Killer's Payoff

10.

FROM THE SHORES of the lake and the entrance to Kukabonga Lodge, you could see the green-backed humps of the mountains and the clear blue of the sky beyond. The lodge was small, built of logs that seemed a part of the surrounding greenery. A double flight of wooden steps rose from the flat rock almost at the lake’s edge, rose in tentlike ascent to the front door of the lodge. The front door was a Dutch door, the top half open now as Hawes mounted the stairs. He mounted the stairs wearily and almost dejectedly. He had already checked half a dozen of the lodges scattered through the mountains, doggedly working his way north with Griffins as his starting point. None of the lodge owners remembered a man named Sy Kramer. Most of them admitted that the real hunters didn’t come up until the end of October, when the deer season started. September wasn’t such a good time. One lodge owner admitted his place was full of what he called “cheater hunters” during the early part of September. These, he said, were men who came up with girls after telling their wives they were off to the wilds to hunt.

Hawes was disappointed. The country was lovely, but he had not come up here to admire the scenery. Besides, he was no longer in love and he was becoming rather bored with the continuous slope of the land, the brazen cloudless blue of the sky, the constant chatter of birds and insects. He almost wished he were back in the 87th, where a man couldn’t see the sky for the tenements.

It grows on you, he thought. It’s a hairy bastard, but you get to love it.

“Hello, there,” a voice at the top of the steps said.

Hawes looked up. “Hello,” he said.

The man was standing just behind the lower half of the Dutch door. The visible half of his body was lean and tight, the body of an Indian scout, the body of a man who labored in the sun. The man wore a white tee shirt, which covered the hardness of his muscles like a thin layer of oil. His face was square and angular; it could have been chiseled from the rock that formed a backdrop for the lodge. His eyes were blue and piercing. He smoked a pipe leisurely, and the ease with which he smoked softened the first impression of hard muscularity. His voice, too, in contrast to the wiriness of his body, was soft and gentle, with a mild twang.

“Welcome to Kukabonga,” the man said. “I’m Jerry Fielding.”

“I’m Cotton Hawes. How do you do?”

Fielding opened the lower half of the door and stepped onto the landing, extending a browned hand.

“Glad to know you,” he said, and they shook. Fielding’s eyes darted to the white streak in Hawes’s otherwise red hair. “That a lightning burn?” he asked.

“No,” Hawes said. “I was knifed. The hair grew in white.”

Fielding nodded. “Fellow up here got hit by lightning. Like Ahab. He’s got a streak something like that. How’d you get knifed?”

“I’m a cop,” Hawes said. He was reaching into his back pocket for identification when Fielding stopped him.

“You don’t need it,” he said. “I spotted the shoulder holster when you were bending as you came up the steps.”

Hawes smiled. “We can use a man like you,” he said. “Come on down to the city.”

“I like it up here,” Fielding said graciously. “Who you chasing, Mr. Hawes?”

“A ghost,” Hawes said.

“Not likely to find many of those around here. Come on inside. I’ve been hankering for a drink, and I hate like hell to drink alone. Or aren’t you a drinking man?”

“I can use one,” Hawes said.

“Of course,” Fielding said, as they went into the cabin together, “I know cops aren’t allowed to drink on duty-but I’m not likely to write a letter to the commissioner. Are you?”

“I hardly ever write letters to the commissioner,” Hawes said.

“Didn’t think you did,” Fielding answered.

They were inside the lodge now. A huge stone fireplace dominated the room. Flanking the fireplace, in the same pattern as the steps outside, was another double set of stairs leading, apparently, to rooms just below the peak of the roof. There were four doorways off the main room. One of them was open, and Hawes could see through it into a kitchen.

“What’ll it be?” Fielding asked.

“Scotch neat.”

“I like a man who drinks his whisky neat,” Fielding said, grinning. “It tells me he likes his coffee strong and his women soft. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Hawes said.

“Tell you something else about yourself, Mr. Hawes,” Fielding said. “I’ll bet you’ve never put a bullet in an animal or a hook in a fish unless you were hungry.”

“That’s true,” Hawes said.

“Ever shot a man?”

“No.”

“Not even in the line of duty?”

“No.”

“Were you in the service?”

“Yes.”

“See action?”

“Yes.”

“And you never shot anyone?”

“I was in the Navy,” Hawes said.

“What rank?”

“Chief petty officer.”

“Doing what?”

“Torpedoes,” Hawes said.

“On what?”

“A P.T. boat.”

“Chief petty officer on a P.T. boat?” Fielding asked. “You were practically second in command, weren’t you?”

“Practically,” Hawes said. “The skipper was a j.g. Were you in the Navy?”

“No, but my dad was. He talked about it a lot. He was a regular Navy man, you know. A commander when he died. He’s the one built this lodge. He used to come up here whenever he had leave. He loved the place. I guess I do, too.” Fielding paused reflectively. “Dad died in Norfolk, behind a desk. I guess he’d have liked to die one of two places. Either on a ship, or here at the lodge. But he died in Norfolk, behind a desk.” Fielding shook his head.

“You own the lodge now, Mr. Fielding?” Hawes asked.

“Yes.”

“I guess I came to the wrong place,” Hawes said.

Fielding looked up. He had poured the whisky, and he brought it to Hawes and then said, “How do you mean?”

“I didn’t realize it was a private lodge. I thought you took guests.”

“I do. Five at a time. It’s my living. I guess I’m what you’d call a bum.”

“But you don’t have any guests now?”

“Nope. All alone this week. I’m mighty glad to see you.”

“Are you open all year round?”

“All year round,” Fielding said. “Cheers.”

“Drink hearty.”

They drank.

“Were you open around September first of last year?” Hawes asked.

“Yep. Had a full house.”

Hawes put down the shot glass. “Was one of your guests a man named Sy Kramer?”

“Did he do any hunting?”

“He sure did. Out every day. Brought back all kinds of stuff.”

“Deer?”

“No, the deer season doesn’t start until October. But he got crows and vermin-and I think he got a red fox.”

“Did he spend a lot of money while he was here, Mr. Fielding?”

“On what?” Fielding asked. “Nothing to spend money on in the mountains.”

“Was he carrying a lot of cash?”

“If he was, he didn’t say anything about it to me.”

“Did he come up alone?”

“Yep. I sometimes get them in pairs or in threes, or sometimes a party of five rents the whole lodge. This isn’t a whorehouse, Mr. Hawes. I only take men who want to hunt…or fish. I’ve got my own cabin back of the lodge. I entertain girls there frequently…but that’s private enterprise. I’m intruding on nobody’s morals but my own. Any man is free to do whatever the hell he wants to, I figure, but if he comes to my lodge, he comes to hunt or fish. He can screw around on his own time.”

“Kramer came up alone, then?”

“They all did that trip. Isn’t very often that happens, but this time it did. Not one of the five knew each other before they got here.”

“You had five guests the week Kramer was here?”

“Yep, and all from the city. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. One of them checked in on a Wednesday, and he left before the others. He was a good hunter, that one. Fellow named Phil Kettering. Hated to leave. I remember on the Wednesday he checked out, he got up real early in the morning, went off into the woods to hunt a little before he started the trip home. Paid me, took all his bags with him, said he wouldn’t be back for lunch, but he just had to get in a little more hunting before driving back. A good hunter, that one.”

“How about the others?”

“Kramer was so-so. The other three…” Fielding rolled his eyes skyward.

“No good?”

“Bunglers. You know. Tripped over their own feet. I guess they were all amateurs.”

“Young then?”

“Two of them were. Let me see if I can remember their names. One of them had a real queer name, foreign sounding. Just give me a minute…Do you want another drink?”

“Thanks, no,” Hawes said.

“Will you be staying for dinner?”

“I don’t think so. Thanks a lot.”

“Be a pleasure to have you.”

“I really have to get back to the city. I’m overdue now.”

“Well, if you want to stay, speak up. Won’t be any trouble at all. Gets lonely as hell here when the house is empty. Now, let me see. This fellow’s name. Jose? Was that it? Something Spanish like that…but not his second name. That was hundred-per-cent pure white American Protestant. Joaquim! That was it. Joaquim. That’s the way it’s pronounced, even though you spell it with a J. Ho-ah-keem. Joaquim Miller, that was it. Some combination, huh?”

“He was one of the young ones, is that right?”

“In his thirties. Married fellow. An electrical engineer, I think. Or an electronics engineer, one of the two. His wife had gone to California to visit her mother, who he didn’t get along with. So he came up here to hunt. God, he should have stayed in the city. I don’t think he liked the hunting at all. Didn’t get a damn thing but a cold in his head.”

“How about the others?”

“The other young fellow was about forty, forty-two, pretty well-fixed. Partner in an advertising firm, I think. I got the feeling his wife and him were headed for the divorce courts. I think his getting away from her for a week was a sort of a trial separation. That was the feeling I got, anyway.”

“What was his name?”

“Frank…something. Just a minute. Frank…Reuther, Ruther, that was it Without an E. Just Ruther. That was his name.”

“And the old man? What about him?”

“Sixtyish. Tired businessman. Got the feeling he’d tried everything from skiing to water polo. This was his week to try hunting. It was quite a week, I’m telling you.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, except that Kettering got a little bored with the beginners’ talk, that’s all. He and Kramer hit it off pretty well because he had some inkling of what it was all about. These other fellows, well. Not that they couldn’t shoot. They could shoot, all right. Any damn fool can hit a tin can on a back fence. But shooting and hunting are two different things. These men just weren’t hunters.”

“Was there any trouble that week?”

“How do you mean, trouble?”

“Any fights? Arguments?”

“Yes. One. Kramer got into a little tiff with one of the fellows.”

“Which one?” Hawes asked, moving quickly to the edge of his seat.

“Frank Ruther. The advertising man.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Clams.”

“What?”

“Clams. Kramer was talking about how good steamed clams were. Ruther told him to please change the subject because it made him ill just to think about clams. We were all at the dinner table, you see. Well, Kramer wouldn’t change the subject. He began telling about how to prepare them, and how to serve them, and I guess Ruther got a little sick.”

“What happened?”

“He got up and yelled, ‘Will you shut your goddamn mouth?’ He was a little touchy to begin with, you understand. Either that divorce theory of mine, or something else. Whatever it was, he was real touchy.”

“Any blows exchanged?”

“No. Kramer told Ruther he could go straight to hell. Ruther just left the table.”

“Who’d the other men side with?”

“Funny thing there. I told you Kettering and Kramer had hit it off pretty well, mainly because Kramer knew a little bit about hunting. Well, this was the day before Kettering was supposed to leave. He got pretty p.o.’d at Kramer. Told him he should have had the decency to shut up when he saw the talk was making another man sick. Kramer told him to go to hell, too.”

“Sounds like a lovely fellow, Kramer does.”

“Well, I think he knew he was on the wrong end of the argument. Lots of fellows, when they know they’re wrong, they just plunge ahead and try to make it right by making it wronger.”

“What happened when he told Kettering to go to hell?”

“Kettering got up from the table and said, ‘Would you care to repeat that outside, Sy?’ The other fellows-Miller and the old man-finally cooled off Kettering.”

“Was Kramer ready to fight?”

“Sure. He was committed. The only way he could stop making an ass of himself was to make a bigger ass of himself. But I think he was glad Miller and the old man stepped in.”

“What’s the old man’s name?”

“Murphy. John Murphy.”

“He from the city, too?”

“Sure.” Fielding paused. “A suburb, but that’s the city, ain’t it?”

“This thing between Kramer and Kettering? Did Kettering seem very angry?”

“Very. It lasted through the next day. He didn’t even say good-by to Kramer when he went off into the woods.”

“He did say good-by to the other men, though?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“He loaded his bags into the trunk of his car, and took off. Drove his car around the lake a ways. Said he’d head for the highway as soon as he’d bagged a few that morning. He’d come down for breakfast very early. The other men went off hunting about an hour later.”

“Kramer go with them?”

“No. He went into the woods, but alone. He was pretty surly that morning. He resented Kettering’s interference, and I guess he felt the other men had sided with Ruther, too. In any case, Miller and Murphy went with Ruther. Kramer went alone.”

“Can we get back to Kettering for a moment?”

“Sure. I’ve got all the time in the world. Sure you won’t stay for dinner?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Did Kettering threaten Kramer in any way?”

“You mean…threaten his life?”

“Yes.”

“No, he didn’t. Why?”

“Do you think…do you think his anger was large enough to last from September to now?”

“I don’t know. He was pretty damn sore at Kramer. He’d have beat him up sure if Kramer had stepped outside with him.”

“Was he angry enough to kill Kramer?”

Fielding reflected upon this for a moment “Kettering,” he said slowly, “was a good hunter because he liked to kill. I don’t hold with that kind of thinking, but that didn’t make him any less a good hunter.” Fielding paused. “Has Sy Kramer been killed?”

“Yes,” Hawes said.

“When?”

“June twenty-sixth.”

“And you think possibly Kettering waited all this time to get even for an argument that happened in September?”

“I don’t know. You said Kettering was a hunter. Hunters are patient people, aren’t they?”

“Kettering was patient, yes. How was Kramer killed?”

“He was shot from an automobile.”

“Mmm. Kettering was a damn good shot. I don’t know.”

“I don’t, either.” Hawes rose. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Fielding. And thank you for the talk. You’ve been very helpful.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Fielding said. “Where are you off to now?”

“Back to the city,” Hawes said.

“And then?”

“And then we’ll talk to the four men who were here with Kramer. It’d save us a little time if you had their addresses.”

“I’ve got registry cards on all of them,” Fielding said. “It doesn’t take a cop to know which one you’ll look up first.”

“No?” Hawes said, grinning.

“No, sir. If I were Phil Kettering, I’d start getting a damn good alibi ready.”