Killer's Payoff

by Ed McBain

  “Did Kettering threaten Kramer’s life?”

  “No. He asked him to step outside with him. That was all.”

  “Did he seem very angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Angry enough to kill?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Why do you think Kettering killed Kramer?”

  “We’re not sure he did, Mr. Ruther. But he did have a possible motive, and he seems to have vanished. There’s also one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kettering was a good hunter, we’ve been told. Kramer was shot with a hunting rifle.”

  “There must be hundreds of men in this city with hunting rifles,” Ruther said. “I have one myself.”

  “Do you, Mr. Ruther?” Hawes asked.

  Ruther smiled. “Or shouldn’t I have said that?”

  “What kind of a gun do you own, Mr. Ruther?”

  “A Marlin. Twenty-two caliber. Eight-shot.”

  Hawes nodded. “Kramer was killed with a .300 Savage.”

  “Would you like to see my gun?” Ruther asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hawes said.

  “How do you know I’m not lying? I could own two guns, you know.”

  “I know. But if you killed Sy Kramer, you’ve probably disassembled the Savage and buried it by now.”

  “I suppose so,” Ruther said reflectively. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Hawes rose. “If you should happen to remember the names of the other two men, give me a call, won’t you? Here’s my card.” He took the card from his wallet and put it on Ruther’s desk.

  Ruther looked at the card for a moment and then said, “You knew about the argument between Kramer and me. You knew we were at Kukabonga Lodge. You knew Kettering’s name, and you knew my name.” He smiled. “You’ve been to Kukabonga Lodge, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you spoke with the owner, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you already know the names of the other two men, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ruther,” Hawes said. “I already know their names.”

  “Then why did you ask me?”

  Hawes shrugged. “Routine,” he said.

  “Do you think I had anything to do with Kramer’s death?”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” Ruther said.

  Hawes smiled. “Then you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Ruther.” He started for the door.

  “Just a second, Hawes,” Ruther said. There was something new in his voice, the unmistakable ring of command. The tone surprised Hawes. He turned sharply. Ruther had stood up and was coming around the desk.

  “What is it, Mr. Ruther?”

  “I don’t like being made a fool,” Ruther said. The dark eyes were darker now. The mouth was drawn into a thin line.

  “Did someone make a fool of you?”

  “You knew about those other two men. Were you trying to trap me?” Ruther asked.

  “Trap you into what?”

  For some reason the air in the office had become strained and tense. For a moment Hawes was confused, almost bewildered. The interview had gone well, smoothly. And yet, it was all changed now, and he looked at Ruther and saw a tightness about the man’s face. And looking into his eyes, he felt for the moment as if Ruther would spring at his throat.

  “Trap me into saying something that didn’t jibe with your half-assed theories,” Ruther said.

  “I have no theories,” Hawes said. Unconsciously he balled his fists. He expected Ruther to swing at him, and he wanted to be ready.

  “Then why’d you try to trap me?”

  “I didn’t,” Hawes said. “Mr. Ruther, you ought to know something every businessman in the world knows.”

  “What’s that?” Ruther asked.

  “How to stop when you’re winning.”

  Ruther’s face went blank. For a moment he seemed undecided. And then he smiled.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just…I thought you were trying to make a fool of me.”

  “Let’s just forget it, shall we?” Hawes said.

  “Fine,” Ruther said, extending his hand. “Let’s just both forget it.”

  Hawes took the extended hand. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s just both forget it.”

  13.

  JOHN MURPHY looked like a Bengal Lancer.

  He had a bald pate and a white mustache and a florid complexion and a pot belly. He looked like a retired colonel who had just come back from somewhere in the British Empire. He was not a retired colonel. He was a retired broker, and he spent his time clipping coupons within the walls of an old house in New Posquit, a suburb of the city. New Posquit was not Sand’s Spit. It was, as a matter of fact, in the opposite direction from Sand’s Spit. The houses in New Posquit were not new, nor did they cramp each other, elbows to buttocks.

  Murphy’s old house rested on sixteen acres of rolling, wooded land. He was not a millionaire, but he would sooner move into an igloo than a Sand’s Spit development. New Posquit had golfing clubs and tennis clubs and yacht clubs. John Murphy belonged to all of them. Perhaps he belonged to them because he was a retired man who didn’t have a damned thing to do. Perhaps he belonged to them because he was a highly nervous man who couldn’t even hold a gin and tonic in his hands without causing the glass to tremble.

  Or maybe he was nervous because he was being questioned by a cop.

  Sitting opposite him that afternoon, Steve Carella noticed the tremble in the old man’s hands and wondered whether the old man could possibly hit the side of a barn on a hunting trip. Carella sat with his pad open in his lap, and he tried to take his notes effortlessly, calling as little attention to them as possible. With many people, the taking of notes became a hindrance to easy conversation. He had seen many people freeze up entirely as they watched the moving pencil. John Murphy was a highly nervous man, but Carella didn’t know whether he was habitually nervous or whether the presence of a cop had brought on the trembling.

  “You just live here with your family, is that it?” Carella asked.

  “Yes,” Murphy said. “That’s what I do. Yes.”

  “How long have you been retired, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Eleven years last month,” Murphy said. “Quit when I was fifty. I’m sixty-one now.”

  “What do you do with your time?”

  “Oh, I have things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I golf. I fish. I hunt.” Murphy shrugged. “I own a sports car. Raced it last year. I’m an excellent driver.”

  “What kind of a car?”

  “A Porsche.”

  “Did you win the race?”

  “I was in two races. Came in fourth in one, and second in the next.”

  “Then you are a good driver.”

  “Said so, didn’t I?” Murphy said. “You want a refill on that drink?”

  “No, thank you. Are you a good hunter?”

  “Lousy,” Murphy said. “My hands aren’t too steady. I’ve got ulcers. That’s how nervous I am.” He held out his hand. “Look at that,” he said.

  “Mmm,” Carella said. “Mr. Murphy, can you tell me about a hunting trip you took last fall? A trip to Kukabonga Lodge?”

  “Certainly,” Murphy said.

  He began telling the story. Carella asked questions and took notes all the while. Murphy related the story of the argument over the clams, and the subsequent argument between Kramer and Kettering. His memory was excellent. He remembered all the men’s names, remembered details of clothing, even mimicked some of their voices. He told the story essentially the same way Jerry Fielding had told it to Hawes up at Kukabonga. When Carella later compared his notes with Hawes, he would learn that Frank Ruther had given the same story, too.

  “Ever see Kettering since that morning?” Carella asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Been hunting since?”

  “Nope.”
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  “What kind of guns do you have, Mr. Murphy?”

  “I’ve got three guns. A shotgun, a twenty-two, and a big-game rifle.”

  “What make is the big-game gun?”

  “A Savage.”

  “Caliber?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “May I see the gun?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to,” Carella said. “I’d also like to take it with me.”

  “What for?”

  “To hand over to our ballistics department.”

  “Why?”

  “Sy Kramer was shot with a .300 Savage.”

  “I read about that in the papers,” Murphy said. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I shot Kramer?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy.”

  “I couldn’t hit a grizzly bear at ten paces. You think I could have shot Kramer from a car on a dark, rainy night?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy. But I would like to have the gun run through Ballistics, if you don’t mind.”

  “Can’t you just sniff the barrel and tell it wasn’t fired recently?”

  Carella smiled. “We like to get a little more precise than that, Mr. Murphy. We’d like to run a comparison test between a bullet fired from your gun and the bullet that killed Kramer.”

  “Well, all right,” Murphy said reluctantly.

  “I’ll give you a receipt for the gun,” Carella said. “It’ll be returned to you in good condition.”

  “Good condition isn’t enough,” Murphy said. “It’s being turned over to you in excellent condition.”

  “You’ll get it back the same way,” Carella said, smiling.

  “Okay,” Murphy said, getting out of his chair. “It’s inside, in the gun rack.”

  Carella followed him into the house. When Murphy had taken the Savage from the gun rack, he turned to Carella with the weapon in his hands.

  “A good rifle,” he said.

  “Yes,” Carella agreed.

  “Can bring down an elephant with this,” he said. Inadvertently he had turned the gun’s barrel toward Carella.

  “Ahhh…you wouldn’t mind turning that the other way, would you?” Carella said.

  “Why?” Murphy asked.

  “I’ve been taught never to point a gun at anyone unless I intend shooting him.”

  For a moment the room went silent. Murphy stared at Carella. His finger was inside the trigger guard. His hand was trembling.

  “Mr. Murphy,” Carella said. “Would you mind?”

  “You don’t think I’d shoot you, do you, Mr. Carella?” Murphy asked. There was no smile on his face.

  “No, but…”

  “I mean, even if this were the rifle that killed Sy Kramer. Even then, do you think I’d be foolish enough to shoot you here in my own home?”

  “If you’re not going to shoot me,” Carella said levelly, “then turn the gun away.”

  “Mr. Carella,” Murphy said, smiling now, “I think I’ve made you nervous.” He paused. “The gun isn’t loaded.” He handed it to Carella. “And it isn’t the rifle that killed Kramer.”

  “I’m glad to hear both those facts,” Carella said. “May I have some cartridges for the Ballistics test, please?”

  “Certainly,” Murphy said. He opened a drawer at the bottom of the gun rack. “I’ve got some full magazines here. Will they be all right?”

  “Fine,” Carella said.

  Murphy rummaged in the drawer. “There’s a pool table in the next room,” he said. “Do you play pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “Care for a game?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad,” Murphy said. He slammed the drawer shut, and handed Carella a rotary magazine for the gun. “I’m a lousy pool player.” He paused. “My hands,” he explained. “They’re not too steady.”

  And Steve Carella remembered Murphy’s trembling finger inside the trigger guard.

  COTTON HAWES did not realize he was being followed until he left the home of Joaquim Miller that night. When he finally realized it, he did something about it—but he was blissfully ignorant up to the moment of realization.

  He had called Miller’s home after leaving the office of Frank Ruther. Miller’s wife told Hawes that Joaquim worked as an electronics engineer for a company called Byrd Industries, Inc. Hawes called Miller at his office. Because Miller was an employee in a large firm and because questioning by the police can often cast suspicion of guilt upon the most innocent man, Hawes considerately asked Miller if he could see him at his home that night. Miller readily agreed.

  The Miller home was in Majesta, an outlying section of the city.

  Hawes had left the 87th at 6:30 P.M. He pulled up to the apartment building at 8:03. He did not as yet know he had been followed from the front steps of the 87th all the way to Majesta. The apartment building in which the Millers lived was on a tree-shaded street There was a small park across from the building. It was one of the best neighborhoods in Majesta. Hawes assumed that the Millers had chosen the location because of its proximity to the Byrd plant. And since they had chosen the best, he further assumed Miller was earning a good salary.

  “Apartment Fifty-four,” Miller had told him on the phone. Hawes walked across the simple lobby to the self-service elevator. He took that up to the fifth floor, and then found the Miller apartment. Mrs. Miller answered the door. She was an attractive brunette with large blue eyes, but Hawes made a point of never falling in love with a woman who was already married.

  “Are you Detective Hawes?” she asked immediately.

  “Yes.” Hawes showed his identification.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. We’re just trying to locate a man your husband once met. We thought he might be able to help.”

  “It’s nothing to do with Joaquim?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hawes said.

  “Come in, won’t you?” she answered, and he had the distinct impression that if this had had something to do with Joaquim, she’d have slammed the door in his face and then fired a machine-gun volley through it. The protective Mrs. Miller led Hawes into the living room. Joaquim Miller turned from the television set.

  “This is Detective Hawes,” his wife said.

  Miller rose, his hand extended. He was a thin man of about thirty-three, with a narrow face topped with a brown crew cut. His eyes were warm and intelligent. His grip on Hawes’s hand was firm.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Hawes,” he said. “Have you found him yet?”

  “No, not yet,” Hawes replied.

  “They’re looking for a man named Phil Kettering,” Miller explained to his wife. “Mr. Hawes told me about it on the phone this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Miller nodded. Her eyes did not leave Hawes’s face.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hawes,” Miller said. “Can we get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Glass of beer? You’re allowed a glass of beer, aren’t you?”

  “I’d rather not, thank you.”

  “Okay, then,” Miller said. “What would you like me to tell you?”

  “Everything you remember about Phil Kettering and Sy Kramer,” Hawes said.

  Miller began talking, and while he talked Hawes took notes and thought, “Police work is simply getting everything in triplicate.” Miller was telling the same story Fielding had told, the same story Ruther had told, the same story Murphy had given to Carella earlier that day. It was getting a little boring, to tell the truth. Hawes wished for some outstanding deviation from the facts, something he could pounce on. There was no deviation. Miller told the story straight down the line.

  “Have you seen Kettering since?” Hawes asked.

  “Since the day he left the lodge?” Miller asked.

  “Yes,” Hawes said.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Miller?”

  “No.”

  “You
don’t?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t you hunt on that—”

  “I rented that gun, Mr. Hawes. I’m not a real hunter, you see. Peg was visiting her mother in California. We don’t get along, Peg’s mother and me. She didn’t want Peg to marry me, but we got married, anyway.”

  “She didn’t think Joaquim would amount to anything. But he’s amounted to a lot.”

  “Please, Peg,” Miller said.

  “Well, you have. He earns a very good salary, Mr. Hawes. We’ve been able to save quite a bit between his salary and the land.”

  “Peg, can’t you—?”

  “What land?” Hawes asked. “What do you mean?”

  Miller sighed. “I speculate,” he explained. “I buy and sell land. With all these housing developments springing up all over the place, it’s been pretty profitable.”

  “How do you work it?”

  “Sheer speculation. I pick a spot I think the developers will eventually get to. I buy it fairly cheap, and then sell it high when they decide to build on it. It won’t last much longer, though. They’ve pretty much built everywhere they can build and still stay within reasonable commuting distance of the city.”

  “How much have you made with such speculation?” Hawes asked.

  “That’s our business,” Miller said.

  “I’m sorry,” Hawes said. “I didn’t mean to get personal, but I would like to know.”

  “We’ve made about thirty thousand,” Miller’s wife said.

  “Peg—”

  “Well, why shouldn’t we tell?”

  “Peg, shut—”

  “We’re saving it,” Mrs. Miller said. “We’re going to build a big house some—”

  “Shut up, Peg!” Miller snapped.

  Mrs. Miller fell into a resentful silence. Hawes cleared his throat.

  “What kind of work do you do with Byrd, Mr. Miller?”

  “I’m an electronics engineer.”

  “I know. But what are you working on?”

  Miller smiled as if his team had scored a point. “I couldn’t answer that one if I wanted to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Classified,” Miller said.

  “I see. Just to reiterate—you do not own a gun, is that correct?”