McNally's Risk by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

What we'll do is check his ledger against those finished works stacked against the wall and see if anything is missing."
    "That makes sense," I said, but then I thought about it. "Al, are you figuring Hawkin was sleeping naked on that ugly bed and a burglar broke in to grab something he could fence? Then the artist wakes up and the crook grabs the nearest deadly weapon, a palette knife, and shoves it into the victim's throat to keep him quiet?"
    He shrugged. "The wife and daughter were away. The maid was in the kitchen at the far side of the maid house with her radio going full blast. She couldn't have heard or seen an intruder. The door to the studio building was unlocked. It could have been a grab-and-run scumbag. Maybe a junkie."
    "Do you really believe that?" I asked him.
    "No," he said.
    We went downstairs together. "Excuse me a moment," I said to the sergeant. I went over to the couch where wife and daughter were still sitting, isolated from each other.
    "May I express my sympathy and my deepest sorrow at this horrible tragedy," I said. It came out more floridly than I had intended.
    Only Mrs. Louise Hawkin looked up. "Thank you," she said faintly.
    Al and I moved outside. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his cold cigar and I borrowed the flame for my third cigarette of the day, resolving it would be the last.
    Rogoff jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the ground floor of the studio building. "Not much love lost there," he said.
    "No," I agreed, "not much. It was a sex scene, wasn't it, Al?"
    He nodded. "That's the way I see it. The guy's in bed with someone, woman or man. There's an argument. She or he grabs up the nearest tool, the palette knife. I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not planned. They started out making love and then things went sour."
    "Where do you go from here?"
    "Check his inventory of paintings. Check the alibis of wife, daughter, maid, agent, clients, friends, enemies, and everyone connected with him."
    "When did it happen—do you know that?"
    "Tom Bunion figures it was about an hour before we got the squeal. That would put the time of death around nine o'clock, give or take."
    "I was home," I told him. "Upstairs in my rooms. I had just talked with my father in his study."
    "We'll check it out," he said with ponderous good humor. Then, suddenly serious, he added, "You got any wild ideas?"
    "Not at the moment," I said. "Except that it must have required a great deal of strength to drive a blunt blade into Hawkin's throat. That would suggest a male assailant."
    "Yeah," the sergeant said. "Or a furious woman."
    "One never knows, do one?"
    "There you go again," he said.
    I returned home that night to find the house darkened except for the bulb burning over the rear entrance. I went directly to my quarters and finished that marc I had started aeons ago. Also my fourth English Oval. Then I went to bed hoping I wouldn't have nightmares involving palette knives and oceans of blood. I didn't. Instead I had a dotty dream about Zasu Pitts. Don't ask me why.
     
     
    4
    I glanced at local newspapers the next morning and watched a few TV news programs. I learned nothing about the homicide I didn't already know.
    But after reading the obits on Silas Hawkin, I was surprised to discover that Louise was his third wife, and Marcia his daughter by his first. She was his only child. Wife No. 1 had died of cancer. Divorce had ended Marriage No. 2.
    I was even more startled to read of the professional career of the artist. He had studied at prestigious academies in New York and Paris. His work was owned and exhibited by several museums. He had been honored with awards from artists' guilds. In other words, the man had been far from a hack. I had underestimated his talents because I thought him a dunce. But then the creative juices have no relation to intelligence, personality, or character, do they?
    Finally, a little before noon, I decided I needed a change of subject and a change of venue. So I