a shallow arroyo and carelessly covered with sand and rock. Wind had blown the sand and uncovered the feet of one of the children, and an Angora goat herder had discovered the cairn. It was then that the crime exploded in the papers, complete with all known details except the serial sequence of the money.
The money began to turn up in the banks of Youngstown, Ohio. It was traced to a young man who drove a pickup with Pennsylvania plates. He had rented a small farmhouse near Orangeville, just over the Pennsylvania line. The farmhouse was surrounded, and there was a gun battle during which one officer was seriously wounded and the three occupants of the farmhouse were slain: a young man, an older man, and a young woman. They all had police records. The young man and the young woman were known drug addicts. A single suitcase containing just over a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars was brought back to headquarters in Youngstown.
There were conflicting stories about whether or not there had been another suitcase, and, if so, what had happened to it. The story of the serial numbers appeared in the newspapers and over radio and on television. State, county, and city police had co-operated with federal officers in the operation. There were intensive inquiries. The other suitcase, if indeed there had been one, was not traced. Some believed there had been at least one and maybe two other principals involved, and that the group had split up. Others thought a cop had grabbed the rest of the money. If others were involved, they would have learned they could not spend the money.
Paul Verney had not been thinking of that money when he was contacted by a man named Roger Dixon. He had known Dixon in law school, had known himquite well in fact, but had lost touch with him after graduation. Dixon had gone into criminal law in Detroit and had been very successful until, in 1949, he was tried and convicted of bribery of a city official, fined, given a suspended sentence and disbarred. Verney had read of the incident and was astonished at Dixon’s carelessness.
It was about two months after Catton’s heart attack that Paul Verney returned one evening from his office to the private club where he lived and found Roger Dixon waiting for him. Dixon looked prosperous, confident and sleek. He came up to Verney’s room to talk to him.
Verney’s room was sedate, old-fashioned and comfortable. Verney fixed him a Scotch. “Old Paul,” Dixon said. “You look just like I imagined you’d look. You’ve fulfilled your early promise. I used to think you must have been born looking like a self-satisfied bachelor. What ever happened to Melissa?”
“We were married. She had a breakdown six years ago. A very tragic and unexpected thing, Roger. She’s in an institution down-state. The boy is away at school. He’s fifteen.”
Verney had expected the usual expression of sympathy. Instead, Dixon grinned at him, a bright malicious grin. “And you love every minute of it, don’t you?”
“Exactly what are you trying to say?”
“Just that I know you pretty well. Skip it.”
“You’re looking very prosperous, Roger.”
“You know about my little difficulty. I can see you do. And you’re disappointed not to find me on a corner with a tin cup and pencils.”
“I’m glad you’re getting along.”
Dixon smiled in a mocking, unpleasant way. “I’ll bet you are. Good old Paul. Wants the best for everybody. Don’t try to kid me. You don’t care and never have cared what happened to anybody else in the world. I roomed with you, Paul. Maybe nobody else ever got behind that facade, but I did. I don’t know what it was that twisted you. It must have happened real early. Because by the time we met, you were solidified.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
“But you will, Paul. You will, because I know you’re ina hell of a jam and you just squeaked out from under an indictment for fraud, and you have the correct impression that
The money began to turn up in the banks of Youngstown, Ohio. It was traced to a young man who drove a pickup with Pennsylvania plates. He had rented a small farmhouse near Orangeville, just over the Pennsylvania line. The farmhouse was surrounded, and there was a gun battle during which one officer was seriously wounded and the three occupants of the farmhouse were slain: a young man, an older man, and a young woman. They all had police records. The young man and the young woman were known drug addicts. A single suitcase containing just over a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars was brought back to headquarters in Youngstown.
There were conflicting stories about whether or not there had been another suitcase, and, if so, what had happened to it. The story of the serial numbers appeared in the newspapers and over radio and on television. State, county, and city police had co-operated with federal officers in the operation. There were intensive inquiries. The other suitcase, if indeed there had been one, was not traced. Some believed there had been at least one and maybe two other principals involved, and that the group had split up. Others thought a cop had grabbed the rest of the money. If others were involved, they would have learned they could not spend the money.
Paul Verney had not been thinking of that money when he was contacted by a man named Roger Dixon. He had known Dixon in law school, had known himquite well in fact, but had lost touch with him after graduation. Dixon had gone into criminal law in Detroit and had been very successful until, in 1949, he was tried and convicted of bribery of a city official, fined, given a suspended sentence and disbarred. Verney had read of the incident and was astonished at Dixon’s carelessness.
It was about two months after Catton’s heart attack that Paul Verney returned one evening from his office to the private club where he lived and found Roger Dixon waiting for him. Dixon looked prosperous, confident and sleek. He came up to Verney’s room to talk to him.
Verney’s room was sedate, old-fashioned and comfortable. Verney fixed him a Scotch. “Old Paul,” Dixon said. “You look just like I imagined you’d look. You’ve fulfilled your early promise. I used to think you must have been born looking like a self-satisfied bachelor. What ever happened to Melissa?”
“We were married. She had a breakdown six years ago. A very tragic and unexpected thing, Roger. She’s in an institution down-state. The boy is away at school. He’s fifteen.”
Verney had expected the usual expression of sympathy. Instead, Dixon grinned at him, a bright malicious grin. “And you love every minute of it, don’t you?”
“Exactly what are you trying to say?”
“Just that I know you pretty well. Skip it.”
“You’re looking very prosperous, Roger.”
“You know about my little difficulty. I can see you do. And you’re disappointed not to find me on a corner with a tin cup and pencils.”
“I’m glad you’re getting along.”
Dixon smiled in a mocking, unpleasant way. “I’ll bet you are. Good old Paul. Wants the best for everybody. Don’t try to kid me. You don’t care and never have cared what happened to anybody else in the world. I roomed with you, Paul. Maybe nobody else ever got behind that facade, but I did. I don’t know what it was that twisted you. It must have happened real early. Because by the time we met, you were solidified.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
“But you will, Paul. You will, because I know you’re ina hell of a jam and you just squeaked out from under an indictment for fraud, and you have the correct impression that
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