Kill Fee, page 12
Walsh glared at Murtaugh. "I told you I didn't believe it. Why should I call the police about a . . . a crank letter?"
"Oh, you believed it, Walsh. You believed it right from the start. It's only lately you've convinced yourself you didn't believe it—it makes a better story that way. Or at least it makes you look better. Not such a pushover."
Walsh had the wounded look of a child unjustly accused of eating all the Christmas cookies. "Why do you hate me? What have I done to you?"
Murtaugh closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose; he wasn't enjoying this. "Nothing. You never did a thing to me." He had only just then realized how much he disliked Leon Walsh. Even Walsh's Why do you hate me? annoyed him. The man was in a peck of trouble and couldn't be expected to behave rationally; it was just that Murtaugh had a low tolerance for self-pity. He opened his eyes and looked at Eberhart. After a moment's silent communication, Murtaugh muttered, "We have to."
Eberhart nodded and started to speak. "You have the right to remain silent. If you—"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute—hold on!" Walsh yelled at them. "What is this? Am I being arrested?"
"Yes, you are," Eberhart said.
"Why? What's the charge?"
"Accessory after the fact."
"Accessory . . . ? But I told you, I paid that money because my life was threatened!"
Murtaugh pulled at his ear. "It's a peculiar situation. You were the victim of extortion, that's true. But when you paid off the extortionist, you made yourself an accessory to murder. I don't know how the courts are going to handle this one. You could plead extenuating circumstances—a good lawyer can probably get you off. But that's not my concern. My business is bringing in lawbreakers. And, Mr. Walsh, you broke the law."
"How?" he screamed. "By protecting myself? By saving my own life?"
"By cooperating with a murderer," Murtaugh snapped. "By concealing knowledge of a crime. Every time someone like you pays off without a fuss, you're just paving the way for the next murder. And the next. And the next. This Pluto is a leech—don't you see that? He needs people like you to feed off of."
"So you're saying I shouldn't have paid him? You're saying I should have just stood around and waited to get shot?"
"No, I'm not saying that. We don't expect you to take on a murderer by yourself. But we do expect you to inform us if you're being pressured by a self-admitted killer. How can we help you if you don't let us know what's going on? If you'd called us in the minute you got the bill, we could have had a line on Pluto by now."
"You don't know that," Walsh said weakly.
"But you don't know otherwise. And not only do you fail to call the police, you also destroy the one piece of evidence that might have given us a lead." Murtaugh looked at the crestfallen man in front of him. "Look, Walsh, we're not unsympathetic to your position. I know killing Sussman was Pluto's idea, and I know you were scared out of your skull. But you did pay a killer for killing—we can't just pat you on the head and say 'Oh, that's all right.' You are accountable for what you've done. We have to arrest you. What happens next isn't up to us."
"It might not even go to court," Eberhart said helpfully. "It depends on what the prosecutors decide to do. But we still have to take you in and book you."
Walsh had no arguments left; all the fight had gone out of him.
"Let's go," Murtaugh said.
Sergeant Eberhart was talking to Leila Hudson's answering machine when she cut in.
"This is Leila Hudson live," she announced. "Sorry about the machine—I thought it might be someone I didn't want to talk to. Are you calling about Leon?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Oh. That doesn't sound good."
"We've just placed him under arrest. Accessory to murder. The money he borrowed from you and all the rest of it—it was to pay off Jerry Sussman's killer." There was a long silence. "Leila?"
"I'm here. Did it happen like—was it like the story you told me to read? 'The Man from Porlock'?"
"Almost exactly. Walsh wrote it, you know—did you recognize his writing?"
"I suspected it was Leon's. Do you really have him in jail? It seems to me he's the victim, not the, ah, perpetrator. He was trying to save his own life. You don't put people in jail for that."
"It's a tricky problem, all right," Eberhart admitted. "But it's one the courts are going to have to solve, not the police. As for Walsh's being in jail, he'll be out in a matter of hours. He's talking to his lawyer right now."
"You aren't going to keep him locked up, then?"
"Naw. If he was a dealer or a rapist, he'd be out already. But since he's part victim, that complicates things."
"God, you sound cynical."
"Sorry. It's been a long day." And it wasn't over yet. "Leila? What if he turns to you for help again?"
"I don't know what I can do to help. You said his lawyer was there, didn't you?"
"You know what I mean. What if he comes to you for, well, support, encouragement?"
"You mean what if he wants me to make him feel good." She took a deep breath. "Sergeant Eberhart, I don't even know your first name."
"Dave."
"Well, Dave, what I told you before—I meant it. Leon's on his own now. I'm through being a Provider of Comfort. It's a tiresome, second-rate kind of role to have to play all your life. Does that bother you?"
"Not in the least," he said happily. "Can I do anything to help?"
"Not right now, I need a few days. Call me later in the week?"
"I'll do that."
He ended the conversation feeling less tired than when he'd started it. He wondered why two such dissimilar people as Leila Hudson and Leon Walsh had ever married in the first place.
CHAPTER
10
The plainclothesman watching Roscoe Malucci's front door on East Ninety-first Street was sitting in a black sedan that looked as if it had been washed and waxed only two minutes ago.
Murtaugh bent over by the driver's window. "Anything?"
The plainclothesman shook his head. "The nurse has been in and out. A Dr. Riley came once, and the kid's lawyer, guy named Wagner. Other than that, nobody."
"What about Roscoe—has he been out yet?"
"Nope, he just sends the nurse out when he wants something."
"Is she in there now?"
"He—and yes, he's in there now."
The man who answered the door looked more like a bodyguard than a nurse. Fortyish, mashed-in face, sleeves of a white T-shirt rolled up short to display oversized biceps. Fortunately his manner of speaking matched his profession rather than his appearance. "Lieutenant Murtaugh?" he said when Murtaugh showed his identification. "I thought someone named Billings was in charge of the investigation."
"He is," Murtaugh said. "I'm investigating a murder, and it looks as if our murderer is the same man who shot Roscoe."
The other man grimaced. "In that case, you'd better come in. My name's Bowers, by the way."
Bowers led him to a rather fussily decorated sitting room in which the sole inhabitant stuck out like a living anachronism; the blue jeans and sports shoes didn't go with the heavy Victorian décor. Roscoe Malucci was stretched out on a stiff-looking sofa, the old-fashioned quilt he'd kicked off lying in a heap on the floor. He glared at Murtaugh sullenly.
"Hello, Roscoe, I'm Lieutenant Murtaugh. Do you remember me?"
"No," Roscoe said shortly. "Am I supposed to?"
Murtaugh smiled. "We met briefly when you were still in the hospital. The doctor had you doped up on painkillers at the time."
Roscoe shrugged. "I don't remember."
"It doesn't matter," Murtaugh said, seating himself without an invitation. Bowers moved over to stand protectively by his patient. "We did talk in the hospital, though. You told me about Pluto."
"That crud!" Roscoe screamed, making Murtaugh jump. "That pile of shit! You see what he did to me?" He waved the bandaged stub of his left wrist in the air. "I thought he was puttin' me on, man! How was I supposed to know he meant it? And look what he did!"
"Whoa, whoa—back up. When did you first hear from him?"
"When? Oh, musta been a couple of months ago. He sent me this bill, see—"
"Do you still have it?"
"Shit, I don't know."
"It's here," Bowers said, starting out of the room. "I'll get it."
"Then he kept calling me and calling me," Roscoe went on. He sat up and swung his feet around to the floor. "He kept saying he'd killed my grandmother—hell, anybody coulda read about that in the papers! I thought he was just some creep trying to rip me off. He wanted me to pay him, he really wanted me to pay him for killing her! Shit."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him to stop bugging me. I told him I didn't believe him."
Bowers came back with a blue envelope in his hand. "Here it is, Lieutenant."
It was a regular window envelope, the kind everybody used for mailing bills. How very businesslike of Pluto. Murtaugh took the envelope by the edges and carefully removed the note.
Pluto was not a man to waste words. A one-hundred-thousand-dollar fee for services rendered. One murder, arranged to coincide with establishment of Cape Cod alibi. "Roscoe, did you notice any accent when you talked to Pluto?"
"Oh yeah, yeah, just like my man Bertie."
"Who?"
"Bertie Steffans," Bowers volunteered. "An English rock singer."
"Did he threaten to shoot off your hand if you didn't pay up?" Murtaugh asked Roscoe.
"Man, he made all kinds of threats! I didn't pay no attention. I thought he was bullshittin' me."
"Did you tell all this to Detective Billings?"
"I told him a guy named Pluto had been threatening me, but I didn't tell him what happened after I got home from the hospital. Because I ain't seen him since I got back. Nobody's been here from the police. Nobody cares."
"I care, Roscoe," Murtaugh said patiently, "and I'm here. Tell me. What happened?"
"What happened was that ghoul called and asked me how I'd like to lose the other hand. Shit. I didn't argue—not this time. He's crazy, man."
"Wait a minute—are you saying you paid him the hundred thousand?"
"You're damn right I paid him. Paid him just this morning."
"This morning?" Murtaugh was astonished. "How'd you manage that?" he asked—and then knew the answer. He turned to the nurse. "You?"
"I dropped the money off about an hour and a half ago," Bowers said. "A hundred thousand dollars in a grocery bag."
"Where'd you leave it?"
"Madison Square Garden. They're having some kind of Modern Living Show there—model displays of interiors, you know the kind of thing. Pluto said go to the kitchen model called 'Rosetta' and leave the money in the breadbox. It was one of those built into a drawer."
"Did you talk to Pluto?" Murtaugh asked.
"I talked to him," Roscoe said as Bowers shook his head. "Those were his instructions. Put the money in a breadbox. Crap."
Murtaugh looked at the two of them a moment before he said anything. "Roscoe, you just handed a hundred thousand dollars over to the man who killed your grandmother. Didn't it occur to you that paying him off might make you an accessory to murder?"
Roscoe hooted. "Don't you preach at me, man! You still got both your hands."
He had a point, Murtaugh conceded. "What about you, Bowers? You must have thought of the legal complications?"
"Yes, I did," Bowers admitted. "But it wasn't my decision to make, Lieutenant. I'm just here to help."
"Why didn't you call the police?"
Roscoe abruptly lay back down on the sofa. Then he reached down and picked up the quilt from the floor, covered himself up so that only the top of his head was showing.
"We were afraid," Bowers said, tactfully pluralizing the pronoun.
Murtaugh nodded. "Well, lucky for Roscoe, he's not the first one we found out about. We've arrested a man who paid Pluto's fee—he's been charged with being an accessory. Preliminary hearing comes up in a couple of weeks—it's a test case. That hearing will determine whether Roscoe has committed a crime or not. Plus a lot of other people we don't know about yet, no doubt. But until then, Roscoe, I don't want you to leave town. Roscoe—do you hear?"
A mumble came out from under the quilt.
"He says he's not going anywhere," Bowers translated.
Murtaugh handed Bowers his card. "If you hear from Pluto again, give me a call at that number. Good-bye, Roscoe. Don't worry—we'll get him."
Roscoe didn't even bother to mumble that time.
Bowers led the way back to the front door. "Why'd he have to shoot him in the hand, Lieutenant?" the nurse wanted to know. "Why not the leg or even an arm? Evidently the only thing Roscoe really cared about was playing his guitar—and now he'll never be able to do that again."
"And that's exactly why he was shot in the hand. Pluto doesn't like being told no. See how quickly he collected this time?"
Bowers muttered something unintelligible.
Murtaugh paused on the doorstep. "Bowers—you did leave the money where Pluto said leave it, didn't you? You know if you tucked it away somewhere for yourself, you just signed that boy's death warrant."
Bowers's body tensed. "That's a hell of a thing to say to me, Lieutenant."
"So it is," Murtaugh agreed. "Or maybe you left most of it in the breadbox? You deserved a little something for your trouble, right?"
Bowers was making a visible effort to control himself. "It's a good thing you're a cop, buddy, or you'd be nursing one busted nose."
"I still haven't heard any denials."
"You're hearing one right now. I put that money in the breadbox and I put it all there—I didn't help myself to a cent. Even if I wanted to cross the kid, you think I'm fool enough to play games with that Pluto? I did exactly what I was told to do. I'm not messing with any guy that goes around shooting hands off."
"Wise of you," Murtaugh sighed, believing him. "Sorry, Bowers—I had to ask."
"I have to go now," the nurse said stiffly. "Time for Roscoe's medicine—there's still danger of infection."
"Right. Well, good-bye. And Bowers—I'm glad to see Roscoe is in such good hands."
Bowers nodded acknowledgment before he closed the door, partly mollified. Murtaugh didn't linger; he was in a hurry to get Pluto's bill to the crime lab. And to send Sergeant Eberhart to the Modern Living Show at Madison Square Garden. Perhaps someone there had noticed that extraordinary interest in breadboxes earlier in the day.
Leon Walsh sat staring hopelessly at the old black Remington in his home. He'd filled four pages with meaningless words, phrases, sentences. But his old trick of typing anything at all just to get himself started hadn't worked this time. Nothing came; no plot idea, no line of dialogue, nothing.
He needed money again. He'd given himself a raise as editor of Summit, and that helped. But his bank loans and his obligation to Leila were weighing heavily on him. He had a dividend coming from his Summit shares, but that wouldn't be for another four months. The only sure way he could put his hands on money quickly would be to sell himself another story.
But not one written by J. J. Kellerman; that pseudonym was useless to him now. Damn that Lieutenant Murtaugh! Because of him, it would come out in the hearing that Leon Walsh had been publishing his own work under an assumed name. God. How humiliating. But. . . maybe he should put a brave face on it, capitalize on the revelation that Kellerman and Walsh were the same person—maybe he should go on writing under the name of Kellerman and dare the literary world to make of it what it would! But he knew he'd never do it. Bravado like that required a certain kind of pushiness that Walsh had always found distasteful. No, he'd have to find a new name to write his new story under.
What new story? He rolled a fifth sheet of paper into the typewriter, but that sheet wasn't any more magical than the first four: it remained perversely blank. Good god, of all the things that had happened to him lately, you'd think something would lend itself to story form, something should be transmutable into fiction. The three hours he'd spent in jail, for instance.
Whatever he wrote, Walsh wouldn't have any trouble publishing this one. Summit's new fiction editor was far more amenable to suggestion than the departed Fran Caffrey had ever been. But before Walsh got to that point, he had to have something down on paper. He stared at the blank sheet in the typewriter and ordered himself to write.
An hour later he was still staring at the same blank page. It just wasn't going to come this time. Walsh's back and underarms felt clammy. He couldn't afford not to write, and he couldn't afford to put it off. His attorney was optimistic that the hearing coming up in ten days would end with the charges against him being dropped—but what if the attorney was wrong? What if Walsh had only ten days of freedom left? He dealt with that possibility by not thinking about it.
He pushed back from the typewriter; no help there. He wandered around his study for a few moments, stopped in front of the shelves that held a complete run of Summit magazine. He pulled down half a dozen of the first issues, published back in Summit, New Jersey, back in the days before Jerry Sussman had appeared on the scene. And Walsh had thought he had problems then! He laughed humorlessly. That early struggle to get the magazine established was beginning to take on the coloration of The Good Old Days.
He carried the old copies of Summit back to his desk and sat leafing through them, remembering. He came across one story that made him grunt out loud: "Talking of Michelangelo"—by J. J. Kellerman. That had been the first one, the one that had started his subterranean writing career, if it could be called a career. It had also been the story that had evoked no comment whatsoever, pro or con.
Walsh read it through. Not a bad little story for a first effort—could do with some beefing up here and there. And some stylistic slickening wouldn't hurt either. But the basic idea was sound; all it needed was a little cosmetic help.
The idea came to him then.
He thought about it; he thought about it long and carefully and decided he could probably get away with it. Change the title and the names of the characters, think up a new pseudonym for the author. Fiddle with the setting, add a little here, cut a little there. Same kind of editorial work he did all the time—shouldn't be too hard. Plagiarizing myself, cannibalizing my own work, Walsh thought dryly. The thought had only just occurred to him, but already his ethics were hurting. Like an aching tooth. But he decided to go ahead with it anyway; it was the only solution he could see.
