McBain, Ed - Killer's Payoff

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?”

“While you’re phoning for the gear, I’d like to call the city. I want to get a positive identification on that car. You can start with your calls, if you will. I have to go down and take a look at the license plate.”

“If you can’t see into the car, how you going to read a license plate?” Fielding asked.

“That’s a good question,” Hawes said. He nodded. “Okay, let’s get our light.”

* * *

IT OCCURRED TO HAWES while they were making the call to Griffins that they could use a lot more than a light and a crowbar. And so he ordered skin-diving equipment, complete with face masks and oxygen tanks. The equipment did not arrive until late that afternoon. He and Fielding went down to the lake again, equipped themselves, and went into the water.

Again there was the silence. Again the waters closed around the diving figures, shutting out the sounds of the real world. Hawes held the light, and Fielding held the crowbar. As they dove, Hawes kept thinking, If this is Kettering’s car, if this is Kettering’s car….

And then a new thought came to him.

If this was indeed Kettering’s car, his hunch would have been a solid one. The hunch had been simple. He had assumed that Kettering had been killed up here at Kukabonga, which was why they could find no trace of him in the city. He had never returned from the Adirondacks. He had been killed here by someone, and his body had been disposed of. The second half of the hunch was equally simple. Sy Kramer had witnessed the killing, hence the “I SAW YOU!” note. And the murderer of Phil Kettering was the person who had been paying Kramer exorbitant sums of money to protect himself—and this person had had strong motivation for the second murder, the murder of Kramer himself.

The new thought that came to Hawes was somewhat frightening.

For if Kettering had been killed at Kukabonga, and if his murderer was also the man who’d murdered Kramer, what would stop him from killing a third time?

And had not Jerry Fielding been present at Kukabonga when Phil Kettering was killed? And did not Jerry Fielding now hold a crowbar in his hands, and were both men not diving toward the bottom of a dark lake?

If the car was Phil Kettering’s, if Kettering had been killed, couldn’t Jerry Fielding—as well as any of the other men who’d been present—have killed him?

Was Hawes in the water with a murderer?

The idea chilled him. There was nothing to do but wait. He swam toward the rear end of the car. Fielding swam close behind him, the crowbar in his hands. Hawes flashed the light at the license plate. The number was 39X-1412. He repeated it silently several times, burning it into his memory. Then he motioned for Fielding to come to the door of the car. Fielding swam closer. His face behind the mask looked grotesque, evil. He did not seem to be the mild, gently speaking man Hawes had known on the surface. The crowbar in his hands seemed like a deadly weapon. Hawes flashed the light into the car. He could see nothing. He realized, though, that if Kettering were in the car, his body could be on the floor and not visible from the window. He signaled to Fielding again.

Fielding did not seem to understand. He stood motionless, the crowbar in his hands. Hawes swam around the car, trying each door. They were all locked. Then he came back around and pointed to the door near the driver’s seat.

Fielding understood and nodded. Together, they applied the crowbar into the space where door met frame. Together they tugged. Together, they pried open the door. Hawes went into the automobile. It occurred to him while he was in the car that Fielding need only slam the door shut on him, wedging it into place again. He would die inside the car as soon as his oxygen ran out. Fielding stood just outside the door now, waiting.

Hawes flashed the light over the floor, before the front seat and the back seat. The car was empty. He backed out of it, and signaled Fielding to the trunk.

Together, they attacked the lock with the crowbar, and then forced open the trunk.

The trunk was empty.

Even if this was Kettering’s car, the body of Phil Kettering was not in it.

Together, Hawes and Fielding surfaced.

Hawes wondered if he owed Fielding an apology. He said nothing. Instead, he went back to the house and called the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. They returned his call ten minutes later, telling him that the vehicle bearing the license number 39X-1412 was registered to a man named Philip Kettering who made his residence in Sand’s Spit.

Hawes thanked them and hung up. He was not a man to keep things hidden. He would need Fielding’s further help, and he wanted to know where he stood at once.

“Don’t get sore at me,” he said.

“You think I did it?” Fielding asked.

“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—if he got it. Right?”

“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.