McBain, Ed - Killer's Payoff

“Did it work?”

“I’m still unemployed,” Nancy said. “Sy’s proposition sounded like a good one. Besides, he was a nice guy. I liked him. I wouldn’t have lived with him if I didn’t like him. I’ve lived with starving actors in the Quarter and didn’t like them half as much.”

“Did you know he had a criminal record?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he was an extortionist?”

“No. Was he?”

“Yes.”

“He told me he’d been in jail once because he’d got into a fight over a girl in a bar.”

“How did he explain his income to you?”

“He didn’t. And I never asked.”

“Did he keep regular working hours?”

“No.”

“And you never suspected he might be involved in something illegal?”

“No. Well, to be truthful, yes, I did. But I never asked him about it.”

“Why not?”

“A man’s business is his business. I don’t believe in prying.”

“Um-huh,” Hawes said.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you. I was hoping you’d be able to give us a lead onto his victim or victims.” Hawes shrugged. “But if you don’t know anything about—”

“I don’t.” Nancy was thoughtful for a moment. “Where’d you get the white streak?”

“Huh? Oh.” Hawes touched his hair. “I got knifed once.”

“It’s attractive.” She smiled. “The very latest thing, you know.”

“I try to keep in tune with the new fashions,” Hawes said, returning the smile. “Do you have any idea how much money Kramer was making?”

“No. A lot, I suppose. This apartment isn’t exactly a cold-water flat.”

“Hardly,” Hawes said. “Do you know what the rental runs?”

“I think it’s three-fifty a month.”

Hawes whistled.

“Who invents these stories about crime not paying?” Nancy said.

“Does it?” Hawes asked.

“Well, look at—”

“Kramer died in a gutter,” Hawes said flatly.

“But he lived in a penthouse,” Nancy answered.

“I’d rather live in Calm’s Point and die in bed.”

“Do many cops die in bed?”

“Most of them,” Hawes said. “Did Kramer have an address book?”

“Yes. Shall I get it for you?”

“Later. Any bankbooks?” Hawes paused. “Check-books?”

“One of each,” Nancy said.

“A safety deposit box?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re pretty, Miss O’Hara,” Hawes said.

“I know,” she answered.

“I know you know. That doesn’t make you any less pretty.”

“Has the routine questioning stopped?” she asked. “Are we ready to do the sex bit?”

“I—”

“You were beginning to sound like most agents and producers in this town. I thought cops were above that sort of stuff. Except cops on the vice squad.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind being told you’re pretty,” Hawes said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re pretty, too,” Nancy answered. “The compliment has been returned, now let’s drop the bit. Are there any more questions?”

“Did Kramer ever entertain here?”

“Sometimes.”

“What kind of friends did he have?”

“All kinds.”

“Criminals?”

“I wouldn’t know a forger if he signed a check for me.”

“You must have listened to conversations.”

“I did. Crimes were never discussed. The people Sy entertained seemed like respectable citizens with wives and children.”

“Thieves have wives and children, too,” Hawes said.

“I don’t think these people were thieves. One was an architect, I think. Another a lawyer.”

“Did Kramer have any interests besides his—ah—work?” Hawes asked.

“Like what?”

“Hobbies? Organizations? You know.”

“He liked to hunt. He went on hunting trips every now and then.”

“Where?”

“The mountains.”

“Take you with him?”

“No. I don’t like to kill animals.”

“Did you and Kramer get along, Miss O’Hara?”

“Very well. Why?”

“Do you personally know any criminals, Miss O’Hara?”

“You mean did I hire the person who shot Sy?”

“If you prefer.”

“No. I did not hire him, and I do not know any criminals. I know only one person connected with crime, and he is beginning to bore me.”

Hawes smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to ask questions. That’s what I’m paid for.”

“Shall I get that stuff for you?”

“Please. It might help us. Or don’t you care whether or not we find his murderers?”

Nancy thought this over gravely. “Sy’s dead,” she said simply. “Our relationship was a temporary one. I liked him a lot, and I suppose I’d like to see justice triumph. I’ll help you in any way possible. Will I weep bitterly? No, I will not. Will I think of Sy six months from now? Probably not. Do I sound hard and cynical?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it’s because I am hard and cynical.”

The words came from Hawes’s mouth before he knew he was about to speak them. “You look soft and sentimental,” he said.

“Here comes the sex bit again,” she answered.

“Yes, here comes the sex bit. Will you get me the bankbook, the checkbook, and the address book, please?”

“Sure,” she said. She rose and started out of the room. At the door she turned and said, “Maybe I will weep bitterly. I liked Sy.”

“Good.”

“And I suppose men always make passes. I suppose it’s the nature of the beast.”

“I suppose so,” Hawes said.

“I shouldn’t have squelched you.”

“Maybe I was out of line.”

“Maybe you weren’t.”

She looked at Hawes steadily.

“Miss O’Hara,” he said, “I’ve never dated a redhead.”

“No?”

“No. I’m leaving the office at six thirty tonight. Do you think we might have dinner together?”

“To find out more about Sy and his bad associates?”

“No. To find out more about you.”

“I have a very hearty appetite. I’m an expensive date.”

Hawes grinned. “I received my graft rake-off today,” he said.

“I believe you.”

“Can you be out of those dungarees by seven thirty?”

“I can,” she said. “It’s a question of whether I will.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Don’t expect…”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” She left the room to get the items he wanted.

* * *

THEY HAD DINNER in one of the city’s better restaurants. Nancy O’Hara was very pleasant company, and Cotton Hawes fell hopelessly in love with her. He would fall hopefully out of love with her by the next day, but for now she was the only woman in the universe. And so they ate a nourishing meal. And so they talked and laughed and drank. And so they went to a late movie. And so they went back to Nancy’s apartment for a nightcap.

And so to bed.

4.

The passbook for the savings account looked like this:

The account had been started in October with the sum of $21,000. In January there had been an additional deposit of $9,000, and in April a third deposit of $15,000. The interest, computed on April first and indicated in the passbook at the time the April eleventh deposit had been made, was $187.50. Kramer had not made a withdrawal since the account had been opened.

The checking account was a working account. There were regular deposits and withdrawals. The deposits were usually made around the first of each month, give or take a week. The deposits were made in three unvarying amounts: $500, $300, and $1,100. The withdrawals were made in varying amounts—to pay bills and for pocket money. The savings account, it seemed, had been Kramer’s nest egg. The checking account was the one that had sustained him in his daily pursuit of happiness, to the tune of $1,900 a month.