A woman. Though it was pure assumption the idea had the proper ring. Bronson was a type to keep a woman cowed and obedient. That added to the danger. Should something happen to Bronson, she was likely to do exactly as he had directed.
Were there any possible ways of finding out who the person was? Following Bronson was impossible. Trying to backtrack him was unfeasible. Who would know his contacts? Bronson had labeled himself a parole violator. He was wanted. Someone would be making an active investigation, attempting to locate him. Could Bronson be made to talk? Not likely. Very little weakness in him. Get back to the parole officer.
It would be logical to assume that the parole officer would know Bronson’s contacts — would have them watched. Would it be possible to get information from such a man? Perhaps, with the proper lie, the logical and convincing story. He remembered that Marian would have Bronson’s name on the appointment book as of last Thursday morning.
Where is this heading? Suppose it is possible to find Bronson’s contact, and possible to retrieve the envelope.
The only way Bronson could be kept from protecting himself would be to kill him.
This was, then, the last fragment of the puzzle. He looked at it, at the shape of it, trying to see if it would fit. The camp was isolated. Bronson was strong and quick and sly. There was very little time. It might be possible to stall him, but not for long. He wanted the money Wednesday afternoon. Seventy-two hours.
The alternative was poverty and disgrace.
He tried to stand off to one side and look objectively at himself and determine whether he was capable of taking a life. It made his hands feel chilled. Yet there were certain rationalizations. Bronson was a criminal, a wanted man — of no benefit to society, only expense. Surely the investigation of such a death would be half hearted. It would be thought he had been slain by one of his own kind. If risk were the only consideration, Bronson was a feasible victim. The greatest risk would be in that he looked to be a man difficult to kill. Yet, depending on his insurance, Bronson would be off guard.
And it would only be possible if the insurance was no longer valid, and if Bronson was not aware of that.
He knew that this was a very involved and intricate situation. Yet there was one favorable aspect to it. The most dangerous and irrevocable step came at the very end. The other steps could be attempted. If there was no possibility of finding the envelope, of learning who held it for Bronson, then the only recourse would be to pay Bronson what he asked. But if the written statement could be found and destroyed, then Bronson could be destroyed.
He checked back over his reasoning. Would it be worth the chance to kill Bronson without finding the statement first? Only if it was a fair gamble that, upon learning of Bronson’s death, the holder of the statement would read it and try to use it for profit... and be handled in turn.
First things first. Move quickly, but carefully, and plan as you go. One step provides balance and footing for the next.
On Monday morning, after a long conversation with Burt Catton, the money was removed from the safety deposit boxes and transferred to Paul Verney’s office safe.
It was eleven-thirty before Paul Verney learned that Daniel Bronson was responsible to a parole officer named John Keefler. He left word for Keefler to phone him. Keefler called back a few minutes after noon, and said that he was free to stop by and see Mr. Verney at two.
Chapter Six
John Keefler
Keefler had sauerkraut and franks at Mel Stodd’s Courthouse Restaurant, and as he ate he looked around for someone who might know the score on Paul Verney, the man he had to see at two o’clock. Verney had mystified Keefler by mentioning Danny Bronson.
The restaurant was thick with smoke and the rumble of conversation. Keefler knew more than half the customers — county and city cops, newspaper people, politicians, courthouse types. Sometimes he ate at one of the big tables with a bunch of them, listening, contributing nothing. Usually he ate alone at one of the small tables against the wall opposite the long bar. It did not bother him that he was never greeted as so many of the others were, with wide grins, coarse jokes, and a thumb on the shoulder. He had never tried to win any popularity contests. He thought such actions artificial and ridiculous.
He was nearly finished when a man he knew fairly well came in, a red-faced man in his early fifties named Will Slater. Will had started out as a cop, had quickly achieved detective status, and had studied law at night school. He had been transferred to the Special Detail working under the jurisdiction of the D.A. and later, when he had passed his bar, he had resigned from the force and been taken on as an assistant D.A., a position he had held for over ten years despite a change in administration. He apparently had no desire to enter private practice.
Slater stopped at the bar and Keefler went up and tapped him on the shoulder. Slater turned, his grin fading slightly, and said, “What’s on your mind, Johnny?”
“Spare a minute?”
Will told his friends he’d be right back and he went over to the small table, bringing his big stein of black beer along.
“One of the guys I got the file on is on the run, Will. Danny Bronson, Name mean anything?”
“Not a hell of a lot. One of Kennedy’s boys. Husky blond, isn’t he?”
“That’s the one. Quit his job and give up his room and took off. I got a pick-up out on him. None of them are going to fool around with Johnny Keefler.”
Will Slater looked at him somberly. “I hear things here and there, Johnny. Maybe you don’t remember you’re not a cop any more.”
“I got a book. It’s got the rules in it. Anyway, here’s what I want to ask. I get a call from a lawyer. I got to see him at two. He says it’s about Bronson. His name is Paul Verney. You know him?”
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.