“Well, I...”
“And think of your cretins who may lose invaluable games because you are not there to tell them how to use their clumsy muscles. Show up on Monday, Mr. Bronson. That is an order.”
The phone clicked. Lee stood holding the receiver. He replaced it gently on the cradle. And suddenly he smiled.
It was eight thirty-five on Friday evening when Paul Verney heard the footsteps in the hallway and heard the brisk knock on his door. He had been sitting in his deep leather chair ever since he had returned to his room. He had been trying to think his way out of a mood of blackest depression. The body of Bronson had been found too readily. It was ominous that Burt had collapsed while being questioned by the police. He could see how it could all have been managed in other more careful ways. He wished he had not talked to Keefler. He was trying to hearten himself with the idea they had absolutely no proof. None. They could be suspicious, but there could never be any actual proof. The gun and black gloves were buried in a swamp halfway between Kemp and Hancock.
The knock had an official sound that made his heart leap in his chest. He crossed the room and opened the door. There were three men. One of them was Detective Spence, whose confidence had been so dismaying. A bigger man with a wet trench coat and an air of authority said, “Mr. Verney? I’m Sergeant Wixler. You know Detective Spence. And this is Mr. Catelli. I have a warrant here to search this room. Would you care to examine it?”
“A warrant? On what basis, Sergeant?”
“We’re looking for evidence, Mr. Verney. I hereby inform you that you are under arrest for suspicion of murder. The murder of Lucille Bronson, Daniel Bronson, and Drusilla Catton.”
Verney’s mind, racing quickly, decided at once there could be no evidence in this room. It strengthened his response. “You people must be out of your minds.”
Detective Spence circled him, searched his person quickly and effectively and said, “Stand over against that wall, Mr. Verney.”
“I’ll be happy to co-operate in any way I can, but...”
“You can talk later,” Wixler said.
Verney watched them. The man named Catelli had a small case with him. Catelli went to the closet, opened the closet door and sat on the floor. He opened his case. He took a strong flashlight and began to pick up, one by one, Verney’s shoes, taking the left shoe in each case and paying attention to the outside edge of the shoe. Verney began to feel a surprising emptiness in his belly, pangs like those of hunger.
Catelli gave a grunt of satisfaction. He was holding a black shoe, examining it closely under the light. Verney knew he had worn that pair when he had gone to 1024 Arcadia Street. He tried to tell himself this was some sort of a trick, but there was a curious roaring sound in his ears.
“Got it?” Wixler asked.
“I think so.” Catelli was a wiry man with a satanic grin. The light cast its beams upward onto his face. He said, “How about it, Sarge? A lot of people who don’t know how this is done get a boot out of it. Maybe Mr. Verney wants to see better, hey?”
Wixler nodded and stepped to one side. Spence urged Verney closer.
Catelli looked very pleased. “This is one of the things you got to know how to do in my business.” He took a small square of paper, white and flimsy. “Now this here is filter paper. In this bottle here I got a one-tenth-N-saline solution. I get this here paper nice and moist. Then, see, I press it against this little stain here on the edge of the sole of your shoe. Okay. From here on I don’t need the shoe. In this here bottle a two hundred and forty-to-one solution of Eastman 3620 in acetic acid at forty per cent strength. So I take this glass rod and dip it in this bottle and touch it to the filter paper where I pressed it against the shoe. Check? Nothing happens yet, Mr. Verney. Not until we get to this last bottle. In this bottle I got a mixture of eleven parts sodium perborate to thirty parts of a forty per cent acetic acid solution.
“So I wipe off this here rod and dip it in this bottle.” He held it over the filter paper. “Now if that spot you had on your shoe was human blood, Mr. Verney, you’re going to see this paper change color when I touch it. It’ll change to a nice kinda greeny blue, and there isn’t another damn thing in the world but blood that’ll make it change.”
With a certain ceremonial grace, Catelli touched the wet rod to the paper. The blue-green stain appeared immediately, and Catelli held it up proudly for Verney to see. “So maybe you cut yourself shaving, or maybe you walked where a pedestrian got clobbered. It ain’t my business how you got it. All I know is it’s blood and it was on your shoe.”
Verney stared at the piece of paper. He could feel the other two watching him closely. He knew he had to say something. He took in a deep breath and let it out. He knew he had to explain quickly and logically. He could think of nothing. Yet he had to think of something. He kept staring at the blue-green stain. He sucked in another deep breath. And exploded it out of his lungs in a high whistling, whinnying scream, a shocking scream of fright and despair.
He staggered Spence with a backhand flail of his arm that caught Spence across the chest. He kicked at the paper and missed. Wixler moved trimly, compactly, and with a half swing laid the side of his service revolver over Verney’s ear.
Verney fell heavily and lay still.
“The poor son of a bitch,” Spence said.
“Pack up, Catelli,” Ben said.