McBain, Ed - Killer's Payoff

THE CHECK LAY on the desk between them.

The legend on the frosted-glass door read, SCHLESSER’S SOFT DRINKS. The man behind the desk was Edward Schlesser, a balding man in his early fifties. He wore a dark-blue suit and a yellow weskit. He wore black-rimmed bop glasses. The glasses covered blue eyes, and the eyes studied the check on the desk.

“Is that your check, Mr. Schlesser?” Cotton Hawes asked.

Schlesser sighed. “Yes,” he said.

“Did you send it to a man named Seymour Kramer?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What difference does it make? He’s dead.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Hawes said.

“It’s over now,” Schlesser said. “Are you like a priest? Or a doctor? Does what I tell you remain confidential?”

“Certainly. In any case, it won’t get outside the department.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t. Did you trust Sy Kramer?”

“No,” Schlesser said. “If I’d trusted him, I wouldn’t have been sending him checks.”

“This wasn’t the first check?”

“No, I—” Schlesser stopped. “Who will you tell this to?”

“Two people. My partner on the case, and my immediate superior.”

Schlesser sighed again. “I’ll tell you,” he said.

“I’m listening, sir.”

“I run this business,” Schlesser said. “It’s not a big one, but it’s growing. There’s competition, you know. It’s hard to buck the big companies. But my business is growing, all the time. I’ve got money in the bank, and I’ve got a nice house in Connecticut. My business is here, but I live in Connecticut. I make good soft drinks. Our orange is particularly good. Do you like orange?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you a case when you leave. If you like it, tell your friends.”

“Thank you,” Hawes said. “What about Kramer?”

“We had an accident a little while ago. In the bottling plant. Not too serious, but a thing like that, if it gets around…This is a small business. We’re just beginning to make a mark, people are just beginning to recognize our bottle and the name Schlesser. A thing like this…”

“What happened?”

“Somehow, don’t ask me how, a freak accident—a mouse got bottled into one of the drinks.”

“A mouse?” Hawes asked incredulously.

“A tiny little thing,” Schlesser said, nodding. “A field mouse. The bottling plant is in a field, naturally. Somehow the mouse got in, and somehow he got into one of the bottles, and somehow it went through the plant and was shipped to our distributors. A bottle of sarsaparilla as I recall.”

Hawes wanted to smile, but apparently this was a matter of extreme seriousness to Schlesser.

“Somebody bought the bottle of soda. It was the large family size, the economy size. This person claimed he drank some of the soda and got very sick. He threatened to sue the company.”

“For how much?”

“A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Hawes whistled. “Did he win the case?”

“It never got to court. The last thing we wanted was a trial. We settled for twenty-five thousand dollars out of court. I was glad to have it over with. There wasn’t a peep in the papers about it. It could have ruined me. People remember things like that. A mouse in a bottle of soda? Jesus, you can be ruined!”

“Go on,” Hawes said.

“About a month after we’d settled, I got a telephone call from a man who said he knew all about it.”

“Kramer?”

“Yes. He threatened to turn a certain document over to the newspapers unless I paid him money to withhold it.”

“Which document?”

“The original letter that had come from the claimant’s attorney, the letter telling all about the mouse.”

“How’d he get it?”

“I don’t know. I checked the files, and sure enough it was gone. He wanted three thousand dollars for the letter.”

“Did you pay him?”

“I had to. I’d already paid twenty-five thousand dollars to keep it quiet. Another three wouldn’t hurt me. I thought it would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. He’d had photostated copies of the letter made. He asked for an additional three hundred dollars a month. Each time I sent him my check, he’d send back another photostated copy. I figured he’d run out sooner or later. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s dead.”

“He may have friends,” Hawes said.

“What do you mean?”

“A partner, a cohort, someone who’ll pick up right where he left off.”

“In that case, I’ll keep paying the three hundred dollars a month. It comes to thirty-six hundred dollars a year. That’s not so much. I spend sixty thousand dollars a year advertising my soft drinks. All that would go down the drain if that letter got to the newspapers. So another thirty-six hundred a year isn’t going to kill me. If Kramer has a partner, I’ll keep paying.”

“Where were you on the night of June twenty-sixth, Mr. Schlesser?” Hawes asked.

“What do you mean? You mean the night Kramer was killed?”

“Yes.”

Schlesser began laughing. “That’s ridiculous. Do you think I’d kill a man for three hundred dollars a month? A lousy three hundred dollars a month?”

“Suppose, Mr. Schlesser,” Hawes said, “that Kramer had decided to release that letter to the newspapers no matter how much you paid him? Suppose he just decided to be a mean son of a bitch?”

Schlesser did not answer.

“Now, Mr. Schlesser. Where were you on the night of June twenty-sixth?”

5.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S NAME was Ted Boone.

His office was on swank Hall Avenue, and he knew the men of the 87th because a month ago they had investigated the murder of his ex-wife. The call to Boone was made by Bert Kling, who knew him best. And Kling was asking for a favor.

“I hate to bother you,” he said, “because I know how busy you are.”

“Has this got something to do with the case?” Boone asked.

“No, no,” Kling said, “that’s closed—until the trial, at any rate.”

“When will that be?”

“I think it’s set for August.”

“Will I be called?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Boone. That’s up to the district attorney.” He paused, remembering Boone’s young daughter. “How’s Monica?”

“She’s fine, thanks. She’ll be coming to live with me this month.”

“Give her my love, will you?”

“I’ll certainly do that, Mr. Kling.”

There was a long pause.

“The reason I’m calling…” Kling said.

“Yes?”

“We’re working on something now, and I thought you might be able to help. You do a lot of fashion photography, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever use a model named Lucy Starr Mitchell?”

“Lucy Starr Mitchell.” Boone thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Do you know which agency she’s with?”

“No.”

“Is she hot now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, models have their ups and downs. They’re hot for a while, and then they cool off. Their faces get too well known. People begin to say, ‘Oh, there’s that exquisite redhead!’ instead of ‘Oh, there’s an exquisite dress.’ Do you understand me? The model begins selling herself instead of the product.”

“I see.”

“But the name doesn’t register with me. If she were active now, I’d recognize it. I use most of the topflight girls.”

“I think she was modeling about twelve or thirteen years ago,” Kling said.

“Oh. Then I wouldn’t know her. I haven’t been in the business that long.”

“How would I find out about her, Mr. Boone?”

“You can call the registries. They’ve got back records. They can pinpoint her in a minute. Meanwhile, if you like, I’ll ask around. I have friends who’ve been at this much longer than I. If they used her, they’ll probably remember.”