Kill Fee, page 11
He laughed. "Hire a wizard."
"I wish I could," she sighed. "My designer hates me. There's a chair under that pile of transparencies if you want to sit down."
Eberhart made himself a seat. "How long have you been doing this kind of work?"
"About eight years," she said. "I've been with this production company only two, though."
"I've got to ask you a question."
She nodded. "Didn't think you were here to make small talk."
"Has Leon Walsh asked you for money lately?"
She leaned back in her chair and gave him a long look. "Why do you want to know?"
That means yes. "We have reason to think he needed a large sum of money recently. He was borrowing heavily from the banks, but he wasn't able to get all he needed."
"How much did he need altogether?"
"We think a hundred thousand."
Her eyebrows rose, settled back down. "What did he need the money for?"
Eberhart answered the question with another. "Did you let him have some money, Ms Hudson?"
"So you don't want to tell me." She picked up a ruler and played with it. "Sergeant, is Leon in trouble with the law?"
"He hasn't been charged with anything."
She slammed down the ruler. "Damn it, stop giving me evasive answers." She stood up angrily and walked around her desk to face him. "You don't tell me anything but I'm supposed to tell you whatever you want to know! Sergeant, I don't like your rules. I don't want to help you build some sort of case against Leon."
"Look, I know you want to protect him—"
She shook her head vigorously. "No, I don't—not any more. Leon's on his own. But I don't like not knowing what's going on. What has he done?"
Eberhart gave a big audible sigh. "Since we're still in the process of gathering evidence, you know I can't answer that. Ms Hudson—sit down, please."
"I don't want to sit down."
"Will you just sit down? Please?''
Her mouth twitched in amusement. "And if I obey, then you'll reward me by telling me what I want to know? You like that game, do you, Sergeant?"
Eberhart tried to look stern but ended up grinning at her. He liked Leila Hudson. She was a good ten years older than he was, but he found himself attracted in a way that just might interfere with the business at hand. "I guess I can tell you this much. We've traced Walsh's borrowing pretty far—we've got him down for seventy-five thousand. All we want to know is whether he got the last twenty-five from you. It would just complete the picture, you see. You wouldn't be telling us anything new."
She looked depressed. "He's done something he shouldn't have, hasn't he?"
What the hell. "I'm afraid so. I think so. Did you let him have the money?"
She nodded reluctantly.
"How much?"
"You named it—twenty-five thousand. On the button." Leila walked to the window and stared out without seeing anything. "I can't say I'm surprised. I knew something was dreadfully wrong."
"How—from his manner, from something he said? What did he say?"
She made a visible effort to pull herself together. "Leon played an unbelievably shabby trick to get me to lend him the money. Don't ask me about it—I'm not going to tell you. But it was the sort of thing a man does only when he's reached the end of his rope. If he's a man like Leon, that is. It really was underhanded, Sergeant. But I decided to give him the money he needed to get out of this scrape he was in, whatever it was—and then I'd have nothing more to do with him. Ever."
"Can you do that?" Eberhart was surprised. "Just walk away after all this time?"
Her face brightened a little. "Oh, yes! I can do that. I feel no more obligation to Leon Walsh—I've done all that can reasonably be expected. More."
Sergeant Eberhart felt a surge of high spirits. "No regrets?"
"Thousands," she laughed. "But none about saying good-bye to Leon. Why am I telling you this?"
Because you've sensed my interest. "I have one of those faces. Just let me ask one more thing. Is it a loan? Or is it going to end up being a gift?"
"No, it's a loan," Leila said. "He's already paid back twenty-five hundred of it. Leon's not a deadbeat, thank goodness. He really does try to do the right thing. It's just that it's usually more than he can manage."
"How's that?"
She left the window and absently perched on the edge of the desk, trying to find the best way to put it. "You see, Leon does only one thing in life well, but he does it far better than most other people do their things. He's a damned good editor—one of the best, when he's given a free rein. His own editorial writing is a bit pedestrian, but he has a way of putting his finger on what's good or bad in other people's writing that's downright uncanny. He never misses. Do you read much fiction, Sergeant?"
"Afraid I don't."
She nodded, expecting that answer. "Well, if you did, you'd be impressed by the number of established writers who got their start in Summit. Did you know Leon has had four novels dedicated to him? In gratitude, they all said. As long as he's shut up in that office editing his manuscripts and putting the next issue together, he functions beautifully."
Eberhart understood. "But once he comes out of that office—"
"Yes. He gets rattled easily, and he ends up making guesses when he should be making decisions. Leon is . . . well, he's just filled with heroic aspirations—but he always manages to slip on a banana peel on the way into battle. He's simply not equipped to handle the normal conflicts we all have. So if he should come up against some really desperate situation—Sergeant, don't make me beg. What has Leon done?"
Eberhart stood up, replaced the transparencies on the chair—stalling for time. "If he's done anything, you'll know in a day or two. I'll call you myself. But I can't tell you now. Besides—we might be wrong, you know."
"But you're not wrong, are you?"
"I don't think so."
Unexpectedly she smiled at him. "I'm putting you on the spot, aren't I? And you know something? Doesn't bother me a bit! You ought to tell me something."
He returned her smile. "I wish I could."
Leila saw him to the door, a matter of about four steps. Just as he was leaving, Eberhart turned to her and said, "Have you read this month's issue of Summit?"
She looked vaguely around the paper-laden office. "I have a copy here somewhere. I haven't gotten to it yet."
"Story in there you might find interesting. It's called 'The Man from Porlock.' "
It took her a second, but then she caught on he'd told her something important. She touched his sleeve lightly. "Thank you, Sergeant."
Eberhart nodded and left.
Captain Ansbacher watched the machine to make sure the cup dropped down before the ersatz coffee started squirting itself down the drain. Double "whitener", no sugar. Plop—ah.
" 'Lo, Captain."
He should have known the voice, but Ansbacher had to turn around and look: Sergeant Hanowitz. Ansbacher frowned. Hanowitz was one of those men who always looked as if they had a hangover even when they didn't. Bleary eyes, gray skin. Ansbacher grunted a greeting, wondering what the little toady wanted this time.
Hanowitz put his money in the machine and punched the button for chicken broth. "That stuff gives me dyspepsia," he said, pointing a thumb toward the cup in Ansbacher's hand. "How are things going with the Parminter investigation?"
Ansbacher kept his face expressionless. "You have a special interest in the Parminter case?"
"No, just wondering, that's all. Making any progress?"
"Talk to Grogan. He's in charge."
"Haven't seen him around for a while. Real funny how Parminter stole those plans. Wonder if he'd been doing that all along."
Ansbacher didn't say anything, knowing Hanowitz would get to the point without any help from him. The man was about as subtle as a heart attack.
"Some of the guys are thinking Parminter and the Sutton Construction Company must have had something going for a long time—they did a helluva lot of business with the city. But me, I think it's just talk. I don't believe any of those stories going round."
Ansbacher understood he was supposed to say What stories?—but he was damned if he'd take his cues from this little weasel. "Good for you," he said tonelessly.
Hanowitz looked uncomfortable; he wasn't getting the response he was fishing for. He took a big swallow of chicken broth and burned his tongue.
"First time I've ever known that stuff to be hot," Ansbacher smiled as Hanowitz dashed for the water fountain. The Captain finished his coffee and headed back toward his office.
Footsteps, hurrying to catch up. "Hoo, my tongue hurts." Hanowitz sucked in air. "Those stories we were talking about—I think they're just so much sour grapes myself. Murtaugh got sore because you pulled him off the Parminter investigation, that's all."
"Murtaugh?" Ansbacher said before he thought, and was annoyed to see the corners of Hanowitz's mouth twitch.
"Yeah, he doesn't really have anything. He's just mad. He's even asking around about cases you pulled him off years ago—Christ, what a sorehead." Sergeant Hanowitz was almost smiling now; he had Captain Ansbacher's complete attention. "I think it's kinda sneaky myself. Goin' behind your back like that, I mean. But it'll all fizzle out once Murtaugh cools down. Irish temper, I guess."
"Some people carry grudges," was all Ansbacher would volunteer.
Hanowitz laughed. "Well, he's carryin' one big enough to make Arnold Schwarzenegger sweat. Man, he is asking questions about everything. He's even asking how many cars you own." He laughed again. "Ever hear anything so stupid?"
Ansbacher stopped in front of his office door and stared at Hanowitz until the other man started to fidget. "Well, I gotta be going," Hanowitz said and hurried off, feeling Ansbacher's eyes burning holes in his back.
"Twenty-five thousand from Sterling National Bank and Trust," Murtaugh read from his notebook. "Thirty thousand from Chase Manhattan Bank. Six thousand from Franklin Savings. Five thousand from Citibank."
Leon Walsh's lips moved soundlessly; his face was ashen. Sergeant Eberhart stood by the closed door of the editor's office, his arms folded across his chest.
"Two thousand each from First Federal Savings and Loan, Lincoln Savings, and Dry Dock Savings. Three thousand from Dollar Savings. And last, twenty-five thousand from Leila Hudson." Murtaugh snapped his notebook shut. "Grand total, one hundred thousand dollars. That was a busy three weeks you spent, Walsh."
Walsh had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Why are you still checking up on me?"
"One hundred thousand dollars," Murtaugh repeated. "Exactly the amount needed to pay off the killer in 'The Man from Porlock.' "
"What?! That's just a story, for crying out loud! You don't think—"
"Who is J. J. Kellerman?"
"Uh, a writer. A short-story writer."
"You know him?"
"Not personally, no. I've published his work before, though." Walsh cleared his throat. "Good writer."
"Where does he live?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Where does he live? You had to send him a check, didn't you? That means you have an address."
Walsh gave a totally unconvincing laugh. "Lieutenant, you don't think I carry my writers' addresses around in my head, do you?" He buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring in the Kellerman file. "Why are you asking about Kellerman?" Walsh said, obviously preferring this line of inquiry to the earlier one.
Won't work, Murtaugh thought wryly. "Why did you take out a hundred thousand dollars' worth of loans over a three-week period?"
"Excuse me, Lieutenant, but that's none of your business."
"Excuse me, but it's very much my business. Now do you want to tell me here or do you want to come down to the station and tell me there?"
Walsh got a moment's reprieve when his secretary walked in with a manila folder. When she'd left, Walsh looked through the folder, taking his time. "Well, well. . . I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but we don't seem to have Kellerman's address. Somebody goofed."
I'll say. "Then how did you send him his check?"
"We obviously did have his address at one time, but somebody forgot to write it down in the file."
Eberhart strode over to the desk and took the file from Walsh. "No address," he confirmed.
"You can't just take things out of my hands that way," Walsh protested.
"Tell us about it." Murtaugh sniffed; what a poor liar Leon Walsh was. "Look, Walsh, enough of this pussyfooting. We know you and J. J. Kellerman are the same person and—"
"That's crazy! Where'd you get an idea like that!"
"And we know 'The Man from Porlock' isn't just a story you made up. It really happened that way. You needed the hundred thousand to pay off Sussman's killer."
"This is insane! You are insane! Just because I published a story about a killer . . . somebody else's story, I didn't even write it. You put me in the story and claim I . . . do you really think I'd meekly hand over one hundred thousand dollars to some homicidal maniac who . . . who goes around calling himself Osiris, of all things?''
"Not Osiris. Pluto."
Until then Murtaugh would have said it was impossible for Walsh's face to turn any whiter. For a long moment none of the three men either spoke or moved. Then Walsh slowly lowered his face into his hands. Eberhart resumed his post by the door, a conscientious sergeant-at-arms.
"You understand, we do know what happened," Murtaugh said quietly. "Pluto watches the growing conflict between you and Sussman—and when your partner is on the verge of selling you out to UltraMedia, Pluto steps in and kills Sussman. Then he sends you a bill. He waits a while, giving you time to raise the money. You hit the banks for loans, borrow from your ex-wife. Then he calls with instructions where to leave the payoff. You comply."
Walsh lifted his face from his hands and stared blankly at Murtaugh. He said nothing.
"But then your conscience gets to bothering you," Murtaugh continued. "You start feeling that since you paid Sussman's killer the fee he demanded, you have in fact sanctioned the killing. You try living with the guilt, but it's too much for you. You need to tell somebody about it, about how it really was. But you can't. Then you hit on the idea of telling everybody about it—in the form of fiction. So you write 'The Man from Porlock' and publish it in Summit. Did it work, Walsh? Did it make you feel better?"
Walsh looked on the edge of collapse. "You don't understand."
Murtaugh snorted. "That's what my seventeen-year-old nephew says every time somebody disagrees with him. What don't I understand, Walsh? Make me see it."
"Why are you talking to me like this? I didn't order Sussman's killing!"
Eberhart spoke up. "But you paid for it. We want the bill Pluto sent you, Walsh. The killer in the story sent a bill. So you got one. From Pluto."
"I, I don't have any bill."
"Jesus Christ, Walsh!" Murtaugh exploded. "Are you going to go on pretending you don't know anything? You're not our only source. How do you think we knew the killer's name is Pluto? You're not the first person who's paid him off and you won't be the last. We've got to find this killer and stop him. Now where's the goddam fucking bill?"
He shook his head. "I got rid of it. I tore it into small pieces and flushed it down the toilet."
"Terrific," Eberhart grunted.
"All right," Murtaugh sighed, "tell us what you know about him. Ever meet this Pluto face to face?"
"No. We just talked on the phone."
"How many times?"
"Three altogether. I'm afraid the first time I was rather incoherent. You see, I couldn't really believe it was happening. Everything was going so well until this note came in the mail asking for a hundred thousand dollars. Well, I didn't know what to think—would you have believed it, Lieutenant? Did you ever get a bill from a murderer? I just couldn't believe it. So I hadn't done anything about raising the money the first time Pluto called."
"So what happened?"
"He threatened me. He threatened me, Lieutenant! He said if I wanted to live to see the next issue of Summit on the stands I'd jolly well better get the money up PDQ. He said there was no place I could go where he couldn't find me."
" 'Jolly well '?" Eberhart echoed. "He actually said that —'jolly well'?"
"That's what he said."
"Is he English?"
Walsh shrugged. "He's either English or he wanted me to think he is. I couldn't really tell—the accent sounded pretty authentic."
"Then what?" Murtaugh asked.
"Well, he convinced me. What can I say? I thought my life was in danger—and I still think he would have killed me if I hadn't paid him."
Or shot your hand off, Murtaugh thought. "All this is still the first phone call?"
"That's right. The second time he called, I'd raised seventy-five thousand and I asked him if he'd settle for that."
"And he said no."
"He said no. By the third phone call, I had the entire hundred thousand and he told me where to leave it."
"Which was?"
"The men's room at the Mark Hellinger Theater. Inside the paper towel dispenser."
"Anybody in there?"
"No, the place was empty."
"So you never saw Pluto at all?"
"Never."
"And you never got a receipt, either," Eberhart said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
Walsh flared up. "Why do you keep on at me about it? I tell you my life was threatened and you treat me like the criminal! I didn't threaten anyone and I certainly didn't kill anyone!"
"But you did pay a fee to the man who killed your partner."
"Because I had no choice! What else could I do?"
"You could have called us," Eberhart pointed out.
Walsh wouldn't look at either policeman, obviously rattled.
"He's right, you know," Murtaugh said reasonably. "Why didn't you call the police?"
Walsh muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"He told me not to."
"Pluto? When did he tell you that?"
"During that first phone call. The same time he was threatening me."
"But you could have called for help before that, couldn't you? When you first got the bill? But you didn't say a word."
