Kill Fee by Barbara Paul Page B

overweight. He had a distinctive voice, one that could never be confused with any other singer's pearly tones. Next year's superstar, if he lived that long.
    It wasn't
that
tenor's temperament that worried Pluto. Oh no—it was the other one who made him uneasy, the
primo tenore:
Signor Luigi Bàccolo, supertenor, king of the operatic hill for lo these many years. Bàccolo the Great—and he
was
great, at one time, and still was more often than not. Irregular greatness, must be a pain to live with. Never knowing whether tonight was going to be one of the outstanding performances or merely an acceptable one. Eh, Luig'—whassamadda, you slippin'?
    The Duke of Mantua in the glossy photograph was John Herman, a blue-eyed, blond Canadian who hid his Nordickness under dark make-up and a wig every time he stepped out on a stage. Some of the world's greatest Italian tenors hadn't been Italian at all—the Swedish Bjoerling, the Jewish-American Tucker, the Spanish Domingo. And now Canadian John Herman, whose concert fees had risen to equal those of Luigi Bàccolo and who was singing more and more of the great Bàccolo's roles.
    It was too soon; Bàccolo had years of singing left in him. But the new boy from up north was beginning to catch on with the ever-fickle opera-going public. There were other tenors around, but none to carry the serious threat that the Canadian posed. John Herman smiled out of his photograph, a wickedly sensual Duke of Mantua, a role that once had been Luigi Bàccolo's private property at the Metropolitan Opera.
    Bàccolo would pay, the man called Pluto thought, no doubt of that. The tenor would gladly pay for the removal of his rival. But the question was, would he keep his mouth shut afterward? Would he be able to, overemotional and excitable as he was? It would be a risk.
    That was the trouble with free-lance murder. So many
risks.
    You just never knew how people were going to react. Pluto knew it was a foolish hope, but he'd still like to see a little gratitude once in a while. When you tell people that their recent good fortune is the direct result of something
you
have done—was it too much to expect at least a thank you? Of course, Pluto always collected his fee—he
always
collected—but still, an occasional expression of appreciation would surely not be amiss.
    His clients just didn't realize all that was involved. He couldn't simply push the offending party down a steep flight of stairs and then walk away. That might look like an accident; it was important that the death
not
look like an accident. It had to be quite clearly a case of homicide, the police had to be involved, it had to be in the newspapers and on television. The client had to understand beyond doubt that he personally was benefiting from somebody else's act of murder. Otherwise he might think Pluto was just some nobody trying to cash in on a semi-unfortunate accidental death. The client must be made to understand that he was in debt to
a practiced killer.
That always made collection of the fee a fairly smooth operation.
    No one appreciated all the preparation that was involved. He had expenses. Pluto had to research his subjects, even to the point of occasionally employing the services of credit bureaus and detective agencies. When seeking out a prospective source of income, he always looked for a combination of conflict and good money; but he had to know a great deal about the combatants before he took sides. Then too he had to time the killing perfectly; his future client must have an airtight alibi or the whole thing was just so much wasted effort. A client arrested for murder was no client at all. Pluto had actually passed over several rather promising conflicts because one or more of the participants had some remote link with organized crime. In such cases the police would immediately think
contract killing
and haul in Pluto's client without a second thought. A hundred thousand dollars down the