The Price of Murder

by John D. MacDonald

  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 mintues 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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lucille Bronson

  Tuesday was a day of gray and dismal rain, and Lucille felt that her whole life ahead of her was as dreary as the skies. She had awakened when she heard the familiar sound of Lee backing the car out of the drive. She had turned over and tried to go back to sleep but she could not. She kept thinking of how grim and unfriendly Lee had been ever since he had found out about the money and taken it away from her. He had not touched her or kissed her. He had looked through her, as if she weren’t there.

  She sat on the edge of her bed and stretched and yawned and then reached up under the old pajama top of Lee’s that she slept in and gently scratched her round stomach and tousled her hair with the other hand. She looked at the day and grunted with distaste and boredom. Sunday was the last day the pool was open. Now it would be closed for the winter. Damn the long miserable winter. She liked the feel of hot sun on her body. She liked the dazed laziness, the feeling of softness and content, half asleep with Ruthie propped beside her, droning away, talking, talking.

  Maybe Lee would let her get a sunlamp. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would be something. Ruthie could come over and they could stretch out under it and really get an all over, without any stripes or strap marks or anything.

  She trudged into the bathroom, listlessly brushed her hair, cle
aned her teeth, put on a fresh mouth. It was too darn much trouble to get dressed on this kind of a day. And there was no point in looking good for Lee. She had come home alone Saturday night after midnight and instead of pacing around worrying about her and bawling her out when she got home, he’d been in bed and asleep.

  She got into an aqua corduroy thing that Lee had, during friendlier days, called her battle dress. It was a one-piece garment with short sleeves, knee length legs, a wide belt with a brass buckle, and a zipper from throat to crotch.

  Lee had rinsed his breakfast dishes and put them in the sink. She turned on the gas under the coffee, put bread in the toaster, and reassembled the morning paper. She finished the paper before her second cup of coffee was finished. It had started to rain again. She looked vacantly at the counter top, looked without focus at the row of canisters, and then focused on the largest one—and felt a curious shiver start deep inside her and run all the way up into her throat and leave her slightly breathless.

  Why not?

  Danny was responsible for the way Lee was acting. Danny had put her in the dog house. And Danny, acting like a crazy animal of some kind, had made her submit to him—had really made her unfaithful to Lee. She would never have been unfaithful to Lee, never in this world, if Danny hadn’t beat her up and cut her mouth and made her do it. She’d been too scared to scream, even.

  Ruthie knew she wasn’t like that at all. Ruthie would know on account of Lew. Of course, Lew was only nineteen, just a kid really, but he had that cute grin and those big brown shoulders and he was always at the pool and came over and he always started kidding around, always making a play for her, not for Ruthie. She guessed Ruthie had kinda wanted to make trouble, asking her why she didn’t give the kid a break. Go on, Seel. Give him a date. I won’t say a word, honest. Lew had a beat-up old car and he wanted her to meet him and they’d go out dancing some night way out of town some place. She had known Ruthie wouldn’t say anything, and she knew she could keep Lew in line afterward, even if she did let him do anything, but it wasn’t that. It was just she was married and you didn’t do that kind of thing. It was all right kidding around with him there by the pool with a lot of people around, but a date was something else. He did get kinda fresh, like the times when she’d be on her stomach and he’d real sneaky run his hand under the big beach towel she was on, and she’d let him go ahead for just a little while, just long enough to feel sort of sweet and dizzy, and then make him cut it out and tell him he could put more oil on her back.

  It was Danny’s fault, and it was Danny who’d made a real tragic thing happen so all the rest of her life she’d maybe feel a little bit ashamed of herself.

  So why not anyway just take it out and look at it?

  It began to seem to her that the only thing she could see in the kitchen was the yellow canister with those dumb ducks on it and the fancy printing that said flour. When she tried not to look at it her eyes kept swinging back. Suddenly she got up, locked the back door, snatched the canister, took it over to the sink, dug her fingers down into the softness of the flour, felt the edge of the envelope, and pulled it out, tapping it against the edge of the canister to knock the loose flour off of it.

  There wasn’t any harm in just looking at it.

  It was a long white envelope with the gummed flap stuck down and scotch tape pasted over it. She tried to lift a corner of the tape. It came up, but it pulled part of the paper with it. It felt as if there was just one sheet of paper in the envelope. She thought of various ways of opening it. But with the scotch tape there, anything she did would show and Danny would see it, and she was scared of Danny.

  Suddenly she had an idea. She trotted into the living room and yanked open the drawer where Lee kept stationery. Yes, he had long white envelopes too. She measured one against the sealed one. It was almost the same—a little bit whiter and a tiny bit longer. The scotch tape on the small roll was the same width.

  She stood very still, took a long deep breath, and then ripped the envelope open. She took out the single sheet and unfolded it, held it in tremulous hands and read it. It had been written with a ball-point pen in Danny’s rough scrawl.

  To whom it may concern,

  Burton Catton and Paul Verney have got the rest of the Rovere ransom dough. Mrs. Cotton told me about it. Mr. Catton told her. They figure on peddling it outside the country. They bought it through a Detroit contact, and Verney picked it up in Tulsa. The Detroit contact is named Dickson. I am going to try to take it off them and if anything happens to me it will be one of them arranged it. Make sure Sarge Ben Wixler gets to read this. He knows I wouldn’t kid about a deal like this.

  Daniel A. Bronson

  Lucille read it again, confused, incredulous. As an inveterate reader of the social columns, she knew of Burton Catton. He had a young wife. She was a Downey. She took her maiden name back after something happened to her first husband. She used to ride show horses. She didn’t know who Paul Verney was. The name had a very faint familar ring, something to do with a charity drive. The Red Cross or the Community Chest or something like that.

  She put the sheet in the new envelope, then copied exactly the way the scotch tape had been put on. She handled it, bent it, dogeared it until it looked like the original. She crumpled Danny’s envelope, put it in the tiny untidy fireplace and lighted it. While it was burning she hurried into the kitchen, buried the envelope in the flour and replaced the canister. When she went back into the living room the last bit of flame was flickering out. She dropped into the biggest chair, curled her legs under her. Everybody remembered that terrible Rovere thing, those poor twin kids. Everybody knew about the money. Gee, it was an awful lot of money. Hundreds of thousands.

  Just how could Danny ever get to know Mrs. Catton, and why in the world would she ever tell him something like that?

  Lucille realized she wasn’t bored any more. This was a big shiny fact. It sat squarely in the middle of her mind, and it seemed to her that she could walk around and around it, looking at it from every angle and trying to see some way it could be grasped and picked up. And used.

  She did not doubt that Danny would get the money. That man was after Danny. They wanted to send him back to Alton. Danny knew that. When he got the money, he would be able to afford to go a long way away where they couldn’t ever get him. Before he went, he would come back after the envelope. When he came back after it, it would mean he already had all that money.

  She nibbled her thumb nail, biting it painfully into the quick. She knew that, more than anything else in the world, she wanted to go with Danny. This marriage was a trap, and this stinking little house was a trap. She’d never been meant for this kind of a life. Life was supposed to be gay, and just dangerous enough to be delicious.

  She and Danny were on a little terrace outside their hotel suite. You could see the deep blue water of the harbor. Two waiters would roll in the breakfast on a little jingling cart. Maybe one of them would carry an ice bucket with champagne. They’d both be dressed for the private beach.

  When the waiters left, Danny would look at her and grin and say, “I must admit you were right, darling.” And he had changed some. He looked a little bit like Cary Grant.

  “I guess you could call it blackmail,” she would say. “You didn’t want to bring me with you, but you had to.”

  And they would laugh and drink the champagne and go down to the beach, and then in the afternoon they would go down a windy little street and into a dark little shop and he would buy her an emerald. They would try not to think of Lee, but when they did they would both feel sad.

  There was enough money to last them their whole life.

  When Lee came back to lunch, she wanted to laugh the way he looked so surprised at how nice she had made everything.

  “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “Does it have to be an occasion? I thought you might like a nice lunch.” She couldn’t tell him that she was going to do as many nice things as she could for him in the ti
me that was left. Or tell him she hoped there wouldn’t be much time left.

  After he left and she had cleaned up, she felt restless. She walked back and forth through the house, snapping her fingers, humming to herself. In the late afternoon the wind increased, the rain stopped and it became colder. She had a long talk with Ruthie over the phone. Ruthie was bored, and Lucille knew she had only to give the slightest hint and Ruthie would come over. But she couldn’t see how she could keep from telling Ruthie about everything. It was hard to keep from hinting about it over the phone. So they talked movies and food and television and bargain sales and about what could be causing the stiff neck Ruthie kept getting all the time.

  Lee came back from the school at four with a whole stack of papers to go over and he said he had to get right at it because he was going to Dr. Haughton’s house after dinner for a conference or something. Dr. Haughton was the head of the English department.

  Lee worked in the living room and finished just before dinner. His eyes looked tired and his face looked tired. He did not have much to say during dinner.

  After dinner she glanced up and saw that he was staring at her, a curious expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

  “You don’t have much fun, do you, Seel?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “The world is so full of a number of things. My God, when I think of how I could use a little more spare time …”

  “Sure. And I just slop around. I’m not the big brain.”

  “Let’s not fight, please. There’s been enough of that lately.”

  “And it’s all been my fault. I know.”

  “Please, Seel.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  “I’ve got an idea. I think it would be good for you. They can use somebody in the Bursar’s office. Five mornings a week. It wouldn’t be hard work. It will pay twenty-five a week. If I should talk to Randy I think …”

  “Stop thinking, then. If you think I’m going to go there every morning and drudge around, you’re completely …”