Murder on the Docks

by H. Paul Doucette

  Danson turned his head from side to side a couple of times before speaking.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “It’s worth a fin,” Pete said.

  “Make it a sawbuck.”

  “A fin, or....” He let the unspoken line hang there.

  “Yeah...yeah, a fin,” Danson said. Pete pulled out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill.

  “What I need is where I can lay my hands on them.”

  “Jencks hangs out down da south end at Mom and Pop’s place. Kline, I don’t know. Last I ‘eard he had a squat down dat way too. He’s got skirt works over dere.” He nodded to the Green Lantern Canteen.

  “Got a name?”

  “Helen, I t’ink. ‘Eard she works down at da Lantern. Dat’s it. Dat’s all I got.”

  “You know if these guys workin’ for someone named Laurier?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say.”

  “Okay, forget it. What else ya got on these guys?”

  “I hear Jencks an’ Kline s’pose ta be mates.”

  “Okay thanks,” Pete said, slipping him the five-dollar bill. “Now be a good citizen an’ move along.”

  Danson grabbed the bill and stuffed it in his pocket then turned and melted into the passing crowd.

  Pete headed for the intersection and crossed over again. He made his way to the cafe and worked his way inside. He went straight to the young cashier at the front end of the counter. She was a pretty little thing he guessed to be still in her teens and was obviously loving all the attention the men were giving her. A definite change from the pimply boys back in high school.

  He pulled out his badge and showed it to her then put it away and took out his notebook and pencil.

  “Miss. You know someone works here named Helen?” he asked over the noise.

  “Helen?” she repeated the name.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, she’s one of the waitresses, why? She in trouble or something?”

  “Is she here now?” Pete asked, ignoring her questions.

  “No. It’s her day off,” she said, taking the check and cash from a young fresh-faced sailor who had squeezed up to the counter. He looked like he had just made it out of puberty.

  She took his money and rang it in on the old brass plated National Cash register.

  “Know where she lives?”

  “What?”

  “I said, do you know where she lives?” Pete said, leaning in a little closer.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. I think she’s got a room on Gottingen Street.”

  “What number?”

  “Um, I think I heard her say sixty-seven maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “One more thing, what’s her last name?”

  “Hollister.”

  “Thanks for your help,” he said, closing the notebook and putting it back in his pocket.

  Outside on the sidewalk, he stood scanning the street for an empty cab; which were as scarce as hen’s teeth this time of day. He finally spotted one coming up the street from the south and stepped off the curb, waving it down. It pulled over and he climbed inside.

  “Where to, bub?” the driver said in a bored tone of voice.

  “The corner of Cornwallis an’ Gottingen,” Pete said.

  The driver dropped the flag on his meter and eased out the clutch and took off.

  “Whaddya figure?” he asked in the same monotone voice.

  “Jus’ drive, okay?” Pete answered.

  “Hey...jus’ tryin’ ta be friendly.”

  Ten minutes later they reached the corner of Cornwallis and Gottingen Streets.

  “That’ll be sixty-five cents,” the driver said.

  Pete reached into his pant pocket and fished out some coins. He fingered out three quarters and passed them over the back of the seat. “Keep the change”, he said and got out.

  Gottingen Street was one of three business districts in the city, made up of medium to low priced stores, shops and a couple of restaurants. Most of the neighborhood though, was comprised of two and three-story wooden houses which nowadays make up most of the residences in the city. This area was also where many blacks lived who were not relegated to Africville or Preston.

  He found number sixty-seven. It was a wooden two-story building, probably built back during the last war. There was a grocer at street level. He looked up at the row of four narrow four paned windows across the front. There was a weathered dark brown wooden door at the right corner. When he stepped in front of the door, he saw a tin-plated panel with two names on pieces of paper that were slipped inside it: Hollister and McMurdy. Hollister was in number two.

  The door was unlocked so he opened it and went inside. The narrow stairwell stopped at the rear of the building and turned left. The corridor was lit by two bare lights. The rooms must be really small, he thought, as he walked down the corridor to number two. He reached out and rapped on the door. No answer. He rapped again, this time a bit harder. After a moment he heard someone moving around on the other side of the door.

  “Yeah? Who is it?” a woman asked cautiously.

  “Police. Open up,” Pete said, pulling out his badge.

  The door cracked open a few inches and he saw a woman’s face partially peeking out. He held up his badge.

  “Open up,” he said, saying the words in an even tone of voice. No point in putting her on the defensive.

  She took a couple of steps back opening the door wide enough for him to enter. She wore an ankle length housecoat and a pair of slippers. Must have just recently got up, he thought.

  “What’s this about? I haven’t done anything...” she started to say.

  “You’re not in any trouble,” Pete said as she closed the door.

  He took a moment and sized her up. Mid to late thirties. Tall and what some would call full bodied, not fat, but solid, with ample breasts.

  He glanced around the room.

  It was a large single room with two windows facing the street. There was a small space with a counter and sink with a single faucet set between the windows. A single element hotplate, which she used to make her meals and boil water, sat on the counter. A wooden table with two wooden chairs sat in the corner next to one of the windows. On the other side was a cot that looked like it could sleep two; a two-drawer dresser that also served as a nightstand sat against the wall. He noted the small mirror and a radio on top of it along with several items that looked like her cosmetics.

  “What’s this about?” she asked again as she sat down at the table.

  “Do you know Ed Kline or Harry Jencks?” Pete asked, taking out his notebook and pencil.

  “Yeah, why? They in trouble or something?”

  “When did you see them last?” he asked ignoring her question.

  She hesitated a moment then said, “A couple of days ago.”

  “Which one?”

  “Ed. Me and him are sorta stepping out.”

  “What about Jencks?”

  “Not for a week, I suppose. Look, can’t you tell why you’re interested in these men?”

  “We’re looking for them because they might be able to help us on another matter. Do you where these men live?”

  “Uh, Jencks has a place on South Bland down in the south end. Number fifteen, I think. Ed’s is on Tower Road somewhere. I don’t know where exactly, he never takes me there.”

  “What do these men do, ya know, for work?’

  “Work mostly on the docks, freight handling, stevedoring, that sorta stuff.”

  “They ever mention someone named Laurier?”

  She thought a moment before speaking. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How long you and Kline been goin’ out?’

  “Like I said, a few months.”

  “And do have any idea where I can find them now?”

  “Not really. I imagine they’re working.”

  “Know where they hang out?”

  “There’s a pig he takes me to once in a while, you know, on a date. It�
��s down near the Depot.”

  “Yeah, I know the place,” Pete said. The depot was a part of the Naval Dockyard down where Lower Water Street met up with Barrington Street. The pig was on Starr Street.

  “One last thing. Can you give me a description of these guys?”

  She proceeded to give him fairly good descriptions of both men which he wrote in his notebook.

  “Right. Thanks for your cooperation. We might wanna have a talk with you again.” He flipped the notebook closed and put it in his pocket. It was clear to him she wasn’t aware of what Kline was really in to. To her, he was a man who took her out and showed her a good time, and maybe shared a lonely night with her.

  The sun had come out when he was back on the street. He decided to walk back to the station which was only twenty minutes away.

  He had just rounded the corner at Cogswell Street when he spotted a familiar face standing in a narrow alley at the edge of the sidewalk. Ken Frances. He was a middle-aged black man; a pool shark and hustler and, one of his best snitches who was always good for information.

  “Hey Kenny?” Pete said as he approached him.

  “Pete,” Frances said, slipping deeper into the alley. Pete stepped in. “‘Eard you is lookin’ inta dat murder over in the Bank,” he said.

  “That’s right. Why, ya got somethin’.”

  “Not ‘bout dat I don’t.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Well, I ‘eard da sap got done in was a dock worker.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I been ‘‘earin’ ‘bout stuff disappearin’ offa da docks.”

  “Go on.”

  “I ‘ear it’s a pretty neat set-up.”

  “This goin’ somewhere Kenny? I’m busy,” Pete said impatiently

  “Yeah, okay, keep yer shirt on. Word is a certain Frenchie lives other side of the ‘arbor is runnin’ it.”

  “How good is this word?”

  He shrugged. Most of his information sources had proved to be reliable in the past.

  Pete pulled out his wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill and gave it to Frances.

  “You hear of a coupla guys named Kline and Jencks?”

  “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Jencks is a punk. Muscle. No brain. Kline. He anudder story, dat one. Mean. Don’t mind hurtin’ people.”

  “You ever hear if these guys work for someone named Laurier?”

  Frances shook his head. “I ‘eard dat name but nuttin’ solid. Sum ‘a da guys I knows drop ‘is name once in a while.”

  “Okay. Poke ‘round an’ see what ya can get on this guy an’ the pilferin’ business an’ let me know.”

  “Yeah, ya got it,” he said.

  Pete headed back out to the sidewalk and continued on to the station.

  Chapter Six

  The train came to a stop beside the platform inside the station. It was a long, high arched roofed building with dozens of low hanging bright lights over the several platforms separating the rail tracks. There was a deafening and almost oppressive quality to the noise from train engines idling on the tracks with their rhythmic thumping, punctuated by the frequent hissing from venting steam valves, and the drone of hundreds of voices and the occasional bark of some sergeant issuing orders. Then there were the smells — diesel oil, mixed with the steam, luggage, duffle bags and people.

  It had been a rough trip from Montreal. Space on the train had been commandeered by the military for troops heading for Halifax so he had to settle for a coach car. Fortunately, the trip was pretty much a direct one with only two stops between Montreal and Halifax to pick up more troops. He got lucky and was assigned a car with mostly civilians headed to Halifax and the promise of work, so he managed to get some sleep.

  It was eleven o’clock at night. Jacques Gagnon stood patiently on the platform at the end of the railcar with several other men, waiting for the conductor to lift the section covering the steps. He rolled his shoulders trying to work out the stiffness. Looking out the window he noticed several other trains idling on the adjacent tracks each disembarking hundreds of soldiers onto the platform.

  Gagnon finally stepped down from the railcar into a mass of brown greatcoats and bumped and pushed his way between the press of men with shouldered rifles and duffle bags at their feet to the terminal waiting room several car lengths ahead.

  The room was small, also with a high ceiling. It too was crammed with soldiers. He noted their regimental shoulder patches naming their origins: The Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry; Royal Canadian Artillery; the West Nova Scotia Regiment, all newly arrived for deployment to troop ships waiting dockside located behind the station. There were hundreds of them, even to the point of spilling out on to Hollis Street waiting for orders to form up and march to the docks.

  Gagnon maneuvered his way through the mob to the exit, holding his battered leather travel case tightly in his hand. Once he made it to the street, he went to the entrance of the hotel next to the station and entered the lobby. Spotting a bellhop, he asked where the phones were and was directed to bank of payphones down a short corridor. They were all in use, so he stood patiently and waited for one to become available.

  A few minutes later a woman stepped out of one and he took it, closing the glass panelled door behind him. The air inside was filled with the woman’s perfume which lingered heavily in the tight space. He lifted the receiver and dropped a nickel in the coin slot. After four rings his call was answered.

  “Monsieur Laurier?” Gagnon asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “I just arrived.”

  “Oh,” Laurier answered. “Have a good trip?”

  “So-so.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “The hotel next to the station.”

  “Okay. Go outside. Get a cab and go to the ferry. Take it across the harbour to Dartmouth. I’ll have a man meet you. Look for someone wearing a white scarf. His name is Wilkes.”

  Gagnon hung up the phone, slid the door open and headed back to the street.

  Thirty minutes later he stepped off the ferry dodging people and vehicles. He scanned the area, finally spotting a man standing in an overcoat and fedora wearing a white scarf.

  “Wilkes?” he asked as he approached him.

  “Yeah,” the man named Wilkes said. “Let’s go. It’s fuckin’ cold standin’ here.”

  They headed away from the ferry terminal and up the street. The surrounding area was busy with vehicles and wagons loaded with firewood, coal and other necessities needed in the city.

  “Is it always like this?” Gagnon asked as he stepped aside for three young women coming down the street, eying them as they passed.

  “Pretty much,” Wilkes said.

  “Hmm. Much further?”

  “Naw. Jus’ ‘round the next corner.”

  They finally reached Laurier’s place and, after hanging up his coat, he was led into the back room where Laurier sat behind his small desk.

  He stood up when Gagnon entered.

  “Bring in tea,” he said to Wilkes, then to Gagnon, “unless you want something stronger?”

  “Whiskey?”

  Laurier looked at Wilkes. “Bring me a tea, and a whiskey for our friend here.”

  “Okay.” Wilkes turned and left, closing the door.

  “Take a seat,” Laurier said to Gagnon. “You know why you’re here?”

  “You have someone you want killed,” Gagnon said in a cold and emotionless voice.

  “That’s right,” he said. “But not just one. There’s three of them. That a problem?”

  Gagnon shook his head. “Two hundred each.”

  “That’s a bit steep,”

  Gagnon shrugged and said nothing.

  Laurier considered this for a moment then said, “Two hundred.”

  “Bon. How soon do you need this done?”

  “Within the next two days. I have to locate two of them. The other one is in a safe place. I have a room for you here until the job is done.
That okay with you?”

  “Oui.”

  Wilkes returned carrying a tray laden with a pot of fresh tea, a mug, milk and sugar, and a large tumbler half filled with a golden colored whiskey and the bottle. He set everything down on the desk then left.

  Laurier passed the glass of whiskey to Gagnon then picked up the teapot and poured the hot rich reddish colored brew, first adding milk and sugar.

  “Mmm. Good whiskey,” Gagnon said, taking another sip.

  “Right off the boat. One of my men works on the docks. He makes sure I get a case when a shipment comes in.”

  “Lucky you. If that’s it for now, I’ll turn in. It was a noisy and long, uncomfortable trip. I’ll take this with me if that’s okay?” Gagnon stood up holding his glass.

  Laurier nodded and said, gesturing to the tray. “Take the bottle if you want.” Then he called out, “Wilkes.”

  A moment later the door opened, and Wilkes stepped in.

  “Take his bag up to the spare room in back. You can follow him,” he said, looking back at Gagnon. “If you’re hungry come back down and I’ll set out something for you.” He spoke to Wilkes, “After you’re done come back here. I got something for you to do.”

  “Right,” Wilkes said.

  Gagnon reached for his bag at the same time as Wilkes, shaking his head at him. He picked it up and the bottle and silently followed him out into the hall.

  * * *

  I was still in the office going over the latest reports Phil Mulroney had sent over. The items the thieves targeted seemed to be mostly consumer goods that were in short supply in the city: canned goods, sundries, cigarettes. Nothing restricted or connected with the military like guns or ammunition, that would bring the military down on them damn quick and carried much stiffer sentences if convicted.

  I had a pretty good idea who was probably on the receiving end of the goods. My problem was trying to nail the bastards with the goods. They never sold anything in the open and the goods were in such demand, I couldn’t get anyone to talk. And to make matters worse, many of these merchants were solid members of Halifax’s close-knit business community.

  It sickened me that there were always those who see bad situations, like a war, as an opportunity to profit. There isn’t a hole deep enough for them to be dumped into.