Kill Fee (21 page)

"Car's jigglin' too much."

Eberhart pulled into an alleyway and turned off the engine. Barnaby drew in the mustache and handed the picture back.

"You're sure that's the way he looks now?" Eberhart asked.

1 m sure.

Murtaugh said, "Where did your friend see Pluto a couple of days ago?"

"Gettin' out of a taxi on Fifth Avenue."

"Fifth and what?"

"Uh, he didn't say."

"Sure he did, Barnaby," Eberhart said. "Think."

Barnaby thought. "Fifty-fourth or Fifty-fifth, around there. I can't be sure."

"
Anything else?" Murtaugh asked. "Like where he went when he got out of the taxi?"

"Naw, that's it."

Murtaugh nodded. "Pay him, Eberhart." Eberhart held out a fifty-dollar bill to the man in the back seat.

"Hey, I said a hundred."

"Oh, come on, Barnaby, you know better than that," Eberhart laughed. "What did you tell us? That Pluto has a forty-five. We already knew that. You told us he got it illegally. We knew that too. So what you're asking a hundred for is the mustache. No mustache is worth a hundred bucks, Barnaby. Take the fifty."

"Shit," Barnaby said. He took the fifty, got out of the car, disappeared down the alley.

Murtaugh watched him go. "He told us more than he knows, but I would have thought twenty was enough for a mustache."

"Inflation, Lieutenant," Eberhart grinned. "They won't even bother calling you for a twenty any more."

"Is he reliable?"

"He has been before."

"Did you know he was selling illegal firearms?"

"Nope, that was news to me. He said two years ago, but he might still be picking up a buck or two that way. Jeez, if Captain Ansbacher would only loosen up and give us a few men! We could have Barnaby tailed, find out his source—if there still is one. Do you want me—"

"No, let Barnaby go—you and I have another job. We have to check shops on Fifth Avenue between Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth." Murtaugh paused, tasting bile: a full lieutenant, doing flunky work. "You have a copy of the drawing?"

"Yeah, right here."

"Be sure to sketch in the mustache. And keep an eye
open
for any officers on the beat—maybe we can recruit some help. All right, let's get going."

While Murtaugh and Eberhart were checking the stores on Fifth Avenue, the man they were tracking walked into a different business establishment fifteen blocks away. The store on Seventh Avenue was so brightly lighted that not even the corners of the room had shadows. Decals were pasted up here and there announcing the presence of an alarm system connected directly to the Midtown South Precinct station on West Thirty-fifth Street.

The clerk was leaning his arms on top of the counter, flipping through a gun catalogue.

"Good awftuhnoon," Pluto said in his best Sir Reginald manner.

"Help you?" the clerk said without looking up.

"I do hate to interrupt your reading, but I'm in need of ammunition."

The clerk looked up, suspecting sarcasm; but his customer was smiling cheerily. "What size?"

"Thirty-eight. Four boxes." The clerk was staring at him, not moving. "That's thirty-eight-caliber?" Pluto nudged. "Point three eight?"

"Oh. Yeah, yeah. I'll get a box. Don't go away."

"Four boxes," Pluto called after him. "And of course I won't go away!"
What a peculiar clerk.

The peculiar clerk returned with four dull green boxes covered with black lettering. He slid them across the counter and stared at Pluto some more.

Pluto raised one eyebrow. "I don't suppose I could prevail upon you to wrap them, could I?"

"Oh. Yeah, I'll wrap 'em." He did, shooting little glances at Pluto all the while. The clerk cleared his throat,
and
after one false start managed to say, "Doing a little target shooting?"

"That's right," Pluto answered evenly.

"Where do you go to shoot?"

Pluto narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Oh, uh, my customers sometimes ask me to recommend places and I, uh."

Very
peculiar. "I do all my target shooting in New Jersey," Pluto said frostily, ending the conversation. He paid for his package with a hundred-dollar bill, waited for his change, and then left without another word. The clerk didn't take his eyes off him until he was out the door.

Outside, Pluto paused to glance through the gunsmith's window. He watched the clerk study a legal-sized sheet of off-white paper and then pick up the phone and dial a number he read from the same paper.

Pluto moved away, thinking.

Captain Ansbacher sat in his office with the door closed, thinking of his dead friend. Smith. A simple man with a simple name. With Smith there had been no complications, no hassle—just a quiet understanding. Smith had been Ansbacher's man in the Commissioner of Police's circle. For nearly eight years Smith had run interference for his old friend Ansbacher; that was part of their understanding.

But then Smith had up and died on him; Ansbacher ground his teeth every time he thought about it. Smith had had no ambition beyond laboring on as one of several Deputy Commissioners; he should have been good for another ten or fifteen years. But now this pansy who had taken Smith's place . . .

The
pansy's name was Turnbull; he was thirty years old, had a master's degree in sociology, and dearly loved to tell Ansbacher how to do his job. He was careful to preface everything he said with
The Commissioner wants you to
. . . but oh, how he enjoyed it! All that smirking, every time he passed on an order. Ansbacher couldn't stand a man who smirked. Women, okay; men, no.

Turnbull had just left. The day before Ansbacher had had a lengthy phone conversation with the Commissioner himself. They were supposed to be talking about several cases pending, but the Commissioner had kept coming back to Pluto and demanding more and more details about what the various investigators had been doing. And today that pansy Turnbull had shown up to say the Commissioner thought Lieutenant Murtaugh was probably the closest to a solution and Captain Ansbacher might want to coordinate all investigatory efforts under Murtaugh's command.

Murtaugh.

It had been a suggestion, not an order. Ansbacher hadn't hesitated; he'd told the Deputy Commissioner straight out what he thought of that suggestion. Murtaugh wasn't qualified for that big an operation, he'd said. In that case, Turnbull had replied, could he at least reassure the Commissioner that Captain Ansbacher would see Lieutenant Murtaugh had all the assistance he needed? The Commissioner didn't like it that this Pluto was still free to go on killing whenever he wanted to. The Commissioner didn't like it at all.

Murtaugh.

Ansbacher hadn't made captain by being overly defiant of his superiors' suggestions. He'd promised Turnbull that Murtaugh was getting everything he needed,
and
he could see no way of getting out of that one. His sneaking Lieutenant who'd gone around asking questions behind his back—he'd been just about to lower the boom on Murtaugh when the Commissioner sends word to
be nice.
This one was going to take kid gloves.

There was a knock at the door. Lieutenant Murtaugh stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Captain, we have a new line on Pluto."

Ansbacher nodded. To indicate his interest.

Murtaugh told him about Barnaby's tip. "We traced Pluto to a tailor on Fifth Avenue, Farrell Custom Tailoring. He'd gone in for a fitting. Now he's using the name P. N. Wolfe, and the phone number he left is another answering service. We checked the service, and they gave us an address that's another mail drop—what you'd expect."

Ansbacher asked, "Why two places for mail and phone calls? Why doesn't he use the same service for both?"

"Less chance of drawing attention to himself by repeated visits to any one place. And he's got a mustache now." Murtaugh hesitated; then with ill-concealed reluctance he handed a single sheet of paper to Ansbacher. "Here's the updated sketch we're sending out."

Ansbacher studied the face on the paper; their mysterious Pluto had become a recognizable human being. "You say he's calling himself Wolfe now?"

"P. N. Wolfe. So far we've got only the three places he's used the name—tailor's, answering service, mail drop."

Ansbacher let the drawing fall to his desk and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. "Well. And to what do I owe this sudden sharing of information? I'm flattered you've decided to take me into your confidence."

Murtaugh's
face darkened. "I've got to have more help. Pluto went into the tailor's for a fitting—the final fitting. The tailor told me the suit will be ready this coming Thursday."

"Stakeout?"

"Eberhart and I can't do it alone. Farrell Custom Tailoring is a big establishment. Two main entrances and a service entrance through an alley. If—"

"He wouldn't use the service entrance."

"He might duck out that way. The tailor who's making his suit is a nervous type—he could get spooked and give the game away."

"Put Eberhart in his place."

"That would tip Pluto off the minute he walked in. A different tailor taking over somebody else's work? I want Eberhart inside, though—as another customer. But I can't watch both main entrances and the service entrance all by myself. Captain, you have
got
to give me more men."

Ansbacher reached for a pencil and a pad of paper. "How many do you want?" he asked, and watched Murtaugh's mouth drop open.

Pluto liked to think of the Pardee Club as his ace in the hole. The Pardee was a combination social and health club; it boasted a good-sized gym where members could work off the extra poundage they'd picked up in the Pardee's excellent dining room and bar. Or if that was too strenuous, there was a steam room where they could sweat it off. There were no Rockefellers at the Pardee; the membership was mostly minor capitalists, well-established men who were happy to have an aristocratic Englishman like Pluto among them. Not a single black, brown, or yellow face was to be seen.

Pluto
was known by the name Willoughby at the Pardee; it was the only place he used it. The Pardee had rooms that members could rent overnight or even on a long-term basis; perhaps a dozen members were full-time residents. Pluto considered the club as a sort of personal safe house; if ever it became risky to return to his own apartment, he could stay at the Pardee until he figured out what he wanted to do next.

Pluto socialized just enough to avoid appearing mysterious. Most of his fellow members thought of themselves as concerned Americans, worrying over the government's meddling with the economy, the ever-increasing greed of labor, the Communist-inspired racial troubles, and the constant threats to the sanctity of the home. A conservative retreat in a traditionally liberal city. Pluto listened politely, for it was those same complaints that had led to the construction of what Pluto considered the Pardee's main attraction: a fully equipped firing range in the sub-basement.

Until he discovered the Pardee Club, Pluto had kept his hand in at a West Side pistol range. He didn't like it there, though; the tough-looking clientele made him uneasy. Most of his fellow shooters made him think they were practicing for their next liquor store holdup, if anybody ever did practice for such a thing. Pluto just hadn't felt
safe
there.

He felt safe at the Pardee, though, safe and warm. He liked to do his shooting in the mornings; the range was always fairly empty during the hours before noon. He'd waited until the weather was bad, wanting the range completely to himself; marvelous the way a little wind and rain could make otherwise stalwart types think,
Well, it can wait 'til tomorrow.

Pluto rode down to the sub-basement in an empty ele
vator,
humming a little cheerful Bach to himself. He started toward the firing range's check-in counter—and stopped. Stopped walking, stopped humming, almost stopped breathing. He was shocked to see his own face staring back at him from the oversized bulletin board next to the counter.

He looked around to see if there was anyone watching. He tore down the sketch, folded it and put it in a pocket, and got back into the elevator without being seen. Out on the street, he hailed a cab.

"Just drive." Pluto settled back in the seat and took out the drawing. A completely new police sketch, not the cartoonish one that had been published in the papers. How long had this one been circulating? The resemblance was uncanny! They even knew about the mustache—
that
would come off the minute he got home. Pluto's throat was tight and he felt lightheaded. It was the first time the police had ever gotten close.

He read the physical description under the picture; they had that part right too. Dark blond hair, height five-ten; weight one-eighty to one-ninety. No distinguishing marks. Speaks with an assumed English accent.
Hmm.
How annoying. He'd have to talk plain Amurrican from now on. Known aliases: Pluto, Nicholas Ramsay, P. N. Wolfe—ye gods, they had the Wolfe name too? Why, he'd barely used that one! He read on. Anyone spotting the suspect was asked to contact Lieutenant James T. Murtaugh immediately.

Pluto rapped on the plastic divider behind the cab driver's head. "New York Public Library," he said through the grid.

After an hour and a half at the microfilm machine, he had a sketchy idea of his adversary's career. He also knew
what
Murtaugh looked like; it was a rare man who worked his way up through the ranks to police lieutenant without ever getting his picture in the papers. Pluto picked out the clearest photograph and asked the librarian for a print copy.

Murtaugh had Pluto's picture, and now Pluto had his. The police lieutenant's was one face he couldn't afford to forget.

"Just like the flyer said," the gun store clerk was telling Sergeant Eberhart. "Dark blond hair, English accent."

"What about the mustache?" Eberhart asked.

"Yeah, he had a mustache. It was him, all right. He bought eight dozen rounds, that's four boxes—thirty-eight-caliber. I asked him was he planning some target shooting and he said yes and I asked him where and—"