by Ben Benson
“You can drive it to the barracks,” Newpole said. “Lieutenant Granger here will go with you. Dolly will ride with Lindsey and myself.”
We went out into the cool night air. In the dark parking lot, Newpole said, “Will you hold up your arms, Mr. Reece?”
Reece put his arms up high and Granger moved in and patted his clothes. From the inside breast pocket of the coat, Granger took out a long white envelope. He opened the flap. Inside were a dozen small envelopes. Granger opened one, dipped a finger inside and put the finger to his tongue. “Heroin,” he said metallically.
Newpole turned to Dolly Pine. He said, “Would you open your handbag for us, Dolly?”
She giggled. “You think I carry a gun or something?”
“Worse than a gun,” Newpole said seriously. “Let’s have a look.”
She giggled again. She opened her handbag. Newpole took out his pencil flashlight and shined it inside the bag.
“You carry quite a stock,” he said.
“Business is good,” she said.
Newpole put his hand out for the bag. She gave it to him. He went over to his sedan and opened the rear door. Dolly Pine picked up her skirt and stepped in. I got in front with Newpole.
We drove out of the parking area, Reece and Granger behind us. I turned and watched Dolly Pine. She sat in a corner of the rear seat, her fingers scrabbling on the upholstery. She looked up and saw me watching her. She giggled inanely.
CHAPTER 16
WE were in the guardroom of the barracks. In a corner sat a tall, angular state policewoman. In the center of the room, in a large chair, sat Dolly Pine. Her young face was smooth and emotionless. Captain Walsh was standing near the window rolling a cigar between his fingers. Granger stood near him, his jaw moving slowly over his gum. Newpole was walking back and forth in front of the big chair asking questions. He faced Dolly Pine and said, “And how long have you known Mr. Reece?”
“Oh, a couple of months,” Dolly said.
Newpole brought out a picture of Manette Venus. “Did you ever see this girl?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But you’ve heard of her.”
She bobbed her head. “Sure, I heard of her. Fultie—I mean, Mr. Reece—he mentioned her.”
“How?”
“She lived in his house. She was murdered there.”
“Is that all he said about her?”
“He said she was pretty—the way I am. But he didn’t like her.”
“Why didn’t he like her?”
She wrinkled her snub little nose. “He didn’t want her around the house. But his old lady wanted a boarder and he couldn’t say no to her.”
“You think he and Manette had any trouble? Maybe he was mixed up in some deal and she found out about it.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Could be. He wanted her out.”
“Or maybe they were in the deal together and they had a fight about it.”
“I don’t know if Fultie would fight with her. Fultie’s a gentleman.”
“He could have hired somebody else to get rid of her.”
“Fultie? I don’t know. The old boy’s a soft one. He wouldn’t do nothing himself. I know that.”
Newpole rubbed his jaw. “Where were you last Thursday night?”
“That the night Manette got knocked off?”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was out somewhere.”
“Did you ever own a gun, Dolly?”
“What would I want with a gun?”
“Did you ever hear of Al Yekiti?”
“Sure, the papers have been full of him, the big bum.”
“You know him well?”
“Him? That broken-down tramp? Naw. He never had two nickels to rub together. Too cheap to get on the habit. Once I sold him a deck of weed.”
“Marijuana?”
“Sure. What did you think I meant?”
“Did Fulton Reece know Yekiti?”
“I don’t know. Fultie never mentioned him.”
“You know Calvaris and Horace?”
“Uh-uh. But I heard of them. Smalltime stick-up artists.”
“You haven’t seen any of them around the past few days, have you?”
“Not since they knocked off Helen Toledo.”
“You knew Helen?”
“Naw. I seen her working in the Starlight once.”
Newpole took out his pipe and filled it slowly and methodically. He lit it and puffed on it for a moment. “How long have you been selling drugs to Fulton Reece?”
“I told you before,” she said. “A couple of months.”
“How did he contact you? How did he know you were a drug pusher?”
She looked down at the floor with a half-smile on her face. She didn’t answer.
Newpole said, “What was the idea of the celebration at Conti’s tonight?”
“Oh, Fultie was complaining the price was too high. He figured he’d romance me this way. He was only kidding himself with the big business tactics. I’d eat the steak but he’d still pay the price.”
“Where do you pick up your drugs, Dolly?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“Where?”
She smiled up at him. “You shouldn’t ask. It’s naughty to ask.”
“Tell us, Dolly.”
“Uh-uh. You should know better.”
“We’ve notified Treasury. They’ll be coming down to talk to you.”
“It won’t do the Feds no good.”
Newpole puffed on his pipe. “You’ve got quite a load of dope in you now, Dolly. When it wears off you won’t be feeling so good. I think you’ll be talking then.”
“I’ll worry then, Lieutenant.”
“You’re charged with possession and sale of narcotics, Dolly. It’s a big rap.”
“I’ll worry when the time comes.”
“We’ve put a high bail on you. Ten thousand. Can you raise it?”
“Not now, I can’t.”
“Then the policewoman will have to take you down to the woman’s detention in Danford. She’ll take you into the dining room first and get you a cup of coffee.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dolly Pine said. She stood up and patted her hair. “You guys are real gentlemen. You give service.”
They brought Fulton Reece in, his suit wrinkled, his tie askew. Newpole said, “Sit down, please, Mr. Reece, and take off your coat.”
Reece took off his coat and sat down heavily. Newpole said, “Let me see your arm, Mr. Reece.” He pulled up the sleeve of Reece’s shirt. The veins from the elbow to wrist were discolored and purple. There were needle marks. The back of the hand was puffed.
There were beads of sweat on Reece’s forehead. He said, “What did the girl tell you, Lieutenant?”
“Everything, Mr. Reece.”
“A very stupid child,” Reece said, without emotion, his voice tired in defeat. “I don’t know what possessed me to take up with her.”
“Drugs,” Newpole said. “If not her, it would have been someone else.”
“I’m entirely at your mercy,” Reece said tonelessly. His mouth quivered and his jaw went slack. “Entirely. The Reece name, everything, is entirely at your mercy.”
“Would you want another cup of coffee, Mr. Reece?”
“Thank you. But the sergeant gave me some in the dining room. I could use a white powder, of course. Just a small amount. A tiny bit of it would be sufficient.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Newpole said.
“If the girl told you everything, then what do you—?”
“Not about drugs,” Newpole said. “We’re interested in you and Manette Venus.”
“I had nothing to do with her murder. I swear it.”
“She was killed in your house.”
“You think I—?” Reece shook his head. “But I didn’t, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill her. I was out with my wife that evening. I can prove we were at dinner at the Pioneer Club when Manette was killed. W
e came home and found her dead. We saw somebody run away.”
“You had some kind of motive,” Newpole said. “You didn’t want Manette in the house. She found out you were taking drugs, didn’t she?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t kill her because of it.” The drug was wearing off in him. He began to yawn spasmodically. “You’re making me sound like a hardened criminal. I’m not. I would never harm a living creature.”
“You killed a Shetland pony when you were ten years old,” Newpole said. “With a butcher knife.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Reece said, saliva appearing at the edge of his mouth. “To go back all those years. It was more than fifty years ago. I don’t know how you found out. But to go back that far to besmirch me as a criminal isn’t fair. I was a mere willful child then.”
“Sometimes the roots go deep,” Newpole said. “You’re a sick man, Mr. Reece. Manette found out you were using drugs. You were afraid she might tell your wife, or the Danford Police. You might have hired somebody to kill Manette. Somebody like Al Yekiti, for example.”
Reece looked around frantically at the impassive faces surrounding him. “I never met any Al Yekiti. I know he’s a gangster who murdered a girl a few days ago. He shot this trooper here. I saw it in the newspaper. I never knew him.”
“But you knew the girl he murdered. Her name was Helen Toledo.”
“Yes,” Reece said. He was yawning constantly now. “She came to the house once or twice to visit Miss Venus. I saw her at the Starlight Café twice afterwards.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was desperate.” His head began to loll and saliva dripped from his chin. “Dolly was charging me enormous prices for heroin. I tried to make another contact. Helen Toledo looked like she was in the proper element to do something for me. I gave her twenty-five dollars.”
“And what did she do?”
“Nothing,” he said jerkily. “She kept delaying it, promising. I never got my money back, either, and there was nothing I could do.”
“Everybody took a whack at you,” Newpole said softly.
“I was desperate, sir.”
“You need help, Mr. Reece.”
“What can anybody do for me?”
“There’s the federal hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Arrangements can be made.”
“But what can you do for me now, sir?”
“We have to book you for possession, Mr. Reece. But the bail will be only five hundred dollars.”
“My wife is ill. The shock of it—the scandal—would be very grave.”
“I’m sorry,” Newpole said. “We have to go after the Dolly Pines and the big ones behind her. Through you we can do it. If you’ll have somebody go bail for you, I’ll call the bail commissioner now. After your bail is arranged you go home.”
“I can’t call anybody. I can’t tell anybody.”
“You have a family lawyer. That’s what he’s for.”
“Very well,” Reece whispered. “I’ll give you his name. Please call him for me. It makes no difference anyway. Everything is over.”
CHAPTER 17
I was shaving in my hotel room, the next morning, Tuesday. Ed Newpole came in.
“How’s the arm this morning?” he asked.
“Much better, thanks,” I said. “It’s improving every day.”
“Good,” he said. “I got a call from GHQ that the lab report on the Venus case is ready. Do you want to drive into Boston with me?”
I dropped the razor and began to wash off the lather. “When can we go?”
“Now,” he said. “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?”
“Like I’ve never been before.”
“Sure, kid,” he said. “But don’t expect miracles. And let’s stop for coffee first.”
We drove along the wide, sinuous concrete ribbon that led to Boston. Newpole lit his pipe and puffed on it. He said, “Where’s your pipe?”
“I’m afraid I’ll chew the stem to bits,” I said.
“No sense thinking too much about it,” he said succinctly. “That way you’re never too badly disappointed.”
“I’ve had the breaks,” I said. “It’s not every boot trooper who gets a plain-clothes assignment like this. I’m grateful for it.”
“Well, like I told you before, you knew the deceased and the suspect. We’ve done it in the past.” He puffed methodically on his pipe. “Besides, I got a feeling in here for your old man. I was with him when he got shot. I suppose you knew that.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ve never forgotten it,” Newpole said. “Not for a minute. It was my patrol out there that day. I was alone in my cruiser. I got the radio call to bring in that wife-beater. You know the rule, son. To bring in one man, you need only one trooper. And if a trooper can’t bring in a man by himself, he can throw his badge on the desk.” His pipe went out. He lit it again. “But your old man knew this wife-beater. He might duck out the back way when he saw me coming, and we’d be chasing him all over the woods. So this time your old man radioed me to come back to the barracks and pick him up. We’d both go. So we went out of there together. Your old man, being corporal and senior in command, took the front door. He didn’t have to. He could have gone around the rear and sent me to the front. So your old man walked in and got shot in the back. It could have been me.”
“You shouldn’t think of it that way,” I said. “My father never once said anything of the kind.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Not your old man. But I can’t help thinking of it. I think of it all the time. And maybe that’s why I haven’t seen him too much lately. When I do, I come home and feel like kicking the dog. You see, it might have been me in the wheel chair and your old man would be a troop commander or adjutant today.”
“He never once complained,” I said.
“No, he wouldn’t. But I bet he thinks about it in the nights when he can’t sleep. So I try to do the best I can. If I can give his kid a break, it’s like giving him a break. I know what it means to him.”
“Thanks,” I said moodily. “I don’t know if I’ve given him much help myself. He’s been pretty sick over Ellen. If I hadn’t started with Manette Venus—”
“Hindsight is always better than foresight,” Newpole said. “Every man gets in trouble with a woman at least once in his life. Seems like a natural process almost, like getting bald. Sometimes the man is single, more often he’s married. Most of the time it straightens out by itself and nobody is the wiser. When it does make trouble, it’s always somebody else who takes the big rap for it. Funny how it works out. Seems it’s always a wife, or sweetheart, or mother or father, or somebody in the family who suffers the most.”
“Yes,” I said. “And sometimes all of them.”
We came through Worcester and along Route 9, past Framingham and the big red-brick buildings of Troop A Headquarters. Behind it were the Quonset huts of the training school where I had spent three months.
We came into the mushrooming suburbs of Boston—Natick, Wellesley, then Newton and Brookline. We turned off at Brookline Village and drove across to Commonwealth Avenue.
The Department of Public Safety was at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue. It was a large, square, factory-type building. The Ballistics Room of GHQ was on the fourth floor. There was a grilled steel entrance door which opened by electrical contact.
It was my first time there. Two of the walls were lined with glass cases displaying hundreds of pistols of all makes and calibers. In the corners were machine guns mounted on tripods. High on one wall were rifles, shotguns, foreign weapons, submachine guns, dirks, machetes, daggers, blackjacks and spring knives. There was a complete display of ammunition, carefully catalogued and labeled. In the rear were the filing cabinets and microscope tables. I recognized the square-mouthed centrifugal bullet catcher, and the wadding boxes used to retrieve bullets.
Sitting at his desk, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the State Police was Robert Clyde, Chief Ballistician. He was forty-eight yea
rs old, but his hair was prematurely gray, thin, and parted in the middle. He had a serious, stern-visaged face. Over his left eye there was a small clefted scar. Hovering in the rear of the room was S. O. Sergeant Philip Dexter, tall, young and light-haired.
I knew Lieutenant Clyde. He had come to the house several times and he had given a course in ballistics to us at the Training School. He stood up. He was tall and well-built. He reached out and shook hands with me, smiling diffidently. “Hello, Ralph. I just saw your father a few days ago.”
“I guess he didn’t look so good, sir,” I said.
“We’re all getting old,” Clyde said. “You’ve met Phil Dexter, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen him at the Training School,” I said. I shook hands with Dexter and he went back to his microscope table.
“Sit down,” Clyde said. He pursed his lips. “Ed, it’s an interesting case Chet Granger brought me.”
“You mean you could do something with it?” Newpole said.
“A lot,” Clyde said. I looked at his desk. On it was the .32-20 pearl-handled Colt revolver, a tag tied to the trigger guard. I rested my wounded arm on my knee and waited.
Clyde said, “The bullet Chet Granger brought was a .32-20 Colt cartridge. When it was fired, the bullet penetrated the head of the victim, Manette Venus. The copper jacket of the bullet separated from the lead core and remained in the brain. The rest of the bullet went through and imbedded itself in the south wall of the room. I matched up the copper fragments from the brain, with the core of the bullet from the wall. Danford Ballistics was right. It’s from the same cartridge. There’s no argument there. Not at all.”
Clyde stood up and left his desk. He went over to a rear table. “Come here and look into this comparison microscope, Ed. On the left is a test bullet fired from the gun. On the right is a large copper fragment from Manette Venus’ brain.”
Newpole stepped over and peered into the eyepiece. He turned around slowly and there was a peculiar look on his face. He said, “Take a look, Ralph.”
I went over and squinted into the microscope. “I see a bunch of lines and scratches.”
“Those are the barrel lands and striations,” Clyde said. “Look at both of them. Do they match?”
