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?
He examined the four flagstones more carefully, inch by inch. The captain’s right foot rested on the corner of a tan one. In the middle of the tan one he saw two small grayish marks, one larger than the other. He leaned far to one side and the grayish marks took on a faint metallic gleam.
The captain was saying, “When did you notice any change in her habits and when...” He broke off and stared down at Ben who was on one knee picking with his thumb nail at the larger of the two gray marks. “What in God’s name are you doing, Wixler?”
“Take a look,” Ben said. “Looks like this area was hosed down. And these marks are lead. Lean down and look at this little sort of gold speckle here. Copper jacket.” He sat back on one heel and looked up at Donovan. “Were there any holes in the lady?”