The Evil Men Do

by H. Paul Doucette

  He shook his head again.

  “Only time I ever saw wit anybody was a young swabie a coupla times.”

  “Got a name for this swabie?’

  “No.”

  “What about a woman? He ever say if he had a woman?”

  “Nope. Fact is, me an’ some a da boys were startin’ to think he was, ya know, one a them guys.”

  “Okay that’s all. Thanks for your help,” I said, turning back to Mitchell while the workman left.

  “If he checks in for work later on, you call the station right away an’ let us know, got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah...sure. Whatever ya say,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said then Pete and I turned and left, heading back to the car.

  “Shit,” Pete said, sounding miffed. “That was a waste a time.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “At least now we know where he lives and works. He’s gotta show up at one place or the other sometime.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Now what?”

  “Let’s get back to the station for now.”

  Pete dropped me off at the station, then took off. He said he wanted to go back to the railyard and talk with the gang Fletcher usually worked with. Maybe he could get some ideas where he hung out or other people he might know.

  I stopped at Morrison’s office to fill him in on our progress, but he wasn’t in. His secretary said he was in a meeting with the Mayor and some businessmen. Probably another round of complaints about the mobs on the streets and the shortages. Glad it was him and not me, I thought, as I headed downstairs.

  I saw a brown envelope sitting on my desk. It bore the stamp of Naval Intelligence in the upper left corner. I picked it up and pulled the red string through the wax seal and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper; another official document with the same seal on it.

  It was from Phil Mulroney. I scanned the brief text and noted that this was an official clearance issued to me personally granting me access to confidential information from any sources as it would pertain to any ongoing investigations. It didn’t cover any classifications above confidential, such as secret or higher, which was okay with me. I folded the page and put in my desk drawer. Now I could brace Phillpott.

  “Detective,” a uniformed cop said, sticking his head in at the door. I turned and looked at him. “Lieutenant Morrison wants to see ya.”

  “Okay, Thanks,” I said, standing up and heading for the stairs.

  “You wanted to see me, sir,” I said when I stepped into his office.

  He was on the phone but gestured me to a chair. I sat down and waited for him to finish his call.

  After a moment he hung up without saying a word to whoever was on the other end.

  “Thanks for coming up. Where are you on your cases?” he asked in his usual direct fashion.

  I gave him a quick summary of all three cases up to the moment, including getting the clearance from Phil to get access to the Dartmouth Marine information.

  “Excellent work...as always, Robie, especially on the rape case. However, it’s this business with Dartmouth Marine Supplies. The Mayor has been getting calls from certain circles about where you’re going with your, um, enquiry.”

  “Certain circles? I take that to mean, Province House?” I said. Morrison and I have always spoken directly with each other, so I didn’t feel like I had to pull any punches with him.

  He simply nodded.

  “So, that mean I’m to back-off?” I asked.

  “No. I told him I wouldn’t be pressured to shut down an on-going investigation to protect anyone who may be engaged in criminal wrong-doing no matter who they were. I just need to be sure that you are on the right track with this company.”

  “I believe I am. All indications suggest they’re doin’ somethin’, or are connected, to those who are cheatin’ on the manufacturin’ of defective parts and sellin’ them on for profit.”

  “Wouldn’t this be best handled by Mulroney and his people? I mean, I assume this involves government contracts.”

  I shook my head and answered, “I don’t think so. If it was jus’ profiteerin’ I’d agree, but in this instance, there was a death and some serious injuries, which puts this under our jurisdiction. I can call the Crown Prosecutor’s office to make sure if that’ll help with the Mayor.”

  “That’s not necessary. I already did and you’re right, it is our case. All I want to know is what you’re leading up to?”

  “Well, the way I see it so far, the partners, Sinclair an’ McPherson, may have made arrangements with one or more of the shops makin’ these parts, an’ maybe others, to cut corners and costs on the those parts, then sell them on at higher prices to the dockyard and shipyards.”

  “I wouldn’t’ve thought that there’d be that much profit to warrant the potential risk,” he said.

  “Must be,” I said. “I’ll know better once I get deeper into their operations.”

  “Okay. Keep at it and watch where you step. These men have some weight behind them.”

  “Always do,” I said, standing up. The meeting was over.

  Chapter Nine

  Fletcher walked up Garrish Street, heading for a blind pig on John Street near Agricola Street. ‘Christ, is this god damn cold ever going to break,’ he thought as he walked. He had to leave his car behind because it was low on gas and he didn’t have enough coupons to get more. “Fuckin’ rationin’,” he mumbled to himself, pulling the collar of his overcoat higher over his ears and cheeks then jamming his hands back into the pockets. The weather had changed...again, and a cold northerly wind blew down from the Basin.

  When he reached the house, he went around to the back and banged on a wooden door.

  “Who’s that?” A muffled voice said from inside.

  “It’s me, Fletch,” he said. “Open the fuckin’ door will ya? It’s freezin’ out here, fer chissake.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hold yer goddamn horses.” A moment later the door opened, and he stepped past the big man standing next to the door.

  “Fletch,” he said as he closed and locked the door then followed Fletcher into the house.

  “Bill,” Fletcher said, opening his overcoat, enjoying the sudden warmth in the room. “Anybody here?”

  “Yeah. A coupla da guys is upstairs in da parlor playin’ crib. Ya wanna drink?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Whaddya got?”

  “Shine an’ beer.”

  “Where’s da shine from?”

  “Wallace. Beer’s made ‘ere.”

  “Beer’ll do.” He headed for the steps and went upstairs.

  “I’ll fetch ya a bottle.” Bill stepped away from and headed for another room. Fletcher headed into the parlor. He stopped at the door for a moment and cast an eye around the room.

  The room was well furnished and there was a floor model radio in one corner playing music. Three men and two women sat at various spots in the room. One of the women looked like she might have come in with one of the men. He didn’t recognize either of them. He spotted one man he knew and remembered seeing the other woman around. He was sure she was a doxy. Not too bad looking.

  “Hey, Charlie,” the man said.

  “Cary,” Fletcher replied, sitting in an empty chair close to him. The woman was sitting on a settee with her bare legs crossed. She was holding a glass with something red in it and smoking a cigarette. “What’s goin’ on? Thought you shipped out?”

  “Was gonna but I snagged a spot on the docks workin’ da graveyard shift.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Hey...it’s good dosh, right? ‘Sides, I don’t hafta worry ‘bout any fuckin’ U-boats.”

  “There’s that for sure,” Fletcher said, turning to take the quart bottle of beer Bill had arrived with. He gave him four bits for the drink.

  Cary took a pull on his bottle of beer then leaned forward.

  “Listen, you inta somethin’ these days?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Whaddya mean? Why you think I’d be inta somethi
n’?”

  “No reason...its jus’ I heard da bulls been askin’ ‘round for ya, is all.”

  “What! The cops been askin’ after me?” Fletcher snapped, his voice taking on a slight change.

  “Dat’s what I hear.”

  “Ya hear why?”

  Cary shook his head and shrugged.

  “Nope, jus’ they been askin’ after ya and yer mate, ya know, dat kid in da navy.”

  Fletcher took a long pull on his bottle. Jesus, the cops, he thought. That means those girls must’ve talked. He shivered involuntarily as a cold bead of sweat suddenly ran down his spine. His first thought was he had to get out of town...now.

  “Ya okay there, mate?” Cary asked. “Ya lookin’ a mite pale, all a sudden.”

  “Huh...yeah, yeah,” Fletcher said. He passed his bottle over to Cary as he stood up. “Here, you finish this. I gotta go. Jus’ remembered somethin’ I need ta do.”

  “Okay, t’anks,” Cary said, taking the bottle and watching Fletcher head quickly for the door.

  “Hey Bill,” he called out after Fletcher left.

  A moment later the big man stood in the doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Ya gotta phone ‘ere?”

  “Yeah. Out in da hall, why?”

  “Gotta make a call. Okay?”

  “‘Spose so, yeah,” Bill said, indicating where the phone was with his thumb.

  Cary got up and headed in the direction Bill pointed. He saw the wall mounted phone down a darkened hall near the kitchen. He went and picked it up and dialed zero.

  “‘Ello? Operator? Get me da police,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  After a moment he was connected.

  “Police department,” a voice said in his ear.

  “I ‘ere you guys are lookin’ fer Charlie Fletcher,” he said in a quiet voice and looking over his shoulder for anyone who might hear him.

  “Who’s this callin’?”

  “Never mind dat. Put me through to Pete Duncan. I gotta talk to ‘im. It’s important.”

  “Hang on.” A moment later someone else spoke into the phone.

  “Detective Williamson.”

  “I wanna talk ta Duncan, he dere?”

  “No. What’s dis about?”

  Shit, Cary thought. He was hoping to score a few bucks turning Fletcher over. “Never mind,” he said and hung up. He looked around once more, making sure no one was listening, then went back to the parlor and his beer.

  Fletcher pushed his way through the crowded sidewalk; his hands buried deep in his pockets and the overcoat’s collar pulled high over his cheeks. He eyed the street looking for cops. Jesus, he thought, if the cops were looking for him that meant them girls must’ve told them about that night. He figured they must’ve also given them his description. “Goddamn it”, he muttered to himself, bumping into a man walking ahead of him.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re goin’,” the man said as he pushed past him. Ignoring the man, he stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, eying the traffic for break then, dashed through the traffic to the other side of the street, several cars laying on their horns behind him.

  He spotted a mom and pop store up ahead and headed for it. He needed to get off the street, to sit and think. Once inside, he saw a small table with a couple of chairs and went and sat down. Some of these little shops offered a chance for a cup of tea and some homemade biscuits. An old woman who stood behind the counter looked at him and asked. “What’ll you have?” He ordered a cup of tea.

  A few moments later, she arrived with a mug, a pot of hot water and two small bowls; one with sugar, the other with powdered milk, setting everything down on the table. “That’ll be ten cents,” she said, folding her arms under her ample bosom. He dug out a quarter and passed it to her.

  He sat sipping his tea, considering his options. The only one that made any sense to him was getting out of the city. He didn’t really care about leaving; he had nothing to hold him here, except his job, but he could get another somewhere else. His main problem was how to get away and when. The first was easy enough to solve; he’d drive out of town. However, there was the problem of getting gas. Right now, he had about a half tank, enough to get him about eighty miles, more or less, and he didn’t have any more coupons for more. The only way around that would be to wait until night-time and find a car somewhere out of sight and syphon its tank.

  Now, when to go? He had money, not a lot, but enough for a couple of weeks. He had a pay packet due him in a few days, but could he chance waiting? He decided to wait but wouldn’t chance going into work in case the cops knew where he worked. If asked, he could always say he was sick.

  By the time he finished a second cup of tea he had a plan.

  * * *

  “Jus’ heard from the hospital,” Pete said, looking up from working on his report from the raids.

  “Yeah? What’s up?” I asked, heading for the teapot on the burner.

  “Coupla things. First, the Marchand girl is outta the woods an’ is recoverin’. Doctor sez she’s got a lotta spunk for a young woman. Her mother’s been stayin’ pretty close. Next, he sez there’ve been two new cases of alcohol poisonin’ jus’ come in. Pretty bad accordin’ to him.”

  “That’s good news on the girl. Let’s take a run up to the hospital, I want to have another chat with her. You can check on those men. See if they’ll tell you where they got the booze.”

  “Okay. By the way, how’s it goin’ with that accident business? I haven’t been able to help there.”

  “A little longer to go, but I think I got the right people. I’m goin’ back later when I finish at the hospital.”

  “So, whaddya figure to nail them with?”

  “At the very least, profiteerin’ an’ maybe sabotage.”

  “You think you can make a sabotage case outta this, I mean, I can see profiteerin’...?”

  “Maybe. Okay, go,” I said as the last truck passed by. “I’ll run it by Phil an’ see what he thinks. If I can make a case, then it’ll fall to him to deal with it.”

  “Seems to me it’ll be a tough call. Sabotage is a tricky one if you’re not dealin’ with an enemy agent or a sympathizer.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  We finally arrived at the hospital and Pete found us a parking spot near the entrance. Once we went inside, I sent Pete off to find the poisoned men while I headed up to where the Marchand girl was roomed.

  “Hi,” I said when I entered the ward. Stella Marchand was sitting up in bed propped against her pillows. Her hair had been neatly brushed and was tied back with a bright red ribbon. The bruises on her face were beginning to fade to yellow and green from the livid purple. Her mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed holding her hand. One of her girlfriends, Mildred Lancaster, sat in a chair on the other side.

  “You’re lookin’ a lot better,” I said.

  She smiled at me and said, “Yeah. The doctor says I’m doing okay.”

  “She’s going to be alright,” her mother said, squeezing her daughter’s hand and looking at her. “She might actually be able to come home soon.” Then she turned and looked at me. “Have you found the man that did this?”

  “Not yet, but we’re closin’ in on him,” I said. “Which brings me to why I stopped by.”

  “When we arrest him an’ formally charge him he’ll go before a judge which means a trial. We’re pretty sure we have enough to get a conviction, but it would help if your daughter would definitely identify him and give witness to what he did.”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Marchand said. “She’s already gone through so much.”

  “That’s okay, Mom. I’ll do it. I want to do it,” Stella said with a hardness in her voice. I could sense the anger in her in those few words.

  I stood there looking at her with a feeling of respect for her courage.

  “I understand how you feel. I got kids of my own, but I think it’d be a good idea if you an’ your mum have a talk with the Crown Prosecutor before you make any
decisions.”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” Stella said. “I want the man who did this to be punished.”

  “I understand, but if it goes to trial, he’ll be represented by legal counsel whose job will be to discredit you an’ that could mean bringin’ up things you won’t like.”

  “What are you saying?” her mother asked. “They’d try and make my baby out to be...responsible for what happened?”

  I could only nod.

  “That’s not fair,” Mildred said, injecting herself into the conversation.

  “You’re right. It’s not fair, but that’s how the law works. An’ you an’ your other friend could be called as witnesses as well.”

  “Oh!” she said, looking surprised.

  I looked back at Stella.

  “What I’m sayin’ is you had better be certain before you agree to testify, so, talk to the Prosecutor first. I’ll call their office an’ have them send someone down to talk to you. Alright?”

  “Yes...thank you for being so honest with us,” Mrs. Marchand said, standing up and offering her hand which I accepted.

  “Now, one more time. Give me your best description of the man who attacked you.” Between the two girls I got a pretty accurate description.

  “Okay, thanks. Get some more rest now, an’ good luck.”

  “You to, Mr. Robichaud,” Stella said with a weak smile.

  Pete was waiting for me in the lobby when I stepped out of the elevator. He was sitting in a chair reading the paper.

  “That was quick,” I said as I approached him.

  “Yeah,” he said, folding the paper and putting it in his overcoat pocket. “Not much to report. Two men were brought in early this morning sufferin’ from cramps and loss of sight. Doctor sez they were sufferin’ from classic alcohol poisonin’.”

  “They gonna be okay?”

  “Probably,” Pete said as we headed back to the car.

  “They say where they got the liquor?” I asked.

  “Didn’t get a chance to talk to them. Doc said to come back, seems they’re in no condition to talk yet.”

  “Okay. Stay on top of this. We got to get this crap off the street before someone dies.”