Read Online The Black Hearts Murder by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page A

steel-lettered BENJAMIN CORDES , MGR .
    McCall now understood why no one but Cordes had seen the messenger. The man who delivered Harlan James’s letter and tape had had to pass no other doors to gain access to the station manager’s office.
    The door was a little ajar. McCall nudged it wider open and looked in.
    It was a roomy office containing a conference table neatly punctuated by leatherette chairs and, catercornered, a large glass-topped desk. Cordes sat behind the desk writing on a pad. There was a visitor’s chair opposite.
    A tall beefy man wearing slacks and a gaudy sports shirt stood on a stepladder in the corner to McCall’s left, working with a screwdriver on a ceiling speaker. He glanced down at McCall and went on working. From his build and features—he had the squashed nose and punch-thickened lips of a prizefighter—McCall guessed that he had once made his livelihood in the ring. He appeared in his late forties or early fifties, which would make him a relative old timer. He looked familiar to McCall.
    The little man at the desk looked up. “Oh, Mr. McCall! I didn’t hear you. Come in, come in. Didn’t expect to see you so soon again.”
    â€œI didn’t either,” McCall said.
    â€œCome in. Sit down—”
    â€œI’m actually looking for Mr. Horton, Mr. Cordes. Is he here?”
    â€œWhy, no.”
    â€œAny idea where I can find him?”
    Cordes glanced at the wall clock. “He’s probably on his way home, Mr. McCall. He usually leaves his office at the city hall between four and four-thirty.”
    â€œI thought he might have stopped in at the station.”
    â€œNo, if he’d planned to stop in, Mr. Horton would have been here by now. You haven’t seen him, Andy, have you?”
    The man on the ladder, who had flaming red hair, shook his head.
    â€œThe switchboard operator at city hall seemed to think he wouldn’t be going home, Mr. Cordes. She said he usually eats out when his wife’s away.”
    â€œOh, yes,” Cordes looked distressed. “Wilma is off to Carson Springs, that reducing farm. I’d forgotten. Spends a couple of weeks there twice a year. I doubt Gerry will get home before eight or nine. Can’t I help you, Mr. McCall?”
    â€œI doubt it,” McCall said. “It’s a political matter.”
    The little man beamed. “I happen to be his campaign manager.”
    McCall looked at him, astonished. Cordes nodded toward the pad he had been writing on. “His speech for tomorrow night.”
    â€œYou write his speeches?”
    â€œRewrite would be more accurate, Mr. McCall. I merely—well—polish Mr. Horton’s thoughts. The substance is his, not mine. Our next mayor is nobody’s puppet, Mr. McCall. He’s a man who knows how to lead, and he’ll never shirk a responsibility.”
    McCall sat down in the visitor’s chair. “Frankly, I’m surprised, Mr. Cordes. I’d never have suspected you of being the political type.”
    Benjamin Cordes frowned. McCall even thought that he swelled a little in the chair behind the desk. The banty-rooster syndrome.
    â€œI’m sorry,” McCall said apologetically. “I didn’t mean that as a dig, Mr. Cordes. I should have learned long ago never to judge a man by his cover.”
    â€œI should hope so.” Cordes was clearly offended. “Not that any of us can help how the good Lord made us. There are times,” he said a little hesitantly, almost shyly, “when I think of myself as … well … I suppose we all have our daydreams. What I am, Mr. McCall, is strictly a follower. I don’t kid myself that I can ever be anything more. Gerald Horton is different. He’s a dynamic, self-confident man with drive and vigor, and he’s full of creative political ideas.”
    â€œHe is?” McCall said, fascinated.
    â€œI can only have the greatest respect and