The Girl in the Cage

by Ben Benson

  They went out. I looked at the figure on the bed again. It was as Lieutenant Newpole had said, a body, an inanimate object. It was no longer Vincent Pomeroy.

  I began searching the room. The closet held some of Pomeroy’s clothes. There was nothing but thick dust under the bed. I went over to the half-open window. Nothing outside. I began to search the floor for some kind of evidence. I was down there on my hands and knees when Newpole and Tileston came back in.

  “Nobody in the house,” Newpole said. He took off his hat and scratched his head. “What are you looking for, Ralph?”

  I stood up and brushed my hands. “Ken Osanger carries a .32 Colt automatic, sir. The shell ejection would be off to the right. I’m looking for the empty cartridge case.”

  Newpole smiled mirthlessly. “George,” he said to Tileston, “that’s what I like about these young ones. They figure everything real quick.” He turned to me. “What makes you think the boy was killed with a .32 automatic?”

  “The size of the bullet hole, sir. It couldn’t have been a .45.”

  “No,” Newpole said. “But it could be a .38. We can’t tell until we get the bullet out. And what makes you so sure it was Osanger?”

  “Well, he carries a .32. He has a good motive.”

  “Except that he wasn’t here,” Newpole said. “When is the last time you saw Osanger, Ralph?”

  I shook my head. “No, I guess you’re right, sir. It’s no good. I saw Osanger a half-hour ago in Carlton. He was sitting in a restaurant with three other people. Scott Cluett and the two girls.”

  “So neither of them are running,” Newpole said. “If they thought for a minute Pomeroy had talked to you they’d have been long gone. Besides, I think they can feel safe enough. We saw Pomeroy drive up here at eight-thirty. At the time Osanger and Cluett were in that restaurant in Carlton. Any more ideas, son?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “All right,” Newpole said. “Then get the hell out of here before someone comes.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “Back to Carlton. Take up as if nothing happened, as if you weren’t here.”

  “But this murder—”

  “So there’s been a murder,” he said quietly. “That’s our job, son. We’ll be in Carlton later tonight. We’ll question Osanger and pick up his gun. We’ll question Cluett. We’ll question the girls. We’ll question everybody who knew Pomeroy. We’ll even go through the act of questioning you, Ralph.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “How can we go on with the auto case? How are you going to explain why you’re here in Eatonville? They’ll get suspicious and close up shop.”

  “We’re hoping they won’t,” Newpole said. “Nobody saw you come here. George and I were in Eatonville investigating the stolen Plymouth. I came to question Pomeroy because he lives in Eatonville and has a record for car theft. I found him dead. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you go back to Carlton and sit tight. We’ll come there later and question you.”

  “I’m leaving,” I said. Then I thought for a moment. “Are you going to check Craird Waldock, too, sir?”

  “Don’t get into an uproar, son,” Newpole said calmly. “I’ve been a cop a long time.”

  *

  It was one o’clock in the morning when he came for me. I was sitting in my room half-undressed, my ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

  I heard the bell ring insistently downstairs. There was a long pause, then I heard Mrs. Kincaid’s shrill voice. Then the footsteps came upstairs and Lieutenant Newpole’s voice was explaining things to Mrs. Kincaid.

  “He was found shot to death in Eatonville,” Newpole was saying. “We’re just checking everybody who was acquainted with him.”

  “What a terrible thing,” Mrs. Kincaid said. “But I’m sure young Lincoln hardly knew the boy. He just got into town a few days ago. They both worked for the same man, that’s all.”

  “I know,” Newpole said. “We’ll just ask a few questions.”

  There was a knock at my door. I went over and opened it. Newpole said, unblinkingly, “Are you Ralph Lincoln?”

  “That’s me,” I said. “What’s it all about?”

  He took out a leather folder and flashed his gold badge. “State Police officer. My name is Lieutenant Newpole.” He turned around to Mrs. Kincaid. I noticed she was wearing a ragged, worn bathrobe and there were pin curlers in her hair. Newpole said, “Thank you, ma’am.” He waited. I heard her footsteps go down the stairs.

  “Dammit,” Newpole whispered, his lips scarcely moving. “Duck that pistol.”

  I glanced down. The Fabrique Nationale was still tucked in my belt. I took it out and put it away in the bureau drawer. Then I put on my jacket and went out. We passed Mrs. Kincaid in the downstairs hallway. Newpole said thanks to her.

  Outside, Newpole’s detective sedan was parked at the curb. I got in beside him. He brought out his pipe and slowly thumbed tobacco into the bowl.

  “We’ve been busy,” he said. “We had the M. E. and the state pathologist down. They removed the bullet. We rushed it into Boston. I have a fast ballistics report from GHQ.” He shifted his eyes to me. “The bullet is from a .32 Colt automatic.”

  “So it’s Osanger,” I said.

  “Osanger,” Newpole said, tightlipped. “Just like that, you say Osanger. There must be a million .32 Colt automatics in the country.” A match flared up as he lit his pipe and puffed on it. “Tileston and Gahagan are at the Carlton town jail. We’ve questioned Osanger. He has a local license to carry the Colt. It was issued because he carries large sums of money to make purchases.” He puffed on his pipe again. “We also questioned Cluett. They were both surprised we found Pomeroy shot to death. It was no acting. Nobody could act that good. I’ve never seen two guys more surprised. We’ve taken up Osanger’s gun. We’ll bring it into GHQ and check it against the bullet.”

  “So you made the arrest, Lieutenant?”

  “On who?”

  “Osanger,” I said impatiently. “S. P. of murder.”

  Newpole sighed. “On what evidence, son? Here we have a bullet from an automatic. An automatic throws an ejected cartridge case. Yet there was no empty case in the house. From seven-thirty until nine o’clock, Osanger and Cluett were in Lil’s Café. We’ve checked it. There are a dozen witnesses who can place them in the café at the time. You can yourself. How can we arrest any of them?”

  “It’s got me,” I said. “Somehow, somebody was able to get by your stakeout, sneak into the house, shoot Pomeroy with a silencer, pick up the ejected cartridge case and get out again.”

  Newpole smiled. “They’d have to be pretty good to do all that.”

  “Maybe there’s a secret passage or something,” I said tentatively.

  “Oh, my God,” Newpole said. “There are no secret passages in the house. Where do you get that Sherlock Holmes stuff?”

  “I’m just thinking of everything, sir.”

  “No silencer was used,” Newpole said. “A Colt automatic can’t take a silencer. Besides, did you ever hear a silencer go off? It makes a pretty loud noise. We’d have heard it.” He drew on his pipe. “No, the answer lies somewhere else. Something simpler.”

  “How, Lieutenant?”

  “To be honest with you, I don’t know yet, son. I’m not one of these hotshots. I’m just an ordinary working cop. We’ll investigate more. We’ll go through the drudgery. Eventually we may find out.”

  He drove me to the town jail. Crowded in and around the little office and overflowing outside were Craird Waldock, Irma Bean, Leta Nofke, Scott Cluett, Kenneth Osanger, and some other people whom I didn’t know. There were Tileston and Gahagan, and a uniformed trooper from the Wrentham Barracks. The old, fat Chief of Police looked at Newpole when he brought me inside.

  “Well, now, Lieutenant,” he said ineffectually, hitching up his slovenly-looking pants. “There’s a lot of stir around here for something that happened in Eatonville. It’s something
that never happens in Carlton.”

  “What’s that, Chief?” Newpole asked.

  “Trouble,” the Chief said. “We never have no trouble in Carlton. I keep a clean town.”

  “Good for you, Chief,” Newpole said. He took me into a small side room. It was a cluttered little office. He went through the motions of questioning me. When he was through he told me to go home.

  I went out to the main office. I winked at Cluett and Osanger. They looked at me impassively, without expression and without response.

  I walked back to the rooming house.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I WENT TO WORK THE NEXT MORNING. SCOTTY CLUETT was in the shop, walking around a ’50 Ford sedan. He kicked at the tires with his toe. He didn’t talk to me. He looked right by me as though I didn’t exist. Then Osanger came out of his office.

  “Too bad about the Pomeroy kid,” I said to him. “How did it happen?”

  “Who knows,” Osanger said huskily, exhaling smoke from his cigarette. “The cops didn’t say. They ask you about it?”

  “Yes. But what could I tell them?”

  “Tough break,” Osanger said.

  “Yeah,” I said, getting into my coveralls. “He seemed like a pretty good kid. Who the hell had it in for him?”

  Osanger’s shoulders lifted slightly and dropped again. “How can you tell with these kids? They make connections somewhere out-of-town, do something years back, somebody finally comes gunning for them.”

  “For chrissakes,” I said. “He wasn’t old enough to be running with a mob.”

  “These kids nowadays are old enough,” Osanger said. “Too bad. I’m going to miss him. He was a pretty good worker.” Then he dismissed the subject as though he had been talking about yesterday’s weather. He went over to the opened hood of the Ford. “This isn’t much of a job, Ralph. A motor tune-up, new points and new plugs.”

  “Me and Scotty?” I asked.

  “Scotty has to go out with me.”

  “Okay,” I said, opening my tool chest.

  Osanger didn’t move. I looked up at him and said, “What’s the matter now?”

  “I was just wondering where you were last night.”

  “In my crummy room. You can ask my landlady. But why should you care?”

  “Maybe I want to catch the guy who did it to Vince.”

  “You won’t catch him by looking at me, Ken.”

  “Maybe not.” His big eyes watched me carefully. “Where were you yesterday morning?”

  “I told you. In Stoughton looking for a job.”

  “Yeah. That’s what you told me.”

  I felt moisture beading my forehead. “Wasn’t I?”

  “No auto shop there remembers you, Ralph.”

  “So maybe it was a bluff,” I said. “Maybe I wanted to play hard-to-get. You know, supply and demand.”

  Osanger was silent for a moment. “You’d better watch it,” he said huskily. “Someday you’ll outsmart yourself.”

  He went outside with Cluett. They drove off in the Chrysler. I settled down to work.

  *

  At ten o’clock a black detective sedan stopped at the entrance and Lieutenant Newpole stepped out. “Where’s everybody?” he asked me.

  “Out,” I said, wiping the grease from my hands.

  “You look like a real mechanic.” He grinned. He reached into his pocket and brought out his pipe. “We’re returning Osanger’s gun to him. It’s not the murder weapon. Tell Osanger to come into GHQ and pick it up. Tell him not to forget to bring the receipt we gave him.”

  “Are they sure it’s not the weapon?” I asked.

  “Positive. Ballistics took test shots. The barrel markings are different. If they had the empty cartridge case they could run a test on the breech-block impression and make doubly sure. But we don’t have the empty case, so this test is conclusive enough. And there’s no record that this gun was ever used in a crime in Mass.”

  I lit a cigarette. “What about Cluett?”

  “He claims he has no gun. Has he?”

  “I’ve never seen him with one,” I said. “What about Waldock, sir?”

  “Same story. No gun. Claims he knew Pomeroy only by sight. Anyway, he has an alibi for last night, too. He was visiting a rich widow in Norwood. Had dinner with her at six-thirty and stayed there until ten.”

  “You want me to still stay here, Lieutenant?”

  “A little while longer,” Newpole said. “We’re close to breaking the auto ring. I was able to get something out of that Irma Bean last night. She’s one of these arrogant little tramps with the flip answers. Those kind are easy. We were able to pick her brains, although it isn’t much. But she did tell us about the time in Wrentham when she and Cluett were picked up. She said she and Scotty came on Pomeroy as he was starting the car. Then the Chief showed and Pomeroy ran. She said she was very surprised about Pomeroy.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “I think she was,” Newpole said. “She’s not too smart. Anyway, now we know how the operation works. It’s pretty simple.” He smiled at me. “You started it for us. I told you you were our boy.”

  “You mean I set up the pins?”

  “More than that,” Newpole said. “You tipped us off on Waldock. Through him we found Cluett had bought a wreck. That lead petered out. But we moved from Cluett to Osanger. Osanger has been buying a lot of wrecks in the past six months.”

  “I knew it was tied up with the wrecks,” I said. “Some kind of swap is made.”

  “That’s right,” Newpole said. “The wrecks are bought in Albany or Providence or Boston. They’re towed into Carlton. Then Pomeroy’s job was to go out and clout a similar model from a parking lot. The engine of the wreck is transferred to the stolen car. Then the wreck is junked for parts. The wreck disappears. But the gang is still holding a legitimate bill of sale on that non-existent car. Right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “So the stolen car now becomes the so-called patched-up wreck. As long as the engine numbers are legitimate, they can sell it in a bona-fide way. So the car is sold on the open market.”

  “I don’t see where the profit is,” I said.

  “They’re only taking new models,” he said. “They might pay a good price for the wreck. But they can still make a thousand dollars on each car. Thirty, forty cars a year can run into pretty big money.”

  “Smart,” I said. “But what if the engine of the wreck is smashed?”

  Newpole rubbed his jaw. “I imagine they could burn off the number of the stolen car and burn in the number of the wreck. If they’ve been doing that, they’ve been taking a big chance. We can detect tampered numbers. They’d be better off waiting and buying only wrecks with good engines, or engines that could be fixed. We’ll soon find out. We’ve checked the records at Registry and we’re tracing down the location of every car Osanger sold. I’ve got a crew out on it now.”

  “Then I can pack up and go home,” I said. “I can get married in peace.”

  “Not yet,” Newpole said. “We’re not jumping the gun. I want the equipment and the location of the car drop. I want to know how many are in the gang and how far it reaches. And we still don’t know how Pomeroy was killed and who killed him.”

  “But we know why he was killed, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Not because he was going to talk to me. I don’t think they knew that. He was the weak link and had to be eliminated and replaced. I’m a tough kid with a record. I think I’m his replacement.”

  “Maybe,” Newpole said noncommittally. “We’ve been working on the murder. We picked up a young girl in Eatonville who had been friendly with Pomeroy. Her name’s Marylou Flagg. She said she’d been scared because Pomeroy was traveling with a fast crowd. Anyway, she has an older brother who hated Pomeroy and told him to keep away from his sister. We’ve talked to the brother. So far he hasn’t any good answers where he was last night.” Newpole shook his head. “Dammit, that’s the trouble with t
his case—with almost every case. There are so many loose straws. You have to pick up and examine every last one of them. You never know where these things end.”

  “Have you considered Pomeroy might be a suicide?”

  Newpole smiled wearily. “Sure. If he swallowed the gun and the expended cartridge case. But he didn’t.”

  “If he was shot from a distance,” I said thoughtfully. “Through the open bedroom window. At an angle. A good marksman—”

  “No. The lab men say the powder pattern on Pomeroy’s face showed the gun was fired about six inches away. Don’t beat your brains about it, son. It’s my headache.” He glanced outside the door. “We talked to Leta Joyce Nofke, but couldn’t get a word out of her. I think she knows something.”

  “She’s badly frightened,” I said.

  “I noticed that. I also noticed she had her eyes on you when we walked into the town jail last night. See if you can get close to her, son. She might be all we need to finish it.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  *

  Osanger and Cluett came back to the garage at four o’clock. I told Osanger his gun was waiting for him at State Police Headquarters in Boston.

  “What else did the cop say?” Osanger asked.

  “Nothing. He just said for you to go into Boston and pick up your gun.”

  “I’m going after it right now. I miss my baby.” He started outside again, then turned around. “Okay, you can go home now, Ralph. Scotty will close up.”

  “Don’t forget to bring the receipt back to the cops,” I said.

  Osanger walked to his car. Cluett disappeared into the office and closed the door. I took off my coveralls and washed up. But I didn’t go back to the rooming house. I drove over to the Empire Laundry, parked near the building and waited.

  At five o’clock the help started to trickle out. They came out in little groups, both men and women, some of them laughing, some serious, but all with their own particular companions. Leta Joyce Nofke came out alone. The sun hit her golden hair and caught the soft outline of her face. She started along the sidewalk.