The Price of Murder

Chapter Eleven Ben Wixler

Inspector Wendell Matthews sat at his ease in Ben Wixler’s office, chair tilted back, chubby knee sharply bent, right heel caught on the edge of the chair, hands laced around his right ankle. It was ten o’clock on the morning of Thursday, October eighteenth.

Matthews was a round man who, twenty years before, had barely met minimum height requirements. He had thinning brown hair, ice gray eyes and a small petulant mouth. He had the reputation of being a fusspot, an old lady who looked for dust in the corners and under the rugs, who looked for incorrect entries in the files, who was death on coffee breaks. The few in the department who knew him better knew that only the surface of his mind was occupied with departmental trivia. Ben Wixler and a handful of others had a good deal of respect for the quiet logic underneath.

They had been discussing the available facts in the Bronson murder, and Matthews had gone over the already bulky file.

“This could hurt you,” Matthews said.

“What am I doing that I shouldn’t do? What haven’t I done that should be done, Wendy? We’ve gone through that neighborhood thoroughly. Danny Bronson is as hot as anybody can be. It looks like we have to wait until he’s found.”

“You know what I mean, Ben. You read the papers. Professor’s wife slain. Huge manhunt for paroled convict. Mystery money figures in Bronson case. She was a sexy looking item, and she loved having her picture taken. So all the wire services have picked it up. The deal of getting killed with the kitchen sink gives it that nice flavor of the macabre. Bucky Angelis, our fighting district attorney, wants in on the act.”

“I know. He was over. Offering all the manpower of his office and the Special Detail, or something. But what could I use them for?”

“Bad psychology, Ben. You should have accepted, and given them a make-work job.”

“Why?”

“Suppose Danny isn’t located? Then you’re up the creek. And it would be nice to be able to share the blame. Keep it to yourself, and you don’t have too much time left.”

“Before what?”

“Are you trying to needle me, Sergeant? You know damn well what I mean. Bucky will lean on the Commissioner of Public Safety. He sees a chance to get his picture in the paper. So he leans on the Police Commissioner, who leans on the Chief, who then has to fix this curious situation of having a sergeant in charge of the Homicide Section. And I will bet you a bun that fifteen minutes after you are relieved as acting head of section, Danny is picked up and the new guy unravels the deal like a home-made sweater. So then you wait another year or two because the Chief can’t safely sign a promotion for somebody he has relieved of duty, no matter what he thinks privately. If you haven’t gained any ground you are certain to be all washed up by Monday, and it could happen as soon as tomorrow.”

“You’re full of cheer, Wendy.”

Matthews thumped his chair down onto all four legs. “Let me check your thinking with mine on this thing. Do you think Danny Bronson killed her?”

“I’ll bet about ten to one against it. I think he got into bed with her, and I think he was using her as a drop for money and maybe something else important to him — a statement protecting him from somebody he was gouging. I’ve done some research on Danny Bronson. He is tough, greedy, and brutal. He’s also intelligent and remarkably unlucky. What he is doesn’t fit the crime.”

“Lee Bronson?”

“Not a chance. There is a nice guy.”

“That’s why you count him out?”

“Now who’s needling who? We’ve triple-checked the time he arrived at Haughton’s against the earliest possible time of death. If he could cross the city in ten seconds, he could have done it.”

“So who do you nominate?”

“Either Mr. X or Mr. Y. Mr. X is an associate of Danny’s. I have a choice of motives for Mr. X. Either Danny got a big payoff and hid it at the Bronson house and Mr. X went there and got it — or Mr. X wanted to get hold of Danny’s insurance statement and find out what Danny had on the blackmailee, who we will call Mr. Y. There is only one motive for Mr. Y. To get out from under Danny. To do that he had to find where the statement was hidden and go get it, and he had to also eliminate Danny, either before or after getting the statement. I would vote for the elimination of Danny taking place after he got his hands on the statement. It would be safer that way.”

“Who do you like best?”

“My man is Mr. Y. He didn’t leave any clues, and he was very clever about being unobserved, but the actual killing itself had... an amateur flavor. It was a murder of convenience, and yet it was brutal and uncontrolled enough to look like a murder of passion.”

Matthews knuckled his small round chin. “So you think our Danny may be dead too?”

“If my logic is acceptable, I think there’s a good chance of it.”

“Then you’re really in the bag.”

“If the body had been hidden carefully enough.”

“Your Mr. Y would be a substantial citizen.”

“Important, anyway. And rich enough to make it worth Danny’s efforts. And desperate enough to take a hell of a chance. We don’t know much about him. We know he’s a big man, powerful. We know he’s got something to hide. We can guess that somehow Danny came in contact with him and found out what he’s hiding. We’ve had no luck trying to backtrack on Danny. He’s avoided all usual haunts and acquaintances, at least since the end of June.”

“The big flaw is how he’d get a tough monkey like Danny Bronson to tell him where the statement...”

Matthews stopped as the phone rang and Ben picked it up. Ben pulled a pad toward him and began scribbling on it. “Yes. Sure, I remember you, Captain. Route 90. Turn off three miles this side of Kemp. I see what you mean. Yes. Well, I won’t waste any time. An hour.”

Ben hung up. He grinned broadly at Matthews. “Want to go for a little ride?”

“What’s up?”

“That was Captain Donovan of the CI Bureau of the State Police. He’s found out where Danny has been living.”

Ben Wixler, Al Spence, and Inspector Matthews went out to the Catton camp. As it was outside their jurisdiction, and as they were present on invitation, it would have been impertinent to arrive with lab people or with too many people. Donovan had invited them in because of the connection with the Bronson murder.

With Ben directing the driver, they found the gravel road and turned in. A gray sedan was mired in a deep ditch just beyond where the road curved around the edge of a wood. They were then in sight of the camp.

“Nice layout,” Spence said. “Complete with four trooper cars.”

“The convertible there has Hancock plates,” Matthews noted.

Captain Donovan came to meet them as they got out of the car. He was an enormous brown man with a resolute stride, military bearing, puffy eyes and a parade-ground voice. He knew both Wixler and Matthews and was introduced to Spence, who winced visibly at the Captain’s handshake.

“I’ll give you the history to date,” Donovan roared. “The Kemp Barracks got a routine call last night about midnight, somebody who wouldn’t give their name saying there was a car stuck in the ditch, that one you saw as you drove in. It was a young voice and it’s a good guess some neckers drove in and saw it and couldn’t find anybody around and reported it. Trooper Jensen out of Kemp checked it at about twelve-thirty and got the license number and drove in here to the house and couldn’t raise anybody, even though that convertible was parked right where it is now. The whole thing looked a little funny to him, so instead of waiting until morning, we got a night check on the licenses, something we’ve been fighting for for ten years and didn’t get until this year. The convertible sedan is registered to a Mr. Jack Young in Kemp, but it turns out the address is a phony. At three this morning Jensen was directed to come back here and check the house, and another trooper was assigned with him.

“When they knocked and received no answer, they entered the house and in the bedroom they found the body of a woman approximately thirty years of age, dark hair. She was nude and had been strangled to death. They radioed Kemp Barracks and immediate contact was made with my office and with the Sheriff’s office. I contacted the Sheriff, received his verbal request for assistance, and set out with specialists from my office, arriving here at five thirty-five this morning.

“After a quick inspection of the premises, I telephoned Mr. Burton Catton in your city, but the phone was not answered. By that time a detailed investigation of the premises was under way. After examination by the county coroner, and after fingerprinting and nail-scraping, the body was removed to a funeral home in Kemp pending formal identification and autopsy if deemed necessary by the county coroner. My fingerprint people, in going over this house, have acquired two complete sets of prints. One of them matches the prints of the woman. The other set was broken down into numerical analysis, for transmittal to central records in the area and, if unidentified, to Washington. It was obvious from the distribution of the prints that the man and woman involved had been living in this house for an extended period.”

When Donovan paused for breath, Ben noticed that Al Spence was regarding the big man with a look of awe bordering on consternation. Donovan could have been heard clearly at two hundred feet.

“Having had your advice that one Daniel Bronson, wanted for suspicion of murder, has been hiding out in the general area of Hancock, and seeing how excellent a place this would be, I directed that the numerical analysis be checked by radio against the analysis on record for Bronson’s prints. When I discovered that the second set of prints belong to Daniel Bronson, I telephoned you as a matter of courtesy and co-operation. Subsequent to phoning you, I tried the telephone for Mr. Burton Catton for the fourth time, and the phone was answered by Mr. Catton. When I said that I had phoned him earlier, he explained that due to illness he had had a night switch placed on his phone so as not to be disturbed during the night. I asked him if his wife was at home. He excused himself from the phone, returned in approximately one minute and said that she was not in, nor had her bed been slept in. As I had identified myself, he seemed upset. I asked him to describe his wife. In size, age and coloring, his description matched the body. I asked him if he knew a Mr. Johnson, and described the location of this house. Mr. Catton explained that this was his house, that he hadn’t been here in over a year. He was not aware it was being used. I requested that he come here. After I have questioned him further, he can make formal identification of the body. He has not yet arrived. There are some other details I can easier show than explain. Other than that, are there any questions?”

“How long had the woman been dead?”

“The estimate is twenty hours from the time of examination of the body. That would place it about eight o’clock yesterday morning. Now, if you gentlemen will follow me, I will show you where the body was discovered.”

They followed Donovan through the camp. His voice, inside four walls, seemed much more powerful. His men were still at work in the camp. They went back out onto the terrace. Captain Donovan said, “This would seem to me to be the logical reconstruction. Bronson and the Catton woman quarreled and he strangled her. He left here in a panic, taking no time to pack. In his hurry, he drove carelessly and put his car in the ditch. He did not come back and take her car as it is far too conspicuous an automobile. My belief is that he walked out to Route 90 and hitchhiked.”

One of the troopers came around the corner of the building and said, “Taxi coming, sir.”

“That should be Mr. Catton. Will you join me?”

They followed Donovan around to the parking area. A Hancock taxi had stopped and a man was getting out of it. He moved feebly, with great caution. His face was a pasty color. He looked apologetically at Donovan and said, “I haven’t driven since... my illness.”

“I’ll see that you get transportation for your return, Mr. Catton. You can pay him now.”

The driver said, “It’s going to be just the same as I told you, mister. I got to go back empty, don’t I?” He took the money Catton handed him and said, “Thanks. What’s going on here? A cop convention?”

“Roll it!” Donovan bellowed into the window. The cab left, the rear tires spinning gravel.

Catton, looking around, noticed Matthews for the first time. He smiled, and with the pathetic ghost of what had once been an impressive joviality, said, “Why, hello, Wendy! Wendy, maybe you’ll tell me what is going on.”

“This is Captain Donovan’s party, Burt. He wants to ask you some questions about Dru.”

“I know it’s about Dru. She didn’t come home at all. I don’t know what... Could I sit down somewhere, please?”

“Surely,” Donovan yelled. They went back around the building and Catton sank gratefully into one of the terrace chairs. Donovan pulled another chair so close their knees were almost touching. A uniformed man appeared and sat near by, notebook on knee.

“When is the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Catton?”

“Let me think. The day before yesterday. Tuesday. In our apartment at five o’clock. She came in and showered and changed and went out again.”

“Did she say where?”

Catton tried to smile. “I’m afraid that... since my illness, we haven’t paid much attention to each other. I haven’t been as interested in her activities as... I once was. She came and went as she pleased. She had her own friends.”

“Why are you using the past tense, Mr. Catton?”

The smile was stronger, but it was an ironic smile. “I have heart trouble, not head trouble, Captain. You asked for a description. You were very heavy and mysterious. All these policemen wouldn’t be around if she had... say, reported a theft. I must guard myself against shock, so I spent my time on the way out here getting slowly adjusted to the fact that she is probably dead. And to be thoroughly honest with you, Captain, I don’t believe I care a great deal. A year ago I would have been utterly shattered. Now I can’t really care. And I believe that is more selfishness than heartlessness. I am too busy being concerned about myself.”

“Has she ever spoken of a man named Daniel Bronson?”

“No. Not that I recall.”

“Jack Young?”

“No. Captain Donovan, can you bring yourself to tell me if she is dead? Or would that violate your code?”

“The woman found dead in this house may be your wife, Mr. Catton. We want you to look at the body.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I will not do that. I can adjust to the fact of her death, but I won’t risk any possible shock from looking at her. I have had a severe coronary. A large area of the heart is damaged. I do not intend to risk the undamaged portions of it. Surely you can find someone else.”

“This is very unusual.”

“I can’t help that. I absolutely refuse. Sorry.”

“You described her in general. Is there any... specific or unusual marking on her body?”

“Yes. On the inside of her left thigh, just above the knee, there’s a rather ugly scar. She was bitten there by a large dog when she was just old enough to walk. In those days they cauterized dog bites.”

“Then I believe we can be certain it is your wife.”

“I was certain it was. I didn’t believe any... companion of my more active days would be likely to come back to the camp here. How did she die? I assume violently.”

“Why do you assume that?”

“She lived violently, Captain. She was a violent woman.”

“She was strangled to death.”

Catton grimaced. “Very ugly death. By the way, a name you mentioned. Bronson. Isn’t that the man already wanted for murder?”

“The same one.”

“She was spending a great deal of time away from the apartment. Was Bronson living here?”

“We think so.”

“I hope he is a man of perception and taste. A lot of time and money went into this place. Have you caught him?”

“Not yet.”

“Apparently he succumbed to a temptation I used to have quite often, Captain.”

“What was that?”

“To strangle Drusilla.”

Donovan eyed Catton curiously, and then said, “There are expensive clothes here that would fit Bronson. Do you know if she was spending more than usual?”

“Dru was undoubtedly spending just what she has always spent, and that is all she’s got. She had an income from a trust fund and I provided her with an allowance. The total seems very generous, but it was never enough for Drusilla. Never.”

Though Ben Wixler was listening intently, there was something trying to force its way into his consciousness. It was a sensation he had experienced before. He knew that either he had heard something that was more significant than the surface meaning would indicate, or he had seen something slightly out of key.

He gestured to Wendy Matthews and got up and went about forty feet down toward the artifical lake. There he could hear Donovan’s questions, but not Catton’s answers. He saw Spence look toward him and start to get up. Ben motioned him to remain. Matthews followed Ben, obviously irritated by the interruption.

“What’s the matter?”

“Something. I don’t know. I thought I’d check with you. Have you heard anything that rang any faraway bells?”

“No. What the hell?”

“Have you seen anything odd, anything that has raised a question so faint you don’t know what the question is?”

“Now I’ll ask you one. Did you eat a good breakfast? Have you taken your pulse lately?”

“Okay. Sorry. Let’s get back.”

They went back but his attention still wandered. He began to inspect his immediate environment, almost inch by inch. The flagstones were large and irregular, and had been cemented into place. The cement between them was recessed. When his eye, traveling slowly and carefully, rested on an area to the left of the captain’s chair, he felt a quiver of recognition. He saw at once what had puzzled his subconscious. In all other parts of the terrace the recessed cement strips between the flagstones were filled with pine needles, dirt and leaf scraps. In the area to the left of the captain’s chair, the recessed areas were clean, and the four flagstones looked cleaner than the others. The clean strip extended toward the edge of the terrace. Had something been spilled and hosed off? Why wasn’t the entire terrace hosed off? Why just one area?

He examined the four flagstones more carefully, inch by inch. The captain’s right foot rested on the corner of a tan one. In the middle of the tan one he saw two small grayish marks, one larger than the other. He leaned far to one side and the grayish marks took on a faint metallic gleam.

The captain was saying, “When did you notice any change in her habits and when...” He broke off and stared down at Ben who was on one knee picking with his thumb nail at the larger of the two gray marks. “What in God’s name are you doing, Wixler?”

“Take a look,” Ben said. “Looks like this area was hosed down. And these marks are lead. Lean down and look at this little sort of gold speckle here. Copper jacket.” He sat back on one heel and looked up at Donovan. “Were there any holes in the lady?”

“No!” Donovan jumped to his feet, turned toward the house. “Baker!” he bawled. A man came out of the house at almost a dead run. “Get your stuff for a blood check.” Baker darted away. Donovan moved everybody to the far end of the terrace and, after a speculative glance at Wixler, continued his questioning. Baker came back and worked with his bottles and filter paper, making his way to the edge of the terrace. He came and stood by Donovan.

When Donovan looked up he held out his filter paper and said, “Positive, sir. Not enough to type, but human blood. I got the best trace where it was washed off into the grass.”

“Recent?”

“I guess it would have to be. It would have to be since the last heavy rain and that was Tuesday.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Ben said.

“Of course.”

“Have your man check that boat down there at the dock.”

Donovan stared at Ben, then his face showed comprehension and he told Baker to do so. Ben strolled down to where Baker had begun to work. Baker, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, looked up at him and grinned and said, “Jackpot. Enough to type. A big beautiful clot.”

Ben looked out at the small lake, at the small chop piled up by the crisp west breeze. He turned on his heel and went back to the terrace and told Donovan what Baker was picking up.

Donovan said, “I’m sorry to have to tire you with these questions, Mr. Catton. I can have you driven back to the city immediately.”

“If it’s permitted, I’d like to go in the house and rest for a little while.”

“It’s all right now. My men are through in the house.”

As Catton started toward the door, Ben said, “Excuse me, Mr. Catton. Would it be all right if we cut that dam and let the water out?”

Catton turned and looked at his lake. He said carefully, “You have my permission to blow it to hell.” He continued on toward the door and turned and said with a death’s-head grin, “I know one thing you will find.”

“What sir?”

“A great many empty bottles.” He shut the door behind him.

Donovan looked at the earth dam at the end of the small lake. “Easier to blow it. I’ll make arrangements.” He hurried off.

Ben turned to Wendy Matthews. “Any bets?”

Matthews shook his head. “I’ll take the other side, though. Fifty to one it’s our Danny. And remind me never to sneer again when you get one of your strange feelings, Ben.”

“I like the way the pattern is showing more clearly all the time. Danny takes up with Drusilla Catton. She is in on his scheme. It’s even logical to assume she provided him with the angle to work on. But the intended victim didn’t lie still and let them pick all his feathers. He got a line on where Danny had left the statement that he thought provided him with immunity. So he recovered the statement and killed Lucille Bronson and got out here early the next morning and got neatly rid of this unholy pair. There was a certain amount of cunning in hiding one body and leaving the other so we would all go running off in all directions looking for Danny. With or without that streak of luck I had, Wendy, I was going to make sure Danny’s body wasn’t in the lake or buried on the premises.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“We find out who Drusilla Catton was chummy with during the past couple of years, so chummy she could have found out something Danny could sell back to the man.”

At twelve-thirty a state trooper pushed the plunger on a small black box and four sticks of dynamite inserted deep into the earthen base of the dam made a muffled thump Ben could feel in the soles of his feet. Dirt flew high, and before it fell to earth the water of the lake had started to move out through a ragged gap in the dam. As it moved it widened the gap, and a muddy torrent galloped down the bed of the small stream. Ben watched the pilings of the dock and saw the water move slowly down, exposing the darker area of the part that had been under water. The gleaming mud flats began to appear around the shore line. As the gap widened it moved faster. In twenty minutes the lake had drained.

They stood on the shore line and watched three husky troopers, minus shoes, socks, and uniform trousers, wade out through the black mud to the body about eighty feet from shore. It lay with the head toward the break in the dam, lay face down and naked in the mud except for a soaked blue robe that covered the shoulders and the head and trailed out in the direction of the flow.

The troopers bent over the body. One worked on the ankles. Soon they headed back toward shore, two of them carrying the body by ankles and armpits, one of them carrying two cinder blocks wired together. They put the body on the dock and went up to hose the mud off their legs and dress again.

“Bronson?” Donovan asked.

“Can we get some of the mud off?” Ben asked.

A trooper brought the hose as far as it would reach. The water sprayed in a high arc and fell on the body and soon washed the face clean.

“It’s Danny Bronson,” Matthews said.

Donovan bent closer. “Six shots in the head. Look at these. I’ve never seen anything just like this before. Small stuff. Thirty-two caliber, I’d guess. Close range for these five in the forehead. Inches away.” He gingerly parted the robe. “And one under the heart. Seven shots. Good guess it’s an automatic.”

Donovan straightened up and looked out at the black expanse of mud. “If it’s out there we can get it. Two men with metal detectors could cover it in a day. They won’t enjoy it, but they can do it.”

Ben looked up toward the house and saw three men walking swiftly toward them. The one in the lead was Billy Sullivan, wearing a wide, wise and handsome smile. The one in the rear was slipping a plate holder into his Speed Graphic.

“Private party?” Billy asked. “Or can anybody come?”

Donovan moved forward with the ponderous inevitability of a tank and brought the three of them to a stop. “I will give you an interview containing all pertinent facts in due time, gentlemen,” he roared politely at them. “If you will be so kind as to return to the parking area, I will be with you shortly.”

“How shortly?” Billy asked.

“In ten minutes.”

“Would that be Danny Bronson, Captain?”

“It was, at one time,” he said, herding them back.

“Killed in desperate gun battle with brave officers?”

“Unfortunately no. How did you people find out about this?”

“A cab driver thought the information might be worth five bucks. After I paid him, Captain, I checked with Sergeant Wixler’s office. We’ll co-operate, but in all fairness this ought to be a Ledger exclusive.”

“Ten minutes,” Donovan said.

When the reporters were out of earshot, Ben said, “You aren’t going to turn them loose on Catton, are you?”

“He left twenty minutes ago. Her father is going to make the formal identification.” Donovan directed his men to make the necessary examination of the body and recall the county coroner. He turned back to Wixler and Matthews. “It looks like this is all tied in together, gentlemen, your little affair and mine. I have given you access to all information available to me. I suggest you inform me of your conclusions. I suspect the killer will be eventually apprehended in your city.”

“Brief the Captain, Ben,” Matthews said.

Ben quickly summarized his thinking, and concluded by saying, “So it’s either a partner who waited until the take and then decided to keep it all himself, or it’s the man they were trying to fleece. I like the second possibility. Now we can start hunting for Mr. X. We can triangulate him. Somebody who had previous contact with Danny Bronson. We know one thing. It’s a big deal. It isn’t a gouge for a thousand or two. And whoever they had on the hook, it wasn’t information that would just maybe bust up a marriage, or get the guy thrown off the Board of Education. It was something that would hurt worse. He was so vulnerable, he could rationalize some risky killing.”

Donovan nodded. “Sound enough. How much, if any, of what you’ve said can be told to our journalistic friends?”

“Let’s just let them have the facts. No guesses. Bronson’s residence here, with the woman. Her death and his.”

Donovan squared himself and looked challengingly at Wixler. “And why did we look in the lake?”

“In checking the area, Captain, you and your people came across evidence that there could have been a second killing.”

Matthews said quietly, “Ben here hasn’t all the rank he ought to have yet, Captain. There are wolves in the shrubbery.”

Donovan nodded. “It won’t hurt me to give away a little credit. I just wanted to know the attitude, Matthews.”

“We’re in the same business,” Ben said.

“Sometimes Roeber forgot that.” He studied Wixler. “We’ll get along.”

“Thanks for letting us know so quickly, Captain,” Ben said. “We have to be getting back now.”

As Wixler, Spence, and Matthews went to the car where the driver was still waiting, Billy Sullivan drifted over and said, “Are we going to get the brush, Ben?”

“No. He’ll be fair.”

“Can I come get another statement from you after I get this story in?”

“I won’t be able to give you any more than he’ll give you, Billy.”

“You know,” Billy said thoughtfully, “if I could get a rewrite man to hang out a window, he could take it direct from Donovan.”

Matthews pulled the door of the sedan shut and said through the window, “The captain used to command troops.”

“On windy days,” Sullivan said.

They drove out and headed back toward the city. Matthews told the driver to make time. He put the sedan up to ninety, with red blinker light flashing. He touched the siren only when traffic was clotted in front of them, and the low warning growl quickly opened up a lane.

Al Spence turned around in the front seat, cigarette in the corner of his mouth hobbling as he spoke. “You act like you know where we go from here,” he said.

“You’ve been pretty quiet, Al,” Ben said. “Got any ideas?”

“I’d like to know more about this Burton Catton. She was cheating on him. He took it pretty casual. If Betty ever did that to me, I’d go off like a rocket.”

“I know the man,” Matthews said. “You wouldn’t believe the way he’s changed. He used to be the jolly boy type. He had a dreadful harridan of a wife named Ethel. At the time he married her, he was selling insurance and real estate. She was pretty well loaded. She backed him in his first deal. That was a hell of a long time ago. He bought the city dump.”

“That sounds just dandy,” Spence said.

“It was. The city was abandoning it. It needed a hell of a lot of fill. He was high bidder for it. He’d made arrangements with a contractor who was making that big cut where they rerouted Eastern Avenue. So he got the fill for the cost of hauling it. He got it hauled free by giving a trucker a piece of the pie. They filled it, landscaped it, renamed it, cut it up into approved plots, and just when they were about to start unloading it, the new Vulcan plant was announced. So Burt incorporated, took in a builder, and started putting up houses. They were sold as fast as they could get them up. They were pretty damn shoddy little houses. You know the area. Lakewood Estates it’s called. From then on he rolled like a big ball. Belonged to everything. He built that camp as a hideaway, to get away from Ethel. He lived hard and drank hard and chased the women. I was out there twice, at stag picnics he used to have. Free liquor and some pretty gaudy entertainment. Then, last year, when he was riding high, things started to go sour for him. Right when he was at the top. He’d married Drusilla after Ethel died. Big money, a handsome young wife, and a lot of laughs. And he got careless. The Director of Internal Revenue turned that laugh into a sickly smile.”

“Fraud?” Ben asked.

“They didn’t try to make that stick. They just handed him a fat deficiency judgment. As I understand it, Burt had taken capital gains on a lot of big land deals. So they reclassified him as a land merchant, and made it retroactive several years, so what he had taken as capital gains had to be considered as income. He fought it, but they made it stick. He got hurt badly and so did the people in with him. Most of them could stand it because they’d only had a small piece of his syndicate operations. As I heard it, a lawyer named Verney took a big clouting.”

Ben turned and stared at Matthews. For a moment the siren made conversation impossible. When the sound died, Ben said, “Paul Verney?”

“Do you know him?”

“I know him,” Spence said. “He came into this thing through Johnny Keefler. That’s how we found out Danny was trying to plant an envelope somewhere.”

Ben felt, deep inside him, that familiar and telltale surge of excitement. “I’m a guy who takes long looks at coincidences, Wendy.”

Matthews said, “Let me get this. It was Verney who told Bronson he wouldn’t hold onto his envelope for him.”

“He told Keefler that Bronson acted so strange he didn’t want to get mixed up in it.”

“That’s what he told me,” Spence said.

“How big a man is he?” Ben asked Spence.

“He’s a pretty good-sized bastard. He isn’t heavy, but he’s tall and sort of what you call raw-boned, and he’s got a pair of meat hooks on him like that guy that used to like to bust down doors when they had him on the Vice Section. He’s about forty. A very solemn type guy. Sits there behind his desk like somebody was engraving his picture to put on a thousand-dollar bill.”

“He sold you?” Ben asked.

“No reason why he shouldn’t. He talked just fine. Got a nice office. Gave me a hell of a good cigar.”

Matthews said, “He has the reputation of being almost too shrewd, Ben. He worked pretty closely with Burt Catton for years.”

“Okay,” Ben said, “here’s a question for you. We’ll assume he was hurt bad by the tax decision. We’ll take it another step and we’ll assume he had figured out some fancy way to make up his losses. How the hell would Drusilla Catton know about it, know enough about it to give Danny a lever to use? Were he and Drusilla playmates?”

“I would doubt that. Verney had a wife in an institution somewhere. And a son away at school. He’s never, as far as I know, had much to do with women. I think he would be too heavy-handed for Drusilla.”

“Is he in any position of trust where he could be taking the wrong money? Estate work, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t think so. At least no important estates.”

“The penalty is the same.”

“But he couldn’t get healthy on a small estate. That was a big tax bill, the way I heard it.”

Spence said, “I’ll just throw this in and you can kick it around. If Catton and Verney were so close, maybe they got a deal where they can both get healthy. Then maybe Mrs. Catton would have found out from her husband and told Danny.”

“Then why not squeeze Catton?” Ben asked.

“Because of the likelihood he would drop dead,” Matthews said.

“I don’t know if we’re getting anywhere,” Ben said.

“Maybe we ought to back up a little,” Spence said. “Let’s say it was Verney. Okay, how does he know about Lucille Bronson?”

Ben thought in silence for a few moments. “From Johnny Keefler? Wait a minute. We’re not doing this logically. We’re going too fast. If we assume it’s Verney, we have to assume that when Bronson went to see him last Thursday, it was part of the squeeze. This stuff about the envelope was fabricated.”

“Maybe he went there for a down payment?” Matthews asked.

Ben hit his fist on his thigh. “Hey! Lucille told her husband Danny had only been there once. Catelli found proof he had been there twice. Lucille told her husband Bronson had left the money there way back on September twenty-eighth. The recent prints could have been made last Thursday. Suppose on Danny’s first visit, he left the statement of what he’d found out about Verney. He spent a long time figuring out just how he’d handle it. Last Thursday he contacted Verney, got a thousand bucks, left it with Lucille the same day, as an emergency escape fund if the rest of it went sour.”

“Why not take it out to the camp?” Matthews asked.

“Maybe Drusilla had the idea she was going to go with him. If he wanted to go alone, it would be wise to stash the money some other place.”

“Too many assumptions,” Matthews said.

“We can check any withdrawal Verney may have made that day,” Ben said.

“He’s got a safe in his office,” Spence said. “It could have come out of there.”

“As soon as we get back, Al,” Ben said, “I want you and Dan Means to concentrate on Paul Verney. Find out what he was doing Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning. I’m going to talk to Johnny Keefler.”

“I’ll talk to Burt Catton,” Matthews said.

Keefler had become a hollow man, a little empty-eyed ghost who talked in a listless and barely audible voice. It took Wixler a long time to bring Keefler around to his remembrance of the talk with Verney, and even longer to isolate the key factor in the conversation.

“Now let’s get this straight, Johnny. After Verney told you about the envelope, then you and he discussed where Danny could have left it?”

“I guess so.”

“What did you say, specifically?”

“—”

“Come on, Johnny. What did you say?”

“I... I said if Lee Bronson and his wife had lied to me I was going to give them a hard time.”

“Did you say when you were going to give them this hard time?”

“I guess I said right away.”

“And then he suddenly happened to remember those two names?”

“Yes. He forgot them, he said. Then he remembered. He told me. And I checked them out and...”

“I can’t hear you, Johnny. Talk louder.”

“Then you picked me up.”

He tried to ask more questions, but Keefler had gone too far away. He did not seem to hear. When Ben shook him by the shoulder there was no resistance, no awareness. The man’s lips moved. He looked back after he left the cell. Johnny Keefler sat in a gray huddle on the bunk, good hand clasping the wrist of the mutilated left arm, his shadow made starkly black by the blue-white flare of the recessed fluorescence in the ceiling overhead.