The Price of Murder

by John D. MacDonald

  “Dressed that way?”

  “Oh! Sure. Okay. She lets him in.”

  “He only looks in one place, in those cans. After that he kills her. Maybe she tried to get a knife out of that open drawer. The flour under her means he killed her after he looked. It was on his clothes and his shoes. It came off while he was banging her against the sink.”

  They found Catelli in the bedroom taking prints. It was a requirement Catelli despised. In his fifteen years of lab work he had yet to lift a print that had anything to do with the solution of a crime.

  “You get to Bronson?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. Frenchie vaccumed his clothes and his shoes. We got him another pair out of his closet and took his.”

  Ben turned to Dan Means. “You stay on here and see what you can dig up. Al and I’ll take Bronson down. Seal it when you’re through.”

  Lee Bronson was put in a small interview room on the second floor and left there. Wixler had made certain long ago that it was a very barren room. A bare room. No view from the window. Nothing on the walls. The only objects in the room were a small gilt radiator under the single window, a square oak table, three chairs and an ash tray made from a peanut can.

  Wixler left Lee Bronson alone in that room for fifty minutes. At the end of that time he had the verification from Dr. Haughton, and he knew a great deal more about Lee Bronson. He knew his brother’s record, and he knew Lee’s record of a single arrest and dismissal. Five minutes before he went in to talk to Bronson, Dan Means came back with an envelope he had taken from the locked drawer of the living room desk. Catelli had gone over it for prints. Wixler was puzzled by the twenty fifty-dollar bills. It did not fit the picture of Bronson. He put the envelope in his pocket.

  When he went in abruptly, Lee Bronson jumped.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Bronson,” he said politely. He shut the door, sat down opposite Bronson, lighted a cigarette.

  “I can’t seem to believe it happened,” Bronson said. “I saw her, but I can’t believe it. I’ve got to let her folks know. My God, I hate to make that call.”

  “Do you have any idea about who did it?”

  When Bronson made no immediate answer, Wixler felt the old and familiar flicker of excitement deep inside him, an excitement that did not change the expression on his face. He had good success, a good record, with his method of interrogation. No notes, no threats, no bullying. Just quiet conversation, politeness, the kind of reassurance that kept the other man’s guard down.

  “Did you talk to Dr. Haughton?”

  “I didn’t. But we got a statement from him. He verified the time you spent with him. He kept trying to act as a character witness.”

  “I’d like to have you talk to him. I want him to tell you what I told him tonight. I went to him for advice. He told me to go to the police. I was going to come here tomorrow. I had decided to do that. It will … sound better if you get it from him.”

  Wixler looked at the smoke rising from his cigarette. “Is it about Danny?”

  Bronson stared at him. “Yes! But how …”

  “Pretend I’m Dr. Haughton, Lee. Forget what happened tonight. Tell me just what you told him. Tell me in the same way you told him.”

  Bronson told the story of Keefler, of sensing that Lucille had lied, of the money she said Danny had left with her on September twenty-eighth. He told of Keefler’s threats and his own vulnerable position. Under questioning he told the complete story of his single arrest, the story that did not appear in the records. He also told of his relationship with Nick Bouchard, and his relationship with Danny, and the help they both had given him.

  At that moment Al Spence, in accordance with standard procedure, opened the door and asked Ben if he’d like coffee. If Ben was not receiving co-operation he would say, “A little later.” If he was, he would say yes. Al brought in the battered steaming pot, the heavy white mugs, sugar, and milk.

  Wixler said in a tone that made Al glance at him in surprise, “I want Johnny Keefler. Get him and bring him in and hold him for me. Don’t tell him a damn thing. When I talk to him, I want him to be sweaty.”

  When Al closed the door Wixler took the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Danny left this?”

  Bronson examined it and gave Wixler a rueful look. “Good thing I brought it up, eh?”

  “It helped. We’re both thinking of something, Lee. For you, it’s a hell of a thing to have to think about. But we better get it out in the open. Since the world began, a lot of people have been in the same spot. Your wife is dead, and you know who we’re thinking about.”

  “Danny,” Lee said in a small voice. He knotted his fist and hit it very lightly against the edge of the table, three times. His face was contorted, a white patch around his mouth.

  “Let’s kick it around a little. He came to see her over two weeks ago when you were out and left the money. You took it. So he came tonight to get it back and lost his head when he couldn’t find it and killed her. Go for that?”

  Lee shook his head slowly. “No. Danny isn’t that … violent. If he came after it, she’d tell him I had it. And she’d have a pretty good idea it was in that locked drawer of my desk. If he had to have it, he’d have broken the lock and taken it.”

  “A wanted man can lose his nerve and his head.”

  “Danny’s been wanted before.”

  “But not for that long a time. And if he could be clipped for something else when he was picked up, it would be the fourth fall, the big one. Life as an habitual.”

  “I still can’t see it that way, Sergeant. I can’t see him killing Seel. I know that you can think I’m being sentimental because he’s my brother, but I can’t see it. And I don’t know why he’d be opening those canisters and dumping the stuff out. That wasn’t where she hid the money. She hid it in a brown shoulder bag on a back hook in her closet.”

  “Maybe something else was hidden in your house. Try that for size. She lied to you once about what he left. Maybe he left more money, a big amount.”

  Wixler watched Bronson’s face, saw the faraway look of deep thought, saw the look of speculation and conviction. “She acted strange lately. It could be that. Danny is into something. He could be tied in with somebody. And they came after the money. If Danny knew where it was hidden, he wouldn’t have opened all three canisters, would he?”

  “Unless there was something hidden in each.”

  “Oh! I didn’t think of that. But if he hid it and then came after it, wouldn’t Seel have given it to him? She was hiding it for him.”

  “What if it was too much money, and what if your wife decided to risk taking it and making a run for it? Pardon me, but I’ve gathered this wasn’t the happiest marriage in the world.”

  “It wasn’t.” Bronson frowned. “You know, she was very … considerate today. She made a big production out of lunch. That wasn’t like her.”

  “As if she was fixing the last lunch she’d fix for you?”

  “It … it could have been that way.”

  “And suppose Danny arrived at the wrong moment, as she was getting ready to take off?”

  “Even so, Sergeant, he could have made her tell where she moved it to. He … he’s an expert. Nick and Kennedy used him for that kind of thing. He wouldn’t have to kill her.”

  “Unless she could do some talking that would hurt him.”

  “Then he wouldn’t have done it that way. It wouldn’t have been … so messy. He’s a professional.”

  Wixler had the tired feeling that Bronson was probably right. The murder had that distinctive look of amateur passion and violence. It would be pleasantly easy to convince yourself Danny Bronson had done it. He wondered how far along Catelli was. He might be able to add something.

  “Have some more coffee, Lee. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Catelli had nearly finished. The prints had just come from the dark room, and he was labeling them. He reported to Ben in his usual disorganized way.
/>   “The guy got blood on his shoe, the left shoe, on the outside near the toe. Right about here. Two steps in the kitchen and then we don’t get the next couple, and then we get one on the bottom step of the back porch. The ground was soft but the son of a bitch stayed on that little walk, so we lost him there. Now these here are off the big can, the one that had the flour in it. These are hers. Two good ones and a fair one.”

  “Recent?”

  “From the oil, today or yesterday. Now we got this. An old one. Half the tip of the middle finger—not enough to go on except Dan Means tells me to check with prints on file from a Daniel Bronson. It matches perfect.”

  “As fresh as hers?”

  “No. Nowhere near. If I got to guess, I’d say over a week old. Pretty well dried out.”

  “Will it stand up? Is there enough?”

  “Stand up! Check it yourself, Sarge. Look at this here whorl, and see this scar right through it like a kinda thin cut? Anyhow, I got a better one even.”

  “Where?”

  “Dan Means tells me that figuring the way she was stacked I should give the bedroom the real business. You see that little table between the beds? It’s got a glass top on it. I wisht all the tables in the world got glass tops. The glass is lousy with her prints and her husband’s. But look at these here? First and second fingers of the right hand. Strangers! Here’s the picture of the table where I circled the place we lifted them. Daniel Bronson, clear as a damn bell. Honest to God, if these nail him, I’m going to start believing in this crap.”

  Wixler looked at the picture of the table. A man would have to be in her bed or sitting on the edge of her bed to leave his prints in that position on the table.

  “How old, Catelli?”

  “Not as old as the ones on the flour can, Sarge. Not that old. But not real fresh. Don’t pin me down. I’ll put it this way. If her prints on the can are today, and his print on the can is a week old, then this comes somewhere in the middle. Three days, five days. Hell, I can’t tell for sure.”

  “But you would swear they weren’t made on the same day.”

  Catelli looked at him with an expression of outrage. “I know they weren’t made on the same day. The oil was …”

  “Okay, okay. How about the money Dan found?”

  “Nothing. You expect anything?”

  “Not really. Knobs and latches?”

  “Still nothing. Not even any kind of little piece of a print on the inside knob of the back door. It turns hard, so it looks like he had gloves or else he wiped it.”

  Ben went back up to the room where Bronson waited. Bronson looked at him with an odd expression.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just remembered the last thing I ever said to her. I leaned down and yelled in her face. I yelled ‘Shut up,’ and then I left.”

  That memory made up Wixler’s mind for him. It would hurt Lee, but hurt him in a different way than he was punishing himself. In a dispassionate voice he told him what Catelli had found—the evidence of at least two visits, and the indicative place where the more recent prints were found.

  “From three to five days ago?” Bronson said blankly. “In the bedroom?”

  He stood up quickly and went to the window and looked out at the brick wall eight feet away, his back to the room. Wixler waited. Bronson stood there for at least two full minutes. Then he turned slowly and came back and sat down. “That is something Danny would do. But not without an invitation. And I don’t think he just happened to sit on the bed and watch her hide the money. Not Danny. I wonder just how many other God damn invitations she passed around, and how many acceptances she had.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “I feel like a fool. That’s something about her I should have been able to guess. When you get Danny I want to see him.”

  “I may want to talk to you again tomorrow.”

  “You’re not holding me?”

  “I don’t see why we should. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you wore a size twelve and a half shoe instead of an eleven, we might have solved your housing problem. I’d rather you didn’t stay at home. I don’t imagine you want to, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll have Detective Spence take you back there while you pick up what you’ll need. When you find a place to stay, phone in and let me know. By the way, Dr. Haughton is getting someone to take your classes. This is going to be a big thing in the newspapers.”

  They walked downstairs together. Lee Bronson stuck out his hand. Wixler hesitated, and then took it. He said, “I think we’ll crack this as soon as we can get hold of your brother.”

  “Thanks for being … so damn decent, Sergeant.”

  Wixler watched him join Al Spence at the door and go out. He met Dan Means outside the door of the ready room.

  “Got Keefler?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago, Ben.”

  “Sit in on this with me.”

  “I never liked that guy, believe me.”

  “You aren’t alone. Let’s take him upstairs. You bring him.”

  Keefler came in with an air of arrogance. “I don’t know what you fellas think you’re doing, Wixler. I’m working and I get hauled in off the street like a bum or something.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Plato’s bar on Fifth Street.”

  “I was looking for a guy,” Keefler said.

  “Sit down and lower your voice, Keefler,” Wixler said. Keefler hesitated and then sat down, expression defiant. “Now I am going to point out a few things to you. You are no longer a member of the force.”

  “Don’t you think I …”

  “Shut up.”

  “I got a license for a gun and your stooges took it off …”

  “I told you to shut up. If you don’t, I swear to God you spend the night in the tank and I talk to you in the morning.”

  Keefler looked at Wixler and then at Dan Means. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay, what am I supposed to have done?”

  “You reported Danny Bronson as being in violation of parole.”

  “Right.”

  “Your responsibility ended there.”

  “Not if I can find him, it don’t.”

  “It ended there. If your case load isn’t heavy enough, ask for more. Bronson is a police responsibility.”

  “Okay, so I look for him anyway. Show me a law. Show me why I can’t.”

  “You threatened a private citizen. Mr. Lee Bronson.”

  “He’s another punk like his lousy brother.”

  Ben looked over at Dan Means. “I think I will put in an official complaint, Dan. I think this little viper ought to be in some new kind of work.”

  “He’s a hero, remember,” Dan said. “He shot an unarmed fourteen-year-old kid between the eyes after the kid blew his hand off.”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Keefler should be permitted to carry a gun, and I don’t believe he should be permitted to attempt to intimidate private citizens. I think we’ll fix his hash in the morning.”

  Keefler began to yell. Spittle sprayed the table top. He slapped the table top with his good hand. For a time he was entirely incoherent, Wixler watched him mildly and then with more interest as Keefler became understandable. “… know a frigging thing about police work! So where is Danny? He’ll be in when I bring him in. I got leads. What do you jokers know? I know he’s on a blackmail kick and he’s working solo or maybe with a woman and when I got pulled in I was on the track of a statement in an envelope he’s got planted with somebody for insurance.”

  “Hold it!” Ben snapped.

  “Sure. Now you listen. Now you sit up. Sure.”

  “What envelope? How did you hear about an envelope?”

  “I’m not a cop so it’s my private business.”

  “Lock him up, Dan.”

  “On what charge? What’s going on?”

  “Suppressing evidence. It seems a crime was committed, Johnny. Somebody killed Lucille Bronson. They were looking for
something in the Bronson house. So talk. Or get booked as a common criminal.”

  “The envelope. You want to know about that. Okay, he was in town Thursday, Bronson was. Last Thursday, and no smart cop made him and picked him up. He went to a lawyer. He tried to get the lawyer—his name is Paul Verney—to hold a statement for him. Verney didn’t like the way he acted. So he checked later, after he turned him down, and yesterday he got hold of me, and Verney give me some leads, some first names, Fred and Tommy, guys Bronson said would hold it for him. I checked the first names through CR and I been checking the list. So all the time Bronson had it! I seen them Saturday. They lied to me. You got him in a cell? I want to talk to that guy.”

  “Sit down. You’re not talking to anybody,”

  Keefler sat down sullenly.

  “Why did Verney contact you?”

  “He found out I was Bronson’s parole officer.”

  “Were you going to go see the Lee Bronsons again?”

  “If the lead didn’t check out. I was going to rough ’em a little and see if they knew about any papers Danny could have left. Now that you guys know I’ve been doing some good, you can stop kidding me about getting me fired off this parole thing. I can do good in that job and I like it. How about letting me help on the killing?”

  Ben Wixler looked at the long, loose-mouthed face with its stain of viciousness. He let the silence grow. Keefler, during his police career, had typified the kind of officer Wixler despised.

  “Johnny, I wouldn’t let you put an overtime tag on a tricycle. I don’t think you should be permitted to be in legal contact with any paroled convict. I think it was a sad mistake to give you the job. And I’m going to make it my business to see that it’s taken away from you. Your police pension will carry you. And if you are found meddling in police affairs in any way from now on, I can assure you that you will handled with the utmost severity. Don’t try to bring up your record because I know your record, and it stinks. Arid don’t hint about any influential friends, because I don’t think you have a friend in the city. Now you can go.”

  Keefler did not move for perhaps ten seconds. Then he made his previous tirade sound, by comparison, mild and reasonable. Wixler watched the contortions, listened to the invective, and suddenly realized without great surprise, the man was insane. He glanced at Dan and Dan moved closer to Keefler. Keefler’s scene was shocking, disturbing. Wixler found himself following a tiny thread of coherence. There was something about somebody named Mose being knifed to death. And some names, and deaths told of with smacking satisfaction. Rillyer. Gennetti. Casey.