The Evil Men Do

by H. Paul Doucette

  “Yeah. He’s sweatin’ it out in the cells right now. Looks like he’s open to makin’ a deal.”

  “Great,” Pete said.

  “I’ll let the Crown do that. I’m guessin’ the bigger fish are connected so it’d be best to let them handle it. I’ll make sure we get to do the arrest when the time comes,” I said. “Now, if you’re up to it, you think you can tackle this Fletcher business?”

  “Absolutely. I jus’ need to finish writin’ out this arrest report.”

  “Okay. I’ll head upstairs an’ let the boss know what’s what an’ get him to call the Crown for the warrants. Be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Pete turned back to his typewriter and began hitting the keys. I headed for the stairs.

  I was back twenty minutes later.

  “Right,” I said. “Where exactly are we with Fletcher?”

  “Nothing back yet from the railroad or his digs,” Pete said. “No luck on identifying his friends except for that sailor, or where he hangs out. Looks like the guy’s a bit of a loner. We still got an all points out for the car.”

  “What about his banking? Any chance he deposits his pay somewhere?”

  “I didn’t think of that. I can call the rail people see if their payroll department has any information.”

  “Okay. Do that. It’s a good bet he knows we’re lookin’ for him by now and has likely gone to ground like you said before. If he has, I’m thinkin’ he’s probably plannin’ on skippin’ away, in which case he’ll need money.”

  “Good point,” Pete said, picking up his phone.

  I checked my watch: almost four o’clock. I decided to go and work on Kempt a bit more.

  “Why doncha shut yer filthy mouth, ya cow,” Kempt yelled angrily at the woman Pete arrested in next cell.

  “I want my solicitor,” she hollered when she spotted me, ignoring Kempt. “Ya can’t keep us in this shithole like dis, ya hear me, copper.”

  I ignored her and opened Kempt’s cell door nodding for him to step out. I took him by the elbow and led him to the interrogation room with the woman still yelling.

  “Hey. Hey. Come back ‘ere.”

  “Sit down,” I ordered when we entered the room and I shut the door on the woman’s tirade.

  “Look...,” Kempt started to say.

  I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

  “Shut it,” said. “You’ll answer my questions first then we’ll talk, got it?”

  He slumped his shoulders and lowered his gaze.

  “Right. Tell me how this operation works.”

  “Look, I didn’t think it’d cause any harm, ya know. It was jus’ a chance to make a few extra bucks,” he said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning in.

  “You can’t be that stupid,” I snapped. “Now tell me how you worked it.”

  He hesitated a moment then began.

  “We place an order for the raw materials, then when we get an order for parts, we melt them down and forge the parts.”

  “Go on. Where do you start cuttin’ corners?”

  “In the meltin’ process, but only enough to stretch out the mix to build extra parts.”

  “So, these parts end up being weaker as a result?”

  He nodded, “Yeah, but not by that much.”

  “Tell that to the man injured the other day and to the family of the man that was killed,” I said angrily. Kempt lowered his head.

  “Okay. Now give the names of everyone involved, starting with the materials suppliers.”

  “They weren’t part of the deal,” he said, looking up again. “Look, can we make a deal ‘ere? I’ll give ‘em all up, if you can cut me a deal.”

  “You’ll give them all up anyway, I promise you that,” I said. I took out my notebook and a pen and slid them across the table to him. “Start writin’.”

  “Not ‘til ya agree to me gettin’ a deal,” he said defiantly.

  “You’re in no position to demand anythin’, understand? As it stands right now, I got you on possible sabotage charges, but I’m thinkin’ the Crown Prosecutor may add a charge of manslaughter as well.”

  “Whadda fuck you mean, manslaughter?” he said, sounding alarmed. “I ain’t killed no one.”

  “Again, tell that to the dead man’s family.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Bullshit. He died as a direct result of a part exploding in his face; a part built by your company with metal you forged.”

  Kempt was visibly shaken now. This was going very badly against him. It was time to play the good cop.

  “Listen to me. Give me everything I want an’ when I pass it over to the Crown they might be inclined to go a bit easy on you.”

  “Ya think so?” he asked.

  “Anythin’s possible. Now write.”

  He picked up the pen and started to write. When he finished, he pushed the notebook back to me, I looked at the list; there were only three names: Phillpott, Sinclair and McPherson.

  ‘Gotcha, ya bastards’, I thought, closing the book and standing up.

  “Hey, Robie,” the duty officer called as I headed back to the squad room.

  “Yeah?” I said, stopping in front of his desk.

  “Jus’ got call in from one of the patrolmen workin’ the downtown beat. Sez he’s pretty sure he’s spotted that car you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Where?”

  “Headin’ up George Street to Barrington. Sez it turned south.”

  “That it?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, thanks, Fred.” I turned away and continued on the squad room.

  “Jus’ heard from the duty desk. Fletcher’s car was jus’ spotted headin’ south on Barrington,” I said to Pete when I entered the room. He was sitting at his desk.

  “Think he’s headin’ back to his place?” he asked, turning in his seat.

  “I doubt it. If we’re right thinkin’ he has to know we’re onto him; he’d have to figure we’d know where he works an’ lives an’ have his digs staked out. How you comin’ with findin’ his bank?”

  “I talked to the payroll clerk at the railroad, but they didn’t know anythin’. So, I started callin’ the banks in the area to see if he has an account, figurin’ if has then it’s got to be close to where he works and lives, right? Anyway, no luck so far. I was about to call the Royal Bank on George Street, but I’m not holdin’ my breath. They’re all claimin’ somethin’ to do with confidentiality.”

  “Good thinkin’. Okay, keep at it. If we got to, maybe the boss can get the Mayor’s office to pull a few strings,” I said then went to my desk.

  “Nice to have friends in the right places,” Pete said with a hint of sarcasm. “How ‘bout your case?”

  “Like I said, I’m gonna get the boss to try an’ get warrants on those responsible for the defective part and to look into maybe a charge of manslaughter.”

  “Think he’ll go along?”

  “The evidence is pretty circumstantial, but I think it’s strong enough to go after them. It’ll depend on how well they’re connected.”

  “Think anyone over there would stick their necks out that far to protect them?” Over there meant Province House.

  “Hard to say,” I answered. “If they’re all Masons, or some other secret club, who knows.”

  “Should get rid of all them ‘clubs’, Pete spat the words out. “They been runnin’ things from the shadows way too long. This is the twentieth century, for chrissake.”

  “No argument from me,” I said, heading to the stairs. “Listen, get everything we got on the Fletcher case ready. I wanna have another look at it before we make any decisions.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Pete said, turning back to his desk.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie Fletcher stood in line behind a man in a business suit, talking to the young teller behind the iron grill. He checked his watch: two forty-seven. Coming here was a risk but he decided to chance it. He needed to get all his money out
before taking off. He was going to need it, especially since he decided to forego his pay owed him at the railway. It was too risky to go there, reckoning that the police probably knew where he worked by now.

  The man in front of him finally finished his business and Fletcher stepped to the marbled counter, passing his bankbook under the iron grill.

  “How can I help you?” the girl said, smiling and taking his book. He noted she was very attractive and around eighteen or nineteen years old. He might be nervous and a bit scared but could still appreciate a looker when he saw one.

  “I want to close my account,” he said, leaning a bit forward.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I gotta new job up in New Brunswick an’ gotta move. I’m leavin’ tomorrow so, I need my money.”

  “I see.” She opened the bankbook and eyed the entries noting his balance was three hundred and eighteen dollars and thirty-five cents. “Are you sure you want to carry that much cash, sir? You know we can transfer your funds to another branch, even in New Brunswick?”

  “That’s okay,” Fletcher said. “I’ll jus’ take the cash.”

  “Alright. I will have to get my supervisor to close the account. One moment, please.” She stepped away with his bankbook in hand and went to a desk where a man sat. They spoke for a moment or two then both came back.

  “I’m Mr. Collins, the accounts manager,” the man said. “I understand you wish to close your account?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Is there a problem?” Fletcher asked.

  “No sir, no problem. It’s just that it is such a large sum, you see.” Collins eyed Fletcher for a moment then said, “I will need you to sign a couple of forms and see some identification, is that alright with you?”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” Fletcher said, digging out his wallet. “Will my driver’s license be okay?”

  “Certainly,” Collins responded. “Please wait a moment while I go and get the forms.”

  “This gonna take very long? I gotta get back an’ pack up.”

  “No sir. Not long, maybe five minutes,” Collins said, turning away and heading back to his desk.

  Collins went to his desk, sat down and while opening a desk drawer, he reached for his phone. A moment later, the switchboard operator answered.

  “Yes, Mr. Collins?”

  “Winifred. Connect me to the police department, a Detective Duncan, please,” he said calmly into the mouthpiece.

  “Yes sir,” she said.

  A few minutes later, a man’s voice spoke into his ear. “Police department, duty desk.”

  “Could I speak with Detective Duncan, please?” he said.

  “He’s not in. What’s this about?”

  “Do you when he’ll be back?”

  “Can’t say. Can’t you tell me what this about?” the duty officer asked again.

  “My name is Mr. Collins. I am the accounts manager at the Royal Bank on George Street. Detective Duncan called earlier wanting to know if a certain person banked with us. I told him we could not share such information without proper authority. Well, I am not breaching bank policy by reporting that the person he was interested in is here now, wanting to close his account. What should I do?”

  “This fella, what’s his name?”

  “Charles Fletcher.”

  “Okay. You stay on the line a minute, okay?”

  “Yes, okay,” Collins said, glancing over at Fletcher.

  After a minute or so, Fletcher called out, “Hey. Where’s them forms you want me to sign? I gotta get movin’ an’ don’t have all day.”

  Collins was in a bind. He had no legal reason to delay the transaction or to detain the customer so, he hung up the phone, gathered the two forms he took from his desk drawer and stood up.

  “My apologies, sir,” he said when stepped past the teller and slid the pages under the grill. “May I see your identification?”

  Fletcher passed his license through the grill. Collins took it and read it.

  “Thank you .Now, would please sign where marked?”

  Fletcher took the pen lying on the counter connected by a beaded chain and quickly scribbled his name on the forms.

  Collins pulled them back and compared the signatures with that on the license.

  “Hm, everything looks correct,” he said, passing the license back to him.

  He stepped away from the counter, turning to the teller and nodded. She stepped back to her position.

  “Miss Cosgrove will now deliver your money. Thank you for your patience and business.” He turned and went back to his desk. He sat back down and placed the forms in a tray at the corner of his desk while watching the man walk out of the bank, still feeling uncertain about what to do. He was considering speaking to the manager when his phone rang.

  “Accounts desk,” he said when he picked up and answered.

  “This is Detective Duncan. You called?’

  “Yes, I did,” he said. “It’s about that matter you called about, you know, the one requesting information on a customer named Fletcher.”

  “Yes, what about him?” Pete asked.

  “Well, as I told your duty officer, Mr. Fletcher was just here and has left the bank.”

  “When? What did he want?”

  “About three minutes ago. He closed out his account.”

  “Anythin’ else?”

  “He did say something about leaving for New Brunswick; a new job, or so he said.”

  “Did he say specifically where in New Brunswick or when he was leavin’?”

  “He didn’t say where specifically but did mention he planned to leave tomorrow, I believe.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Happy to be of help. Good day,” Collins said, hanging up.

  Pete hung up the phone, stood and went to Robie’s desk.

  “That was the Royal Bank. Looks like we were right ‘bout Fletcher maybe takin’ off. He jus’ cleaned out his account and mentioned somethin’ ‘bout leavin’ for New Brunswick, maybe tomorrow.”

  “So, he is goin’ to do a runner,” I said “Right let’s go. Maybe we’ll catch sight of him. How long ago since he left the bank?”

  “Maybe a few minutes ago,” Pete said, grabbing his jacket and hat, falling in behind me as we headed for the parking lot. Barrington Street was the quickest way to reach George Street. Spotting him in the mob of people on the street this time of day was a long shot at best, I thought as we ran to the exit onto Barrington Street.

  We stopped and started to look around.

  “Now what?” Pete said, craning his neck as he scanned the passing pedestrians.

  “You head that way,” I said, indicating he go south. “I’ll head back towards Duke. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  We split up, each of us moving through the press of people. Luckily, we had enough of a description on Fletcher that the chance of picking him out was pretty good. Our problem was simple – we had no idea which way he went when he left the bank.

  After ten minutes, I made my way back at the entrance to the Grand Parade grounds.

  “No luck?” I asked when Pete joined me a few moments later.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Now what?”

  I stood thinking for a moment then said, “Let’s grab a car.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “I got a feelin’ he might be headin’ back to his digs.”

  “You think he’s that dumb? He’s gotta figure we’re watchin’ his place,” Pete said as we made our way back downstairs.

  “Yeah, I agree, but if he is doin’ a runner, I’m bettin’ he’ll want to take his things with him.”

  When I reached my desk, I picked the phone and keyed in the numbers for the duty desk.

  “Sergeant Vickers,” the duty officer said.

  “It’s Robichaud. I want you contact the car stakin’ out the place on Jacob Street. Tell them they can leave, got it?”

  “Yeah, got it,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, han
ging up.

  Minutes later, Pete and I were sitting in an unmarked squad car waiting to merge into traffic from the parking lot.

  * * *

  Fletcher left the bank and headed north along Granville Street, conscious of the wad of bills in his pocket. He didn’t like walking around with so much money on him, but he had no choice. This worry quickly passed as he started thinking how to get his belongings from his squat. He also wanted to get the gun that was wrapped and hidden under a loose floorboard in his room; an old Webley service revolver. The gun was a present from an uncle many years ago, brought back from the last war as a prized souvenir. Fletcher couldn’t explain why he still had it, though he kept it in good working condition. Now he was glad to have it because there was no way he would let himself be caught by the police; that led to a date with the rope.

  Fifteen minutes later, he found himself standing at the corner of Jacob Street. He tried to look inconspicuous as he leaned against the corner of a house and lit a cigarette, eying the street down to his place for any sign of cops. There weren’t any obvious signs they were there, but to be safe, he turned and stepped back the way he came to an alleyway about four houses up the street. Taking one last look around, he quickly slipped into the alley and followed it to a large rectangular open space, backed by a dozen tenements. Almost as many clothes lines crisscrossed the open space overhead, some with daily washes hanging from them. There were two other exits by alley ways located at various places.

  He made his way through the debris and over the uneven ground to the wooden door in the fifth building down on his right. It was the rear entrance to his boarding house. He knew it was never locked. Once inside, he quietly eased his way down the darkened hall to the stairs and headed for his room where he pulled out a battered suitcase from under the single bed. It took him five minutes to clean out all his belongings and retrieve the gun from its hiding place. He broke the gun open and saw it was loaded with four shells. Satisfied, he snapped it shut and slipped it into the waist of his trousers, then after a quick glance around the room, he headed out.

  Pete and I sat in an unmarked squad car parked on Jacob Street near Lower Water Street with a clear view of Fletcher’s squat. His car was nowhere in sight.