Rafferty

by Bill S. Ballinger

‘But he didn’t,’ I said. ‘The way he was built wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Swanson. ‘I’d just say that he was half nuts.’

  ‘No. I think that Emmet sat down and tried to decide a way out. But he couldn’t. So he faced the facts. He loved Rose Pauli more than anything else in the world. She was the whole world as far as he was concerned. He decided what she was worth to him and he paid it.’

  ‘Could be.’ Swanson kept one eye on the street and searched his pocket for a cigarette. I offered him my pack and he took one. Lighting it, he let the smoke curl slowly from his mouth. ‘After... well, after’ everything was all over, I happened to run into a guy from the Homicide Squad who had worked with Emmet a lot. He was a pretty good egg. He’d worked enough with Emmet that he knew I had been a friend of his and we got talking. He told me some things. He didn’t think anything about them the time they happened. But later on, he began to think about them, and they added up. His name was Goshen.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Swanson. ‘He got shot in the back a couple years ago. He had to be retired, couldn’t walk. He’s living upstate someplace. I don’t know where.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  The winter wind was blowing down Broadway. But even at midnight on Sunday, the lights were burning brightly, and the streets were filled with wandering servicemen, going from bar to bar, cabaret to cabaret. They stood in groups before the shops filled with shoddy merchandise, or gathered behind the steamy windows of fruit juice stands to drink orange juice and eat hot dogs. The shooting was reported by a patrolman, who was in the Nightland Ballroom at the time. Within five minutes Rafferty and Goshen arrived. They climbed the stairway to the second floor, and pushed their way inside. Couples were dancing on the crowded floor, unconscious of the shooting which had occurred. The two detectives climbed another short flight of stairs to an alcove off the two-story ballroom. It was furnished as a mezzanine, and a door led into the office of the manager. A thin man with hair combed carefully over his head, hiding a growing bald spot, was seated behind the desk. His mouth was slackly open through shock. On the floor, in front of the desk, a body was sprawled. The body was dressed in a heavy topcoat, and was lying face down. A thickening stream of blood crept out from underneath the body.

  The patrolman was standing beside the thin man, watching him carefully and keeping him under a drawn revolver.

  Rafferty glanced swiftly around the room. It was simply furnished as an office. Back of the desk was a window opening on an air shaft. The window was painted over, the same color as the maroon of the walls. Rafferty tried to open it, and found it was nailed shut.

  He turned to the patrolman. ‘Did you report this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He pointed to the phone standing on the desk.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Rafferty.

  ‘I usually check in here a couple times a night,’ the officer replied. ‘Tonight it was cold and I decided I’d have a smoke before going back out.’ He glanced at Rafferty cautiously. ‘I didn’t want to break regulations about smoking, so I decided I’d come up here to the mezzanine which is usually deserted. Just as I started up the stairs, I heard a shot. It wasn’t very loud and was pretty well covered over by the music. I came on up the stairs, and this door was closed. I knocked and when I didn’t get an answer, I opened it. This guy was sitting here, and the stiff was on the floor.’

  ‘Did you see anyone leaving?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘There’s another stairway down the other side of the mezzanine?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you find the gun?’

  ‘I haven’t looked yet. As soon as I seen what happened, I called in. Since then I’ve been keeping an eye on this guy.’ He motioned toward the man at the desk.

  Rafferty turned to Goshen. ‘Check around,’ he said. ‘See if anyone was seen leaving this office, or going down the stairs. What’s your name?’ he asked the patrolman.

  ‘Mack, sir.’

  ‘Okay, Mack. Keep anybody else off the mezzanine. The medical examiner’s office will be along any minute. I don’t want any people coming up here.’ Goshen and Mack left the office.

  Rafferty looked at the thin man. ‘Your name and address?’

  It took a moment for the man to understand Rafferty’s question. ‘Judson,’ he said. ‘Claude Judson and I live at the Harrington Apartments on West Forty-eighth.’

  ‘Where’s the gun?’

  Judson removed a stub-nosed .32 from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Rafferty dropped his handkerchief over it, wrapped it around lightly.

  ‘Who’s the guy on the floor?’

  ‘A man named Barker...’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘I... I don’t know...’

  ‘Why was he here?’

  ‘To pick up some dough.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five thousand...’

  The papers gave the case considerable notice. It was recorded in headlines because Barker was suspected of being a courier pickup for the Syndicate, and because the Nightland—a name known coast to coast as synonymous for a taxi dance hall—was involved. Judson, represented by an able defense attorney, was not brought to trial for five months. By that time, the case had been nearly forgotten by the public. But at the trial several points of testimony interested Goshen. Particularly testimony concerning the gun and money. The details were never satisfactorily cleared up. Judson’s defense depended on the story of Barker’s arriving at his office to receive money which he had loaned to Judson. As Barker stood in front of Judson’s desk, the office door opened and he whirled around to face it. A gun appeared around the corner of the door and shot Barker in the heart. The door was slammed shut, and Judson heard the sound of footsteps running down the stairs. Within a few moments, the door was again opened and he was confronted by Patrolman Mack.

  Patrolman Mack was a witness for the prosecution. The assistant district attorney questioned him. ‘Where were you when you heard the shot?’

  ‘I was just coming up the stairs.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran up the stairs to the mezzanine.’

  ‘Did you see anyone there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘I opened the door to Judson’s office. He was sealed at his desk, and Barker was lying on the floor.’

  ‘Had Barker been shot?’

  ‘Yes. He had been shot.’

  ‘How much time would you say had elapsed between the moment you heard the shot and the moment you opened the door to the office and saw Judson at his desk, and Barker on the floor?’

  ‘Not very long. .. .’

  ‘Be specific. How long?’

  The defense objected to the question. ‘The witness is being asked for an estimate. He does not know the exact time.’ The objection was overruled.

  ‘Fifteen seconds... twenty seconds at the most,’ replied Mack.

  ‘Did you hear a door slam?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear or see anyone running down the other stairs from the mezzanine?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  On cross-examination by the defense, additional information was extracted from the same witness. The defense attorney was not too gentle with Patrolman Mack. ‘Now, you say,’ asked the attorney. ‘you were going up the steps when you heard the shot?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Could you see the door of Mr. Judson’s office?’

  ‘No, sir; not then.’

  ‘So you can’t say definitely that there was not the real murderer standing there firing the shot?’

  ‘Well, I saw the door a couple seconds later...’

  ‘Answer my question!’

  Reluctantly, ‘Well, at that time, no.’

  ‘Don’t qualify my questions. I want you to answer yes or no.’

  ‘All right. No!’ />
  ‘Thank you. Now, when you opened the door you saw Mr. Judson seated at his desk, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Did he have a gun in his hand?’

  ‘I don’t think so’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you think, the jury is interested in only what you know! Did you see a gun in his hand?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you see one on the desk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On the floor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anywhere in the room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Getting back to the time you first came into the room. Did you search Mr. Judson, then, for a weapon?’

  ‘Not then. No, sir.’

  ‘You did later?’

  ‘Well.. . quite a bit later.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Sometime after Lieutenant Rafferty arrived. We all searched the room and prisoner.

  ‘Why didn’t you search Mr. Judson when you first went in?’

  ‘I had a lot of things to do first...’

  ‘Tell me, please!’

  ‘I had to report the shooting, first. Then I had to be sure that Judson didn’t try to get away: I was anxious to preserve the evidence exactly as I found it. Besides, it was only a few minutes until Lieutenant Rafferty and Goshen appeared.’

  ‘But you and Goshen and Lieutenant Rafferty never did find a gun in that room?’

  ‘No, sir. We never did.’

  The defense questioning of Detective Goshen, Homicide Squad, brought out the following information. ‘When you arrived at the office of Mr. Judson, Officer Mack was there, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now according to Officer Mack’s testimony, he had not left the side of Mr. Judson until you arrived. He was in the room when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes. He was still there.’

  ‘While you were there, did you see Mr. Judson trying to dispose of a weapon—a .32 revolver to be exact—because, according to the medical testimony, Barker was shot and killed with a .32?’

  ‘No. He made no effort to dispose of a revolver.’

  ‘Did you ever see a revolver of any kind in his office?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you searched for one, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We took the room apart.’

  ‘Now, shortly after you arrived, Lieutenant Rafferty assigned you and Officer Mack to regular routine duties. What were they?’

  ‘Mack was to look out for the medical officer when he arrived, and keep the mezzanine cleared. I went out to see if I could find witnesses who saw anyone leaving the mezzanine after the shot was fired.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘There was no one who saw a person come down those stairs?’

  ‘Not that I could find.’

  ‘How many persons were present at the Nightland at that time?’

  ‘Maybe three hundred.’

  ‘Did you talk to all of them?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘So it is possible someone saw a person leaving the mezzanine, but you couldn’t find out because you didn’t talk to them?’

  ‘It’s not likely.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked you. Tell the jury, how you talked to the people you did.’

  ‘With all those people coming in and out, I went up to the bandstand and asked the band to stop playing. There was a microphone, and I spoke into it.’

  ‘The microphone?’

  ‘Yes. It was a public address system. I said there had been a slight accident, and we wondered if anyone had been seen leaving the mezzanine in the last fifteen minutes. If anyone had seen such a person, would they please come forward and tell me.’

  ‘Did anyone come forward to offer such information?’

  ‘No. sir.’

  ‘But someone might have had such information and still didn’t tell you, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Defense Attorney Stoltz to Lieutenant Rafferty, Homicide Squad, New York City: ‘Did the defendant, Claude Judson, admit that he shot Barker?’

  ‘He didn’t admit anything, when I first talked to him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was very shaken and dazed. He hardly heard my questions.’

  ‘When did he first admit that he knew Barker?’

  ‘Not until later... not until we were at the station.’

  ‘But, at that time, he told you he knew Barker, and Barker had been in his office to collect some money. How much?’

  ‘Five thousand dollars.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To repay a loan.’

  ‘Did he have the money to pay Barker?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was no money on him when we searched him, except for a small amount in his wallet. There was no money on Barkers body, either.’

  ‘Didn’t Mr. Judson say he was going to give Barker a check?’

  ‘So he claimed.’

  ‘Claimed! I move that remark be struck from the record. We have already offered as evidence that Mr. Judson had a large balance of cash in his checking account... more than sufficient to cover that amount.’

  ‘I order the jury to ignore the witness’s remark, and it shall be struck from the record,’ agreed the judge.

  The attorney turned to face his witness again. ‘The prosecution has attempted to fabricate a fantastic story that Barker was trying to force Mr. Judson to pay an extremely large amount of money—exceeding the five thousand that he owed Barker for the loan. That, as a consequence, to save the five thousand dollars he had on hand and to escape further demands, he shot Barker. Now, did you see any other money in Judson’s office?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you search the office thoroughly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You found no money. Did you find a gun?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Were there other doors or windows in the office?’

  ‘There was only one window.’

  ‘Had it been opened?’

  ‘It was nailed shut.’

  ‘Was the glass broken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

  Swanson stopped in front of the apartment where I was staying. In the light of the street, his face was hard and unemotional. He removed his hat and flung it back of the seat. ‘Goshen swore that Judson did the shooting. He claimed it wasn’t possible for anyone else to have time to get down the stairs before Mack arrived.’ He looked at me. He didn’t smile. ‘But they couldn’t find the gun. They got a hung jury. Judson was never brought back to trial.’

  ‘What about the five thousand dollars?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe it was just talk,’ he said.

  ‘If Barker was a collector for the Syndicate, that five thousand dollars would have been in cash,’ I said.

  ‘Barker was with the Syndicate, all right,’ Swanson replied.

  ‘But maybe Judson didn’t have the five G’s that night and that’s why he had to shoot the collector,’ I suggested.

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Swanson, ‘I’d like to take magic lessons the same place Judson did. You ever try to make a gun disappear out of a closed room?’

  ‘It isn’t good to think about,’ I said.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ He leaned across me and opened the door. ‘I got to get moving,’ he said. I stepped out of the car and closed the door. I reached in and met Swanson’s hard hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ I told him.

  ‘Okay.’ He gunned the motor. ‘Maybe some of those female pals of Rose Pauli’s are still around,’ he said. ‘They might be able to tell you something.’

  Swanson pulled away from the curb, and drove down the street in the night.

  Chapter Six

  I had jotted down names of persons who had appeared in the newspaper stories. The following day I selected from my notes the names
of five women who might have qualified under Swanson’s parting remark and looked them up in the Manhattan telephone directory, and then in the directories of the other four boroughs. Only two of them were listed, and both in Manhattan. The first name was that of a Mrs. Sarah Burke, living in an apartment building in the very low numbers on Park Avenue. I called her on the phone, and when a woman’s voice answered, I quietly hung up the phone, feeling that it might be difficult to arrange a meeting with a complete stranger. Immediately, however, I left in a cab for her apartment, and arrived at the building just before noon.

  The building was in excellent maintenance, and there was a brightly shined row of brass mailboxes in the small lobby, together with a small house phone, hanging on a hook. I pushed the button under the name of Burke, and took down the receiver. Again a woman’s voice answered the phone and I asked for Mrs. Burke.

  ‘This is Mrs. Burke.’

  I introduced myself and added, ‘I’m a stranger to you, Mrs. Burke, but I’m trying to get a little information about a former acquaintance of yours...’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’d rather not say too much over the phone... it’s rather public down here in the lobby,’ hoping to play on her curiosity. It worked, because in a moment she said, ‘All right. Come on up. It’s apartment 6B.’ I hung up the phone, and instantly there was a clicking at the heavy, plate-glass door in the lobby. I opened it and rode the self-operating elevator to the sixth floor.

  Sarah Burke was a pleasant, gray-haired, double-chinned woman in her middle fifties. She had a comfortable apartment, including a living room, with a wide expanse of windows, a small dining room, bedroom, kitchen and bath. The apartment was appointed with furniture reminiscent of the Empire period, and there was the intangible air of loneliness of a woman occupying it alone. I seated myself and declined a cup of tea. ‘I hope you won’t misunderstand my motive in coming here today,’ I said. ‘I have no intention of poking or prying and anything that might be said is entirely confidential. But for personal reasons of my own, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes...’

  ‘Your name,’ she said, ‘I believe I’ve heard it...’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and smiled. ‘I believe that at one time you were acquainted with Rose Pauli?’