“Hello, there,” a voice at the top of the steps said.
Hawes looked up. “Hello,” he said.
The man was standing just behind the lower half of the Dutch door. The visible half of his body was lean and tight, the body of an Indian scout, the body of a man who labored in the sun. The man wore a white tee shirt, which covered the hardness of his muscles like a thin layer of oil. His face was square and angular; it could have been chiseled from the rock that formed a backdrop for the lodge. His eyes were blue and piercing. He smoked a pipe leisurely, and the ease with which he smoked softened the first impression of hard muscularity. His voice, too, in contrast to the wiriness of his body, was soft and gentle, with a mild twang.
“Welcome to Kukabonga,” the man said. “I’m Jerry Fielding.”
“I’m Cotton Hawes. How do you do?”
Fielding opened the lower half of the door and stepped onto the landing, extending a browned hand.
“Glad to know you,” he said, and they shook. Fielding’s eyes darted to the white streak in Hawes’s otherwise red hair. “That a lightning burn?” he asked.
“No,” Hawes said. “I was knifed. The hair grew in white.”
Fielding nodded. “Fellow up here got hit by lightning. Like Ahab. He’s got a streak something like that. How’d you get knifed?”
“I’m a cop,” Hawes said. He was reaching into his back pocket for identification when Fielding stopped him.
“You don’t need it,” he said. “I spotted the shoulder holster when you were bending as you came up the steps.”
Hawes smiled. “We can use a man like you,” he said. “Come on down to the city.”
“I like it up here,” Fielding said graciously. “Who you chasing, Mr. Hawes?”
“A ghost,” Hawes said.
“Not likely to find many of those around here. Come on inside. I’ve been hankering for a drink, and I hate like hell to drink alone. Or aren’t you a drinking man?”
“I can use one,” Hawes said.
“Of course,” Fielding said, as they went into the cabin together, “I know cops aren’t allowed to drink on duty—but I’m not likely to write a letter to the commissioner. Are you?”
“I hardly ever write letters to the commissioner,” Hawes said.
“Didn’t think you did,” Fielding answered.
They were inside the lodge now. A huge stone fireplace dominated the room. Flanking the fireplace, in the same pattern as the steps outside, was another double set of stairs leading, apparently, to rooms just below the peak of the roof. There were four doorways off the main room. One of them was open, and Hawes could see through it into a kitchen.
“What’ll it be?” Fielding asked.
“Scotch neat.”
“I like a man who drinks his whisky neat,” Fielding said, grinning. “It tells me he likes his coffee strong and his women soft. Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Hawes said.
“Tell you something else about yourself, Mr. Hawes,” Fielding said. “I’ll bet you’ve never put a bullet in an animal or a hook in a fish unless you were hungry.”
“That’s true,” Hawes said.
“Ever shot a man?”
“No.”
“Not even in the line of duty?”
“No.”
“Were you in the service?”
“Yes.”
“See action?”
“Yes.”
“And you never shot anyone?”
“I was in the Navy,” Hawes said.
“What rank?”
“Chief petty officer.”
“Doing what?”
“Torpedoes,” Hawes said.
“On what?”
“A P.T. boat.”
“Chief petty officer on a P.T. boat?” Fielding asked. “You were practically second in command, weren’t you?”
“Practically,” Hawes said. “The skipper was a j.g. Were you in the Navy?”
“No, but my dad was. He talked about it a lot. He was a regular Navy man, you know. A commander when he died. He’s the one built this lodge. He used to come up here whenever he had leave. He loved the place. I guess I do, too.” Fielding paused reflectively. “Dad died in Norfolk, behind a desk. I guess he’d have liked to die one of two places. Either on a ship, or here at the lodge. But he died in Norfolk, behind a desk.” Fielding shook his head.
“You own the lodge now, Mr. Fielding?” Hawes asked.
“Yes.”
“I guess I came to the wrong place,” Hawes said.
Fielding looked up. He had poured the whisky, and he brought it to Hawes and then said, “How do you mean?”
“I didn’t realize it was a private lodge. I thought you took guests.”
“I do. Five at a time. It’s my living. I guess I’m what you’d call a bum.”
“But you don’t have any guests now?”
“Nope. All alone this week. I’m mighty glad to see you.”
“Are you open all year round?”
“All year round,” Fielding said. “Cheers.”
“Drink hearty.”
They drank.
“Were you open around September first of last year?” Hawes asked.
“Yep. Had a full house.”
Hawes put down the shot glass. “Was one of your guests a man named Sy Kramer?”
“Did he do any hunting?”
“He sure did. Out every day. Brought back all kinds of stuff.”
“Deer?”
“No, the deer season doesn’t start until October. But he got crows and vermin—and I think he got a red fox.”
“Did he spend a lot of money while he was here, Mr. Fielding?”
“On what?” Fielding asked. “Nothing to spend money on in the mountains.”
“Was he carrying a lot of cash?”
“If he was, he didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“Did he come up alone?”
“Yep. I sometimes get them in pairs or in threes, or sometimes a party of five rents the whole lodge. This isn’t a whorehouse, Mr. Hawes. I only take men who want to hunt…or fish. I’ve got my own cabin back of the lodge. I entertain girls there frequently…but that’s private enterprise. I’m intruding on nobody’s morals but my own. Any man is free to do whatever the hell he wants to, I figure, but if he comes to my lodge, he comes to hunt or fish. He can screw around on his own time.”
“Kramer came up alone, then?”
“They all did that trip. Isn’t very often that happens, but this time it did. Not one of the five knew each other before they got here.”
“You had five guests the week Kramer was here?”
“Yep, and all from the city. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. One of them checked in on a Wednesday, and he left before the others. He was a good hunter, that one. Fellow named Phil Kettering. Hated to leave. I remember on the Wednesday he checked out, he got up real early in the morning, went off into the woods to hunt a little before he started the trip home. Paid me, took all his bags with him, said he wouldn’t be back for lunch, but he just had to get in a little more hunting before driving back. A good hunter, that one.”