The Price of Murder

Chapter Six John Keefler

Keefler had sauerkraut and franks at Mel Stodd’s Courthouse Restaurant, and as he ate he looked around for someone who might know the score on Paul Verney, the man he had to see at two o’clock. Verney had mystified Keefler by mentioning Danny Bronson.

The restaurant was thick with smoke and the rumble of conversation. Keefler knew more than half the customers — county and city cops, newspaper people, politicians, courthouse types. Sometimes he ate at one of the big tables with a bunch of them, listening, contributing nothing. Usually he ate alone at one of the small tables against the wall opposite the long bar. It did not bother him that he was never greeted as so many of the others were, with wide grins, coarse jokes, and a thumb on the shoulder. He had never tried to win any popularity contests. He thought such actions artificial and ridiculous.

He was nearly finished when a man he knew fairly well came in, a red-faced man in his early fifties named Will Slater. Will had started out as a cop, had quickly achieved detective status, and had studied law at night school. He had been transferred to the Special Detail working under the jurisdiction of the D.A. and later, when he had passed his bar, he had resigned from the force and been taken on as an assistant D.A., a position he had held for over ten years despite a change in administration. He apparently had no desire to enter private practice.

Slater stopped at the bar and Keefler went up and tapped him on the shoulder. Slater turned, his grin fading slightly, and said, “What’s on your mind, Johnny?”

“Spare a minute?”

Will told his friends he’d be right back and he went over to the small table, bringing his big stein of black beer along.

“One of the guys I got the file on is on the run, Will. Danny Bronson, Name mean anything?”

“Not a hell of a lot. One of Kennedy’s boys. Husky blond, isn’t he?”

“That’s the one. Quit his job and give up his room and took off. I got a pick-up out on him. None of them are going to fool around with Johnny Keefler.”

Will Slater looked at him somberly. “I hear things here and there, Johnny. Maybe you don’t remember you’re not a cop any more.”

“I got a book. It’s got the rules in it. Anyway, here’s what I want to ask. I get a call from a lawyer. I got to see him at two. He says it’s about Bronson. His name is Paul Verney. You know him?”

Slater frowned slightly. “I know him. Not well. He’s a very smooth article. For a while he was nearly out of the law game, he was so mixed up in real estate deals. It was Verney and Burt Catton sewed up that big plot of land on options and sold it to Vulcan Aircraft. Now he’s doing more law work. He played it too close to the line and the tax boys clipped his wings. He isn’t what you could call a shyster. But he’s fast on his feet.”

“How would he tie in with Danny Bronson?”

“I don’t see it. If Danny wanted to make a deal, he wouldn’t use Verney as a contact.”

“Bronson isn’t making any deals. He’s going back to Alton.”

“Why don’t you send them all back, Johnny? They can build a big new wing on the prison. The Keefler wing. And we can all pay more taxes. What you’re doing isn’t like the cops, Johnny. They can bump you out of that job.”

“I’m calling ’em as I see ’em. If they don’t like it, I’m not going to cry.”

Slater got up, started to say something, then shrugged and said, “See you around, Johnny.” He went back to the bar. Keefler saw him say something to his two friends and saw them both look over at him.

By the time Keefler had waited ten minutes in the hushed atmosphere of Verney’s tiny waiting room, he had reluctantly come to a higher evaluation of Verney’s importance. When the girl told him he could go in he felt much the same sort of unpleasant expectancy as when, in the past, he had been called on the carpet by the head, of the division.

Verney was a bigger man than he expected. Big and solemn and remote. His hand was cold and strong.

“I’ve been trying to figure the tie-in with Danny Bronson,” Keefler said as he sat down.

“Bronson made an appointment and came in to see me last Thursday morning, Mr. Keefler.”

“Came here! He was in town?”

“He sat in that chair where you are sitting.”

“What the hell did he want?”

“He seemed... quite furtive. Upset, I would say. I didn’t find out until later, of course, that he is a wanted man. Apparently he had picked my name at random out of a phone book. He had some document he wanted me to keep. It was in a sealed envelope. He explained that he wanted me to put it in my office safe and, should anything happen to him — if he should be killed, I believe he meant — I was to turn the envelope over to the police.”

“Have you got it? Let me have it!”

“Just a moment, Mr. Keefler. I tried to ask him some questions about himself. I tried to get some idea of the nature of the document I was to hold. He was most evasive. I finally refused to oblige him, even though the fee he offered was generous. I suspected from the way he acted he was involved in something illegal.”

“Shakedown!” Keefler said bitterly.

“He said he could find somebody. He was... abusive. This morning, just out of curiosity, I phoned the police and found out he is wanted for violation of parole. I was referred to you. I thought it was information you might like to have.”

“I sure appreciate it, Mr. Verney. It’s something I’m glad to know. Danny has dropped clean out of sight. He quit his job the end of June. I find out he is doing okay. At least he was doing okay in July. But this thing has me stopped. I was a cop until I got hurt. I’ve been using cop channels. I’ve had all the boys checking their informants to see if anybody knows anything. I get nothing. He used to be one of Kennedy’s boys. He’s known all over town. Nobody sees him. Nobody knows what he’s doing. He’s avoiding every contact. The last time, until I came here, that I could definitely pin him down as being in town was July twenty-fifth. I’d half decided he left for good. A guy with his background, it isn’t reasonable nobody would make him. And I couldn’t figure out how he could be doing good without my being able to find out how.”

“But this gives you a better idea?”

“Yes. It sounds like he’s got somebody on the hook, but good. He’s milking somebody. Maybe it’s a solo flight, and maybe he’s got a woman in with him. He could be holed up right here in town.”

“Did he contact somebody on the twenty-fifth of July?”

“His brother, Lee Bronson. He called on them and took his brother a birthday present. His brother lives out in Brookton on Arcadia and teaches at Brookton Junior College. I was there Saturday. They haven’t seen him since that day he stopped by.”

“I don’t imagine he’d leave an envelope with his brother, the one he tried to get me to keep?”

“I don’t know. Could be. I could go shake them up some, the brother and his wife. Sure, they could have it. That would be a logical place. By God, if that pair lied to me...”

“Just a moment, Mr. Keefler. I’ve remembered something else he said. I guess I should have remembered it before. It might give you a lead. As I told you, he was being abusive. He was shouting at me almost incoherently. He said he had friends who would keep it for him. He mentioned two first names. I don’t see how they could be of very much help to you. One name was Fred and the other was, I am quite certain, Tommy.”

Keefler sagged in the chair. “No last names?”

“No.”

“My God, this is going to mean leg work. Damn! Maybe fifty or sixty guys. I could sit right here and think of fifteen possibles. Great! But I’ll have to do it, I guess. It sounds like he was aiming for a big score. It he makes it, he’ll be long gone.”

After he had thanked Verney again, Keefler went down to Central Records. It took fifteen minutes to get an approval of his request, and another hour to set up the sorter to drop out the punch cards of all local known criminals with the two first names. The sorted cards were run through the tabulator and Keefler was provided with a list of forty-nine names, together with last known addresses. Five were currently serving time and could be eliminated. Keefler checked the names against the yellow sheet files and arbitrarily eliminated eighteen of them as being too young. It seemed logical that Danny would trust older, steadier men. The remaining list of twenty-six names was smaller and more manageable.

Keefler looked forward to the evening with pleasure. His mission was legitimate. He had known some of the men on the list for years. There wasn’t one of them who was going to be happy to see him. He would make a little small talk. Hold off until they were uncomfortable. Then set it up just right. What would be a good way?

“Danny Bronson did some talking before he died an hour ago. He said you’re holding an envelope for him. Let’s have it.”

That was a good way. There’d be a reaction — enough so you could tell. Enough to go to work on. It was as good as being a cop. In some ways it was better. In some ways it was even a lot better.