by Ben Benson
“Sure, but they’re wrong. This whole paper could be a phony—made up just to throw a scare into me.”
Newpole shook his head with regret as he stood up. “No hurry, sonny. Take your time and think it over. We’ll be back.”
Four hours went by. Newpole was busy in the state detectives’ office in the courthouse and also in the district attorney’s lobby. We had lunch and went back to the jail and the interview room.
Congdon sat across the table from us and said, “No use, Lieutenant. You can’t wear me down.”
“I’ll bet I can,” Newpole said gently. “I’ve worn down some of the toughest. Ernie, I want a truthful statement from you on the Somers case.”
“You’ve had it. I wasn’t anywhere near Baycroft that day.”
Newpole said, “Two people did the Somers job, both cigarette smokers.” He tapped the table idly with a pencil. “We’re going to have to pick up Johnny Congdon, Ernie. I wonder how tough your younger brother really is. Good chance to find out, huh?”
“That’s damn dirty pool, Lieutenant,” Congdon said.
“I can play even lower than that, Ernie.”
“Below the belt stuff,” Congdon said contemptuously. “Where’s all that gentlemanly crap that Lindsey hands out? It’s show, that’s all. You fool the public with it.”
“Oh, we’re very tricky,” Newpole said.
“You’re dirty bums,” Congdon said.
“Now, you listen and listen carefully,” Newpole said with sudden harshness. “I sleep nights. I never shot a man in the back or mishandled a weak, defenseless woman. I’m acting dirty now because I’m up against a dirty person. It’s the only language he understands. And I’ll bring in your kid brother and run him through a wringer, if I have to. You want to call my bluff, Ernie? Because I’d do it in a minute.”
“No,” Congdon said.
“Then I want to hear the truth from you,” Newpole shouted.
Congdon didn’t answer. He sat there unmoving.
“I want to hear you talk, Ernie,” Newpole said, pounding on the table.
“All right,” Congdon said suddenly. “So I did the Somers job.”
“That’s better,” Newpole said, his voice subsiding. “Who was with you?”
“I was alone. Like the Goodcliffe job. Alone both times.”
“You know I won’t buy that, Ernie. The Somers case was a two-man job.”
“I did it alone,” Congdon said. “You want my statement, or don’t you?”
“Tell it.”
“I want you to leave my kid brother out of it. I swear he’s clean. I was alone both times.”
“Let’s have the statement, Ernie.”
A change had come over Congdon. The cockiness had completely left him. His eyes moved along from one hostile face to another, each devoid of sympathy. For one fleeting second I had a twinge about Ernie Congdon. Then the smell of death came back, and the picture of Eugene Somers’ rotting body lying near the stone wall. And I thought of the deliberate destruction of this human being, the tragedy of a family love destroyed by this one vicious boy with a gun in his hand. And the fleeting moment passed.
“I’m waiting for the statement,” Newpole was saying.
Congdon rubbed his eyes very hard with both thumbs. When his hands came away he looked over at Detective-Sergeant Boudreau and said, “Okay, start writing.”
It was Friday, June seventh, he said. 8:30 A.M. He had hitchhiked a ride into Boston, half-planning to go into the naval recruiting station to see if he could enlist. He did not get all the way into Boston. His first ride let him off at the junction of Route 2 and 25.
There he was picked up by Eugene Somers in a green Chrysler. A few minutes later he took out the revolver and pointed it at Somers, telling him to turn around and go back where he had come from. Somers came from Baycroft, so they drove west again, through Lexington and Bedford and Carlisle, into Baycroft. Congdon saw a lonely dirt road and told Somers to turn up it. At a dead end they found a burned-down farmhouse.
When Somers stopped the car, he told Somers to get out and hand over his money. Somers did, offering no resistance. No, he had taken no personal jewelry of any kind. He was afraid it might be traced. No, he did not take a gold cigarette lighter. He did remember offering a cigarette to Somers while they spoke, and Somers declining. He did not remember what brand of cigarette he had been smoking that day, or seeing a cigarette butt on the ground.
He next threw away the car keys to make sure there would be no pursuit. Then he told Somers he had decided he would have to kill him, so that there would be no identification. Somers had become panic-stricken and had run toward the stone wall. He fired at Somers. Somers tumbled over the wall. He went over to make sure the man was dead. Then he walked back to Route 25 and took a bus to Ashendon. When he got home, it was almost noon. His brother Johnny was still asleep in the bed. He told his mother if there were any questions, he had been in bed all morning. Then he went upstairs and hid the revolver in his mattress.
What kind of cigarettes had he been smoking that day? He had said he didn’t remember. Either Lucky Strikes or Chesterfields, but he was not sure. Yes, he knew there were two different brands on the ground. He couldn’t explain why there should be. And he did not see why they made such an issue over it.
Chapter 21
We came out of the county jail and walked down the wide stone steps. Gahagan and Boudreau got into the detective sedan and waited for Newpole. Newpole tamped tobacco into his pipe and watched a robin hopping along the sidewalk. The robin took flight, circled and disappeared over the roof of the building.
I said to Newpole, “Lieutenant, are you satisfied with the statement?”
“Hell, no,” Newpole said. “He’s covering up something and I don’t know why yet. I’m pretty sure it’s not his kid brother. I was playing him on that. Those boys never went together on anything. Ernie kept far away from the young one. That part checks out.” Newpole lit the pipe, then pinched his nose thoughtfully. “Who else could he be covering for?”
“You sure it had to be a two-man job?”
Newpole shrugged. “I could be wrong. But there were two different cigarette butts on the ground. Two different brands of the same freshness. Somers didn’t smoke.”
“There’s another thing, sir,” I said. “Congdon said that after the murder he went out onto the main road and took a bus back to Ashendon. There’s no bus running from Baycroft to Ashendon.”
“It’s something we were going to check. You sure?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I don’t think it was a deliberate lie, though. Just carelessness. A slip.”
“Go on, son.
“There’s a pattern,” I said. “In each case Congdon threw the car keys away. He said it was because he didn’t want pursuit. It doesn’t make much sense. Why didn’t he take the Goodcliffe car or the Somers car? They couldn’t pursue him then. Instead, he said he hitchhiked or took a bus, taking a risk he’d be identified by someone near the scene.”
“All right, Ralph,” Newpole said. “Spell it out for me.”
“He had his own transportation, Lieutenant. Both times Congdon told his victim to drive to a certain spot. Each time there was a car hidden away, close by.”
“Whose car?”
“I’m sure it was a Volkswagen. Billy Nesbit’s, Lieutenant.”
He looked at me. “Keep talking,” he said softly.
“There might still be evidence of a car parked near the murder scene. Narrow chassis, small wheels. It might be worth sending a crew out, Lieutenant—say a half-mile or mile east and west of the spot.”
“I think,” Newpole said, “it’s worth while going out ourselves.”
Trooper Dan Tompkins of the searching party found the evidence that afternoon. He marked it on Route 25, 875 yards east of the entrance to the Runkle Farm. Newpole and I had been working together west of the scene when we heard the radio call. We hurried there, passing other searching troopers along the sides of the
road.
The area was apparently a small picnic spot under a clump of pine trees. There were some scraps of newspaper and old paper bags and some rusted beer cans. And some faint, almost obliterated, tire tracks.
Dan Tompkins wiped his damp, warm face. “This part is out in the open,” he said, “and there’s been rain since. But follow me, Lieutenant.”
Tompkins led us in among some pine trees skirting the picnic area. The faint, almost indiscernible, tracks bore to the right and into a high clump of underbrush. Here the woods thickened. The pine trees were loftier.
Tompkins pointed. Newpole crouched down over a pair of partial tracks in the red, clayey earth. Then he looked up at the heavy overhang of pine boughs.
“Could be,” Newpole said. “The trees kept most of the rain off.” He bent down again. “Small tires. I don’t think there’s enough impression to take a plastic moulage. Wouldn’t be a pair of motorcycles, would it?”
He looked up at Tompkins with a half-smile on his lips. Tompkins did not smile back. Newpole stood up and brushed the dirt from his fingers. “A small car, all right,” he said. “We’ll have the technical boys give it the business. Tompkins, you going to stay here and wait for the others?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Tompkins said.
“Fine. Lindsey, will you come with me, please?”
We got into Newpole’s detective sedan. He turned it around and headed for Ashendon. For a few minutes he held the pipe clenched in his teeth without speaking. Then he said, “So you’re pretty sure it’s Billy Nesbit’s Volkswagen?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” I said.
There was a long pause. “And Billy Nesbit, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How long have you known this, Ralph?”
“I’m not sure. It’s been growing on me. Since yesterday, anyway.”
“And you didn’t say a word to anybody?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
“Does Billy know you know about it?”
“I asked him some questions. I think he might have suspicions now, sir.”
“Does he think he could bank on your silence?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
“But he might have run away. Did you think of that?”
“Yes. I considered that.”
“You considered that,” Newpole said in an exasperated voice. “Did you want him to run? Is that it? You wanted him to get away?”
“No, I liked him in many ways. I always thought, once he’d stop acting like a playboy, he’d straighten out. Then this murder shows up. I was hoping he’d want to do the proper thing by himself—that he’d come in and give himself up.”
“You wanted to give him the chance?”
“Yes, sir. He’s a kid with a lot of pride. I know what it would mean to him to make the decision alone, without any pressure.”
“He didn’t do it, did he?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“You still hope he’s waiting for us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For your sake, I hope so, too. Otherwise you might be in a bit of a jam, Ralph.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Newpole said, softening. “I don’t mean anybody would infer you’d deliberately withhold evidence and give this boy a chance to escape. You merely had an idea that you kept to yourself. But you knew this boy, and he knew you. Therefore, any idea you had about him was worth something. How do you think the brass ramrods at GHQ will take it? They’re not going to be happy with you, Ralph.”
“He also has a girl,” I said. “She thinks the sun rises and sets in him. I really thought he would do the right thing—at least, for her sake. That’s another reason I waited. I had to do that little bit for her, too.”
“There’s a dividing line in this business,” Newpole said. “It’s an invisible line where friendship stops and the oath of office begins.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and slipped it into his pocket. “Remember, I knew this boy, too. I was stationed at Concord as a trooper and a corporal. I know the boy’s father well. When Billy was born, there was a big celebration. Jack Nesbit sent a box of cigars to the barracks. They were mighty fine cigars. Nesbit donated a beautiful radio to the guardroom. On Thanksgiving and Christmas there was always fruit and candy. And when Billy was a little older, he’d come to see us. He used to sit on my knee in the duty office while I typed my reports. He was sort of a mascot to all of us. That’s how well I know the Nesbits. But I know the dividing line, too. I wouldn’t hesitate to scoop the boy in, if I had to. Or the father, either.”
“There’s still a small chance Billy wasn’t in on this,”
I said. “A very small chance,” Newpole said, pursing his lips. “I saw that kid as a baby. He was a fine child. What happened to him? Where and when did he take the turn?”
“Maybe it was coming all the time, sir,” I said. “Since he was an infant. But nobody noticed it.”
“You mean since the fire?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I think he was flawed from then on. Otherwise he’d have been a success in anything.”
“And you still hope the boy is home waiting for us?”
“Yes. He’s had a chance to think it over, Lieutenant. He won’t let Ernie Congdon face it alone. Billy will do what’s right.”
Newpole didn’t say anything. I knew, of course, why. He didn’t believe as I did.
Chapter 22
We drove into Ashendon at 3:30 P.M., automatically looking along the side streets. We went through the center of town. No Volkswagen. We drove out to West Elm, made the turn into the driveway and parked along the white pillars of the house.
I got out of the car and went swiftly to the big garage. The huge doors were open. The Cadillac and the hard top were parked in there, freshly polished. No Volkswagen.
When I started back, Newpole was ringing the front doorbell. I stood at a corner, between the garage and the house, so I could watch him and the back area at the same time.
The door opened and I saw Mrs. Fleming standing there. Newpole flashed his badge and said, “Ma’am, is Billy Nesbit home?”
“No, sir,” she said, stuttering a little. She seemed confused and uncomprehending. Then she saw me and she called out, “Mr. Lindsey, please.”
I went over. She said, “Billy’s gone. He packed a bag and left. Took the little car with him.”
“When was that?” Newpole asked.
“At nine this morning,” she said. “Oh, I hope there hasn’t been one of those dreadful accidents. Is that why you’re here?”
Newpole shook his head. I moved in closer. Suddenly I felt very tired and defeated.
Newpole asked her, “Did Billy say where he was going?”
“He told me he was going south on a trip for a while. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s so sudden, sir. He never did anything like that before.” She began to wring her hands. “I don’t know what I can explain to Mr. Nesbit. He’s sure to blame me.”
“How was he dressed?” Newpole asked, taking out his notebook.
“He had on his gray plaid jacket, gray slacks. White shirt and striped tie. Black shoes—suede, I think. Oh, yes. He cut himself shaving and there was a big piece of white tape on his chin. Sir, are you going to find him?”
“We’re going to try,” Newpole said.
“He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Newpole said. “We’ll have to look around the house, ma’am.”
We had time then only for a quick, superficial search. Billy’s own room, the game room, the library and the garage. As we moved from place to place, Mr. and Mrs. Fleming followed us with desolate bewilderment.
We found no .32 Smith & Wesson revolver. But in the library, in the center drawer of the mahogany desk, inches away from where I had sat and read poetry, we found the gold cigarette lighter. Beautiful, rectangular. On one panel a carved snake with jeweled eyes. On the other panel a round-faced Buddha.
Newpole hefted the
lighter in his hand. “Solid gold,” he said. He looked over at the Flemings. “Have you ever seen this before?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Fleming said.
“Never in this house,” Mrs. Fleming said.
“A trinket,” Newpole said. “A valuable trinket—sure. But a kid with all his money didn’t need it. They’ll do it often, Ralph. Keep a souvenir or a memento.” The lighter gleamed in his hand as he examined it. “It’s old,” he said to me. “But very fine workmanship. Not one of these modern lighters. It’s got cotton stuffing and a wick and all that. But you have to lift this rod and then spin the wheel over the flint. Like this.” The lighter flamed. He snuffed it out and said heavily, “Well, we’ll have to go show this to Mrs. Somers. And I hate to do it.”
We went outside the house and to the cruiser. Newpole said, “First, we’ll go talk to Amos Rawlins.”
We drove back downtown and to the police station in the town hall. Chief Rawlins was sitting behind his scarred oak table. When Newpole finished, Rawlins looked shocked and appalled. He said painfully, “Ed, I saw the boy this morning about five or ten past nine. He was in the bank cashing a check. There was a piece of sticking plaster on his chin. Said he was going to do some Christmas shopping. We had a big laugh over it. He drove off in his car. I never suspected a thing.”
Newpole said, “Amos, let me use your phone, please.” He called GHQ and spoke to the chief of detectives. I knew a File 13, with description, would go out immediately over the interstate teletype system, asking for a pickup on William Nesbit, in a gray Volkswagen sedan, Massachusetts registration, 097684.
Chapter 23
It was past 9:00 P.M. and dark when we came into the East Cambridge jail. Congdon was brought into the interview room. He stalked over to the long table, looking first at me, then at Newpole and last at Sergeant Boudreau. “Cutting down,” he said. “Only three this time.”
