The Evil Men Do

by H. Paul Doucette

  “When was the first one reported?”

  “Let’s see...eight months ago.”

  “And were these parts all supplied by the same company?”

  “Nine of them were; the last two were shipped in directly from manufacturer in Truro.”

  “So, there was more than one manufacturer?” I asked.

  “Looks that way,” Phil said. “I can check on that if you want.”

  “Okay. ‘Preciate it. Oh yeah, I spoke with a professor up at the Technical College. He analysed the damaged valve. I jus’ got everythin’ back with his report. Looks like the valve blew apart because of faulty metal. I got a meetin’ later today with the purchasin’ manager at the shipyard to see if he can identify who delivered it.”

  “So, you’re thinking this is what...someone deliberately sending in inferior products?”

  “Dunno yet,” I said. “But you know as well as me, there’s always someone who thinks times like this are an opportunity to make more money.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Well, keep me posted on what you find out. Anything else?”

  “Matter a fact, yeah.”

  I filled him in on our investigation into the illegal trafficking of liquor and our plans to start shutting it down.

  “Good,” he said when I finished. “Unfortunately, we can’t help you there. I don’t have the men.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, “we got the city part covered. It’s the suppliers we’ll need your help with.”

  “Okay. That I can help with. You get me enough for our patrols outside the city to act on and we’ll move.”

  “Deal. Thanks for the help. Let’s catch up for a drink soon.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Oh, say hi to Michael for me.” Lieutenant Michael Parks was with Naval Intelligence. We had worked together a couple of times in the past and had become friends.

  “Will do, bye.” The line went dead and I hung up the phone.

  “So, how you wanna handle this?” Pete asked.

  “I think we’ll raid the ones we know. I’m thinkin’ we’ll grab whatever we find and bring the operators in for a start.”

  “That’ll get their attention right enough.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You think they’ll try any serious rough stuff to stop us?”

  “You mean guns?”

  Pete nodded.

  “I don’t expect them to, but we’ll go in prepared if they do.”

  “So, if they do then...?” he asked, leaving the question hanging.

  “Then we do our job,” I said.

  “We still on for tonight?” Pete asked as he headed back to his desk. He was referring to our planned visit up to Fort Needham.

  “Yep. You okay here for a while?” I asked. “I gotta head up to the shipyard to meet with the purchasin’ fella.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later. By the way, if you wanna head home for supper that’s okay. You can come back in at eight.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  The drive to the shipyard was as crazy as usual but I managed to get there after about twenty minutes. I cleared through security and manoeuvered the car to a vacant parking spot marked for visitors. Once inside the main building, I showed my ID once more before being directed to the purchasing department. The office was large with at least eight desks filling the room, all with women busily shuffling papers or typing.

  Alfred Aikens was a balding middle-aged man in a three-piece suit and wearing a bow tie. He looked more like a teacher or professor than a purchasing manager. At the moment, he was standing over a young woman with a clipboard in hand.

  “...call the supplier and ask when these parts will be shipped out. Remind them they’re one week late already and if they want to continue as a supplier they should get their house in order,” he said, sounding snappish.

  He must have caught a glimpse of me standing there because he looked in my direction and said, “Yes? Can I help you?” he snapped.

  “Detective Robichaud. Police. I believe you’re expectin’ me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” He turned back to the woman. “Get on this right away.”

  “Please come this way,” he said, leading me to a small office in the corner of the large office. “I received a call from Mr. Trudeau’s office telling me you need information about our suppliers. Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk as went around and sat down. “I understand it has something to do with that accident on the Alice yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” I said, sitting down. “I need the names of the companies that supply pressure release valves for use in engine rooms. I have a coupla partial numbers from the valve that blew apart if it’ll help you.” I passed him a sheet of paper with the numbers I wrote down.

  “We receive this type of valve from several sources,” he said, looking at the page. “Hmm. This is going to take some time. You see this number here,” he showed me the number, pointing to it. “These three numbers appear to come from the middle of the sequence. It will mean searching all our manifests to match them.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “How long do think it’ll take?”

  “Hmm, maybe a few days if I put one person it.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said.

  “I’m curious, detective. Why is the police department involved in this? I was lead to believe that the incident was an unfortunate accident.”

  “It probably was,” I said. “But we have reason to think that there is something else goin’ on here.”

  “Ah, I see,” Aikens said, sitting back in his chair. “Actually, in truth, I do not see.”

  “I’ve had the remains looked at by an expert. His opinion is that the valve failed because somebody’s takin’ shortcuts an’, if that’s true then we have a crime.”

  “I see now. Well, that won’t stand. No sir. I will see to this right away. Once I have what you are looking for what do you want me to do?”

  “Put a list of the companies together and then send it to me at the police department.”

  “As you wish,” he said. “Is that all you require?”

  “Yes, thanks. Oh, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak to anyone ‘bout this.”

  “Of course, I understand. However, I may have to report this to Mr. Trudeau.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be reportin’ everythin’ to him myself.”

  “Right,” he said, standing up.

  I stood as well, and we shook hands.

  I left for the parking area and headed back to the station.

  Patrolman Jason Rafuse was waiting in the squad room when I returned. Pete was at his desk as usual.

  “All set to go tomorrow,” he said, getting up. He came over and sat down.

  “You’re the one that found the girl the other night?” I asked, waving the officer over.

  “Yes sir,” he said, looking a bit nervous.

  “Relax,” I said. “You’re not in any trouble. We jus’ want to ask a few questions.” I gestured to one of the chairs by my desk.

  “Yes sir,” Rafuse said as he went and sat down.

  “Right,” I said, scanning the report. “How ‘bout you give us a rundown of that night. Start at the beginning an’ don’t leave anythin’ out, no matter how insignificant you think it might be, okay?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He began giving a detailed statement on everything he saw and did from the moment he spotted the woman’s legs to when he was relieved by the detectives who arrived on the scene. When he finished, I was impressed by his detailed description of events and saw a good cop sitting in front of me. He had a good future ahead of him, I thought.

  “So, you didn’t see a car? A black sedan, maybe?” I asked when he finished.

  “No sir, but I did spot what looked like fresh tire tracks nearby. I reported that to the detectives.”

  “An’ nothin’ else you remember?”<
br />
  “No sir, that’s it.”

  “Okay. Thanks for comin’ in and talkin’ with us,” I said. “You did a very good job.”

  “Thanks sir,” he said, standing up. “Uh, can I ask how the girl’s doin’?”

  “She’s still in bad shape but they think she’ll do okay.”

  “That’s great news.” He stepped away from the desk and headed out.

  “Good cop there,” Pete said, speaking for the first time.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Now what? he didn’t tell us anythin’ more than we already knew.”

  “We stick with our plan an’ head up to the Hill later.”

  Pete and I met up at the station at seven forty-five. We took one of the unmarked cars and headed for the north end of the city. The area around Fort Needham was called the ‘Hydrostone’. It was built in the interwar period and after the Halifax Explosion in nineteen seventeen. It was made up of rows of stone houses erected to accommodate the survivors of the explosion, but also housed part of the labor force for the shipyard and the naval base.

  Pete steered the car to a vacant spot a few cars down from Gottingen Street on Livingston. Once he shut the engine off, we exited the car and made our way back to Gottingen Street.

  “How ya wanna do this?” he asked.

  “Let’s split up,” I said. “You head over that way and I’ll work this area.”

  The area around the base of the hill that made up Fort Needham was already busy with young servicemen, mostly sailors, civilians and women. Most of the men were milling around in small groups laughing and talking; some were passing brown paper bags around. I knew these contained bottles of bootleg booze. I took a quick glance up the side of the hill and noted a few couples in among the shrubbery. It wasn’t hard to figure out what they were up to. Normally, we frowned on this behavior, especially in a residential area, but I had something else to take care of. I spotted a pair of beat cops walking patrol with a couple of shore patrol men who were keeping an eye on everything.

  This wasn’t going to be easy, I thought, as I eased my way through the people. More like finding a needle in a haystack of needles. But that was part of police work.

  I stopped about every ten feet or so and spoke with some of the sailors, giving them the descriptions I got from Marchand’s girlfriends. No one knew them. No real surprise there, I thought, thinking once again about needle a in a haystack of needles. I spent the next twenty minutes talking to as many men as I could.

  I spotted Pete making his way through the crowd with a young sailor in tow.

  “Whaddya got?” I asked when he stopped in front of me.

  “This here is Leadin’ Seaman Fred Wilkes,” Pete said. “He sez he might know someone fits the description of the civilian. Sez he remembers him ‘cause he likes to hang around with sailors.” He turned to the young sailor and said, “Tell him what ya jus’ tole me.”

  Wilkes, who didn’t look old enough to shave, stepped forward and started to say,” Well, sir, like I said to this here guy, there’s a guy comes up and hangs around the hill like the rest of us. A nice enough fella, usually good for a smoke, sometimes even a few drinks. Anyway, he likes it up here ‘cause of the skirts, see.”

  “You sure it’s the man we’re lookin’ for?” I asked the kid.

  He nodded. “Yeah, pretty sure. Ain’t too many guys I know with them funny lookin’ eyes.”

  “Eyes?” Bingo, I thought, remembering what one of the girls had described.

  “Yeah. He has one that looks like it was half closed, ya know, an’ felt like it wasn’t lookin’ at anythin’.”

  “Okay. You got a name for this guy?”

  “All I know him by is Charlie.”

  “He ever say where he lives or works?”

  Wilkes shook his head, “Not as I recall. Though, I think maybe he’s some kind of mechanic.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “A lotta times his fingernails were dirty, you know, with black stuff. I figured it was grease or somethin’ like that.”

  “That’s everything?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Okay, thanks. By the way, you know any of your mates who might know more ‘bout Charlie?”

  He turned and whistled, waving at another young sailor to come over.

  The young man ambled over with a slightly exaggerated swagger; the cuffs of the sleeves of his top were rolled up to show a recent tattoo and his black round hat sat back on the crown of his head. He looked to be around the same age as Wilkes. I noted the patch on the sleeve showing he was a gunner. It was easy to picture him in high school, playing on the football or hockey team.

  “What’s up?” he asked when arrived, eying Pete and me warily.

  “These guys’re cops,” Wilkes said, “they’re askin’ ‘bout Charlie.”

  “What’s your name, son?” I asked.

  “Willie Jones,” he answered.

  “What can you tell us ‘bout Charlie?”

  “Not much. He’s jus’ a guy likes to come an’ try an’ score with some broad.”

  “He ever talk ‘bout himself, ya know, like where he works of lives?” Pete asked.

  Jones shook his head. “Naw. Why would he? We usually jus’ bat the breeze, ya know, an’ eyeball the action. Sumtimes he brings a bottle with him an’ we share a few drinks.”

  “Does he, uh, pick up girls a lot?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess, Least more’n me an’ the other guys,” Jones said with a chuckle. “Guess it’s ‘cause of his car.”

  “Tell us ‘bout the car?”

  “Nuttin’ special. Jus’ an ole Ford, maybe a ‘29 or 30’.”

  “Color? License number?”

  “Black, I think. Yeah. It was black. I think I recall seein’ part of the number...let’s see, um, maybe 24 sumthin’. Maybe.”

  “Right. Did either of you see him up here two nights ago?”

  “Yeah, come ta think about it,” Wilkes cut in. “He was up here with that guy, remember?” he said, looking at Jones.

  “Oh yeah, yer right. They scored with that young hunny. I remember thinkin’, ‘lucky bastard’, when they all took off in his car,” Jones said.

  “What about the other guy, was he a sailor? You ever see him before?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah, now you ask, he was a sailor, but I don’t know him. Different ship.”

  “What ship?” I asked.

  “Didn’t take notice. Sorry.” Both young men shook their heads.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks again for the help. You can go back to your mates.”

  “No problem,” he said as he turned and headed back through the crowd.

  “Not much is it?” Pete said.

  “No, it isn’t. I think we might have to take one of the girls with us, see if she can spot someone.”

  “Jesus, that’d be tricky won’t it? I mean, gettin’ her parents to...”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll run it by the boss tomorrow. Maybe he can come up with a way we can do it. Anyway, let’s call it a night. I don’t think we’re gonna get much more for now.”

  We walked back to the car. I had Pete drop me back home then he drove away.

  * * *

  The Halifax Club on Hollis Street has been around since the late eighteen hundreds. It was created by a select group of prominent men to serve as a club for the city’s elite, wealthy and powerful - bankers, businessmen and politicians. It came with a staff of valets, chefs, butlers and all the amenities for the members to meet discretely in private to discuss business and policies the government was considering, among other things.

  Two well-dressed men sat in a quiet small elaborately decorated room on the second floor. One sat in a high-backed stuffed Morris chair, reading a copy of the local paper while the other man sat in an identical chair opposite him. He folded a copy of the local paper and passed it to his colleague, pointing at an article.

  MAN DIES IN ACCIDENT AT SHIPYARD

  Early this morning,
while working on a damaged ship

  recently returned from a cross Atlantic voyage, a worker

  at the shipyards died while working in the ship’s engine

  room and one other was injured. According to sources,

  the death was caused by a ruptured valve. An investigation

  has been ordered to look into the incident.

  An attendant arrived and deposited a glass decanter of scotch whiskey and two matching glasses on the three-legged side table set between them. He also laid a pitcher of water beside the decanter, then went to the door.

  “Thank you, Mathew. Close the door, please,” one of the men said to the attendant.

  After the door was closed, Iain Sinclair said to the other man, “How long do you think we can keep doing this?”

  His companion took the paper and looked at the article.

  “What do you mean? I see no reason for concern, so why stop?” Michael McPherson answered, taking the paper.

  “Read that,” Sinclair said. “They’re going to open an investigation. You are aware that I have been getting calls about certain pieces breaking down.”

  Sinclair and McPherson were business partners and owners of an engine parts supply company specializing in parts for ships, notably those used in engine rooms, such as valves, gauges and pipes. They, like so many other local companies and industries, were benefiting from the war with lucrative contracts from the shipyards, the military and the government. However, unlike most of their counterparts, these two saw an opportunity to further capitalize on the situation by subcontracting to questionable suppliers. These companies operated by cutting corners on the manufacturing and forging the metals and selling the needed parts for less than what was normal, while Sinclair and McPherson charged the end users the full price, pocketing the difference.

  “So, there have been a few defective items,” McPherson said, after a quick glance at the news article. “Most unfortunate, I agree, but accidents will happen and given the volume of work we’re expected to produce, the chance of a few, uh, faulty items slipping through is to be expected.”