The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen

self-consciously.
    McCall stuck out his hand. “They’ve got bad manners in there, Mr. Cordes. My name is McCall.”
    The station manager’s handshake was as feeble as McCall had expected it to be.
    â€œBenjamin Cordes is mine, Mr. McCall. Are you with the detective bureau or the district attorney’s office?”
    â€œNeither,” McCall said. “I work for Governor Holland,”
    â€œOh, that McCall! Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCall.”
    The elevator door on the left slid open. A uniformed officer was in the car. McCall was interested to observe that Cordes attempted no further conversation until the elevator reached the lobby. The little man was visibly relieved when the officer left them.
    â€œIt’s a funny thing,” he confided to McCall. “Ever since I was a boy I’ve been afraid of policemen. Isn’t that silly?”
    â€œNot always,” McCall said, and Cordes laughed uncertainly. “By the way, Mr. Cordes,” he went on as they strolled toward the street doors, “I understand that, in your description of the messenger who delivered the tape and letter, you were only able to give the police a rough approximation of his height and weight, and his skin, I believe you said, was quite dark. You were also quoted as saying that all black men look alike to you. Or did I get it wrong, Mr. Cordes?”
    â€œOh, I didn’t mean it that way,” the station manager said quickly. “Not that way at all! I just meant that it’s hard to, well, describe a Negro face. I mean to differentiate it from other Negro faces.”
    â€œWhy is that?” McCall asked.
    â€œWell, I don’t know.” Cordes seemed offended. “Anyway, as you saw, I certainly had no trouble recognizing his face when I saw him again just now.”
    â€œThen you’d never seen Rawlings before he delivered that tape?”
    â€œNo.”
    They were now abreast of the arch into central district. Lieutenant Cox, Sergeant Fenner, and LeRoy Rawlings were ranged before a counter about twenty feet beyond the arch.
    McCall said, “You couldn’t be mistaken in your identification?”
    â€œDefinitely not, Mr. McCall. I’m positive he was the man.”
    At the glass-paneled exit, half in and half out of the door, McCall paused. “Suppose it develops, Mr. Cordes, that LeRoy Rawlings comes up with an alibi for this morning? Would you still maintain that he was the man who delivered the letter and tape?”
    Cordes began to look suspicious. “I just said I was positive, Mr. McCall. I don’t know what the governor’s trying to do, but it sounds to me as if he’s sent you here to whitewash the black element—”
    â€œThat’s hardly the word I’d use,” McCall said dryly.
    â€œYou know what I mean! As for an alibi, I’d be surprised if Rawlings doesn’t come up with one. Every time a member of the Black Hearts has a run-in with the law, it turns out he was in the company of a dozen other Black Hearts at the time of the offense. An alibi by LeRoy Rawlings or any other Black Heart wouldn’t impress me. No, sir, I’m certain he was the messenger.”
    McCall held the door for him, and the little radio station manager stepped through with dignity. He was not going to make an easily damaged witness, for all his Milquetoast manner. He possessed a stubbornness, an armature of steel, shared by many small men.
    â€œI’m not in Banbury, by the way, to whitewash—or blacken—anybody. The governor’s interest is in seeing the city remain peaceful, whatever the problems.”
    â€œOf course, of course, Mr. McCall. Sorry I got mad.” Cordes held out his hand. “I’d sure like to get you on a panel show at BOKO. Would you be interested?”
    McCall shook the little thing. “Not right now, Mr. Cordes. I’m still in the observation stage. Pleasure to have met