Killer's Payoff полностью

If you’re a cop who isn’t particularly intuitive, you’re up the creek without a paddle. Because then you can only add up the facts, and the facts come out like this: Kramer was extorting money from three known victims in various amounts, the amounts arbitrarily decided by Kramer in an attempt to make the punishment fit the crime. Three hundred bucks for putting out sarsaparilla that had flavor and body-the body of a mouse. Five hundred bucks for getting undressed-before a photographer. Eleven hundred bucks for making an erasure-to cover a theft.

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?”