by Ben Benson
Newpole drew slowly on his cigarette and looked at me with the corners of his mouth turned down. I cleared my throat. I said, “Doctor, could I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, Lindsey.”
“Would you say that Manette Venus was killed instantly, sir?”
Dr. Dirksen ground his cigarette under his heel. “We think so. Why?”
“This, sir. Ellen Levesque said after the gun went off in her hand she struggled with Manette Venus for several seconds. If she had shot Manette, how could Manette still fight with her?”
A short, cynical laugh came out of Angsman. “What makes you think Ellen is telling the truth?”
I whirled around to him, my fists clenched. “Listen,” I said. “I—”
“Now wait a minute,” Dirksen said. “It’s a logical question. Supposing the girl was telling the truth. We’ve had cases where people have been shot through the brain and haven’t died instantly.” He turned to Newpole. “Lieutenant, you remember the Delehante case a few years back. You worked on it.”
But I remembered that one myself. We had had it in a course at the State Police Training School. The victim had been a domestic named Gertrude Delehante. She had been found dead in the woods outside Danford with a bullet hole in her right temple. She was lying in the underbrush naked and covered with blood. Her clothes were strewn around in an area of twenty-five feet. And thirty feet away was a bloodstained, twenty-two-caliber rifle.
“You remember how we thought that one was a murder,” Dr. Dirksen was saying. “But when we reconstructed it, it turned out to be a suicide. We learned Gertrude Delehante had held the rifle to her right temple and yanked at the trigger with her right thumb. The bullet passed through her brain behind her eyes. But she wasn’t instantly killed. She was totally blinded and insane and she wandered about naked in the underbrush until she died. Am I right, Lieutenant?”
“That’s what happened,” Newpole admitted.
“So the Venus murder could be a similar case where death didn’t come instantly.” Dirksen stood up. “That’s all I have to say, gentlemen. I must run along. I have a meeting with the county health officer in ten minutes. Charlie, the assistant D. A., Dennis Hackberry, is still in the autopsy room. When he comes out, will you tell him I’ve gone? I’ll send him the autopsy report.”
“Sure, Doc,” Angsman said. Dirksen nodded to us, clamped his hat on his head and left. I sat down again and looked at Newpole. His face was noncommittal.
The door to the autopsy rooms opened again and three men came out talking. I recognized the assistant district attorney, Dennis Hackberry. He was a waspish, elderly man with a bony face and red broken veins in his cheeks, white hair and a bent posture. Behind him was a State Police Detective-Lieutenant, Chester Granger of the district attorney’s staff. The other man was carrying a black microscope case and I didn’t know him.
“Hello, Ed,” Lieutenant Granger said. He was chewing gum. He was a tall, loose-jointed man with a prominent jutting nose and a nervous, fidgety manner. “You here, too, Lindsey?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“This is Mr. Hackberry, the assistant D. A.,” Granger said to me. “The gentleman with the microscope is Bill Buchanan, the Danford police ballistician.”
We shook hands all around. Hackberry stared at me in disapproval, his mouth narrowed. Then he turned to Angsman and said, “Where’s Dr. Dirksen?”
“He had an important meeting,” Angsman said.
Hackberry looked at his wrist watch. “I’ve got to beat it. I have the arraignment at the district court.”
“What are you going to charge her with?” Newpole asked.
Hackberry turned as though surprised. “Why, murder, Ed. We’ll bind her over for the Grand Jury.”
“I don’t know,” Newpole said mildly. “Ellen Levesque claims it was accidental.”
Hackberry stared at him. “Oh, she does, huh? Tell him, Chet.”
“It’s a strong case, Ed,” Lieutenant Granger said. “The motive is sound. It’s a jealousy affair. Manette had taken Ellen Levesque’s boy friend away. So Ellen came down from Cambridge and forced her way into the Reece house—”
“It’s not so,” I interrupted. “Ellen wasn’t jealous.”
“Weren’t you engaged to her, Ralph?” Granger asked, chewing his gum, his jaws moving like a squirrel’s. “And didn’t you have a big fight the night before over Manette Venus?”
“Yes. But Ellen was sent to Danford by my father. And she didn’t force her way into the house. She said the door was unlocked.”
“She made illegal entry,” Granger said. “You’ve got to face the fact she was a trespasser. She forced her way into Manette’s room. There was a fight. Manette tried to defend herself with her gun. Ellen took it away from her and killed her with it. Then she took off.”
I looked helplessly at Newpole. He said, “Well, Ellen didn’t bring the gun there. You’re going to have trouble proving deliberate malice aforethought.”
“How much premeditation would she need?” Hackberry asked. “A day, an hour—a minute? The opportunity presented itself and she used it. But why argue with me, Ed? Let the jury decide if it’s a lesser charge. Of course, if she wants to plead second degree I might discuss it with her attorney. It would save the expense of a trial.”
“Ellen was struck on the head, sir,” I said stubbornly. “She was unconscious for some time.”
“Oh, was she?” Hackberry asked. “Let me tell you this, sonny. I know murderers. I’ve been up against a lot of them and I know all their angles. We had a doctor examine Ellen Levesque. Yes, there was a laceration and a slight concussion on the back of her head, but Ellen herself admits it occurred in the struggle with Manette Venus. She claims she was knocked out. But I’ll lay you dollars to doughnuts the girl wasn’t knocked out at all. She killed Manette just before the Reeces came home. When she heard them arrive, she made a break for it. She ran over, opened the window and was going to jump. But it was too high. So she ran out of the house with the gun in her hand. Luckily for the Reeces, she got away before they left the car. Otherwise she might have used the gun on them, too.”
“That’s not evidence, sir,” I said. “It’s only guesswork.”
“Don’t tell me what’s evidence,” Hackberry snapped. “The only evidence I need is that Ellen Levesque admits firing that one shot. She had the motive, and the intent was there. The bullet struck Manette Venus, went through and lodged in the wall. It came from a .32-20 Colt which you yourself found on Ellen Levesque in the woods.”
“It’s neat and tidy except for one thing,” Newpole said. “The gun contained copper-jacketed cartridges. The bullet in the wall had no copper jacket.”
“You’re not going to harp on that, are you?” Hackberry said. He motioned to Buchanan. “Bill, tell them what you found.”
Buchanan nodded his head. “We found fragments of the copper jacket in the girl’s brain. Those copper jackets will separate sometimes, especially when the bullet strikes a hard object. Bone in the skull, for example.”
“Could you determine the caliber of these fragments?” Newpole asked.
“Yes,” Buchanan said. “I examined them under the mike. The same as the bullet. .32-20. They match the bullet perfectly. Then there’s the empty cartridge shell in the gun cylinder. The shell matches the bullet, too.”
Newpole scratched his nose. He said, “Mr. Hackberry, what if she pleads self-defense?”
“Self-defense?” Hackberry asked. “Are you crazy, man? How can she say self-defense when she barged into that house? How can she claim she was attacked. The jury would laugh at her.”
“Then there’s only one more thing,” Newpole said. “I’d appreciate it if Lieutenant Granger would collect all the material evidence in the case. I’d like him to show it to GHQ.”
“What for?” Hackberry demanded.
“GHQ would like to have a look,” Newpole said gently. “Routine, more or less. You don’t mind, do you?”
&
nbsp; “No,” Hackberry snapped. “That’s Lieutenant Granger’s department. But you’ll have to wait a few days until I’m ready to release it.” He flung his cigarette across the room. It hit the concrete floor in a shower of sparks. He left us without another word. As I watched him go, there was a sickening, hopeless feeling in me.
Angsman pursed his mouth in a soundless whistle. “You hurt Hackberry’s feelings, Ed. D. A.’s don’t like to have their judgment questioned by cops.”
“There’s always a first time for everybody,” Newpole said calmly. “They’ve questioned my judgment plenty of times. Charlie, would you mind if Bill Buchanan brought those copper fragments into Boston?”
“Hell, I don’t mind,” Angsman said sardonically. “Do you, Bill?”
“No,” Buchanan said stolidly. “I don’t mind at all. I always like another opinion.”
“Fine,” Newpole said. He set his hat on his head and motioned to me. “I’ve got a few things to do, Ralph. So I won’t need you for a while. I’ll have Chet Granger drive you back to the barracks.”
I nodded my head mutely. I knew what it was. He was going to appear at the arraignment of Ellen Levesque for first-degree murder. And he did not want me to see her there, a frightened, bewildered girl locked in the prisoner’s cage as though she were some wild animal.
CHAPTER 9
IT wasn’t until I had put on my uniform again and had reported for duty that I realized it was almost Friday noon. I took a cruiser from the garage and went out on my Staleyville patrol. I used the alternate route on 129, nearing the Staley Woolen Company from the south with the sun at my back. I stopped and waited until I saw the armored pay truck pull away from the factory gate and head down the road toward the center of Staleyville.
I started the car and drove up slowly. When I reached the gate, I picked up the handphone and called into Troop E. I gave them a Signal Eleven on Cruiser 36 that I was going off the air at Staley Woolen Company.
I brought the car in through the gate, past the startled old guard in his gray uniform, and stopped at the two-story, red-brick office building. The riveted steel front door was locked. I rang the bell. A slit in the steel door opened and a guard showed his eyes. He unlocked the door. I asked for the office manager and was told he was upstairs.
Mr. Fulton Reece’s office was a small, glass-partitioned cubicle. His desk was cluttered with papers. His face was unusually red and perspiring. His suit was untidy, his shirt collar soiled. His eyes were abnormal, pupils enlarged, the movement constantly shifting.
“I’m very much upset about Manette Venus,” he was saying. “I was looking at her employment record a little while ago. It’s surprising how little we knew of her, poor child.”
“Could I see the employment record, sir?”
“Of course. Sit down, won’t you?” He fumbled around the desk, moving a tangle of papers. Then he pushed down a lever on his sound box. He spoke into it. He snapped off the lever and looked up at me. “They’ll send her folder right up.”
I sat down in a brown leather chair. I said, “Do you have a Cole Boothbay working here?”
“Yes,” Reece said. “He’s been with us over a year. Very good man. Efficient, industrious and the type who simply radiates self-confidence. I rely upon him a great deal.”
“Do you know anything of his personal life, sir?”
“Nothing.” His round full mouth pouted. “You’d hardly expect me to poke my nose into—”
“I thought perhaps Mr. Boothbay might have told you things.”
“Hardly. There’d be no occasion.”
“And that goes for Manette Venus, too?”
“Naturally. Neither my wife nor I knew anything of her personal life.”
It was going badly and I did not know what to ask next. A fluffy-haired girl came into the office, carrying a Manila folder in her hand. She moved by me in a flurry of lilac scent and handed the folder to Reece. She went out. I could see her walking along the counter that ran the length of the main office. She leaned over and spoke to a girl sitting at a typewriter. The girl looked at me and giggled. Another girl left her desk and the three of them whispered together.
Mr. Reece watched them with harried eyes. He stood up uncertainly, then sat down again. “You’re disrupting the office, Mr. Lindsey. I imagine the uniform is creating quite a stir with the girls.” He opened Manette Venus’ folder and turned it around to me.
There were two pages. I read them rapidly. “It’s not much, Mr. Reece.”
“I told you it wasn’t.”
“She gives a reference here,” I said. “The reference is the Avion Electric Supply in Chicago. This letter from them says she worked there three years ago under the name of Margaret Fleer. What kind of a reference is that, sir?”
Reece’s hands twitched nervously. “I know the change of names bothers you. But it’s really not so involved. At the time she was working in Chicago she was married. Her married name was Fleer. When she obtained her divorce two years ago, she reverted back to her maiden name of Venus.”
“Married?” I asked in a harsh voice.
“Yes, Mr. Lindsey, married. Her age on the record is twenty-one. She was married at eighteen and divorced at nineteen.”
“And the Manette part?”
“I don’t quite remember how she explained it. I think she said it was some sort of nickname. When girls are young they seem to pick up these outlandish nicknames. You should hear some of the girls’ names in this office. Sounds like an all-male chorus. Names like Billie and Jackie and Bobbie. Hers, I imagine, had the French touch—Manette. Very nice, too.”
“A nickname may be nice. But not on an employment record.”
“I suppose not. To tell the truth, I didn’t give it a thought until now. There are so many other things I have to do.”
“Didn’t you ever see her social security card?”
“No. She said she lost it. But the number is down here,” he said eagerly. “She remembered the number.”
“This working reference is three years old, sir,” I said insistently. “She must have worked since then. Did she mention Cleveland?”
“Not to me. Perhaps she was collecting alimony during that time.”
“These references are too vague,” I said. “A firm as large as this—”
“I’m trying to get organized,” Reece said helplessly. “I can’t get nearly enough skilled office helpers. I’ve even advertised in the Boston and Worcester papers.”
“But not in the Chicago papers. It seems queer that Manette Venus would come halfway across the country to work in Danford, Massachusetts. She didn’t know a soul here.”
“These modern girls act so strange. I’ve been here several years and I don’t know yet how to cope with any of them.”
“Thanks, anyway, sir,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Cole Boothbay.”
“Of course. He’s out in our main office behind the counter. I’ll introduce you to him.”
We went into the main office. There was the intermingling sound of typewriters and business machines. To the right was a large wire cage. Behind the grillwork a number of girls were busily taking packets of bills out of white canvas bags. Others were sorting coins swiftly and expertly. “That’s the payroll,” Reece said. “It just came in.”
“Did Manette Venus work in Payroll?” I asked.
“No. She worked in Accounts. I’d like to ask you something professional, Lindsey. How do you like our security here?”
“It looks good.”
“I set it up myself,” Reece said, his face beaming. “The only entrance to the building is the downstairs door. We keep it locked and guarded. We have a fire door in back of each floor. The one here leads to the fire escape. The doors are kept locked from the inside at all times. We’re always careful. That’s why we never had a holdup.”
“Fine,” I said impatiently. We were now in front of the counter. Behind it sat a good-looking man of about thirty. He had curly
brown hair and a round, ruddy, apple-cheeked face. His chin was dimpled and his mouth was soft and wet. He rose up from behind a flat-topped desk and came over expectantly. Reece introduced Mr. Lindsey to Mr. Boothbay and went away. We stood there silently for a moment.
“It’s about Manette Venus,” I said finally.
“Which is what I thought,” Boothbay said, his soft mouth spreading, grimacing. “Do you want to come inside to my desk?”
“No, I think we can talk fine out here, sir.”
“Poor kid, that Manette,” Boothbay said. His manner was bland and smooth. “We really were shocked about her death. All of us here.”
“Did you know her well?”
He affected a casual pose. He knew the girls in the office were watching us. He reminded me of a rooster in a barnyard surrounded by chickens. His face was smug. He looked bored. He said, “What do you mean by well’?”
“She had a key to your cottage,” I said evenly.
“Oh, yes. And I’m glad she wasn’t murdered there. The stigma, you know—” He adjusted the thick knot of his tie. “Gad, how some girls get involved,” he drawled. “But then, of all persons, you should know, shouldn’t you?”
My hands itched for his neck. Instead I said very softly, “Did she ever speak of her past, sir?”
“No.”
“Did you ever take her out?”
“Twice, I think. She caught my eye when she first came here. I soon found there was nothing to her. Pretty face, yes, but empty—a vacuum. Then again, I don’t care to get too friendly with the office help. Leads to complications. For example, I invited the office help to my camp. Gave them a break. They lead such drab, dull lives, you know. They didn’t appreciate it. It was a waste of time.”
“Manette was there those times?”
“Yes. Though she’d rather we’d been there alone. She had a crush on me, I suppose. Always phoning me at my flat.”
I wanted to punch his conceited nose. I took a deep breath and said, “Did she have any girl friends in the office? For example, somebody she could borrow a car from?”
