“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.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“What was the number there again?”
“Frederick 7-8024.”
“Okay, I’ll check into it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone.”
“Not at all,” he said, and he hung up.
The telephone would occupy Bert Kling for the rest of the afternoon. He would learn nothing from it. Or at any rate, he would learn a negative something.
He would learn that none of the model registries had ever carried a girl named Lucy Starr Mitchell.
MEYER MEYER did not mind being a tail, especially when the tail was tacked to the behind of Lucy Mencken. Lucy Mencken had a very nice behind.
On July second, Meyer was parked up the street from the Mencken house in a plain pale blue sedan. At 8:05 A.M., a man answering the description of Charles Mencken left the house. At 9:37, Lucy Mencken went to the garage, backed out a red MG, and headed for the town of Peabody. Meyer followed her.
Lucy Mencken went to the hairdresser, and Meyer waited outside.
Lucy Mencken went to the post office, and Meyer waited outside.
Lucy Mencken had lunch at a quaint exurban teashop, and Meyer waited outside.
She went into a dress shop at 1:04.
By 2:15, Meyer began to suspect the awful truth. He got out of the sedan, walked into the shop, and then through it to the other side. As he’d suspected, there was another doorway at the far end of the shop. Lucy Mencken, by accident or design, had shaken her tail. Meyer drove back to the Mencken house. He could see the garage at the far end of the curving driveway. The red MG was not in it. Sighing heavily, he sat back to await her return.
She did not check in until 6:15.
Meyer went to dinner and then phoned Lieutenant Byrnes. Shamefacedly, he admitted that an exurban housewife had shaken him for five hours and eleven minutes.
The lieutenant listened patiently. Then he said, “Stick with it. She’s probably home for the night. In any case, Willis’ll be out to relieve you soon. What do you suppose she did during those five hours?”
“She could have done anything,” Meyer said.
“Don’t take it so big,” Byrnes said. “Peabody hasn’t reported any homicides yet.”
Meyer grinned. “I’ll be expecting Willis.”
“He’ll be there,” Byrnes said, and he hung up.
Meyer went back to his vigil in the sedan. At 9:30 P.M., Willis relieved him. Meyer went home to bed. His wife, Sarah, wanted to know why he looked so down in the mouth.
“I’m a failure,” Meyer said. “Thirty-seven years old and a failure.”
“Go to sleep,” Sarah said. Meyer rolled over. He did not once suspect that he himself had been tailed that afternoon, or that he’d led his follower directly to the home of Lucy Mencken.
IT WAS WEDNESDAY MORNING, July third.
A week had gone by since Sy Kramer had been shot from an automobile. The police had not learned very much during that week. They now knew where the monthly $500 and $300 deposits had originated. There was also a monthly $1,100 deposit in Kramer’s working account, but they had not yet learned from whom that had come—and possibly they would never learn.
Nor did they know where the huge sums deposited in the other account had come from.
A check of Kramer’s living habits had disclosed to the police that his taste was expensive, indeed. His suits were all hand-tailored, as were those of his shirts that had not been imported. His apartment had been furnished by a high-priced decorator. His whisky was the best money could buy. He owned two automobiles, a Cadillac convertible and a heavy-duty station wagon. The acquisitions were all apparently new ones, and this presented a puzzling aspect to the case.
The monthly deposits in Kramer’s working account totaled $1,900. The withdrawals kept steady pace with the deposits. Kramer liked to live big, and he had been spending close to $500 a week. But the sum of $45,187.50 in the other account had not been touched. How, then, had he managed to buy the two automobiles, to pay for the furniture and the decorator, to afford the closetful of suits and coats?