Murder on the Docks

by H. Paul Doucette

  Murder on the Docks

  Detective John Robichaud Mysteries

  By H. Paul Doucette

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9780228607267

  Kindle 9780228607274

  WEB 9780228607281

  Print ISBNs

  BWL Print 9780228607298

  Amazon Print 9780228607304

  Copyright 2019 by H. Paul Doucette

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  Maureen...as always

  Acknowledgements

  I also want to thank Ali Mae-Lynn Hebert and Tim Cohoon

  for their much appreciated contribution to this work.

  BWL Publishing Inc. acknowledges the Province of Alberta for their Provincial Operating Grant for Publishers, for its financial support,

  Prologue

  An East Coast Port, 1941

  It was early in to the third year of the war. The city was at the breaking point in its effort to handle the constant influx of ships, goods, materials and men destined for the fight in Europe. Bedford Basin seemed to be always filling up with ships of every nationality awaiting their perilous voyage across the Atlantic. A constant stream of railcars, passenger and freight, choked the rail yards that ran along the shoreline of the Basin. Along the waterfront, the sheds were filled to the rafters, and the rail sidings full with waiting boxcars, and cargo ships laying alongside the docks loading their precious cargoes, while others waited in the harbour streaming at anchor for their turn alongside.

  It was just gone two am. The dock at shed twenty-four was busy. Men bundled against the cold rain that had fallen for the last six hours, slung cables over five-foot-high pallets laden with boxed and crated goods bound for England. Forklifts and men with handcarts or dollies skittered about, moving cargo from inside the shed to the apron waiting to be loaded.

  The foreman, Louis Slaunwhite a burly man from Cape Breton, approached two men standing in the shadows just inside the shed door. His customary bottom half of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.

  “Whadda fuck you guys doin’ standin’ ‘round doin’ nothin’?” he growled when he stopped in front of them.

  “Take it easy, Louie,” Ed Kline said. “We was jus’ lightin’ up, okay?”

  “Yeah, well, git yer arses out there. Ya listenin’, Kline? This tub’s gotta be outta here by three, an’ them pallets ain’t gonna load themselves.” Slaunwhite shook his head sending water flying from his sou’wester before he walked away yelling at someone further off in the dark shed. “Hey you. Git that fuckin’ pallet outta there.”

  “Asshole,” Jencks, the second man, said as Slaunwhite disappeared among the stacks of cargo.

  “Screw ‘im.” Ed said. “You got the stuff ready?”

  “Yeah. It’s down at the other end.” he said, tilting his head toward the end of the shed.

  “When’s da truck ‘spose ta be here?’

  The man pulled out a pocket watch from his vest pocket and angled his hand to catch some light. “We got about ten minutes,” he said, putting the watch back into the pocket.

  “Right,” Ed said, “let’s git down there before Slaunwhite comes back.”

  The men took off, manoeuvring their way through the stacks of pallets and bales, keeping to the shadows.

  When they reached the far end of the loading dock, they stood in the shadows at the side of the open loading dock door facing the rail tracks outside. The tracks were filled with boxcars laden with war materials which arrived earlier in the day. There was a narrow passage at the end of the tracks where a truck could back up to the shed.

  “Whaddya figure this batch’ll git?”

  “Dunno,” Ed said, “I figure we’ll git a coupl’a hundred maybe.”

  “No shit! Ya really think so?”

  Ed shrugged inside his heavy overcoat, “Ya know what da boss’ like.”

  George Jencks turned his head and looked out the door. “Truck’s here.”

  Ed moved off, grabbing a cart while George opened the canvas flap covering the back of the truck, rolling it up on to the roof of the box. There were two men inside the back of the truck. He nodded, grabbed an empty cart and followed Ed to where eighteen crates and cartons were stacked in a pile. Most were marked on a corner with a painted black X. The men weren’t aware of what was in them and didn’t want to know. They started to load the items on the carts.

  A few moments later, they returned with two loads and hand bombed the items to the men in the truck.

  “Dat it?” one of the two men said from the back of the truck.

  “One more,” Ed said as he headed back into the dark, returning a few minutes later with another load that he dropped at the door. Suddenly, a loud voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Whadda fuck you assholes doin’? Stealin’?” Slaunwhite stepped up to the door and peered into the truck. “You stupid fuckers. I figured you assholes were up ta no good. Ya know dis means Dorchester fer da lotta ya, right?”

  Ed Kline moved quickly behind Slaunwhite, pulling out his cargo hook; a curved steel rod set into the middle of a wooden handle. He raised it over his head then brought it down with all the force he could muster. The point pierced three inches into Slaunwhite’s neck at the jugular. Slaunwhite instinctively raised his hand and grabbed the steel as he slowly dropped to his knees. But it was too late. His eyes rolled back as he fell forward onto his face. Dead.

  “Sweet Jesus,” one of the men in the truck said, breaking the silence. “Whaddya do dat for?”

  “Why’d ya think! I ain’t goin’ ta prison agin, ‘specially Dorchester. Been there once an’ dat was enough. Now shut up an’ let’s git outta here.”

  Ed had let go of the hook when the body fell. The four men looked at the body, no one saying anything. Ed bent down and retrieved his tool, cleaning the blood off on Slaunwhite’s coat.

  Finally, one of the men in the truck broke the silence, his voice a little shaky. “Give us a hand ta git da body inta the truck. We’ll dump it somewhere.”

  Ed and George dragged the big man’s body across the concrete floor and rolled it into the back of the truck.

  One of the two men inside reached up and grabbed the canvas from the roof of the truck. “You guys git outta here, We got dis.” He slapped the side of the box then pulled the canvas down.

  Kline and Jencks watched as the truck pulled away before returning to where everyone was working, each pushing a handcart loaded from the stack of crates just inside the open door. The tallyman signalled them to stop while he checked off the items on his manifest then flagged them on to where the stevedores were loading cargo nets on the apron between the shed and the ship.

  Later, at the end of their shift, they headed into the city, walking quietly without much talking. They eventually ended up at Ed’s place, a single room flop on the bottom end of Inglis Street. Inside the room, George sat on one of two wooden chairs at the small table while Ed retrieved two quart bottles of beer.

  “Hey, Ed. Where do ya reckon they’ll dump his body?” George asked.

  “Don’t know George, an’ don’t care,” Ed replied, bringing the bottles over, passing one across to his mate.

  “Jesus, what if it comes back at us?” George took a pull on his beer, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Ain’t no way they kin put it on us.” />
  “Yeah but...?” George said.

  “Look, I said ta fergit it, okay? What’s done is done. Nobody saw us, so we got nothin’ to worry about. We jus’ gotta stick to da same story if anybody asks any questions.”

  “An’ what’s dat?” George asked.

  “We ain’t seen him since comin’ on shift. Now drink yer beer then clear out. I’m beat.”

  Chapter One

  It was another typical Spring morning: grey, drizzly, with a trace of fog; at least the wind was down. The streets were already busy with traffic, mostly transport trucks and military vehicles. There were some cars, but not many, since gasoline rationing made using private vehicles difficult. People, mostly servicemen and merchant sailors, moved up and down the sidewalks bundled against the morning chill and dampness as they made their way in search of something to do, or heading back to their respective barracks or ships. The civilians eased their way through them, either shopping or heading to or from their jobs.

  My name is John Robichaud – Robie to most who know me. I’m a detective with the Halifax Police Department. I’ve been a cop most of my adult life. Originally from a small French fishing village not far from Cheticamp, Cape Breton, I left home in my teens and joined up with the 1st Canadian Infantry Division in 1916 like any loyal member of the Commonwealth. I was one of the lucky ones who survived the horrors of that war. I came back with only bad dreams and memories that have become less and less over the years.

  I came home on a troop ship that deposited me in Halifax, however, I wasn’t ready to return to Cheticamp; The war was still too fresh in my mind. I decided to travel to Boston and visit some ‘Yanks’ I’d become friends with while ‘over there’. One of those friends and I decided to join the Boston Police Department, where I served for two years as a patrolman. Turned out to be a good fit and I decided on it as a career. I eventually reached a point where I realized it was time to head home. So, I resigned part way into my third year and returned to Halifax, taking with me letters of commendation and a reference which landed me a place on the Halifax Police Force. After several years on the street, I made detective.

  It was six in the morning when I left home, taking the tram to the station. I arrived early, as usual, getting off at the corner of Barrington and Duke Streets. The station was located in the basement of the old City Hall building facing Duke Street. I made my way through the usual crowd of people in the lobby area, waving at the duty officer behind the raised counter.

  It was always the same: sailors, soldiers, foreign merchantmen, and civilians arrested on a variety of charges ranging from drunkenness to fighting and, for some spice, a handful of young women on prostitution charges. It was the ugly side of a port city in a time of war.

  Inside the small detective squad room, my partner, Sergeant Pete Duncan was already at his desk, going over a report. Two other men sitting a desk facing each other made up our whole department.

  I hung up my overcoat on a peg set in the wall, poured myself a fresh mug of coffee and went to my desk.

  Pete got up, came over and sat down before handing me the report he was reading.

  “Mornin’,” I said. “Anything interestin’?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “just came in. A body was found near Greenbank by a beat cop around four this mornin’. Looks like it’s a possible robbery gone bad, however, accordin’ to the cop, the victim had a major puncture wound in the neck. He reckons the poor bastard bled to death, although he also sez there wasn’t that much blood around the body. There’s a car at the scene to keep the gawkers out.”

  “So, why’s he think he bled to death?” I asked, thinking that there wasn’t that much blood around the body.

  “Sez his wife’s a nurse workin’ at the VG Emergency department. Sez she sorta taught him some things.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. So, this guy could’a been killed somewhere else?”

  Duncan nodded.

  I said. “Got an ID on him yet?”

  “No. His wallet an’ papers were missing, but the cop did find a stevedore union badge pinned on his hat. Figure we’d stop by the union hirin’ hall see if they got anythin’,” Duncan said.

  I nodded. “Where’s the body now?”

  “The morgue. M.E. said he’ll try have something by the end of the day.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Guess we go to Greenbank.”

  “Shit,” Duncan said, heading for his coat.

  “What?”

  “I hate goin’ in there. It’s a rat hole.”

  I followed him without commenting and collected my hat and coat. “By the way. Is that beat cop still here?”

  “Yeah. Duty officer had him hang around in case you wanted to talk to him. He’s in the lunch room.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Randall. Joseph Randall. Been on the force four years.”

  We headed for the lunch room. Constable Randall was sitting at a table with two other uniformed patrolmen drinking coffee and having a smoke.

  When they saw us, two of them stood up and left, saying ‘mornin’ as they passed us.

  “Randall?” I asked, stepping up to the table, dropping my hat on it and sitting down. Pete stood behind me.

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  “Guess you know why we’re here?”

  He nodded.

  “Right. Tell us exactly what you found.”

  He reached for the pack of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes on the table, took one out and lit up. Greenbank was his assigned patrol beat. His recounting of the incident was direct, clear and brief.

  He spotted a man laying just off the sidewalk in a vacant lot. At first, he thought the man was a drunk who had passed out, but when he went to check it was obvious the guy was dead. Randall went straight to his call box and phoned it in. Ten minutes later a squad car and ambulance arrived. They checked the body for ID but found none. Then they took the body to the morgue. The squad car stayed behind to watch over the scene.

  “Did you check for any ID?”

  “No sir. I figured I better not touch anythin’“

  “Okay,” I said. “You reported the victim had a ‘puncture’ wound in the neck but there wasn’t any evidence of a lot of blood.”

  “Yes sir. When I tried to wake him that’s when I saw the wound. It was right here.” He pointed to an area under his ear near the main carotid artery. “I flashed my light on it and it looked like whatever he was hit with punctured the artery, but when I scanned the surrounding area, I didn’t see a lot of blood. I mean, if that artery was punctured then there shoulda been a lotta blood.”

  “Yeah, there should,” I said, looking up from my notebook which I took out when I sat down. “Maybe it got washed away. It rained last night, right?”

  “Yes sir, but it stopped ‘round, three-fifteen this morning. The ground ‘round the body wasn’t that wet.”

  “Hmm, then what’d you do?”

  “Waited for the detectives to show up.”

  “Okay. Anythin’ else to add?” I asked.

  “Um..., yeah, I think so. I his cap lyin’ a few feet away, that’s when I saw the button.”

  “What button?”

  “This here,” he said, pulling something out of his pocket and placed a stevedore union ID button that all unionized dockworkers wore on the table.

  “Why didn’t you say somethin’ before?”

  “Sorry. I jus’ remembered.”

  “Anythin’ else you forgot?” Pete asked.

  “Uh...,” the constable said.

  “This isn’t the time for ‘uh,” I said. “Go on.”

  “I think I had a run in with him, the dead guy, a coupla months back.”

  “Remember what it was about?”

  He nodded. “I seem to recall he was beating on some kid. When I stepped in, the kid took off. He said the kid was his son. He was cuffin’ him for being outta school.”

  “So, this guy lived in the area?” Pete asked, speaking for the first time.

>   “I dunno for sure, but maybe. A lotta folks livin’ there work the docks, and with the railroad, so it’s likely.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood up, closing my notebook and put it back in my pocket.

  “Okay constable. Thanks for hanging around. If I need you again, I’ll call ya. Now go home and turn in.”

  “Yes sir,” Randall said.

  “So, whaddya think?” Pete asked the constable left.

  “Well, it’s a good bet we’re dealin’ with a murder,” I said.

  “Yeah looks that way. Think this might be connected with these latest reports we been gettin’ of pilfering off the docks?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “That stevedore button makes it likely. I don’t like it, if it is. It’d mean the local gangs have stepped up their game and it could mean we’re lookin’ at more violence.”

  “Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing. You think these guys are gettin’ more organized, ya know, sorta like you saw in Boston?”

  “The Mafia? No, I don’t think so. This is purely a local bunch. Maybe two or three families.”

  “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Pete asked.

  “Yep,” I answered as we headed for the parking lot.

  Our first stop was the stevedore hiring hall on Hollis Street. Pete pulled the car over to the curb and turned off the motor. We got out of the car and crossed the wet cobblestone street to the building, stepping over the tram tracks. There were a couple of dozen men standing around quietly talking and smoking cigarettes. They were waiting for the hiring agent to post the mornings call.

  A few men grumbled as we climbed the few steps to the door. The inside was a large brightly lit open hall with a set of small offices in a far corner. The floor was covered with fresh sawdust to absorb the dirt from work shoes and boots. We crossed to the office with four men inside.

  “Whadda you guys doin’ comin’ in here? Ya know da rules,” one of the men said. He was the only one sitting at a desk.