by Ben Benson
“I’ll make the wedding,” I said. “I’m not worried about it any more. I just have this thing in my mind about solving the murder.”
Newpole stared at me. “Let’s get out to the farm,” he said, pushing his foot harder on the accelerator.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFTER WE ENTERED CARLTON AGAIN, WE TURNED ONTO Route 111 and drove out past the Peppermint Stick. As we came to the Osanger farm I saw another black detective sedan parked along the side of the road. In it was Lieutenant Tileston.
“You expect Ken Osanger back here, sir?” I asked.
“Sometimes they come home,” Newpole said. “Another thing, I don’t want anybody monkeying around the barn until the lab men get through with it.”
He drove the car into the Osanger yard. On the porch Mrs. Osanger was rocking herself in a chair. She looked at me and the rocking stopped. Her hands gripped the arms of the rocker. Then the rocking started again.
I said, “What’s she doing here?”
“It’s her house, isn’t it?” Newpole said. “She’s been released on bail.”
I stepped out of the car. Newpole came around and faced me, his hands on his hips. “All right,” he said. “What’s your theory, Ralph?”
“This,” I said. “Maybe Pomeroy wasn’t killed in his house in Eatonville at all. I mean, you saw him drive up to the house and walk in. He was alive then. But he could have had the bullet in him.”
Newpole’s eyes became half-lidded. “Go on, son,” he said softly.
“Well, the idea is this, sir. One bullet doesn’t necessarily kill a man. I shot Cluett five times and he lived long enough to talk to me. So maybe it’s possible a man can be shot through the eye with a .32, then get into his car, drive home and walk into his house. If it isn’t possible then my theory is all wet.”
“It’s possible,” Newpole said. “It’s the only way I myself figured it could have happened.”
“It’s happened before?”
“A couple of times. We had one where a man committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He went into the woods, put the gun to his temple and fired the bullet. After that he walked four miles to his house. He died two days later. So it’s possible. All right, but where was Pomeroy shot? It’s ten miles from here to Eatonville.”
“I think he was shot here at the farm,” I said. “Listen to this, sir. After Pomeroy left me that afternoon in front of the drugstore, I followed him here. I saw Osanger drive up. I went home. It was six o’clock. At seven-thirty Cluett came in from Stoughton and met Osanger at Lil’s Café. Pomeroy was shot between six and seven-thirty, and it must have been Osanger who did it.”
“If you can tell me exactly how,” Newpole said quietly, “I’ll buy you the biggest steak in town.”
“It’s something Osanger said to me yesterday. He threatened to kill me if I went near Leta Nofke again. He said, after he killed me he would then cut me up into little pieces so I couldn’t get up and walk away.”
Newpole frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “Osanger said that to you?”
“Yes, sir. Why would he think I’d get up and walk away? Osanger wouldn’t believe the dead can walk. He was thinking of Pomeroy. He had left Pomeroy for dead and Pomeroy had got up and walked away. Why else would he say it? And wasn’t he shocked with surprise when you told him how you found Pomeroy dead in Eatonville?”
“Yes,” Newpole said.
“Because Osanger left Pomeroy for dead at the farm. Maybe later when it was dark he would come back, take the body away and bury it somewhere. That’s why he was so surprised when Pomeroy’s body was found in Eatonville.”
“So your theory is this,” Newpole said. “Osanger shot Pomeroy through the brain. Pomeroy got up, managed to get into the station wagon and drive ten miles home. All this, mind you, with a bullet through the brain,”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But only if it’s medically possible.”
“It’s possible,” Newpole said, rubbing his jaw. “But I still don’t get any motive. If Osanger found out you were a cop and Pomeroy was going to spill to you, then there’s motive. But Osanger didn’t know you were a cop. He wouldn’t have set you up on the Sharon job later. Cluett was suspicious, not Osanger.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But Vince Pomeroy was shaky. He was scared. He wanted to get out. He had muffed the job in Wrentham and was showing signs of cracking. They knew they had to get rid of him.”
“The theory is all very nice,” Newpole said. “I’ve been sitting with the same theory for a couple of days. But proving it is another thing.”
“There must be an empty cartridge case,” I said. “Osanger’s gun was a .32 automatic. It would eject a shell.”
“So where’s the shell?” Newpole asked.
“The best place would be the cellar of the barn. It’s insulated and soundproof. Nobody would hear the shot.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” Newpole said.
We crossed the yard. Newpole brought out a key and fitted it to the big padlock. We swung the barn doors open and went inside.
I lifted the trapdoors. I climbed down the ladder. It was pitch-black. The air was cool and dank-smelling. I found the light switch.
Newpole climbed down the ladder carefully. He said, “There’s some footprints in the corner. They might be Pomeroy’s. Don’t go near them. I’m waiting for a moulage to be taken.”
I pointed. “If those footprints are Pomeroy’s it means he was standing against the wall. If Osanger pushed him there and fired the gun, the shell would eject here to the right.”
“I wouldn’t guarantee exactly where any ejected shell would bounce,” Newpole said. “But let’s look.”
We went down on our knees and scrabbled around in the packed dirt. We covered every inch of ground slowly, sifting through the dirt with our fingers. Then, near a packing box, I saw a tiny gleam of metal. I reached out. It was half-buried in the dirt. A .32 brass cartridge casing.
I held it up. Newpole came over. He examined it, sniffed at it, then put it carefully away in his pocket. He sat down on the packing case and scratched his nose.
“So it’s neat and tidy now,” he said. He took out his black pipe and tamped tobacco into it. “Let’s try this for size. Osanger brought Pomeroy down here, lined him up against the wall and shot him. Pomeroy dropped. Osanger looked at him, saw the bullet went through the eye, figured he was dead and went back upstairs. He planned to get rid of the body as soon as it got dark.” Newpole stopped, scratched a match and lit his pipe. He puffed on it for a moment.
He said, “In the meantime, Pomeroy regained consciousness. His mind was jammed by the bullet in his head. Automatically, he climbed the ladder, got into the station wagon and drove home. He walked into the house and made it to his bed. That was as far as he got. He was bleeding internally. He died just about when you came in. The first Osanger knew that Pomeroy was in Eatonville is when I came to Carlton and told him. That’s why he was so surprised.” Newpole cocked an eye at me. “Is that the way you figure it, son?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Exactly.”
“It sounds perfect,” Newpole said. “It’s good reasoning, but it doesn’t earn you the steak.”
“But I thought—”
“There’s one thing you forgot,” Newpole said with a wry twist to his mouth. “Ballistics ran a test on Osanger’s automatic. They say the bullet they tested didn’t match the bullet found inside Pomeroy.”
“Oh, cripes,” I said disconsolately. “I did forget that.”
“Don’t give up on it,” Newpole said, puffing on his pipe. “Think some more. Maybe Osanger had another automatic pistol.”
I shook my head because that was no good, either. “Osanger had that one gun, sir. He was fanatical about it, called it his ‘baby.’ He even bragged to me he was a one-gun man. Look, maybe Ballistics made a mistake.”
“That’s wishful thinking, son. They don’t make mistakes. The gun-barrel tests eliminated Osanger’s gun. But I’ll
send this empty cartridge case to GHQ.” He parted my arm. “It was a good try, son. I mean, I like your thinking.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But there’s another thing still bothering me.”
“What?”
“Leta Nofke.”
He grinned. “So you’re back on that subject again. Take it from an old married man. Don’t tell Ellen. Don’t ever tell her—not even in a joke.”
“It’s not that at all,” I said hurriedly. “You have Lieutenant Tileston waiting here at the farm in case Osanger comes back. But if he does show up, he won’t come here. He’ll go straight to the girl.”
“Right in the middle of town?”
“You don’t know him, Lieutenant. He’s coming back. And he’s coming for Leta.”
Newpole looked at his pipe. “The girl would never go away with him.”
“Yes, sir, she would.”
“Why?” Newpole asked. “You told me she hates him.”
“It’s hard to explain. But she’d have to go with him. She’d have no choice. He has his brand on her.”
“What brand?” he asked sharply.
“A real brand. His initials. Burned on her like you’d brand a steer.”
“Hell,” he said. “One of those things. A sexual deviate yet.” He moved off the packing box. “Okay,” he said heavily. “Let’s go down and talk to Leta.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT WAS AN OLD RED-BRICK BUILDING WITH THE SIGN EMPIRE LAUNDRY over it. Inside there was a smell of steam, of soaps and detergents and unwashed clothes.
They brought her into the manager’s office and closed the door. She stood before us, her blonde hair lusterless, matted and damp. Patches of perspiration on her smock made the fabric cling to her rounded figure. Her face was a damp, waxen mask and her eyes were dull and lifeless.
“Hello, Leta,” I said, standing up.
“Hello,” she said tonelessly. “They tell me you’re a state trooper.”
“Yes, Leta.”
“Did you have a lot of fun with the job? Did you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “They gave me the job and I had to do it.”
She nodded listlessly and turned to Newpole. “You’re the lieutenant, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Nofke,” he said.
“Lincoln was working for you, wasn’t he? You gave him his orders?”
“Yes.”
“You told Lincoln to make love to me? Was that part of the job, too?”
“His name is Lindsey, not Lincoln,” Newpole said gently. “I’m sorry, Miss Nofke. He had his orders to work his way into the gang. If softening you up would help, he was told to do that, too.” Newpole smiled. “Don’t blame the kid. He was doing what he was told. Besides, he’s been thinking about you. He’s been worried.”
“Worried?” she asked. “What does he have to be worried about now? Hasn’t he cracked the case for you?”
“He’s worried about Ken Osanger,” Newpole said.
“I see,” she said. “Maybe he thinks I know where Ken is.”
“Do you?” Newpole asked, his eyes suddenly alert.
“No,” I said to her. “I didn’t think that—”
“Tell him, Lieutenant,” she said. “Order him to make love to me so I can tell him where to find Ken Osanger. Go ahead, tell him to do it. Only it’ll be a waste of time and effort, Lieutenant. Because I don’t know where Ken is.”
“No,” I said to her. “I’m worried that Ken will be back after you, Leta.”
“Yes, he’ll be back,” she said quietly. “And he won’t wait long.”
“He’ll want to take you away with him,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “He’s coming back to kill me. You see, now he thinks you were my lover, that I squealed to you. He thinks I’ve told you everything.”
“But it’s not true,” I said. “He can’t think that.”
“Can’t he?” Her shoulders drooped wearily. “I guess I don’t care any more what Ken thinks. I’ll just wait for it, like a lamb in a slaughterhouse.”
“That’s why we came,” I said.
“You’ll never stop him,” she said. “He’s made up his mind to kill me and he’ll do it. He’s smarter than any of you. He’s outsmarted cops all his life. Any day he’ll be here.” Her mouth twisted. “And if I was smart I’d go pick out a casket.”
“He won’t get to you, Miss Nofke,” Newpole said. “We’ll see to that.” He motioned to a chair. “Sit down, please.”
She moved into the chair. Newpole said, “Let me ask you something. Do you have a telephone in your house?”
“No,” she said. “Who can afford a telephone?”
Newpole pursed his lips. “Then the only way Osanger can contact you is by mail or telegram. Look, he might write and ask you to meet him somewhere. If you don’t go, he’ll have to come after you.”
“He’ll come for me,” she said. “You can be sure.”
“Fine,” Newpole said cheerfully. “Let him come. I want you to go along with your usual routine. Except for one thing. You may have to stay home for a few days so we can keep an eye on you. We’ll handle the rest of it fine.”
“Send me flowers,” she said. “I won’t be able to smell them, but they’ll look real pretty on my grave. And look after my father. Will you, please?”
“Don’t talk like that, Miss Nofke,” Newpole said.
“I have to get ready. You don’t know Ken, Lieutenant. I do. This trooper does, too. Ask him.”
Newpole patted her shoulder and motioned to me. We left the office, Newpole closing the door softly. Outside, he took off his hat and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
“She’s fey,” he said. “You know what ‘fey’ means?”
“I think so, sir,” I said. “You mean she acts like she’s doomed to die, that there’s a feeling of death around her.”
“Yes, and she’s resigned to it. What do you think, Ralph?”
“I think she has reason for it,” I said. “He’ll be back to kill her. And he may want me, too, Lieutenant. That’s the way Osanger’s mind works.”
“That’s good,” Newpole said. “I want him to come. If he’s able to break through the net and get into this area we’ll have him in a trap. I’ll get a crew of detectives in right away. The only tough thing about it is that we can’t keep the girl under open surveillance without Osanger spotting it. But we’ll make out all right. Come on, I want to take a good look at the Nofke house.”
We drove down Mill Street. We passed the big vacant lot where I had seen the youngsters playing ball. Newpole parked the car in front of the Nofke house. He stepped out. I followed him. Newpole looked speculatively across the street.
There was a row of boxlike houses, and one of them in particular interested Newpole. It was obliquely across from the Nofke house. Its shabby paint was peeling and discolored, but, unlike the others, it had a big, old-fashioned bay window.
“There’s a house that will make a good stakeout,” Newpole said to me. “The big windows jutting out make it ideal. One man can sit behind it and cover the whole street at a glance. I’ll have to find out who lives in it.”
He turned in toward the Nofke house. We went along the side of it and out to the back. He looked at the broad, weed-filled field stretching out behind the house.
“This is good, too,” Newpole said. “From the stakeout across the street we’ll be able to see this field. We’ll be able to spot anybody approaching the Nofke house from the back.”
“Not at night, sir,” I said.
“At night we put a man in back,” he said. He pointed to the rear porch and a small, glass-enclosed vestibule there. “A man can sit in the shadows of that porch and nobody will see him.” He started back for the street. “I think that fixes us up pretty good.”
“Lieutenant,” I said suddenly. “Put me on the crew.”
He stopped, turned, and stared at me. “Hell, no,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t figure on using you, Ralph. Your part of the job is over. I thought you’d be glad to get away from here. Go back to the troops and ride around in the nice, fresh country air until the wedding.”
“I’d rather be here, sir.”
“This way you’d be cooped up in a stuffy old house. There’s nothing lousier than a stakeout.” He shook his head. “Dammit, why the switch? Why do you want such a monotonous job?”
“I owe it,” I said. “I got the girl into the jam. I want to see it through. If I were here with her—”
“If you were here, you’d what?” he interrupted sardonically. “What would you do that an experienced detective wouldn’t do?”
“That’s not what I mean, sir,” I said. “I’ve got an obligation. It’s my fault the girl is in trouble. I wouldn’t feel right if I walked away. Besides, Osanger may be gunning for me, too. I want to meet him halfway.”
“You’re nuts,” Newpole said. “What the hell do you think this is? Some kind of a private duel?”
“Sir,” I said, “how would you feel if you were me?”
“I’m not twenty-three,” he said. “I’m past the eager-beaver stage.” He stared down at his shoes. “All right, all right,” he said finally, grudgingly. “But you’ll find you won’t like it.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“I ought to have my head examined,” he said. “Go on back to Cambridge, get a change of clothes and report back here. I’ll call your major and make the arrangements.” He started to walk back to the car. “I don’t know how long this will take. But we can’t have detectives assigned here indefinitely. Not on a case like this. The taxpayers would complain.”
“We won’t have to wait long,” I said, looking back at the Nofke house. “Osanger will be here soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NOFKE HOUSE HAD BEEN STAKED OUT FOR TWO DAYS NOW. I was in the house obliquely across from it. It was a small yellow bungalow and it had been occupied by an elderly couple. Two days ago the Commonwealth had sent them happily on a visit to their daughter and grandchildren in Willimantic, Connecticut.
