“I had to. I’d already paid twenty-five thousand dollars to keep it quiet. Another three wouldn’t hurt me. I thought it would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He’d had photostated copies of the letter made. He asked for an additional three hundred dollars a month. Each time I sent him my check, he’d send back another photostated copy. I figured he’d run out sooner or later. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s dead.”
“He may have friends,” Hawes said.
“What do you mean?”
“A partner, a cohort, someone who’ll pick up right where he left off.”
“In that case, I’ll keep paying the three hundred dollars a month. It comes to thirty-six hundred dollars a year. That’s not so much. I spend sixty thousand dollars a year advertising my soft drinks. All that would go down the drain if that letter got to the newspapers. So another thirty-six hundred a year isn’t going to kill me. If Kramer has a partner, I’ll keep paying.”
“Where were you on the night of June twenty-sixth, Mr. Schlesser?” Hawes asked.
“What do you mean? You mean the night Kramer was killed?”
“Yes.”
Schlesser began laughing. “That’s ridiculous. Do you think I’d kill a man for three hundred dollars a month? A lousy three hundred dollars a month?”
“Suppose, Mr. Schlesser,” Hawes said, “that Kramer had decided to release that letter to the newspapers no matter how much you paid him? Suppose he just decided to be a mean son of a bitch?”
Schlesser did not answer.
“Now, Mr. Schlesser. Where were you on the night of June twenty-sixth?”
THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S NAME was Ted Boone.
His office was on swank Hall Avenue, and he knew the men of the 87th because a month ago they had investigated the murder of his ex-wife. The call to Boone was made by Bert Kling, who knew him best. And Kling was asking for a favor.
“I hate to bother you,” he said, “because I know how busy you are.”
“Has this got something to do with the case?” Boone asked.
“No, no,” Kling said, “that’s closed-until the trial, at any rate.”
“When will that be?”
“I think it’s set for August.”
“Will I be called?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Boone. That’s up to the district attorney.” He paused, remembering Boone’s young daughter. “How’s Monica?”
“She’s fine, thanks. She’ll be coming to live with me this month.”
“Give her my love, will you?”
“I’ll certainly do that, Mr. Kling.”
There was a long pause.
“The reason I’m calling…” Kling said.
“Yes?”
“We’re working on something now, and I thought you might be able to help. You do a lot of fashion photography, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever use a model named Lucy Starr Mitchell?”
“Lucy Starr Mitchell.” Boone thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Do you know which agency she’s with?”
“No.”
“Is she hot now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, models have their ups and downs. They’re hot for a while, and then they cool off. Their faces get too well known. People begin to say, ‘Oh, there’s that exquisite redhead!’ instead of ‘Oh, there’s an exquisite dress.’ Do you understand me? The model begins selling herself instead of the product.”
“I see.”
“But the name doesn’t register with me. If she were active now, I’d recognize it. I use most of the topflight girls.”
“I think she was modeling about twelve or thirteen years ago,” Kling said.
“Oh. Then I wouldn’t know her. I haven’t been in the business that long.”
“How would I find out about her, Mr. Boone?”
“You can call the registries. They’ve got back records. They can pinpoint her in a minute. Meanwhile, if you like, I’ll ask around. I have friends who’ve been at this much longer than I. If they used her, they’ll probably remember.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“What was the number there again?”
“Frederick 7-8024.”
“Okay, I’ll check into it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone.”
“Not at all,” he said, and he hung up.
The telephone would occupy Bert Kling for the rest of the afternoon. He would learn nothing from it. Or at any rate, he would learn a negative something.
He would learn that none of the model registries had ever carried a girl named Lucy Starr Mitchell.
MEYER MEYER did not mind being a tail, especially when the tail was tacked to the behind of Lucy Mencken. Lucy Mencken had a very nice behind.
On July second, Meyer was parked up the street from the Mencken house in a plain pale blue sedan. At 8:05 A.M., a man answering the description of Charles Mencken left the house. At 9:37, Lucy Mencken went to the garage, backed out a red MG, and headed for the town of Peabody. Meyer followed her.
Lucy Mencken went to the hairdresser, and Meyer waited outside.
Lucy Mencken went to the post office, and Meyer waited outside.
Lucy Mencken had lunch at a quaint exurban teashop, and Meyer waited outside.
She went into a dress shop at 1:04.
