Brett Halliday - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 27, No. 2 — September 1945)

“That’s a ten-dollar word for it. Do it. Then maybe we’ll get someplace, as the saying goes.”

I watched while Bronson sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose in his version of a mental kick in the pants. Suddenly he sat up straight.

“But this whole thing’s crazy! Why should anyone kill Ditson? He was penniless. I gather that he had no enemies.”

“I’ll bring you up to date, Bronson. Ditson had been paid off. His daughter was there at the time, and she socked the dough in her purse. Later she laid it away in the hotel safe, then she got another idea and took a ride. Hinchman should catch her. But even if he doesn’t, the fact remains that Ditson was paid off. His murderer might not have known about his daughter taking the money away. So he might have sapped him too hard and tossed him onto the asphalt to cover up.”

Bronson was visibly impressed.

“That does change things. I’ll think harder now.”

He went back to rubbing his nose again. I knew he could rub the skin away without changing the picture he carried in his mind. So I said: “Let’s go talk to Dwight Brown. He’s thrown in with me. Maybe he can help you.”

Bronson looked up. “Dwight? You mean he’s fallen out with Westfall over this? Say, that’s serious. When Dwight got drunk he used to tell me a few things he knew about Westfall and his crowd. Westfall is a tough character to fall out with.”

“It’s all right. Dwight’s in a hidden lodge out beyond Briarton Cliff.”

“Impossible! He doesn’t have such a place!”

“That’s why he has it, because it’s impossible that he should have it. You surely know the facts of life, Mr. Bronson.”

Bronson seemed shocked at such discretion. But he didn’t argue. He got a hat, and backed his car out of the garage. I paid off my cab and climbed in with him. Then I got out Dwight’s map and gave directions.

There was a mob of cars parked around Briarton Cliff. It seemed every neighbor had driven over to see the wreck about a hundred and forty feet below. The cliff was no grade — it was a rock ledge dropping sheerly. A fire burned briskly below.

“Get along!” said a highway patrolman as I signaled Bronson to stop.

I flashed my badge and said: “How come the fire? The boys went over a long time ago.”

“Lots of rubbish down there. There were signs up forbidding dumping, but people dumped anyway. This is no main road — people had plenty of chance.”

I took a look at the guard rail. I’m no engineer, but I’d say the highway department had done its darnedest here. To go through that rail a car would have to be traveling at least sixty. My professional curiosity was aroused. I wondered how Westfall’s expert had managed it.

“Get along,” I told Bronson. “I haven’t much faith in this map. We may be all night finding Dwight.”

We weren’t quite that long. But we were a good hour and a half checking false leads consisting of by-roads that Dwight had forgotten to mark. Finally we parked beside what had to be the lodge. At least there was a light inside, and Bronson identified Dwight’s car.

We barged right in. Dwight wasn’t alone. He was sitting at his fireplace, a highball in hand. Opposite him sat Mary Ditson. She also held a highball glass. It was a cozy picture.

“Come in, gentlemen,” said Dwight. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Well,” said Bronson with scorn run through with envy, “you’re in character, all right! Imagine bringing a girl here with your sister dead only two days!”

“Don’t break an ankle jumping at conclusions,” said Dwight. “This is Mary Ditson, the daughter of Westfall’s victim. Mary, this stuffed shirt is Carl Bronson. Not having to marry him is the only break poor Sheila got.”

“Dwight! You’re drunk!”

“I never had a soberer thought. Mr. Corbett, I hope you’ll forgive my bringing Mary here. I thought she’d be safer, and when I saw that mess at Briarton Cliff, I was glad I’d brought her along. Westfall is desperate. He knows he’s fighting for his life. So I hope you’ll understand why I brought Mary.”

“Sure, I guessed as much,” I said without batting an eye. I looked around the joint with no little admiration. Some of Dwight’s female companions must have put in residence, for the place had a touch no mere man could give it. But Bronson had different ideas.

“That Picasso is Sheila’s! I know because I gave it to her! She told me she’d hung it in her room! What’s it doing here?”

Dwight apparently got some enjoyment out of saying: “Sheila liked to come here, too. It was her hide-out as well as mine. No bromide ever beat a path to our door. We took turnabout and never got in each other’s way. You’d have liked Sheila, if you’d only known her.”

Bronson reddened. “Damn you, Dwight, you’ve no right to talk like that! Sheila and I were engaged to be married. She was wearing my ring when she died!”

“Sure, but she was still kidding you. She didn’t want to let you down hard and figured you’d tire out if she stalled long enough. It’s all in her diary she kept out here. I didn’t get very far, only a few pages. Brother, did she have your number!”

Bronson could take it no longer. He reached Dwight in two long strides, swung a haymaker that passed a foot over Dwight’s ducking head and took a pair of hooks into his middle that put him on his pants. I regarded Dwight with new respect.

Bronson didn’t look angry any more. He looked sick. He was sick in the bathroom after he’d staggered through a bedroom to it “I told him I wanted to shake up his memory,” I said. “If that doesn’t do it nothing will.”

Bronson was taking his time coming out of the bath, which was between the two bedrooms in the rear, but I figured that if I’d suffered a defeat like his, I’d want to spend some time there, too. I forgot all about Bronson when Keever walked in flanked by Hinchman and Westfall.

For one of the few times in my life I regarded Keever with genuine, unaffected admiration.

“For crying out loud! It took Bronson and me all night to find this place with a map! How the devil did you find it?”

“Elementary, my dear Corbett. I merely wired the county auditor to open up his records, spot any hill country land in the name of Dwight Brown. He found the place, loaned me a map out of his office. Then I picked up Westfall and Hinchman.”

I gasped: “But you didn’t have time to get a warrant!”

“Why should I? You promised you’d have Ditson’s murderer by the time I got here. Naturally it’s to Westfall and Hinchman’s interest to learn that Ditson was no suicide after all. Come, Corbett, produce your killer.”

“Let’s start with a preliminary rather than the main go,” I said. “This is Dwight Brown — Dwight, feel honored at meeting Attorney General Burton H. Keever!” Keever scowled at me and smiled at Dwight. “Dwight has a little piece to speak. Don’t miss any lines, Dwight.”

Dwight spoke his piece while I stood by with leveled .380. I wasn’t impressed by the flattened noses of Keever’s goons in the window. They knew how to surround the lodge — they’d been to the movies.

Hinchman broke quickly. Dwight had read his memo only half-way through when he turned to Keever and nodded.

“That’s enough. I’ll make a deal.”

“Fine,” said Keever, then he yelled. Westfall had lost his head. Keever’s goons must have missed the flat .32 automatic that he pulled out from under his belt. My .380 got in the first and only word, and Westfall’s mouth hung open. He put his hands over his belly, the .32 dropping to the floor. Then Westfall sat down.

I’ve read about guys who shoot guns out of other guys’ hands, but if you haven’t much time the belly is a bigger target. Westfall passed out cold, and I said: “Better get him to a doc — he may want to do a little talking before his life leaks out of all those holes inside him.”