the improbable name of Cubbage came on:
    â€œWe interrupt the Dave Banner show to bring you a news bulletin to be followed by a special report.
    â€œBlack Hearts leader Harlan James failed to appear for the scheduled start of his trial for sedition in district court 2A at the county courthouse this morning. Moments ago the BOKO newsroom learned that the ten-thousand-dollar bail posted to assure the appearance of the Black Hearts leader has been forfeited, and presiding Judge Wendell Graham has issued a bench warrant for Mr. James’s arrest.
    â€œNow for the special report:
    â€œAt 8:30 this morning a package was delivered to this station by a Negro messenger who left without identifying