“No!” Donovan jumped to his feet, turned toward the house. “Baker!” he bawled. A man came out of the house at almost a dead run. “Get your stuff for a blood check.” Baker darted away. Donovan moved everybody to the far end of the terrace and, after a speculative glance at Wixler, continued his questioning. Baker came back and worked with his bottles and filter paper, making his way to the edge of the terrace. He came and stood by Donovan.
When Donovan looked up he held out his filter paper and said, “Positive, sir. Not enough to type, but human blood. I got the best trace where it was washed off into the grass.”
“Recent?”
“I guess it would have to be. It would have to be since the last heavy rain and that was Tuesday.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Ben said.
“Of course.”
“Have your man check that boat down there at the dock.”
Donovan stared at Ben, then his face showed comprehension and he told Baker to do so. Ben strolled down to where Baker had begun to work. Baker, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, looked up at him and grinned and said, “Jackpot. Enough to type. A big beautiful clot.”
Ben looked out at the small lake, at the small chop piled up by the crisp west breeze. He turned on his heel and went back to the terrace and told Donovan what Baker was picking up.
Donovan said, “I’m sorry to have to tire you with these questions, Mr. Catton. I can have you driven back to the city immediately.”
“If it’s permitted, I’d like to go in the house and rest for a little while.”
“It’s all right now. My men are through in the house.”
As Catton started toward the door, Ben said, “Excuse me, Mr. Catton. Would it be all right if we cut that dam and let the water out?”
Catton turned and looked at his lake. He said carefully, “You have my permission to blow it to hell.” He continued on toward the door and turned and said with a death’s-head grin, “I know one thing you will find.”
“What sir?”
“A great many empty bottles.” He shut the door behind him.
Donovan looked at the earth dam at the end of the small lake. “Easier to blow it. I’ll make arrangements.” He hurried off.
Ben turned to Wendy Matthews. “Any bets?”
Matthews shook his head. “I’ll take the other side, though. Fifty to one it’s our Danny. And remind me never to sneer again when you get one of your strange feelings, Ben.”
“I like the way the pattern is showing more clearly all the time. Danny takes up with Drusilla Catton. She is in on his scheme. It’s even logical to assume she provided him with the angle to work on. But the intended victim didn’t lie still and let them pick all his feathers. He got a line on where Danny had left the statement that he thought provided him with immunity. So he recovered the statement and killed Lucille Bronson and got out here early the next morning and got neatly rid of this unholy pair. There was a certain amount of cunning in hiding one body and leaving the other so we would all go running off in all directions looking for Danny. With or without that streak of luck I had, Wendy, I was going to make sure Danny’s body wasn’t in the lake or buried on the premises.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“We find out who Drusilla Catton was chummy with during the past couple of years, so chummy she could have found out something Danny could sell back to the man.”
At twelve-thirty a state trooper pushed the plunger on a small black box and four sticks of dynamite inserted deep into the earthen base of the dam made a muffled thump Ben could feel in the soles of his feet. Dirt flew high, and before it fell to earth the water of the lake had started to move out through a ragged gap in the dam. As it moved it widened the gap, and a muddy torrent galloped down the bed of the small stream. Ben watched the pilings of the dock and saw the water move slowly down, exposing the darker area of the part that had been under water. The gleaming mud flats began to appear around the shore line. As the gap widened it moved faster. In twenty minutes the lake had drained.
They stood on the shore line and watched three husky troopers, minus shoes, socks, and uniform trousers, wade out through the black mud to the body about eighty feet from shore. It lay with the head toward the break in the dam, lay face down and naked in the mud except for a soaked blue robe that covered the shoulders and the head and trailed out in the direction of the flow.
The troopers bent over the body. One worked on the ankles. Soon they headed back toward shore, two of them carrying the body by ankles and armpits, one of them carrying two cinder blocks wired together. They put the body on the dock and went up to hose the mud off their legs and dress again.
“Bronson?” Donovan asked.
“Can we get some of the mud off?” Ben asked.
A trooper brought the hose as far as it would reach. The water sprayed in a high arc and fell on the body and soon washed the face clean.
“It’s Danny Bronson,” Matthews said.
Donovan bent closer. “Six shots in the head. Look at these. I’ve never seen anything just like this before. Small stuff. Thirty-two caliber, I’d guess. Close range for these five in the forehead. Inches away.” He gingerly parted the robe. “And one under the heart. Seven shots. Good guess it’s an automatic.”
Donovan straightened up and looked out at the black expanse of mud. “If it’s out there we can get it. Two men with metal detectors could cover it in a day. They won’t enjoy it, but they can do it.”
Ben looked up toward the house and saw three men walking swiftly toward them. The one in the lead was Billy Sullivan, wearing a wide, wise and handsome smile. The one in the rear was slipping a plate holder into his Speed Graphic.
“Private party?” Billy asked. “Or can anybody come?”
Donovan moved forward with the ponderous inevitability of a tank and brought the three of them to a stop. “I will give you an interview containing all pertinent facts in due time, gentlemen,” he roared politely at them. “If you will be so kind as to return to the parking area, I will be with you shortly.”
“How shortly?” Billy asked.
“In ten minutes.”
“Would that be Danny Bronson, Captain?”
“It was, at one time,” he said, herding them back.
“Killed in desperate gun battle with brave officers?”
“Unfortunately no. How did you people find out about this?”
“A cab driver thought the information might be worth five bucks. After I paid him, Captain, I checked with Sergeant Wixler’s office. We’ll co-operate, but in all fairness this ought to be a Ledger exclusive.”
“Ten minutes,” Donovan said.
When the reporters were out of earshot, Ben said, “You aren’t going to turn them loose on Catton, are you?”
“He left twenty minutes ago. Her father is going to make the formal identification.” Donovan directed his men to make the necessary examination of the body and recall the county coroner. He turned back to Wixler and Matthews. “It looks like this is all tied in together, gentlemen, your little affair and mine. I have given you access to all information available to me. I suggest you inform me of your conclusions. I suspect the killer will be eventually apprehended in your city.”
“Brief the Captain, Ben,” Matthews said.
Ben quickly summarized his thinking, and concluded by saying, “So it’s either a partner who waited until the take and then decided to keep it all himself, or it’s the man they were trying to fleece. I like the second possibility. Now we can start hunting for Mr. X. We can triangulate him. Somebody who had previous contact with Danny Bronson. We know one thing. It’s a big deal. It isn’t a gouge for a thousand or two. And whoever they had on the hook, it wasn’t information that would just maybe bust up a marriage, or get the guy thrown off the Board of Education. It was something that would hurt worse. He was so vulnerable, he could rationalize some risky killing.”