The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen Page B

rough-and-tumble of Chicago’s south side during his boyhood, the hard lessons of the Marine Corps during his young manhood, and his law training at Northwestern, called for absolute honesty in public office. Sam Holland was the rarest of politicians: he refused to compromise his moral principles.
    They had met when Holland had been a state senator and McCall a private detective. The case, involving the murder of a fellow-legislator and close friend of Holland’s, was badly tangled in skeins of venality; it taught each man the virtue of the other, and they became friends. One of Holland’s first acts on winning the governorship was to offer Micah McCall a job as his assistant for confidential affairs—his personal troubleshooter. The very large salary that went with the job came out of Governor Holland’s pocket. “I don’t want you on the state payroll,” the governor had said. “That makes you subject to all sorts of pressure. This way you’re accountable to only one man, Mike, me.”
    The years had knitted them together in a tight weave. Holland had at his elbow an honest man he could trust completely, and McCall had found an honest man he could serve with a clear conscience.
    It had been argued about the state that a multimillionaire could afford a moral code that to other politicians would have been a disastrous luxury. To McCall these were fighting words. It was true that Samuel F. Holland could have bathed in his millions. But McCall had done homework on Holland’s origins, and the arithmetic checked out: he had been honest and uncompromising as a poor man, too.
    McCall stripped down to his shorts, closed the vanes of the blinds, and stretched out on the bed. He had been up at four A.M. in order to catch the early plane, and he was tired. He glanced at his watch: a quarter to three. There was still plenty to do before his date with Laurel. He set his mental alarm clock for four o’clock and was asleep in thirty seconds.

SEVEN
    McCall awoke at three minutes to four.
    He stretched, wide awake and refreshed. Then he picked up the bedside phone and called police headquarters. He asked for the detective bureau and Lieutenant Cox.
    The lieutenant chuckled. “Hank Fenner and I enjoyed the law course you gave our fearless district attorney this afternoon, Mr. McCall.”
    â€œWhat happened after I left?”
    â€œVolper got a big fat nothing out of Mrs. Franks and Rawlings. A little past three that black lawyer Prentiss Wade showed up with habeas corpus writs for both of them. How Wade found out they were in custody is beyond me, because Volper hadn’t let either make any phone calls.”
    â€œWere they released?” McCall asked, deadpan. Good old Maggie.
    â€œMrs. Franks was. Volper didn’t have any grounds to hold her. Rawlings he hauled up before Municipal Court Judge Edmundson for a preliminary hearing. I don’t suppose you know much about our local judges?”
    â€œVery little. I saw District Court Judge Graham in action for a few minutes, and he impressed me as fair, even in the face of provocation. But that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
    â€œGraham’s a good judge, which is why Volper picked Edmundson. Edmundson is a Horton boy and a buddy-buddy of Volper’s.” The lieutenant did not add the name of Chief Condon, but McCall suspected that the omission derived from discretion rather than lack of knowledge. “Plus Edmundson’s a racist. In his court disturbing the peace can get you three months in the city jail if your skin is black. If you’re white he’ll let you off with a fine.”
    â€œSay no more,” McCall said. “I know the breed. What happened, Lieutenant?”
    â€œEdmundson remanded Rawlings to jail in lieu of fifty thousand dollars’ bond.”
    â€œFifty thousand on a charge like this?”
    â€œAnd in this case, of course, it means Rawlings would have to