by Ben Benson
He motioned to me to sit down. He said, “We were at the Regal Hotel last night. Helen Toledo has a regular visitor there. A man named Al Yekiti. Ever hear of him?”
I shook my head.
“This Yekiti is a torpedo with a record as long as your arm. Mostly armed robbery, assaults, stick-ups.”
Granger went over to the bureau and picked up his tie. “We sent Al away a couple of times.”
Newpole said, “The man is bad. I mean, nasty bad. In a holdup he’ll take the victim’s money, then beat him up, break his teeth, even if there’s no resistance. The man is vicious. No conscience, nothing. Just senseless meanness. He serves his time and comes out again. One thing about him. When he comes out of the pen, he doesn’t wait long before he pulls another job. We’d like to find out what it is before it happens. Maybe we can save some poor shopkeeper from being killed.”
“If you picked him up and questioned him—” I said.
Granger knotted his tie. “Hell, Yekiti wouldn’t tell you what color shoes he’s wearing.”
Newpole buttoned his shirt and stuffed it into his trousers. “So now we may have a tie-in between Helen Toledo, Al Yekiti and Manette Venus. We know the Venus girl has worked the badger game.” He cocked his head at me. “Did you ever think Manette was ready to make a proposition to you?”
“You mean a criminal proposition?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve thought of it,” I said.
“Seems like a perfect setup to me,” Newpole said. “I imagine she could show the hip to one of these old farmers and get him out to some tourist cabin. Then, just at the right time, a uniformed state trooper walks in on them. That would scare any man to death. He’d pay any amount of money.”
He turned and looked at me. I was staring morosely at the rug.
“Disillusioned, huh?” he said. “Sure, she looked like a sweet, innocent kid. But I’ll show you pictures of the nicest looking criminals you ever saw. Anyway, we’ve checked on Helen Toledo. She ain’t as bad as Manette Venus. Her record shows disorderly conduct, drunk and disorderly, nothing much.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tail Yekiti,” Newpole said. “I’ll give you his address and his car registration number. Watch what he does, where he goes. If you see him carrying anything suspicious, anything that looks like a weapon, shake him down. Otherwise leave him alone. He’s big and he’s mean. If you have to go up against him, watch yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’m going to try to be near,” Newpole said. “But I’ve got some other things to do. If you get jammed up, protect yourself in the clinches. Yekiti doesn’t use any rules.”
The morning sun was warm and a vagrant breeze stirred the papers in the gutter. In front of the seedy, ramshackle boardinghouse there was a black, late-model sedan. One window had a cracked glass held together by adhesive tape. The upholstery was soiled and grease-stained. I stood in an alley between two stores watching the house and the car. I had been there two hours and my legs kept getting numb. Each time I would shift them, stamping my feet, sending the nerves tingling again. The sun climbed and I could feel the heat of its rays on the back of my neck. A fat woman went by wheeling a baby carriage, her body soft and shapeless, her stockings wrinkled.
I waited. A delivery truck went by, milk cases rattling, leaving a trail of melting ice water. A Danford police car came slowly by, the two patrolmen lolling in the front seat, coats unbuttoned, faces listless in the Indian summer heat. A young matron walked by the alley, her heels clicking on the pavement, her arms full of bundles, her hips wigwagging under the weight. Then the front door of the rooming house opened.
I stood there rigid and motionless as Al Yekiti shuffled down the stairs. He wore a blue windbreaker and no hat. He was a huge, hulking man, with a hairy unclean skin. He had long apelike arms, the fingers extending like bananas on a stalk. He stood on the curb, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked up and down the street. I squeezed back further into the shadows.
Yekiti got into his car and started off. I sprinted for the black cruiser. I slid in, gunned the motor and turned out after him.
Yekiti drove uptown, through the traffic of Main Street and three blocks over. He parked the car in front of the Starlight Café. I drove by swiftly, turned the corner and stepped out. Yekiti was gone. I walked down the block and crossed the street. There was a small luncheonette with fly-specked window and fly-specked signs. I went inside, sat down at the counter near the window and ordered coffee.
I could see the entrance of the Starlight Café and only cool darkness beyond. But the sun was hitting the corner of the Starlight’s plate glass window, sending its rays into the corner booth. I saw Yekiti move in there and sit down. Two other men got into the booth. They were young, with hard, vicious faces and long, unkempt hair. Helen Toledo moved into view. She was carrying three drinks on a brown plastic tray. She bent over Yekiti and patted his head. I could see Yekiti laugh. He nudged one of the men, then put his arm around Helen. She swung around, put the drinks down, then disappeared from view.
My coffee came and I put sugar in, stirring it, tasting it. The coffee was muddy, stale and bitter, and the cup had a grimy rim. I put it down on the counter. I looked across the street. Yekiti was hunched over the booth, whispering, poking out a large finger at the men for emphasis. He grabbed his liquor glass and gulped his drink. I toyed with my coffee. The counterman was eyeing me curiously. I stood up, threw a dime down, and sauntered out. Next door there was a second-hand clothing store. I peered in the window, using its reflection as a mirror.
Al Yekiti came out of the Starlight Café. In his hand I saw a brown paper package. It was cylindrical, about fifteen inches long and four inches in diameter.
Yekiti went for his car. I moved fast. I cut across the street behind him, turned the corner and got into the cruiser. I turned it around, caught up with Yekiti two blocks away and fell in behind.
Yekiti drove back to his rooming house. He parked his car at the curb, took his package and went inside. I pulled up behind him, left the cruiser and ran up to the door. I opened it. There was a dark, musty hallway.
I could hear Yekiti’s heavy tread on the stairs above me. I went up on my toes, swiftly. I caught him at the door of his room.
He turned fast. His big awkward appearance had been deceiving. He was lithe and quick. But before he had swung halfway around, I was on him. I grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked the windbreaker down hard. It threw him off balance. He dropped the package.
“What the hell is this?” he grunted. He lurched into me, hitting me hard with his shoulder.
“State Police,” I said. I grabbed his arm.
“You crazy nut,” he rumbled. “Who you think you’re kidding?” He swung his other arm in the narrow quarters. His fist came up with swift force, sideswiping my mouth, glancing off. I bore in again, twisting one arm up behind his back, pinning the other with my body. A strong smell of liquor mingled with his rank body odor. Yekiti swore under his breath, trying to free his arms.
I heard the downstairs’ front door open and a figure came up the stairs toward us. I let go of Yekiti and moved away, backtracking. I reached for my hip holster and brought out the gun.
Yekiti, moving for me, stopped and looked at the gun. He brought his hands up slowly.
“Ralph,” the figure on the stairs called. I recognized the voice of Lieutenant Ed Newpole.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’ve got Yekiti.”
He came bounding up the stairs. Yekiti dropped his hands. “Hell,” he said disgustedly. “It’s Newpole, the state cop.”
Newpole pushed him against the wall and patted his clothes. He ran quick, expert hands down the legs. He pushed Yekiti away. “All right, Al,” he said. “Can we go inside?”
“Sure,” Yekiti said. “I got nothing to hide.”
He unlocked his door. I put my gun away and picked up the package.
It was a small, dirty room. There were empty beer cans on the floor and soiled clothing strewn about. I gave the package to Newpole. He hefted it. Then he tore the wrapping off.
It was a large salami. Yekiti sat down and began to laugh. He rocked back and forth in the chair, slapping his hands on his knees, bull-like roars coming out of him.
I looked stupidly at Newpole. Newpole’s lean face was impassive. I could feel cold perspiration on my body. Newpole sniffed. The windows were closed and the place had a fetid odor.
Yekiti stopped laughing. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You really got some slap-happy cops,” he said to Newpole. “How long’s this kid been around? Or does he think I’ll shoot somebody with a salami?”
Newpole said nothing. He went by Yekiti and looked into the single closet. He went to the bureau and opened the drawers. He rummaged through. He closed the drawers. He went to the bed, pulled the sheets and mattress back and looked at the dusty springs. He felt the pillow and the mattress ticking. He stood back and surveyed the room. “You find it?” Yekiti asked.
Newpole shook his head sadly. “What do you think I was looking for, Al?”
“A gun,” Yekiti said. “The hell with you, Lieutenant. I ain’t got a gun.”
“Now that’s no way to talk, Al,” Newpole said softly. “You’re losing your manners.”
“The hell with you,” Yekiti chanted. “The hell with you, the hell with you.”
Newpole smiled at him. Yekiti lumbered to his feet and stared at him, fixedly, like a bull in a pasture.
“What are you doing in Danford?” Newpole asked him.
“I’m only gonna answer questions I’m supposed to. I know my rights, Newpole.”
“What are you doing in Danford?” Newpole asked again. “Or do I get down to your level and stop acting like a gentleman?”
“I live here now,” Newpole said.
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a part-time loader in a warehouse.”
“What warehouse, Al?”
“Reach Forwarding Company.”
“Where were you Thursday night, Al?”
Yekiti’s brows came down in thought. “Thursday night I was at the Starlight. All night. You can ask Gus, the bartender.”
“And I can ask Helen Toledo, too. What are you doing with her?”
“The hell with you. That’s my business.”
“What’s the score on Manette Venus?”
“Who dat?”
“Don’t waste your wisecracks on me, Al,” Newpole said. “Manette Venus, alias Margaret Venable, alias Margaret Fleer.”
“A long one, huh?” Yekiti said. “Who dat?”
Newpole turned to me. “Where was he today?”
“At the Starlight Café,” I said. “He was in a booth with two men.”
Newpole scratched his nose. “Who were your two friends, Al?”
“Dick Calvaris and Rill Horace. A couple of old pals.”
“Nice boys, both of them. What were you doing? Getting up a game of checkers?”
“Nothing. I run into them. We had a few drinks together.”
“What’s the new scheme, Al?”
“Who dat?”
“The plan. The job you’re going to pull.”
“You bother me, Lieutenant.”
“Hurry up and get it over with, Al. Because this time when we grab you you’ll probably go up for good.”
Yekiti spat on the floor and rubbed the spittle with his shoe. “You got to catch ’em first, Lieutenant.”
“You’re easy to catch, Al. Catching you is as easy as waking up in the morning.”
Yekiti sneered, scratched his black mop of hair, then looked down at his black-rimmed fingernails. “Keep talking. I got nothing else to do but listen to you.”
“We’re through for now,” Newpole said. “But we’ll see you, Al.”
“The hell with you,” Yekiti said.
We went out of there. We came outside and stood there in the bright sun. Newpole scuffed his shoe against the pavement.
“It’s not good,” he said in a flat, weary voice. “We had to go and tip our hand. He’s going to be more careful now.”
“It’s my fault,” I said disconsolately, rubbing my bruised mouth. “I got all excited when I saw the package. I thought it was a sawed-off shotgun.”
“I can’t blame you. I might have done the same thing myself.” He grinned suddenly. “Who’d have thought he was carrying a salami, anyway?”
“I get too anxious,” I said. “I keep thinking of Ellen. The D. A. is going to do everything to convict her.”
“Which is his job. Don’t forget, you’re on the same side of the fence he is.”
“I’m going to forget it one of these days.”
“I don’t think so. I had a little talk with Fred Walsh about you. He thinks some day you’ll be doing the right things.”
“Not Walsh,” I said. “Walsh has no use for me. He tolerates me because of my old man.”
“No, he says you’ve got the instinct for police work. He told me about something when you were with the troop only a month. Something about a gas station burglary on the turnpike. Told me to ask you about it some day. What was it, Ralph?”
“It wasn’t much,” I said. “The station was having some trouble with breaking and entering. It was small stuff. Almost every night somebody would break in and take a few tires. The old chief in the town staked himself out in the gas station a couple of nights. Nothing happened. So he stopped. They broke in again and took some more tires. So the chief called Troop E for help. Captain Walsh sent me out.
“If you stopped and thought about it you had to know it was local boys. Because the thieves knew every move the chief made. So I drove into the little town and cruised around. On one side street I spotted a boy about fourteen years old. The boy saw the state cruiser and started to run. I jumped out and grabbed him. I said, ‘All right, where did you hide those tires?’ And the boy said, ‘They’re in my cellar.’ And that’s where they were.”
“You never saw the kid before in your life?” Newpole asked.
“No. But when he started to run—”
Newpole chuckled. “I get a kick out of it. You muckled onto that kid and asked him the right question. That’s what I call instinct. Not many have it.”
“It was more luck than anything,” I said. “I’m surprised Captain Walsh still remembers it.”
“He remembers everything, that guy. He’s got a mind like a filing cabinet.” Newpole looked at his watch. “I had a reason for looking for you. I asked Cole Boothbay to come to the barracks for an interview. And I want you there to check on what he told you before. We’d better get going.”
CHAPTER 12
COLE BOOTHBAY was wearing a well-tailored gray tweed suit. He sat in a chair in Captain Walsh’s office and crossed his legs comfortably. His liquid brown eyes had a bantering look in them. Captain Walsh hitched up his chair and looked stoically at my swollen lip. Ed Newpole took out his pipe and filled it slowly. He lit it and puffed. He said, “Purely routine, Mr. Boothbay. A few things we want to clear up.”
“Anything, Lieutenant,” Boothbay said.
Newpole said, “You told Patrolman Lindsey you lived in New York. Where in New York, Mr. Boothbay?”
“But I never told Lindsey I lived in New York,” Boothbay said blandly. “I lived in Hoboken.”
“How many years?”
“Off and on, all my life, Lieutenant.”
“But you worked in New York.”
“Yes. The Signet Crest Company. Five years.”
“Doing what?”
“Accounting.”
“What kind of company is it?”
“Import-export, Lieutenant.”
“They still in business?”
“Yes, I think so. In a small way.”
“Why did you leave them, Mr. Boothbay?”
“It was a small company. In all modesty, I was a bit too good for them, and they coul
dn’t afford to pay me what I was worth. They were handling war surplus stuff, and materials were getting less and less. Then I saw an ad from Staley Woolen. They needed accounting assistants. So I came here and got a job.”
“Were you ever in Chicago?” Newpole asked.
“No, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s talk about Manette Venus,” Newpole said. “Did she ever come to your apartment on Crescent Avenue?”
Boothbay smiled. “She was there. Once.”
“There were others who came there?”
“A few others,” Boothbay said, a slight smirk on his face.
“Girls from your office?”
“Yes.” Boothbay looked up, his eyes amused. “You won’t want their names, will you? It isn’t cricket.”
“We’re interested only in Manette Venus,” Newpole said coldly. “How many times did she go with you to the cottage on Deer Pond? And I mean just the two of you.”
“A few times.”
“When did the affair stop?”
“When she met Patrolman Lindsey. I broke it off then.”
“You broke it off? Why?”
“After all, we were having a clandestine affair, Manette and I. Frankly, I always considered discretion the better part of valor. I couldn’t see myself tangling with a big husky trooper.”
“Did she try to get you to change your mind?”
“Yes. She said she needed him for something temporarily. After that we could resume where we left off. But I was through with her.”
“Did she tell you why she needed him?”
“No. And I never ask a lady personal questions.”
“Didn’t you feel any attachment to Miss Venus?”
“No, she interested me no longer. I was beginning to get bored. It was an interlude for me, that’s all. I’m very philosophical about girls.”
“If you were so intimate with her,” Newpole said, “you must have known about her background.”
“Not a thing. I wasn’t interested. I knew she came from out west, nothing more.”
“Where were you the night she died?”
“At the movies.”
“Alone?”
Boothbay raised his eyebrows slightly. “Yes. Why?”
