The Price of Murder (21 page)

“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.

At eight o’clock on Friday evening, Ben Wixler sat waiting. He did not hear Beth tell him the kids were in bed until she spoke the second time. Then he stood up heavily and went in and said good night to them.

They walked back into the living room. He stood by the picture window and looked out at the rainy street under the lights. She came up beside him and touched his arm.

“Bad?” she said softly.

“It’s supposed to be good,” he said. “It’s what they pay me for. Remember me? I’m Ben Wixler, nemesis.”

“So bitter, baby.”

“It’s all so damn stupid. Three of them dead. And two dying. I didn’t tell you about that. About Catton. Wendy interrogated him. Catton was fine. Then Wendy worked his way around to the key question. What illegal thing was he doing, in partnership with Paul Verney? Wendy said Catton’s mouth worked and nothing came out and he turned the color of spoiled yeast and Wendy caught him as he toppled off the chair. He’s in an oxygen tent. He can’t talk and we won’t talk, and the medical profession is astonished he lasted until this afternoon. He may be gone by now. It stoned Wendy. But it was another confirmation.”

“You’re certain now?”

“Certain. Verney is the other dying man. He doesn’t know it yet. I don’t know why he didn’t cover himself better. He left it so open he can’t prove he wasn’t at Lee Bronson’s Tuesday night. And he even told his office staff he was out near Kemp on Wednesday morning. I think it’s a kind of intellectual arrogance with him. In his own way he may be as crazy as poor Johnny Keefler. He should have known that sooner or later we’d check him.
Even if there was no talk with Keefler, we would have checked him as a matter of routine when we ran out of other answers. And he isn’t ready for it. My God, his own secretary was able to tell us he left his office with Danny Bronson Thursday morning. He withdrew one thousand and one hundred dollars in cash. The teller remembers he asked for a thousand in fifties, a hundred in twenties. He thinks he’s so damn shrewd. He’s a sitting rabbit. We’ll blow his head off before he can wiggle.”

She gave him a wry smile. “So you prefer your killers to be smarter, darling?”

He smiled back. “Even though he was clumsy, it’s a change from the ball peen hammer in the furnished room type deal.”

She winced. “Puh-leeze.”

The phone rang. He hurried to it.

“Cullin, Sergeant. It’s all set. He got in fifteen minutes ago. It’s staked out. Dan has the warrant and he’s on the way to pick you up, along with Catelli.”

Ben put on his raincoat and hat. He kissed Beth. She stood and watched through the picture window as he got into the sedan. She saw it drive away. She felt a great gladness that he was the sort of man he was, able to be depressed by the things he had to do. She hoped the years would never dull that sensitivity. She hoped he could never become callously indifferent to the human beings he trapped.

Lee Bronson arrived back at his rented house at eight-fifteen on Friday night. He had left immediately after the funeral and had driven back through the gray rain to Hancock. He felt emotionally drained. Through all their tears they had looked at him with eyes of stone. He was the betrayer who had taken their lovely child, their only child, to a faraway place and, through his negligence, had permitted her to be slain. They made no attempt to speak to him, nor did any of her childhood friends. He had stood apart from all of them.

When he watched the casket lowered into the October ground it was still unbelievable to him. He remembered
how she had reveled in sunlight, how she enjoyed the hot pulse of the sun on her perfect body.

Now he was permitted to return to his home.

She had left an emptiness. When, with the permission of the police, her parents had come to this house to take away her personal belongings, the screaming scene they made had made him wish he could turn and run from them. They had stripped the house of everything that had been hers, and a few things that were not hers, such as the small radio she had given him, and one table lamp that had been in the house when they had rented it. It was not worth a protest.

He walked through the oppressive silence of the house and estimated how long it would take him to pack, how much luggage he would need. His two suitcases and a big crate for the books and papers. That should do it.

When the phone rang, startling him, he let it ring five times before he answered it. He thought it could be a diehard reporter.

“Yes?” he said cautiously.

“Lee. Haughton here. I’m wondering about Monday. Will you take your classes?”

“I … don’t know.”

“The first day will be difficult. But the little animals have short memories.”

“I had the idea I might go away for a while, Dr. Haughton.”

“I see.”

“I don’t want to let you down.”

“My dear young man, I have been disappointed in the human race my entire life. I will call your attention to two things. One—your sad showing in our chess match. Two—the mute and helpless woe that will be the lot of one Jill Grossman, a highly talented child who can use much guidance.”

“Well, I …”

“And think of your cretins who may lose invaluable games because you are not there to tell them how to use their clumsy muscles. Show up on Monday, Mr. Bronson. That is an order.”

The phone clicked. Lee stood holding the receiver. He replaced it gently on the cradle. And suddenly he smiled.

It was eight thirty-five on Friday evening when Paul Verney heard the footsteps in the hallway and heard the brisk knock on his door. He had been sitting in his deep leather chair ever since he had returned to his room. He had been trying to think his way out of a mood of blackest depression. The body of Bronson had been found too readily. It was ominous that Burt had collapsed while being questioned by the police. He could see how it could all have been managed in other more careful ways. He wished he had not talked to Keefler. He was trying to hearten himself with the idea they had absolutely no proof. None. They could be suspicious, but there could never be any actual proof. The gun and black gloves were buried in a swamp halfway between Kemp and Hancock.

The knock had an official sound that made his heart leap in his chest. He crossed the room and opened the door. There were three men. One of them was Detective Spence, whose confidence had been so dismaying. A bigger man with a wet trench coat and an air of authority said, “Mr. Verney? I’m Sergeant Wixler. You know Detective Spence. And this is Mr. Catelli. I have a warrant here to search this room. Would you care to examine it?”

“A warrant? On what basis, Sergeant?”

“We’re looking for evidence, Mr. Verney. I hereby inform you that you are under arrest for suspicion of murder. The murder of Lucille Bronson, Daniel Bronson, and Drusilla Catton.”

Verney’s mind, racing quickly, decided at once there could be no evidence in this room. It strengthened his response. “You people must be out of your minds.”

Detective Spence circled him, searched his person quickly and effectively and said, “Stand over against that wall, Mr. Verney.”

“I’ll be happy to co-operate in any way I can, but …”

“You can talk later,” Wixler said.

Verney watched them. The man named Catelli had a small case with him. Catelli went to the closet, opened the closet door and sat on the floor. He opened his case. He
took a strong flashlight and began to pick up, one by one, Verney’s shoes, taking the left shoe in each case and paying attention to the outside edge of the shoe. Verney began to feel a surprising emptiness in his belly, pangs like those of hunger.

Catelli gave a grunt of satisfaction. He was holding a black shoe, examining it closely under the light. Verney knew he had worn that pair when he had gone to 1024 Arcadia Street. He tried to tell himself this was some sort of a trick, but there was a curious roaring sound in his ears.