by Ben Benson
“No, I won’t quit,” I said. “Not now. They’ll have to kick me out.”
“Good,” Newpole said, pleased. “It’s the best thing you’ve said. I was afraid maybe you’d go soft—”
“If there’s any—what did the Commissioner call it?”
“Culpability,” Newpole said.
“If there’s any culpability,” I said, “I’ll take it. What did they think I was, Lieutenant?”
“They didn’t think anything—yet.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I think it’s time to go down to the Danford Police and stir things up a bit.”
We were standing in the office of the Homicide Squad at Danford Police Headquarters. There was a long, scarred walnut table, and sitting behind it with the Venus file in his hands was Captain Charles Angsman.
“This is what we’ve got on Manette Venus so far,” Angsman said, tapping the folder. “The girl came to Danford a month ago to work in the mill. The Reeces have no children so they rented a spare room to her. We don’t know yet where Manette Venus came from originally. There’s a work ad from Chicago and that might help. We sent out a GBC for next of kin. It’s going to take time to find out.” He swung the chair around and looked at me significantly. “Lindsey, you sure you don’t know anything about her?”
“I guess she never told Lindsey much,” Newpole cut in. “What else, Charlie? What about her employment record at Staley Woolen?”
“Nothing, Ed. She gave her boss, Reece, her social security number, the old work address in Chicago and nothing else. I sent her fingerprints to Washington.” Angsman took off his hat and rubbed the nap very carefully. He had glossy black hair. He yawned. “What are you so interested in, Ed? What’s your pitch?”
“Well,” Newpole said, “I was wondering how strong a case you had against Ellen Levesque.”
“Strong enough,” Angsman said. “We found her with the gun. She admits firing the shot.”
“You got a statement from her?”
“Yes. She admitted it in front of witnesses. It’ll stand up. I don’t care how many friends she has in the S. P., or how many connections, either.”
“Nobody said anything about connections,” Newpole said coldly. “And nobody asked for a break for her, and nobody’s trying to cover anything. And that goes from Boston all the way here.”
“It’s been done before,” Angsman said.
“Not with us,” Newpole said. “I don’t know about the Danford cops.”
Angsman’s face turned a mottled red. “If you’re making any cracks about local cops—” he said furiously.
“Oh, come off it, Charlie,” Newpole said amiably. “I like local cops. All my life I’ve worked with local cops. Without them we’d have to close up shop. But every once in a while we run into snags in Danford. It’s one of those kind of towns. And you know it better than I do, Charlie.”
“I don’t run the Danford P. D. But just the same I’m touchy about it.”
Newpole smiled wryly. “Hell, another one of these sensitive cops.” He tapped Angsman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry if I rubbed your fur the wrong way, Charlie. Come on, I’ll buy the coffee. Then we’ll all go over to the Reece house.”
Angsman’s jaw muscles relaxed. “If you wait, I got a phone call to make first.”
I sat in a corner of the Reece living room and watched Ed Newpole talk to Mrs. Reece. He was polite and sympathetic. He sounded easy going and careless, yet he slid pointed questions in with such unobtrusiveness that Mrs. Reece was unaware how exacting and thorough he was. Again and again he asked the same questions simply by rephrasing them, as he checked her story for inconsistencies.
When he was through we found out Manette had come home at six last night. The Reeces left five minutes later to attend a dinner of the Danford Pioneers. Because Mrs. Reece wasn’t feeling too well, they had come away early and arrived home at seven-thirty. As they stopped the car they saw the front door open and someone run out of the house and disappear into the woods in back. They had run upstairs to see how Manette Venus was. Her door was open. She was lying on the floor of the bedroom, covered with blood. They had closed the door, rushed down and phoned the police. Then Mrs. Reece fainted away from the shock and fright.
Newpole smiled reassuringly at her. “You touched nothing in the bedroom, I’m sure.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Reece said, her fingers plucking at the crepelike skin of her throat. “We took one quick glance and ran.”
“And you have no description of the person running from the house,” Newpole said. “The light was bad?”
“Very poor,” Mrs. Reece said. “And we were a distance away.”
“Did Manette ever speak to you of her past, Mrs. Reece?”
“No. She was well-bred and exceptionally quiet. Many times I tried to draw her out, but she evaded the subject. We made every attempt.”
“She lived with you a month,” Newpole said casually. “I bet the whole time she was here something was bothering her.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Reece said. “Sometimes at night we could hear her crying in her room. But never a word from her. It would break your heart to listen to her. When I spoke of it, she said it was nightmares.”
Newpole tugged at his chin. “She was in some kind of trouble,” he said, as though to himself. “She never mentioned having enemies, did she?”
“No.”
“Who were her friends, Mrs. Reece?”
“This young man here. Ralph Lindsey.” She turned to me and smiled tiredly. “You were her friend, weren’t you, Mr. Lindsey?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I was her friend.”
Newpole said, “Did she ever mention a Cole Boothbay?”
“No,” Mrs. Reece said. “But there was a girl named Helen Toledo. An older girl.”
Newpole asked how it was spelled and he wrote it down in a tattered, dog-eared notebook. He said, “Did Helen Toledo ever come here, Mrs. Reece?”
“Twice. And not Manette’s type at all. Helen Toledo was a big redheaded girl. She was a waitress in some saloon. The second time she was here I could smell liquor on her breath. I’m sure Manette didn’t drink. She didn’t even smoke. And she did love this house so, and all our cherished antiques. I was the one who asked Fulton to board Manette here. Not only because the money was helpful, but also for her companionship.” She smiled vaguely and sadly at us. Her eyes were focused somewhere in the distance, going back to a different time, a different era. “The house wasn’t always like this,” she said softly. “In those days it was a country house, and when Fulton and I first came here it was bright and shiny like a new penny. There was a carriage house and a stableboy and a groom and a coachman. The servant quarters were on the top floor.” Her head flicked, her sad eyes fastened on Newpole. “Times change, sir,” she said. “Fortunes fall. When they do, one must carry on somehow. One cannot allow circumstance to subvert the morals. We have many debts and we are grateful to the Staleys for providing Fulton with a job. But it is merely a job, a subordinate position, and we don’t have nearly the income we formerly had. Do you understand, sir?”
“I understand,” Newpole murmured gently.
Angsman bent forward in his chair, his nimble, restless fingers smoothing the nap of his hat. He said, “Mrs. Reece, what about Mr. Lindsey here?”
“I met Mr. Lindsey only once,” she said. “He impresses me as being a nice young man. Shy and a bit reserved.”
“I mean, how did Manette feel about him?” Angsman asked, his voice sharp and metallic. “Did she confide in you?”
“We shouldn’t really discuss it in front of Mr. Lindsey, should we? A private matter—?”
“If you want him to leave the room—” Angsman said.
“No,” she said. “The girl is dead. It makes no difference now if I reveal a confidence of her heart. As it happens, Manette and I spoke of Mr. Lindsey yesterday noon, when she came home early from the office. I was asking her if she liked him. She said it was more than liking. He was everything
she had ever wanted. Then suddenly she burst into tears and fled upstairs. I couldn’t understand it.” She turned to me, her face grave. “Mr. Lindsey,” she said directly. “Didn’t you reciprocate her feelings?”
The back of my neck was damp. I could feel redness creeping over my face. “Mrs. Reece, I knew her such a short time. It’s hard to—”
“It’s not so important now,” Newpole broke in. “Mrs. Reece, do you mind if we go upstairs and have a quick look at her room again?”
“You may, Lieutenant. I have her clothes packed away in her suitcase, waiting for someone to call for them. Have you found any of her family yet?”
“Not yet, ma’am,” Angsman said.
We left the living room and climbed upstairs. On the landing, Newpole said, “Charlie, what do you know of the Reeces?”
“They’re prominent in town. The husband, Fulton Reece, is from one of the first families in Danford. Pioneer stock.”
Newpole took off his battered hat and scratched his head. “The old mansion’s been run into the ground,” he said.
“They’ve had a tough time. They owed quite a bit of money around town, but at least they managed to hold onto their antiques. Mrs. Reece is a sick woman and a lot of dough went to hospitals. Finally, the Staley people took Fulton in and gave him a job. These old families will stick together when they can.”
“What’s wrong with Fulton Reece?” Newpole asked. “He inherited money, didn’t he? With his background, you’d think—”
“He might be a little soft,” Angsman said stiffly. “Sometimes these old families will turn out a soft one.”
Newpole shook his head and frowned. “Let’s take a look at the girl’s room, Charlie.”
We went inside. The first thing that struck me was the scent of roses. I saw them in a green vase beside the small radio on the bedside table. There was a maple spool bed with a white candlewick spread. There was a maple chest of drawers. The maple dressing table had an oval mirror over it, a gay fabric covering the sides and front. There were two maple ladder-back chairs with bright seat covers. On the windows were white crisscross curtains.
“Manette Venus was here on the floor,” Angsman said. “She was lying on her back on the gray shag rug. The rug is down to the lab now. We’re checking it for blood type.” He went across the room and stood in front of the pink, flowered wallpaper. “This is the south wall,” he said, pointing to a gouged-out bullet hole. “We dug the bullet out here. The lab men went over the whole room. Not another mark in the joint.”
“What was the caliber of the bullet?”
Newpole asked. “It was a .32-20 slug.”
“Copper-jacketed?”
“No, the slug in the wall wasn’t. The gun was a pearl-handled .32-20 Colt with five copper-jacketed cartridges and an empty shell still in the cylinder. One had been fired.”
Newpole rubbed the side of his jaw. “But you said the bullet in the wall had no copper jacket.”
“No,” Angsman said irritably. “That’s the one thing I don’t understand yet.”
“There was another gun,” I said.
Newpole turned around. “What other gun?”
“Manette mentioned she once had a pair of these pearl-handled revolvers.”
“Once,” Angsman said acridly. “And how long ago is ‘once’? And where is the second one?”
“She didn’t tell me,” I said. “But it might be important.”
“We’ll keep it in mind,” Newpole said.
“I don’t see where it means much to us now,” Angsman said. “There’s only one gun and one bullet involved here.”
Newpole pushed his battered hat back. He stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. He went to the closet door, opened it, and peered inside.
“That closet door,” Angsman said, “was slightly ajar. I figure the girls were wrestling around near it and Ellen Levesque bumped into it. That’s where she got the crack on her head.”
I was at the window. I opened it and looked down at the ground. Newpole came over beside me and pushed the frilly white curtain aside. “I know what you’re thinking, Ralph,” he said quietly. “But nobody could have come up this way. This is the second floor. The sides of the house are smooth. There’s no grip. And no trees around, either.”
“There’s a garden bed down there,” Angsman said. “Anybody walking around outside the window would have left footprints in the soft earth. You can go down and see for yourself.”
Newpole came back to the center of the room. “Charlie,” he said, “have you had a chance to talk to Helen Toledo?”
“Mrs. Reece mentioned her last night. I sent a man to interview the dame. She claims she knows nothing. She was working last night at the Starlight Café. Been working there for months. I don’t say it’s the worst joint in town, but it’s low enough down the ladder. Manette came in there a month ago. She told Helen she was a stranger in town and didn’t know anybody. So Helen saw her a few times. They went to a movie. A restaurant, once or twice.”
“Manette never confided in her?”
“Helen says no.”
“Listen,” I blurted out. “Something’s wrong with this whole deal. Manette told me she knew not one solitary person in Danford, outside of the office workers at Staley Woolen. She couldn’t have known Helen Toledo for a month. She wouldn’t have gone into a dive like the Starlight Café—”
Angsman snorted. “No? You think she was a wide-eyed innocent baby?”
“She was a refined kid,” I said.
“Then what was she doing with a key to Cole Boothbay’s cottage?”
“She borrowed it for the day. There had been an outing there once. If you’d talk to Boothbay—”
“We’re way ahead of you,” Angsman said. “I sent a man to Staley Woolen the first thing this morning. Boothbay is an accountant there. He knew the girl, all right.”
“She worked there,” I said. “Naturally she’d know him.”
“She knew him well,” Angsman said. “Very well. And, in the past month, she was at the cottage more than once.”
“Not alone,” I said harshly. “She wouldn’t go there alone with him.”
“Wouldn’t she?”
“What did Boothbay say?”
Angsman laughed mirthlessly. “He says there was always a chaperon, always somebody from the office. What else would you expect him to say?” He straightened his jacket and adjusted his natty hat. “Stick around, boy. You’re learning about life.”
“Manette lied to you, Ralph,” Newpole said gently. “And more than once, too. With some people a lie is the shortest distance between two points. You’ll have to learn not to take allegations for truth. You’ve got to sift and check everything they tell you. It’s monotonous drudgery, but I don’t know of any short cut.”
“But why?” I asked. “What reason would she have for telling me these things?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” Newpole said, rubbing the side of his nose. “Charlie, who’s doing the autopsy on the Venus girl?”
“Dr. Lloyd Dirksen, the medical examiner, and a State Police pathologist, Dr. Neary. They’re at the city morgue with it. They may be finished by now. You want to see them?”
“Very much,” Newpole said.
CHAPTER 8
I sniffed the strong odor of disinfectant as I sat on the hard wooden bench outside the autopsy room. It was in the basement of the Danford General Hospital and there was a cold concrete floor. Ed Newpole tapped his feet against it, humming tunelessly. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to Captain Angsman and myself. As we were lighting up, Dr. Dirksen came out through the swinging doors. He was a thin-shouldered man of fifty, with a hollow-cheeked face and sparse, gray-streaked hair. He stopped when he saw Captain Angsman.
“Hello, Charlie,” he said briskly. “You waiting to see me?”
“Me and Ed Newpole, Doc.”
Dirksen peered down. “I didn’t see you, Lieutenant.” He laughed shortly.
“This place is like a morgue.” He bent over and gave Newpole a brief, hurried handshake.
Newpole said, “Doctor, this is Ralph Lindsey, one of our troopers.”
I stood up. Dirksen’s eyes squinted as he poked his hand out to me. “Oh,” he said. “So you’re Lindsey.” He turned abruptly to Captain Angsman. “The Venus case. Right?”
“That’s right, Doc,” Angsman said. “You finish her yet?”
“All through,” Dirksen said. He took a cigarette from Newpole with a quick, nervous gesture and sat down on the bench. “Good Lord, this early in the morning and I’m all fagged out. Dr. Neary already left. There was nothing unusual about the autopsy. What is it you want to know?”
“First, the physical condition of the body,” Newpole said.
“She was a healthy young woman,” Dr. Dirksen said. “Well-formed, fully matured. Of course, there was a bullet hole through her head. The entrance being about an inch over the left eye. The dispersion of powder residue, Dr. Neary tells me, shows the bullet was fired close, probably not more than six inches away. The remainder of the body was unmarked, unblemished. Well, not exactly. There was a small scar behind the right ear. She had a mastoiditis when she was a child.”
“The bullet was supposed to be a .32-20,” Newpole said. “The gun found on Ellen Levesque was a .32-20, with five copper-jacketed cartridges. One shot had been fired. Yet the bullet recovered in the room had no copper jacket. Which would lead me to believe that some other—”
“Hold it,” Dirksen said. “We found some copper fragments in the girl’s body.”
“Where, Doctor?”
“In the girl’s brain. Maybe Buchanan, the Danford ballistician, can tell you about them. He’s in the autopsy room now, finishing up.”
