“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-
“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.
