Killer's Payoff

13.

JOHN MURPHY looked like a Bengal Lancer.

He had a bald pate and a white mustache and a florid complexion and a pot belly. He looked like a retired colonel who had just come back from somewhere in the British Empire. He was not a retired colonel. He was a retired broker, and he spent his time clipping coupons within the walls of an old house in New Posquit, a suburb of the city. New Posquit was not Sand’s Spit. It was, as a matter of fact, in the opposite direction from Sand’s Spit. The houses in New Posquit were not new, nor did they cramp each other, elbows to buttocks.

Murphy’s old house rested on sixteen acres of rolling, wooded land. He was not a millionaire, but he would sooner move into an igloo than a Sand’s Spit development. New Posquit had golfing clubs and tennis clubs and yacht clubs. John Murphy belonged to all of them. Perhaps he belonged to them because he was a retired man who didn’t have a damned thing to do. Perhaps he belonged to them because he was a highly nervous man who couldn’t even hold a gin and tonic in his hands without causing the glass to tremble.

Or maybe he was nervous because he was being questioned by a cop.

Sitting opposite him that afternoon, Steve Carella noticed the tremble in the old man’s hands and wondered whether the old man could possibly hit the side of a barn on a hunting trip. Carella sat with his pad open in his lap, and he tried to take his notes effortlessly, calling as little attention to them as possible. With many people, the taking of notes became a hindrance to easy conversation. He had seen many people freeze up entirely as they watched the moving pencil. John Murphy was a highly nervous man, but Carella didn’t know whether he was habitually nervous or whether the presence of a cop had brought on the trembling.

“You just live here with your family, is that it?” Carella asked.

“Yes,” Murphy said. “That’s what I do. Yes.”

“How long have you been retired, Mr. Murphy?”

“Eleven years last month,” Murphy said. “Quit when I was fifty. I’m sixty-one now.”

“What do you do with your time?”

“Oh, I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“I golf. I fish. I hunt.” Murphy shrugged. “I own a sports car. Raced it last year. I’m an excellent driver.”

“What kind of a car?”

“A Porsche.”

“Did you win the race?”

“I was in two races. Came in fourth in one, and second in the next.”

“Then you are a good driver.”

“Said so, didn’t I?” Murphy said. “You want a refill on that drink?”

“No, thank you. Are you a good hunter?”

“Lousy,” Murphy said. “My hands aren’t too steady. I’ve got ulcers. That’s how nervous I am.” He held out his hand. “Look at that,” he said.

“Mmm,” Carella said. “Mr. Murphy, can you tell me about a hunting trip you took last fall? A trip to Kukabonga Lodge?”

“Certainly,” Murphy said.

He began telling the story. Carella asked questions and took notes all the while. Murphy related the story of the argument over the clams, and the subsequent argument between Kramer and Kettering. His memory was excellent. He remembered all the men’s names, remembered details of clothing, even mimicked some of their voices. He told the story essentially the same way Jerry Fielding had told it to Hawes up at Kukabonga. When Carella later compared his notes with Hawes, he would learn that Frank Ruther had given the same story, too.

“Ever see Kettering since that morning?” Carella asked.

“Nope.”

“Been hunting since?”

“Nope.”

“What kind of guns do you have, Mr. Murphy?”

“I’ve got three guns. A shotgun, a twenty-two, and a big-game rifle.”

“What make is the big-game gun?”

“A Savage.”

“Caliber?”

“Three hundred.”

“May I see the gun?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to,” Carella said. “I’d also like to take it with me.”

“What for?”

“To hand over to our ballistics department.”

“Why?”

“Sy Kramer was shot with a.300 Savage.”

“I read about that in the papers,” Murphy said. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“You think I shot Kramer?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy.”

“I couldn’t hit a grizzly bear at ten paces. You think I could have shot Kramer from a car on a dark, rainy night?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy. But I would like to have the gun run through Ballistics, if you don’t mind.”

“Can’t you just sniff the barrel and tell it wasn’t fired recently?”

Carella smiled. “We like to get a little more precise than that, Mr. Murphy. We’d like to run a comparison test between a bullet fired from your gun and the bullet that killed Kramer.”

“Well, all right,” Murphy said reluctantly.

“I’ll give you a receipt for the gun,” Carella said. “It’ll be returned to you in good condition.”

“Good condition isn’t enough,” Murphy said. “It’s being turned over to you in excellent condition.”

“You’ll get it back the same way,” Carella said, smiling.

“Okay,” Murphy said, getting out of his chair. “It’s inside, in the gun rack.”

Carella followed him into the house. When Murphy had taken the Savage from the gun rack, he turned to Carella with the weapon in his hands.

“A good rifle,” he said.

“Yes,” Carella agreed.

“Can bring down an elephant with this,” he said. Inadvertently he had turned the gun’s barrel toward Carella.

“Ahhh…you wouldn’t mind turning that the other way, would you?” Carella said.

“Why?” Murphy asked.

“I’ve been taught never to point a gun at anyone unless I intend shooting him.”

For a moment the room went silent. Murphy stared at Carella. His finger was inside the trigger guard. His hand was trembling.

“Mr. Murphy,” Carella said. “Would you mind?”

“You don’t think I’d shoot you, do you, Mr. Carella?” Murphy asked. There was no smile on his face.

“No, but…”

“I mean, even if this were the rifle that killed Sy Kramer. Even then, do you think I’d be foolish enough to shoot you here in my own home?”

“If you’re not going to shoot me,” Carella said levelly, “then turn the gun away.”

“Mr. Carella,” Murphy said, smiling now, “I think I’ve made you nervous.” He paused. “The gun isn’t loaded.” He handed it to Carella. “And it isn’t the rifle that killed Kramer.”

“I’m glad to hear both those facts,” Carella said. “May I have some cartridges for the Ballistics test, please?”

“Certainly,” Murphy said. He opened a drawer at the bottom of the gun rack. “I’ve got some full magazines here. Will they be all right?”

“Fine,” Carella said.

Murphy rummaged in the drawer. “There’s a pool table in the next room,” he said. “Do you play pool?”

“Yes.”

“Care for a game?”

“No.”

“I’m glad,” Murphy said. He slammed the drawer shut, and handed Carella a rotary magazine for the gun. “I’m a lousy pool player.” He paused. “My hands,” he explained. “They’re not too steady.”

And Steve Carella remembered Murphy’s trembling finger inside the trigger guard.

COTTON HAWES did not realize he was being followed until he left the home of Joaquim Miller that night. When he finally realized it, he did something about it-but he was blissfully ignorant up to the moment of realization.

He had called Miller’s home after leaving the office of Frank Ruther. Miller’s wife told Hawes that Joaquim worked as an electronics engineer for a company called Byrd Industries, Inc. Hawes called Miller at his office. Because Miller was an employee in a large firm and because questioning by the police can often cast suspicion of guilt upon the most innocent man, Hawes considerately asked Miller if he could see him at his home that night. Miller readily agreed.

The Miller home was in Majesta, an outlying section of the city.

Hawes had left the 87th at 6:30 P.M. He pulled up to the apartment building at 8:03. He did not as yet know he had been followed from the front steps of the 87th all the way to Majesta. The apartment building in which the Millers lived was on a tree-shaded street There was a small park across from the building. It was one of the best neighborhoods in Majesta. Hawes assumed that the Millers had chosen the location because of its proximity to the Byrd plant. And since they had chosen the best, he further assumed Miller was earning a good salary.

“Apartment Fifty-four,” Miller had told him on the phone. Hawes walked across the simple lobby to the self-service elevator. He took that up to the fifth floor, and then found the Miller apartment. Mrs. Miller answered the door. She was an attractive brunette with large blue eyes, but Hawes made a point of never falling in love with a woman who was already married.

“Are you Detective Hawes?” she asked immediately.

“Yes.” Hawes showed his identification.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. We’re just trying to locate a man your husband once met. We thought he might be able to help.”

“It’s nothing to do with Joaquim?”

“No, ma’am,” Hawes said.

“Come in, won’t you?” she answered, and he had the distinct impression that if this had had something to do with Joaquim, she’d have slammed the door in his face and then fired a machine-gun volley through it. The protective Mrs. Miller led Hawes into the living room. Joaquim Miller turned from the television set.

“This is Detective Hawes,” his wife said.

Miller rose, his hand extended. He was a thin man of about thirty-three, with a narrow face topped with a brown crew cut. His eyes were warm and intelligent. His grip on Hawes’s hand was firm.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Hawes,” he said. “Have you found him yet?”

“No, not yet,” Hawes replied.

“They’re looking for a man named Phil Kettering,” Miller explained to his wife. “Mr. Hawes told me about it on the phone this afternoon.”

Mrs. Miller nodded. Her eyes did not leave Hawes’s face.

“Sit down, Mr. Hawes,” Miller said. “Can we get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Glass of beer? You’re allowed a glass of beer, aren’t you?”

“I’d rather not, thank you.”

“Okay, then,” Miller said. “What would you like me to tell you?”

“Everything you remember about Phil Kettering and Sy Kramer,” Hawes said.

Miller began talking, and while he talked Hawes took notes and thought, “Police work is simply getting everything in triplicate.” Miller was telling the same story Fielding had told, the same story Ruther had told, the same story Murphy had given to Carella earlier that day. It was getting a little boring, to tell the truth. Hawes wished for some outstanding deviation from the facts, something he could pounce on. There was no deviation. Miller told the story straight down the line.

“Have you seen Kettering since?” Hawes asked.

“Since the day he left the lodge?” Miller asked.

“Yes,” Hawes said.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do you own a gun, Mr. Miller?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you hunt on that-”

“I rented that gun, Mr. Hawes. I’m not a real hunter, you see. Peg was visiting her mother in California. We don’t get along, Peg’s mother and me. She didn’t want Peg to marry me, but we got married, anyway.”

“She didn’t think Joaquim would amount to anything. But he’s amounted to a lot.”

“Please, Peg,” Miller said.

“Well, you have. He earns a very good salary, Mr. Hawes. We’ve been able to save quite a bit between his salary and the land.”

“Peg, can’t you-?”

“What land?” Hawes asked. “What do you mean?”

Miller sighed. “I speculate,” he explained. “I buy and sell land. With all these housing developments springing up all over the place, it’s been pretty profitable.”

“How do you work it?”

“Sheer speculation. I pick a spot I think the developers will eventually get to. I buy it fairly cheap, and then sell it high when they decide to build on it. It won’t last much longer, though. They’ve pretty much built everywhere they can build and still stay within reasonable commuting distance of the city.”

“How much have you made with such speculation?” Hawes asked.

“That’s our business,” Miller said.

“I’m sorry,” Hawes said. “I didn’t mean to get personal, but I would like to know.”

“We’ve made about thirty thousand,” Miller’s wife said.

“Peg-”

“Well, why shouldn’t we tell?”

“Peg, shut-”

“We’re saving it,” Mrs. Miller said. “We’re going to build a big house some-”

“Shut up, Peg!” Miller snapped.

Mrs. Miller fell into a resentful silence. Hawes cleared his throat.

“What kind of work do you do with Byrd, Mr. Miller?”

“I’m an electronics engineer.”

“I know. But what are you working on?”

Miller smiled as if his team had scored a point. “I couldn’t answer that one if I wanted to.”

“Why not?”

“Classified,” Miller said.

“I see. Just to reiterate-you do not own a gun, is that correct?”

“That’s absolutely correct.”

“What kind of a gun did you rent when you went away?”

“A twenty-two.”

“Would you remember what kind of a gun Kettering was using?”

“I’m not good on guns,” Miller said. “It was a big-game rifle-a powerful name. A name that sounded like a big-game gun.”

“A Savage?” Hawes asked.

“Yes,” Miller said. “Kettering was using a Savage.”

In the street again, Hawes glanced up at the apartment building. He saw Miller standing at the window, watching him. He ducked away from the window quickly when he realized Hawes had seen him. Hawes sighed and started for his car. It was then that he saw the man. The man moved behind a tree quickly, but not quickly enough. Hawes had caught a glimpse of him, and he walked to his car slowly now, opened the door, started the engine, and waited. The man did not move from behind the tree. Hawes set the car in motion. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man run for an automobile and enter it. The car was a Chevrolet, but Hawes could not distinguish the license-plate number in the darkness. Behind him, he heard the car starting.

He drove slowly. His pursuer did not know that Hawes knew he was being pursued. Hawes did not want the pursuer to lose him, nor did he wish to lose the pursuer. There was, of course, the added possibility that the man was not following him at all. Hawes would test this possibility in a moment.

He waited until he’d picked up the man’s headlights in the rear-view mirror. Up to that point, he had been driving slowly, as if unsure of which turn to take. Now he sped up, turned left, and watched the car behind him execute the same turn. He turned right. The Chevy turned right. He went straight for two blocks, and then made a left. The Chevy was still behind him. He executed a series of lefts and rights that eliminated all possibility of chance. The man in the Chevy was certainly following Hawes, and Hawes wondered why. He also wondered who. He could not see the front license plate in his rear-view mirror. He wanted to know who the hell was in that car.

He put on a sudden burst of speed, outdistancing the Chevy by a block, and then pulled over to the curb. He got out of the car and ducked into the nearest alley. Up the street, the Chevy braked suddenly and then pulled to the curb a distance behind Hawes’s car. The man got out of the car, looked up and down the street, and then began walking toward the alley.

The luxuriant summer growth on the trees shielded the street lamps so that the sidewalks were in almost total darkness. Hawes could hear the man’s footsteps as he approached, but he could not see the man’s face. The man had undoubtedly assumed that Hawes had gone into one of the apartment buildings. He stopped at each entrance and looked into the building, moving closer to the alleyway all the time.

The footsteps echoed in the hollow bowl of night.

Hawes waited.

They were closer now, very close, almost, almost…

Hawes reached out, swinging the man around.

The man moved with a reflexive action that caught Hawes completely by surprise. Hawes was no midget, and certainly bigger than the man who hit him. But he had reached out with one hand, grasping the man by the shoulder, and the man had swung around, partially pulled by Hawes, partially under his own power, so that the force of his blow was doubled.

He swung around with his fist clenched, and he threw the fist at Hawes’s midsection, catching him below the belt. The pain was excruciating. Hawes released the man’s shoulder instantly and dropped to the concrete. The man ran out of the alley mouth. Hawes had still not seen his face. Lying on the concrete, raw pain triggering through his groin, he could only think of a stupid joke he had once heard. He did not want to think of the joke. He wanted to get up off the concrete and chase his assailant, but the pain persisted in agonizing waves, and the joke ran over and over again in his mind, the joke about a man overhearing two women describing childbirth to each other. “Such pain,” one said. “Nobody ever had such pain as when I gave birth.”

“Pain? Don’t talk about pain,” the other woman said. “When my Lewis was born, it was unbearable. Such pain no one in the world has ever known.”

And the man walked over to them and said, “Excuse me, ladies, but did either of you ever get kicked in the balls?”

There didn’t seem to be anything funny about the joke now. Lying on the concrete, Hawes knew only pain, and the joke was not funny at all. Lying on the concrete, he could hear the Chevy’s motor starting. He dragged himself to the alley mouth, hoping to catch a glimpse of the license plate as the car went by.

The street was dark, and the car wasn’t observing any speed limits.

Hawes could not read the plate.

In a little while, the pain subsided.

STEVE CARELLA didn’t truthfully suspect John Murphy. He didn’t know whom he truthfully suspected at this stage of the game, but he did know that the man who’d fired the Savage at Kramer had been a dead shot. Only one shell had been fired, and that shell had blown away half of Kramer’s head. Whoever had killed Kramer had been driving an automobile not a minute before-or so it appeared. He had pulled the car to the curb, picked up the rifle, aimed, and fired. His aim had been unerring. The single shot had done it.

Carella doubted that John Murphy’s aim was unerring. The old man’s hands trembled even when he was sitting having a peaceful drink. If they trembled normally, how much more would they tremble when murder was about to be done? No, he did not truthfully suspect John Murphy.

He was not at all surprised, therefore, by the Ballistics report on the test bullet fired from Murphy’s.300 Savage.

The Ballistics report simply stated that the gun owned by John Murphy could not possibly have fired the bullet that had killed Kramer.

Steve Carella was not at all surprised-but he was disappointed, anyway.