The Price of Murder (20 page)

“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.”