CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ben Wixler
Inspector Wendell Matthews sat at his ease in Ben Wixler’s office, chair tilted back, chubby knee sharply bent, right heel caught on the edge of the chair, hands laced around his right ankle. It was ten o’clock on the morning of Thursday, October eighteenth.
Matthews was a round man who, twenty years before, had barely met minimum height requirements. He had thinning brown hair, ice gray eyes and a small petulant mouth. He had the reputation of being a fusspot, an old lady who looked for dust in the corners and under the rugs, who looked for incorrect entries in the files, who was death on coffee breaks. The few in the department who knew him better knew that only the surface of his mind was occupied with departmental trivia. Ben Wixler and a handful of others had a good deal of respect for the quiet logic underneath.
They had been discussing the available facts in the Bronson murder, and Matthews had gone over the already bulky file.
“This could hurt you,” Matthews said.
“What am I doing that I shouldn’t do? What haven’t I done that should be done, Wendy? We’ve gone through that neighborhood thoroughly. Danny Bronson is as hot as anybody can be. It looks like we have to wait until he’s found.”
“You know what I mean, Ben. You read the papers. Professor’s wife slain. Huge manhunt for paroled convict. Mystery money figures in Bronson case. She was a sexy looking item, and she loved having her picture taken. So all the wire services have picked it up. The deal of getting killed with the kitchen sink gives it that nice flavor of the macabre. Bucky Angelis, our fighting district attorney, wants in on the act.”
“I know. He was over. Offering all the manpower of his office and the Special Detail, or something. But what could I use them for?”
“Bad psychology, Ben. You should have accepted, and given them a make-work job.”
“Why?”
“Suppose Danny isn’t located? Then you’re up the creek. And it would be nice to be able to share the blame. Keep it to yourself, and you don’t have too much time left.”
“Before what?”
“Are you trying to needle me, Sergeant? You know damn well what I mean. Bucky will lean on the Commissioner of Public Safety. He sees a chance to get his picture in the paper. So he leans on the Police Commissioner, who leans on the Chief, who then has to fix this curious situation of having a sergeant in charge of the Homicide Section. And I will bet you a bun that fifteen minutes after you are relieved as acting head of section, Danny is picked up and the new guy unravels the deal like a home-made sweater. So then you wait another year or two because the Chief can’t safely sign a promotion for somebody he has relieved of duty, no matter what he thinks privately. If you haven’t gained any ground you are certain to be all washed up by Monday, and it could happen as soon as tomorrow.”
“You’re full of cheer, Wendy.”
Matthews thumped his chair down onto all four legs. “Let me check your thinking with mine on this thing. Do you think Danny Bronson killed her?”
“I’ll bet about ten to one against it. I think he got into bed with her, and I think he was using her as a drop for money and maybe something else important to him—a statement protecting him from somebody he was gouging. I’ve done some research on Danny Bronson. He is tough, greedy, and brutal. He’s also intelligent and remarkably unlucky. What he is doesn’t fit the crime.”
“Lee Bronson?”
“Not a chance. There is a nice guy.”
“That’s why you count him out?”
“Now who’s needling who? We’ve triple-checked the time he arrived at Haughton’s against the earliest possible time of death. If he could cross the city in ten seconds, he could have done it.”
“So who do you nominate?”
“Either Mr. X or Mr. Y. Mr. X is an associate of Danny’s. I have a choice of motives for Mr. X. Either Danny got a big payoff and hid it at the Bronson house and Mr. X went there and got it—or Mr. X wanted to get hold of Danny’s insurance statement and find out what Danny had on the blackmailee, who we will call Mr. Y. There is only one motive for Mr. Y. To get out from under Danny. To do that he had to find where the statement was hidden and go get it, and he had to also eliminate Danny, either before or after getting the statement. I would vote for the elimination of Danny taking place after he got his hands on the statement. It would be safer that way.”
“Who do you like best?”
“My man is Mr. Y. He didn’t leave any clues, and he was very clever about being unobserved, but the actual killing itself had … an amateur flavor. It was a murder of convenience, and yet it was brutal and uncontrolled enough to look like a murder of passion.”
Matthews knuckled his small round chin. “So you think our Danny may be dead too?”
“If my logic is acceptable, I think there’s a good chance of it.”
“Then you’re really in the bag.”
“If the body had been hidden carefully enough.”
“Your Mr. Y would be a substantial citizen.”
“Important, anyway. And rich enough to make it worth Danny’s efforts. And desperate enough to take a hell of a chance. We don’t know much about him. We know he’s a big man, powerful. We know he’s got something to hide. We can guess that somehow Danny came in contact with him and found out what he’s hiding. We’ve had no luck trying to backtrack on Danny. He’s avoided all usual haunts and acquaintances, at least since the end of June.”
“The big flaw is how he’d get a tough monkey like Danny Bronson to tell him where the statement …”
Matthews stopped as the phone rang and Ben picked it up. Ben pulled a pad toward him and began scribbling on it. “Yes. Sure, I remember you, Captain. Route 90. Turn off three miles this side of Kemp. I see what you mean. Yes. Well, I won’t waste any time. An hour.”
Ben hung up. He grinned broadly at Matthews. “Want to go for a little ride?”
“What’s up?”
“That was Captain Donovan of the CI Bureau of the State Police. He’s found out where Danny has been living.”
Ben Wixler, Al Spence, and Inspector Matthews went out to the Catton camp. As it was outside their jurisdiction, and as they were present on invitation, it would have been impertinent to arrive with lab people or with too many people. Donovan had invited them in because of the connection with the Bronson murder.
With Ben directing the driver, they found the gravel road and turned in. A gray sedan was mired in a deep ditch just beyond where the road curved around the edge of a wood. They were then in sight of the camp.
“Nice layout,” Spence said. “Complete with four trooper cars.”
“The convertible there has Hancock plates,” Matthews noted.
Captain Donovan came to meet them as they got out of the car. He was an enormous brown man with a resolute stride, military bearing, puffy eyes and a parade-ground voice. He knew both Wixler and Matthews and was introduced to Spence, who winced visibly at the Captain’s handshake.
“I’ll give you the history to date,” Donovan roared. “The Kemp Barracks got a routine call last night about midnight, somebody who wouldn’t give their name saying there was a car stuck in the ditch, that one you saw as you drove in. It was a young voice and it’s a good guess some neckers drove in and saw it and couldn’t find anybody around and reported it. Trooper Jensen out of Kemp checked it at about twelve-thirty and got the license number and drove in here to the house and couldn’t raise anybody, even though that convertible was parked right where it is now. The whole thing looked a little funny to him, so instead of waiting until morning, we got a night check on the licenses, something we’ve been fighting for for ten years and didn’t get until this year. The convertible sedan is registered to a Mr. Jack Young in Kemp, but it turns out the address is a phony. At three this morning Jensen was directed to come back here and check the house, and another trooper was assigned with him.
“When they knocked and received no answer, they entered the house and in t
he bedroom they found the body of a woman approximately thirty years of age, dark hair. She was nude and had been strangled to death. They radioed Kemp Barracks and immediate contact was made with my office and with the Sheriff’s office. I contacted the Sheriff, received his verbal request for assistance, and set out with specialists from my office, arriving here at five thirty-five this morning.
“After a quick inspection of the premises, I telephoned Mr. Burton Catton in your city, but the phone was not answered. By that time a detailed investigation of the premises was under way. After examination by the county coroner, and after fingerprinting and nail-scraping, the body was removed to a funeral home in Kemp pending formal identification and autopsy if deemed necessary by the county coroner. My fingerprint people, in going over this house, have acquired two complete sets of prints. One of them matches the prints of the woman. The other set was broken down into numerical analysis, for transmittal to central records in the area and, if unidentified, to Washington. It was obvious from the distribution of the prints that the man and woman involved had been living in this house for an extended period.”
When Donovan paused for breath, Ben noticed that Al Spence was regarding the big man with a look of awe bordering on consternation. Donovan could have been heard clearly at two hundred feet.
“Having had your advice that one Daniel Bronson, wanted for suspicion of murder, has been hiding out in the general area of Hancock, and seeing how excellent a place this would be, I directed that the numerical analysis be checked by radio against the analysis on record for Bronson’s prints. When I discovered that the second set of prints belong to Daniel Bronson, I telephoned you as a matter of courtesy and co-operation. Subsequent to phoning you, I tried the telephone for Mr. Burton Catton for the fourth time, and the phone was answered by Mr. Catton. When I said that I had phoned him earlier, he explained that due to illness he had had a night switch placed on his phone so as not to be disturbed during the night. I asked him if his wife was at home. He excused himself from the phone, returned in approximately one minute and said that she was not in, nor had her bed been slept in. As I had identified myself, he seemed upset. I asked him to describe his wife. In size, age and coloring, his description matched the body. I asked him if he knew a Mr. Johnson, and described the location of this house. Mr. Catton explained that this was his house, that he hadn’t been here in over a year. He was not aware it was being used. I requested that he come here. After I have questioned him further, he can make formal identification of the body. He has not yet arrived. There are some other details I can easier show than explain. Other than that, are there any questions?”
“How long had the woman been dead?”
“The estimate is twenty hours from the time of examination of the body. That would place it about eight o’clock yesterday morning. Now, if you gentlemen will follow me, I will show you where the body was discovered.”
They followed Donovan through the camp. His voice, inside four walls, seemed much more powerful. His men were still at work in the camp. They went back out onto the terrace. Captain Donovan said, “This would seem to me to be the logical reconstruction. Bronson and the Catton woman quarreled and he strangled her. He left here in a panic, taking no time to pack. In his hurry, he drove carelessly and put his car in the ditch. He did not come back and take her car as it is far too conspicuous an automobile. My belief is that he walked out to Route 90 and hitchhiked.”
One of the troopers came around the corner of the building and said, “Taxi coming, sir.”
“That should be Mr. Catton. Will you join me?”
They followed Donovan around to the parking area. A Hancock taxi had stopped and a man was getting out of it. He moved feebly, with great caution. His face was a pasty color. He looked apologetically at Donovan and said, “I haven’t driven since … my illness.”
“I’ll see that you get transportation for your return, Mr. Catton. You can pay him now.”
The driver said, “It’s going to be just the same as I told you, mister. I got to go back empty, don’t I?” He took the money Catton handed him and said, “Thanks. What’s going on here? A cop convention?”
“Roll it!” Donovan bellowed into the window. The cab left, the rear tires spinning gravel.
Catton, looking around, noticed Matthews for the first time. He smiled, and with the pathetic ghost of what had once been an impressive joviality, said, “Why, hello, Wendy! Wendy, maybe you’ll tell me what is going on.”
“This is Captain Donovan’s party, Burt. He wants to ask you some questions about Dru.”
“I know it’s about Dru. She didn’t come home at all. I don’t know what … Could I sit down somewhere, please?”
“Surely,” Donovan yelled. They went back around the building and Catton sank gratefully into one of the terrace chairs. Donovan pulled another chair so close their knees were almost touching. A uniformed man appeared and sat near by, notebook on knee.
“When is the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Catton?”
“Let me think. The day before yesterday. Tuesday. In our apartment at five o’clock. She came in and showered and changed and went out again.”
“Did she say where?”
Catton tried to smile. “I’m afraid that … since my illness, we haven’t paid much attention to each other. I haven’t been as interested in her activities as … I once was. She came and went as she pleased. She had her own friends.”
“Why are you using the past tense, Mr. Catton?”
The smile was stronger, but it was an ironic smile. “I have heart trouble, not head trouble, Captain. You asked for a description. You were very heavy and mysterious. All these policemen wouldn’t be around if she had … say, reported a theft. I must guard myself against shock, so I spent my time on the way out here getting slowly adjusted to the fact that she is probably dead. And to be thoroughly honest with you, Captain, I don’t believe I care a great deal. A year ago I would have been utterly shattered. Now I can’t really care. And I believe that is more selfishness than heartlessness. I am too busy being concerned about myself.”
“Has she ever spoken of a man named Daniel Bronson?”
“No. Not that I recall.”
“Jack Young?”
“No. Captain Donovan, can you bring yourself to tell me if she is dead? Or would that violate your code?”
“The woman found dead in this house may be your wife, Mr. Catton. We want you to look at the body.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. I will not do that. I can adjust to the fact of her death, but I won’t risk any possible shock from looking at her. I have had a severe coronary. A large area of the heart is damaged. I do not intend to risk the undamaged portions of it. Surely you can find someone else.”
“This is very unusual.”
“I can’t help that. I absolutely refuse. Sorry.”
“You described her in general. Is there any … specific or unusual marking on her body?”
“Yes. On the inside of her left thigh, just above the knee, there’s a rather ugly scar. She was bitten there by a large dog when she was just old enough to walk. In those days they cauterized dog bites.”
“Then I believe we can be certain it is your wife.”
“I was certain it was. I didn’t believe any … companion of my more active days would be likely to come back to the camp here. How did she die? I assume violently.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“She lived violently, Captain. She was a violent woman.”
“She was strangled to death.”
Catton grimaced. “Very ugly death. By the way, a name you mentioned. Bronson. Isn’t that the man already wanted for murder?”
“The same one.”
“She was spending a great deal of time away from the apartment. Was Bronson living here?”
“We think so.”
“I hope he is a man of perception and taste. A lot of time and money went into this place. Have you caught him?”
“
Not yet.”
“Apparently he succumbed to a temptation I used to have quite often, Captain.”
“What was that?”
“To strangle Drusilla.”
Donovan eyed Catton curiously, and then said, “There are expensive clothes here that would fit Bronson. Do you know if she was spending more than usual?”
“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?
The Price of Murder Page 15
