McNally's Risk by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

here and I'll go see."
    I waited patiently, and in a few minutes the sergeant himself came trundling out, a cold cigar jutting from his meaty face. Al is built like an Ml-Al tank, and when he moves I always expect to hear the clanking of treads.
    "What were you doing here this morning?" he demanded, wasting no time on preliminaries.
    "Good evening, Al," I said.
    "Good evening," he said. "What were you doing here this morning? The maid, wife, and daughter don't know— or maybe they do and aren't saying."
    "I'm doing a credit check on a man Hawkin knew," I said. "I stopped by to get his opinion on the subject."
    "And who is the subject?"
    I had calculated how much I could tell him and how much, in good conscience, I could withhold.
    "Hector Johnson," I told him. "The father of one of the late artist's customers."
    "And why are you doing a credit check on him?"
    "At the request of a client of McNally and Son."
    "What client?"
    "Nope," I said. "Unethical. Confidentiality."
    He looked at me. "You're no lawyer and you know it."
    "But I represent my father who is an attorney," I pointed out. "And I can't divulge the information you request without his permission."
    "Son," Al said heavily, "you've got more crap than a Christmas goose. All right, I won't push it—for now. Let's go up."
    We entered through that oak and etched glass door. I glanced into the ground floor area. Mrs. Louise Hawkin was slumped at one end of a sailcloth-covered couch and Marcia Hawkin was at the other end, both as far apart as ever. We tramped up the cast-iron staircase and walked into the studio. The techs were busy.
    Rogoff stopped me. "Wife was out playing bridge. Daughter went to a movie. They say. Silas didn't go over to the main house for dinner, but everyone says that wasn't unusual. When his work was going good he hated to stop. Finally, around nine o'clock, the maid called him to ask if he was coming over to eat or if he wanted her to bring him a plate. No answer. But she could see the lights on up here. So she came over and found him. Let's go take a look."
    He was lying supine, naked on that tattered sleigh bed. His eyes were still open. The knife was still in his throat. An assistant from the ME's office was fussing over him. I knew the man. Thomas Bunion. One of the few people I've ever met who are simultaneously cantankerous and timid.
    I stared down at the remains of Silas Hawkin. There was an ocean of blood. An ocean. I am not a total stranger to violent death and thought I had learned to view a corpse with some dispassion, without needing to scurry away and upchuck in private. But I admit I was spooked by the sight of the murdered artist. So pale. For some reason his beard looked fake, as if it had been spirit-gummed to his face.
    A wooden handle protruded from his neck.
    "It looks like a palette knife," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
    "Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "We already figured that."
    "But a palette knife doesn't have a cutting edge," I said. "And the blade is usually thin and pliable, something like a spatula. It's difficult to believe it was driven in so deeply and killed him."
    "Well, it did," Bunion said crossly. "Looks like an artery was severed, but we won't know for sure until we get him on a slab. Thin blade or not, it was a lucky hit."
    "Not for Silas," Al said.
    "Poor devil," I muttered, turned away, and took a deep breath.
    The sergeant inspected me. "Want to go outside, Archy?" he asked quietly.
    "No, I'm fine," I told him. "But thanks." I looked around the studio. A plainclothesman was seated behind the decrepit desk, slowly turning pages of the ledger Si had slammed shut when I visited him that morning.
    "What is he doing?" I asked.
    Rogoff answered: "Hawkin may have been a nutsy artist, but he was a helluva businessman. He kept a record of every painting he did: date started, date finished, and disposition. If it was sold, he wrote down the size of the painting, name and address of the buyer, and the price paid.