Walt shook his head slowly. “That's too difficult to count on, too far-fetched.”
“Is it? There have been plenty of ring deaths.”
“Not recently.”
“Only because there aren't many clubs operating, fewer fights. Also the automatic eight count, and the three knockdown rule has helped. But they don't go in a sparring session. If Jake can really hit, and Irish has no reason to yeast it up, what's to stop Jake from beating a has-been like Tommy to death?”
“Come on now, a fist isn't a gun. You can belt a guy hard as you can and still not be sure you'll drop him, much less kill him. Also, as you said, Tommy isn't a novice. He probably isn't easy to hit.”
“I told you he's already been knocked cold in a sparring session.”
“I've heard that even champs like Patterson are sometimes floored by a sparring partner.”
“Of course. So if Tommy is killed while sparring, it will look an accident! And what have they to lose? If a punch doesn't do it, they try again. Or resort to an auto accident, a fall, drowning, many other ways.”
“And get themselves collared. Arranging a fatal accident isn't as simple as it may sound.”
“Exactly!” Alvin boomed, his deep voice rattling the pictures on the wall. “Suppose, after they soften him up in these sparring sessions, they kill him in the ring! The perfect crime, with hundreds of witnesses saying it was an accident! Far as I know, there's never been a murder, or even a manslaughter conviction against a pug for killing a man in the squared circle. Think of the flexibility of it all, the way they have their victim in their pocket. They can take their time, do it in a month, or six months. They receive fifty grand, wait a year or two, start all over on some other rundown pug!”
“Hammer, you're not writing a mystery story. A killer has to make it a sure thing, in real life.”
Alvin shrugged. “Here's something else. I checked with the commission. There isn't any record of an Arno Brewer as a manager. Why isn't he down as manager of Tommy, or the other pug?”
“There can be a dozen reasons. Perhaps he's ducking taxes.”
“Well, I think it's certainly worth looking into. Jake Watson took out a license. I asked if they had checked on his fingerprints for any possible criminal record. But you know how easy-going they are in the commission's office. They said they were working on...”
The phone rang. Walt jumped, picked up the pink receiver. “Hello?”
Ruth Steiner said, “Walt, I won't be home for dinner tonight. I'm tied up at the printers. They messed up an article and I'll have to hang around to correct the new...”
“Okay,” Walt said. He could hear music in the background.
“I may be home late. I also have to check with a photographer on some last minute...”
“Yes. Thanks for calling,” he said dully.
There was a moment of surprised silence at her end of the phone. Then she said, “There isn't much in the refrigerator. I expected to shop on my way home. Best you eat out.”
“I'll manage.” Walt hung up, full of hurt anger. As he sat down, Alvin resumed his pacing of the room. Walt thought, For the last three months she's been at me, digging me, torturing me. You'd think she'd found me with another woman. What the devil has changed? What's happening to us? I don't know how much more I can take. Suppose I had agreed to go to Paris with her, then what? Ruth must have understood I couldn't get a year's leave from the department. She... Hell, why doesn't she do that book and get it out of her system? She doesn't have to work on this trade magazine. She can sit home and write all day. I swear, if she was older, I'd say Ruth was going through the change of life or...
Alvin stopped in front of Walt, asked, “What will you do about this, detective?”
“Do? Do? I wish I knew what...” Walt rubbed his big jaw. “About Tommy Cork—what do you expect me to do? I certainly can't arrest this Arno Brewer; we have nothing working for us. Even your suspicions are full of holes. You said Tommy is looking fine, eating regularly. That contradicts your murder idea—they wouldn't be building him up, physically. Then, if this other fighter, Jake, is really such a hot pug, why monkey with an insurance swindle when Jake can make a dozen times fifty thousand in the ring?”
“I admit I haven't absolute proof of anything definite. As to Tommy's looking good, so what? In a couple of weeks the body can't compensate for all the wine, the hunger, the beatings, it has absorbed over the years. The main question is, why should anybody want to manage a washed-up pug like Cork?”
“You know Tommy's story could be true. There are such types as rich boxing buffs. Also, he may have taken out the policy, as he said, only to protect Tommy and himself. A well known novelist once supported a pug for years, managing him to obscurity. Some people like to keep a boxer around like a... a pet. When I was in the amateurs I had a few offers like that from wealthy jerks—a cash bonus if I attended a certain college, use of a sport car for joining a downtown athletic club.”
“Why should Brewer pay extra for a double indemnity policy?”
Walt shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I admit that sounds fishy. You said they'd been up at this training camp for two weeks. Did Tommy continue to spar with Jake after he was flattened?”
“I don't know. Steiner, I didn't expect you to rush out and make an arrest. If I had, I would have gone directly to the police. Officially, I mean. But I can't stand by and see the little game cock killed. No point in doing something when it's too late. Knowing your interest in the sport, I thought you might look into things.”
“Okay, I'll get a copy of this Jake Watson's prints from the commission tomorrow, see what they tell us. Of course there's a simple answer to all this. Have Tommy cancel the policy. That would prove how interested this Arno really is. Matter of fact, if you raised your suspicions to the insurance company, or had Coney do it, the company would cancel.”
Alvin's long face became one big grin. “That's our answer! I'll get Tommy to cancel out. I couldn't, publicly, put in my two cents. I might be sued. Mr. Steiner, while...”
“Call me, Walt, Al.”
“Walt, as I said when I first came in, I realize this is an awkward hour to talk business. But don't you think you might get a clearer picture by speaking to Tommy himself?”
“That would help. When can I see him?”
“He's meeting me at the Between Rounds for supper. Of course, you're probably waiting for your wife, but perhaps tomorrow night we can...”
“It just happens my wife is stuck in the office,” Walt said slowly. “Let me wash up and we'll get cracking. I'm hungry.”
An hour later, sitting across the table from Tommy and Alvin in a steak house, Walt wished he hadn't come. Tommy Cork was telling Alvin, anger making his voice tremble, “What you doing, spoiling things for me? I let you in on a big secret, about how we're going to spring Jake as a surprise on the fight boys, and you swear you'll keep it to yourself. Now he's in on it. I told you, if it gets known, it's nothing, and then where am I?”
“Tommy, Tommy, I'm not broadcasting it to the world. I had to tell Walt, so he could be filled in on all the details.”