Killer's Payoff полностью

The tap on Lucy Mencken’s phone had none of the characteristics of a powder keg, but it nonetheless filled Brown with itchy impatience. He could, by now, have told anyone interested exactly what the Mencken family would be having for dinner every night of next week, exactly what sniffles or sneezes the Mencken children had suffered during the past few days, the forthcoming social plans of the entire family, and even the bra size-a spectacular size, he admitted-of Lucy Mencken.

Arthur Brown was bored.

Arthur Brown was impatient.

He thought of his brothers of toil back at the 87th. Those lucky ones would be dealing with rapes and muggings and knifings and burglaries and robberies and homicides and all sorts of interesting lively criminal activities. He had to sit in a shack and listen to the proprietress of the women’s wear shop in Peabody-he knew her well by now; her name was Antoinette, and the shop was sickeningly called the Curve Corner-tell Lucy Mencken about the new line of bathing suits that had arrived, and wouldn’t she like to come down and try some on?

Brown devoutly wished she would go down and try some on. He wished she would take her son and daughter with her and allow them to try on some bathing suits, too. He hoped that Charles Mencken needed new swim trunks. He hoped the entire family would go down to the Curve Corner and enjoy an orgy of trying on svelte swimwear. Then the phone would be free for the afternoon. Then he would not have to listen to female gossip about a girl named Patricia Harper who danced too intimately with the husbands of Peabody; then he would not have to listen to plans for the next garden-club meeting (the club was called the Peabody Potters); then he would not have to listen to eight-year-old Greta’s telephone romance with a ten-year-old boy named Freckles.

In short, he would not have to invade the goddamn privacy of what seemed to be a normal, decent, clean-living family.

He knew, of course, that the telephone company itself maintained monitoring stations. The purpose of these stations was to keep a constant check on the efficiency of the almost entirely automatic equipment. There was no intention of maintaining a telephone tap in the strictest sense of the words. But there were loud-speakers, and men listened to those loud-speakers, and if anyone thought a telephone call was a private thing, he was sadly mistaken. Usually, the speaker was tuned down to a low mumble. Occasionally, and completely arbitrarily, it was turned up so that words became intelligible. A telephone call was about as private as a church auction, and this should have lessened the guilt Brown was feeling. Too, he was waiting for a call that might lead them to a criminal. But neither of these factors lessened the unpleasantness of his job, nor the impatience with which he attacked it.

When the call came, he girded himself for what he was certain would be another social exchange. The light flashed on the recording equipment as soon as the receiver was lifted from the cradle in the Mencken home. Brown put on his earphones. Before him, the tapes wound relentlessly. The bug in the base of the Mencken phone picked up every word.

“-wait a moment, I’ll see if she’s home.”

That was the Mencken maid. Brown knew her voice by heart. There was a long pause. Then…

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Mencken?”

Brown heard what could have been a short gasp from Mrs. Mencken.

“Yes?”

“You’ve had time to think over my last call, ain’t you?”

“Who is this?” Lucy asked.

“Never mind who this is. I told you this is a friend of Sy Kramer’s. I know all about the arrangement he had with you, and I’ve already told you there will be a few changes now that he is dead. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but…”

“You wouldn’t want that material released to the newspapers, would you?”

“What material?”

“Don’t bluff me, Mrs. Mencken. You know what material I’m talking about, so don’t try to bluff me.”

“All right,” she said.

“I want you to meet me tonight.”

“Why? Just give me your name, and I’ll send you the check.”

“You’ll send a policeman to pick me up, you mean.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“You’d be smart not to try anything like that. The material is with a friend of mine. If you try to call the police, if there’s even the smell of a cop with you when we meet tonight, that stuff gets mailed to the newspapers.”

“I understand. But why must we meet?”

“To get things set up.”

“You said it would be about the same as with Kramer.”

“I want to talk it over with you. I want to know just where we stand. I don’t want any mistakes.”

“All right,” Lucy said wearily. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Can you get in to the city?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know downtown Isola?”

“Yes.”

Brown picked up his pencil and moved his pad into writing position.

“There’s a place on Fieldover Street. Do you know where that is?”

“In the Quarter?”

“Yes. The place is called Gumpy’s. It’s right on Fieldover, near Marsten Square. I’ll meet you there.”

“What time?”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “How will I know you?”