Killer's Payoff

by McBain, Ed

  Kramer had had another source of income. This unknown source had furnished his apartment, bought his cars and clothes, and filled his bank account with $45,000. The first three manila envelopes in the suitcase had dealt with Kramer’s low-income marks. The fourth envelope contained a note saying “I SAW YOU!” and this was the carbon of a note that had possibly been mailed to someone. Was the fourth envelope the clue to the big-money mark? If so, to whom had the note been mailed? And what had Kramer seen?

  Facts, facts, more facts.

  A man named Phil Kettering had vanished. Poof, into thin air. Why? Where was he now? Had he killed Kramer? Was he the man to whom Kramer had sent the “I SAW YOU!” note? And what, what, what the hell had Kramer seen?

  Facts.

  Add them up.

  Two and two make four.

  Or sometimes zero.

  * * *

  COTTON HAWES played a hunch.

  He played the hunch on his own time, on one of his off duty days. If he was wrong, he didn’t want to waste the city’s time and money. If he was right, there was plenty of time to act. And even if he was right, there would still be unanswered questions. He was beginning to wish he’d signed re-enlistment papers when the war had ended. He was beginning to wish he was on the deck of a seagoing tug somewhere in the Pacific, where there was no guesswork, no suspects, no bodies.

  On Wednesday morning, July seventeenth, Hawes hopped into his automobile. He did not tell anyone on the squad where he was going. He had made a fool of himself once before, when he’d first joined the Squad, and he did not wish to compound the felony by proving himself wrong another time.

  Hawes crossed the River Harb. He drove on the Greentree Highway. He passed the town in which he and an anthropology student named Polly had enjoyed an evening together. The memory was sweet. He drove past Castleview Prison’s impenetrable, forbidding walls. He drove up into New York State, and he headed for the Adirondacks and Kukabonga Lodge.

  Jerry Fielding recognized the car as Hawes pulled up. He came down the steps to greet him, his hand extended.

  “Been hoping you’d come back,” he said. “Have any luck with Kettering yet?”

  “No,” Hawes said, taking Fielding’s hand. “We can’t find him.”

  “That looks bad for him, doesn’t it?”

  “It looks very bad for him,” Hawes said. “Do you know these woods pretty well?”

  “Like the back of my hand.”

  “Want to guide me through them?”

  “Going to do a little hunting?” Fielding asked.

  “In a sense, yes,” Hawes said. He went to the car and took out a small travel case.

  “What’s in that?”

  “A pair of swimming trunks,” Hawes said. “Could you take me around the edge of the lake first?”

  “Are you hot?” Fielding asked, puzzled.

  “Maybe,” Hawes said. “And maybe I’m cold. We’ll know in a little while, I guess.”

  Fielding nodded. “Let me get my pipe,” he said.

  IT TOOK THEM AN HOUR to find the spot. The spot was close to the road and close to the lake. The new summer growth had already come in, but it was possible to see the faint traces of deep tire tracks beneath the vegetation. Hawes went to the edge of the lake and looked down into the water.

  “Anything down there?” Fielding asked.

  “A car,” Hawes said. He was already unbuttoning his shirt and trousers. He changed into his trunks and stood poised on the edge of the lake for a moment.

  “This is a pretty deep spot,” Fielding said.

  “It would have to be,” Hawes answered, and he plunged into the water. The lake closed around him. The water was very cold for July. The animal and insect sounds of the woods were suddenly cut off. He was in a silent, murky world as he dove closer to the bottom of the lake. The automobile rested on the lake bottom like the hulk of a sunken ship. Hawes seized the door handle and pulled himself to the floor of the lake. Standing erect, clinging to the handle, he tried to see into the car. It was impossible. The lake bottom was too dark. He was beginning to feel the need for air. He pushed himself off and started for the surface again.

  When he came up, Fielding was waiting for him.

  “Anything?”

  Hawes waited while he caught his breath. “What kind car did Phil Kettering drive?” he asked.

  “A Plymouth, I think,” Fielding said.

  “The car down there’s a Plymouth,” Hawes said. “I can’t see into it. We’ll need an underwater light and maybe a crowbar to pry open the doors, if they’re locked. Do you swim, Fielding?”

  “Like a shark.”

  “Good.” Hawes came out of the water. “How many phones do you have?”

  “Two. Why?”

  “While you’re phoning for the gear, I’d like to call the city. I want to get a positive identification on that car. You can start with your calls, if you will. I have to go down and take a look at the license plate.”

  “If you can’t see into the car, how you going to read a license plate?” Fielding asked.

  “That’s a good question,” Hawes said. He nodded. “Okay, let’s get our light.”

  * * *

  IT OCCURRED TO HAWES while they were making the call to Griffins that they could use a lot more than a light and a crowbar. And so he ordered skin-diving equipment, complete with face masks and oxygen tanks. The equipment did not arrive until late that afternoon. He and Fielding went down to the lake again, equipped themselves, and went into the water.

  Again there was the silence. Again the waters closed around the diving figures, shutting out the sounds of the real world. Hawes held the light, and Fielding held the crowbar. As they dove, Hawes kept thinking, If this is Kettering’s car, if this is Kettering’s car….

  And then a new thought came to him.

  If this was indeed Kettering’s car, his hunch would have been a solid one. The hunch had been simple. He had assumed that Kettering had been killed up here at Kukabonga, which was why they could find no trace of him in the city. He had never returned from the Adirondacks. He had been killed here by someone, and his body had been disposed of. The second half of the hunch was equally simple. Sy Kramer had witnessed the killing, hence the “I SAW YOU!” note. And the murderer of Phil Kettering was the person who had been paying Kramer exorbitant sums of money to protect himself—and this person had had strong motivation for the second murder, the murder of Kramer himself.

  The new thought that came to Hawes was somewhat frightening.

  For if Kettering had been killed at Kukabonga, and if his murderer was also the man who’d murdered Kramer, what would stop him from killing a third time?

  And had not Jerry Fielding been present at Kukabonga when Phil Kettering was killed? And did not Jerry Fielding now hold a crowbar in his hands, and were both men not diving toward the bottom of a dark lake?

  If the car was Phil Kettering’s, if Kettering had been killed, couldn’t Jerry Fielding—as well as any of the other men who’d been present—have killed him?

  Was Hawes in the water with a murderer?

  The idea chilled him. There was nothing to do but wait. He swam toward the rear end of the car. Fielding swam close behind him, the crowbar in his hands. Hawes flashed the light at the license plate. The number was 39X-1412. He repeated it silently several times, burning it into his memory. Then he motioned for Fielding to come to the door of the car. Fielding swam closer. His face behind the mask looked grotesque, evil. He did not seem to be the mild, gently speaking man Hawes had known on the surface. The crowbar in his hands seemed like a deadly weapon. Hawes flashed the light into the car. He could see nothing. He realized, though, that if Kettering were in the car, his body could be on the floor and not visible from the window. He signaled to Fielding again.

  Fielding did not seem to understand. He stood motionless, the crowbar in his hands. Hawes swam around the car, trying each door. They were all locked. Then he came back around and pointed to the do
or near the driver’s seat.

  Fielding understood and nodded. Together, they applied the crowbar into the space where door met frame. Together they tugged. Together, they pried open the door. Hawes went into the automobile. It occurred to him while he was in the car that Fielding need only slam the door shut on him, wedging it into place again. He would die inside the car as soon as his oxygen ran out. Fielding stood just outside the door now, waiting.

  Hawes flashed the light over the floor, before the front seat and the back seat. The car was empty. He backed out of it, and signaled Fielding to the trunk.

  Together, they attacked the lock with the crowbar, and then forced open the trunk.

  The trunk was empty.

  Even if this was Kettering’s car, the body of Phil Kettering was not in it.

  Together, Hawes and Fielding surfaced.

  Hawes wondered if he owed Fielding an apology. He said nothing. Instead, he went back to the house and called the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. They returned his call ten minutes later, telling him that the vehicle bearing the license number 39X-1412 was registered to a man named Philip Kettering who made his residence in Sand’s Spit.

  Hawes thanked them and hung up. He was not a man to keep things hidden. He would need Fielding’s further help, and he wanted to know where he stood at once.

  “Don’t get sore at me,” he said.

  “You think I did it?” Fielding asked.

  “I don’t know. Kettering’s car is at the bottom of the lake, and we can’t find Kettering or his body. My hunch is that it’s buried someplace in those woods, somewhere near where the car entered the lake. My hunch is that somebody at this lodge killed Kettering and was seen by Kramer. Kramer began his extortion and signed his own death warrant. Those are my hunches.”

  “And I was here when Kettering got it—if he got it. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s your job,” Fielding said. “I understand.”

  “Okay. Where were you on the morning Kettering went into those woods alone—the morning he allegedly left the lodge?”

  “I was here until all the men had had their breakfast,” Fielding answered. “Then I drove into Griffins.”

  “What for?”

  “Groceries.”

  “Will they remember your being there?”

  “I was there all morning, stocking up. I’m sure they’ll remember. If they don’t, they can check the carbon of their bill. It’ll tell them what date I made the purchases. I always go into Griffins in the morning. If they’ve got a copy of the bill, they’ll know I was there that morning, all morning. I couldn’t possibly have had the time to kill Kettering, shove his car into the lake and then bury him.”

  “Will you make the call?” Hawes asked.

  “I’ll dial it. You can talk to the proprietor. His name’s Pete Canby. Just tell him what it’s all about.”

  “What date did Kettering leave here?” Hawes asked.

  “It was a Wednesday morning,” Fielding said. “Let me check my records.”

  When he came back from his office, he said, “September fifth. I’ll call Pete, and you can talk to him.”

  Fielding called the grocery store, and Hawes talked to the owner. Canby looked up his bills. Jerry Fielding had indeed been in Griffins all morning on the morning of September fifth. Hawes hung up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” Fielding said. “It’s your job. A man’s got to do his job. Shall we go look for that grave now?”

  They looked hard, but they did not find a grave.

  Cotton Hawes drove back to the city with another idea, an idea that would almost cost his life.

  HIS MURDERER WAS one of three men, that much he knew.

  Frank Ruther, Joaquim Miller, or John Murphy.

  He did not know which one nor, with Kramer dead and Kettering’s body probably irretrievably buried in the Adirondack wilds, was he likely to find out which one unless he tried a gamble. He was basing his gamble on Lucy Mencken’s reactions to the fake extortionist Torr. Torr had called her with nothing but a threat, and Lucy Mencken had been willing to do business, accepting the lie that someone else had taken over from Kramer.

  Hawes hoped the murderer would react in much the same way that Lucy Mencken had reacted. If his gamble worked, he would have his man. If it didn’t, he had lost nothing and he’d find another way to pinpoint him—he hoped. He made several mistakes in reasoning, however, and those mistakes were what almost cost him his life. One of the mistakes was not letting the rest of the squad in on his plan.

  He did not get back to the city until four in the morning. He checked in at the Parker Hotel in midtown Isola, using the false name of David Gorman. From the hotel, and using the phone in the hotel room, he sent three identical wires. One wire went to Ruther, one to Miller, and one to Murphy. The wires read:

  I KNOW ABOUT KETTERING. AM READY TO TALK BUSINESS. COME TO PARKER HOTEL, ISOLA, ROOM 1612, AT TWELVE NOON TODAY. I WILL BE THERE. COME ALONE.

  DAVID GORMAN

  The wires went out at 4:13 A.M. At 4:30 A.M., in all fairness to Hawes, he did call the squad on the off-chance that Carella might be catching. He was not. Meyer Meyer answered the phone.

  “Eighty-seventh Squad,” he said. “Detective Meyer.”

  “Meyer, this is Cotton. Steve around?”

  “No,” Meyer said. “He’s home. What’s up?”

  “Will he be coming in this morning?”

  “Eight o’clock, I think. Want me to give him a message?”

  “Tell him to call me at the Parker Hotel as soon as he gets in, will you?”

  “Sure,” Meyer said. “What’s the broad’s name?”

  “I’m in Room 1612,” Hawes said.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Thanks,” Hawes said, and he hung up.

  There was nothing to do now but wait.

  In his mind, Hawes stacked up the attributes of the three suspects. None was an expert shot, but you didn’t have to be an expert shot to hit a man at eight feet with a hunting rifle. Murphy was possibly the least likely suspect for a man with a deadly aim—but Murphy was an excellent driver, and the man who’d shot Kramer had been driving a car. Each of the suspects could possibly have paid Kramer the huge sum of money he’d received before his death. Ruther had inherited money, which he said he’d piddled away. He could just as easily have paid it to Kramer. Miller was a land speculator who said he’d made a thirty-thousand-dollar profit. He could easily have made more. Murphy was a retired broker with a fine home and money to throw away on every club in sight, not to mention the upkeep of a Porsche kept in racing condition. He, too, could afford to pay Kramer.

  They all looked fairly good.

  They all had been in the woods on the morning Kettering allegedly left Kukabonga Lodge.

  Any one of the three could have killed Kettering and Kramer.

  There was nothing to do but wait. Eventually a knock would sound on the door, and Hawes would open it on the murderer. It was only a matter of time. He had set twelve noon as the appointed hour. He looked at his watch now. It was 5:27 A.M. There was lots of time. He took his gun out of his shoulder rig and put it on the table alongside an easy chair. Then he curled up in the chair and fell asleep.

  The knock came sooner than he expected.

  He came up out of sleep, rubbed his fists into his eyes, and then looked at his watch. It was 9:00 A.M. The room was flooded with sunlight. There were still three hours to go.

  “Who is it,” he asked.

  “Bellhop,” the voice answered.

  He went to the door and opened it, leaving his gun on the table.

  The door opened on his murderer.

  All three of them.

  18.

  EACH OF THE THREE MEN was holding a gun.

  “Inside,” Ruther said.

  “Quick!” Murphy said.

  “Don’t make a sound,” Miller warned.

  The expression on Hawes’s face was one
of complete shock. The men moved into the room swiftly and soundlessly. Miller locked the door. Murphy went to the window and pulled down the shade. Ruther’s eyes flicked to Hawes’s empty shoulder holster.