The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You think he shot Flemming, lost his courage, got to brooding, bought a bottle—” He stopped as a new thought came to him. “How could he get in here last night?”

  “He had a key,” Ballard said. “The band rehearsed sometimes during the day when the place wasn’t open. And I go along with what you were saying. When Estey had a chance to think, he knew he was a dead duck anyway. He had no place to go. He knew we wouldn’t know about this room, that he’d be safe here for a while. But he also knew that we’d grab him in a day or two, knew we’d find out about the fight, and the threat he made. He brought a bottle in here with him and started hitting it. The more he drank, the more he brooded. When he realized the score, when the despair or hopelessness or whatever you want to call it got too much for him, he had enough false courage to pull the trigger. How else can you figure it?”

  It was an articulate and sincere statement and Standish lacked the facts to argue the alternatives. He was not convinced but he understood that his reluctance to accept the explanation was a matter of personal judgment and prejudice, which had as its basis no more than his own feelings about the victim.

  “You could be right, Tom,” he said, “but, knowing Estey, I can’t quite buy that yet.” He put out his cigarette and leaned forward on the couch. “Will you do me a favor?”

  Ballard eyed him with veiled suspicion before he said: “If I can.”

  “I don’t have to hurry the p.m., so have your lab man do a paraffin test on Estey’s right hand sometime tonight, will you?”

  “A paraffin test?” Ballard’s tone was openly incredulous. “You have to be kidding. That test is old-hat these days.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It’s not conclusive. It won’t stand up in court.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a fact,” Ballard said, trying to be patient, “that no hand gun has an absolutely tight breech. They discovered years ago that there could be traces of nitrate, or whatever the hell they make powder of, on a man’s hand when he fired a gun. Twenty years ago nobody argued the point until some smart guy discovered that there were other ways of getting the same characteristic traces on the hand of a man who never even had a gun.”

  “Sure,” Standish said, and grinned at the vehemence of the lieutenant’s argument.

  “What do you mean, sure? What’s your point?”

  “Well, if your paraffin test comes up with those characteristic traces you speak of you have done me a favor. If, on the other hand, Estey’s hand happens to be clean then you’d better look around for some explanation of how he could put that bullet through his brain without holding a gun.”

  Ballard started to say something and then stopped. He scowled at Standish, annoyance showing in his gray eyes. He stalked across the room and came back. He stepped into a tiny cubicle that contained a toilet, a washbowl, and two smudged and dirty glasses that had not seen soap and hot water in weeks. He removed his hat and replaced it. He grunted and gave a tiny shake of his head before he digressed.

  “What is it with you anyway, Doc? Anybody’d think this guy was your brother.”

  “Will you have the test made?”

  “Well—sure. But if you think it’s going to prove—”

  “I’m not talking about proof in the literal sense,” Standish said, interrupting. “I’d just like to get at the truth. I’m going to keep digging until I do. . . . What about Sheila Keith?” he asked, to change the subject.

  “How do you mean?” Ballard said, the scowl still working on his good-looking face.

  “She knows about this, doesn’t she?”

  “Sure. It shook her pretty bad.”

  “There was a bus boy in the checkroom when I came in.”

  “We got her into the ladies’ lounge without too much fuss and I sent for a policewoman. She’s with her now. I told her I’d have to talk to her in a little while. I wanted to get rid of the body first, so we might as well have her in here now.”

  10

  TO ALL who did not know her, Sheila Keith might have looked like any other attractive young woman with ash-blond hair and a trim, well-molded figure. She had her chin up and her stride was steady when she came in with the policewoman at her side, but Standish saw the unaccustomed pallor in the high-cheekboned face and the strained, set lines about the mouth. The mascara and eye shadow were messy now and the lipstick uneven. She had been crying and the green eyes were still bright with unwanted tears.

  Ballard indicated a chair and asked her to sit down in a voice that was considerate and a little embarrassed. He nodded to the policewoman, a sturdy girl in a gray-woolen suit and small felt hat. Plain-looking but not unattractive, she could have passed as anyone’s thirty-five-year-old secretary, and Ballard, calling her simply Murphy, asked her to wait in the hall.

  “We won’t be long. You can see that Miss Keith gets home when we finish.” He sat on the edge of the couch next to Standish and looked at Sheila Keith. “Are you all right now?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, unable to control her bitterness. “Just fine.”

  Ballard eyed Standish aslant, raising and then lowering his brows before he continued to the girl.

  “You know what happened here?”

  “I know what your Sergeant Cooney told me but I don’t believe it. Not for one minute.”

  “You mean you don’t believe he committed suicide?”

  “Not any more than I ever believed he shot Jess Flemming. He wasn’t that kind of man.” She looked right at Standish, an undertone of desperation in her words. “Could he, Doctor? You knew him. You were a friend of his; he spoke of you often. Do you think he did this thing?”

  “No,” Standish said, “but unfortunately that’s only my personal opinion.”

  “Yesterday,” she continued as though she had not been listening, “I thought it was all my fault.” She looked at Ballard. “I told the doctor so.”

  “Your fault? How do you mean?”

  “Well, you were so sure Ralph did it, and nobody could find him, and so I thought maybe he did shoot Flemming. And if that was so, it had to be my fault. I knew what Flemming was like,” she added, and went on to repeat some of the things she had told Standish that morning, using all the uncomplimentary adjectives she could think of.

  “I wasn’t really in love with Ralph,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking about marrying him, not the way things were. If I had just pretended I didn’t want to be bothered and stopped seeing him there wouldn’t have been any fight Friday night. But I liked Ralph. We had a lot in common. He was considerate and thoughtful and a very understanding guy. I never led him on or built up any hopes but I didn’t exactly discourage him either. Now I don’t think I had anything to do with it. I mean, except for that fight Friday night.”

  “I don’t happen to agree with you,” Ballard said quietly. “But for now, assuming that you’re right, that would mean that someone, identity unknown, walked in on Jess Flemming last night and shot him.”

  “And why not? The kind of man he was there must be dozens of people who would like to see him dead.”

  “Then there wouldn’t be any reason for Estey’s committing suicide, would there?” Ballard said.

  “No. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Which would mean that someone else did a very clever job and set it up to make it look exactly like a suicide.” The thought stopped her for a moment. Tiny furrows warped her brow. She glanced at Standish as though looking for some assistance; then back at Ballard.

  “Well, yes. I suppose so.”

  “We recovered both bullets,” Ballard said. “One last night, one tonight. Both are .32 caliber. By morning we’ll know if they were fired from the same gun. If they were—and I’ll gamble on it—then that means that the same unknown person did both jobs.”

  “Well”—the painted mouth twisted slightly and she swallowed visibly—“couldn’t it have happened that way?”

  “Not unless you can give us the name of someone who h
ated Ralph Estey enough to kill him. On Flemming, we might come up with something—”

  “Nobody hated Ralph,” she said, giving Ballard no chance to finish. “Everybody liked him.”

  “Maybe so.” Ballard gestured with one hand. “But if we’re going to get anywhere on your theory, we’ll need some help. You were pretty close to him, so do some thinking. If you get any ideas, let us know.”

  The red mouth grew crooked and her tone became accusing. “But you don’t believe it, do you? Not any part of it.”

  “As of now, no.” Ballard stood up to signal the end of the interview. She rose, still watching him, and he moved with her toward the door. “Are you sure Estey didn’t try to get in touch with you last night or early today?”

  “Positive. I didn’t talk with him, I didn’t see him.” Ballard said “All right” as he opened the door. He asked her to keep thinking, adding that if she came up with anything he’d like to hear about it. When he came back to Standish he took a big breath and exhaled noisily. His small grin was wry, so was his voice when he spoke.

  “She’s a hard dame to convince.” He considered the statement and the grin remained. “And so are you. . . . Don’t tell me,” he added quickly to forestall a reply. “I know. All you want is the truth. You want a favor on the paraffin test and I'll go along with you there. How about doing me one?”

  “Sure.” Stan dish reached for his hat and coat. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Nobody’s been out to tell Estey’s ex-wife about this and it looks like I’m elected. You were a friend of his. Did you ever meet her?”

  “A couple of times, as I remember,” Standish said. “This was two or three years ago, before they separated. . . . She knows you were looking for Estey, doesn’t she?”

  “Sure. Cooney talked to her. She didn’t know anything. We kept the house staked out just in case. The husband— the name is Johnson now—is a toolmaker. He’s got a pretty good job.”

  “There’s also a five-year-old boy.”

  “Yeah,” Ballard said. “I don’t think it'll be too sticky but I could use a little of your moral support. It’s only about a twenty-minute ride. Okay?”

  “Sure. If you’ll spring for a drink when we finish.”

  Ballard grinned and squeezed Standish’s shoulder. He said it was a deal.

  The Johnson home was a modest ranch-style dwelling in a new development of similar houses not far from the Thruway. Painted white and standing rather close to the street, it had a screened-in porch on one side and an attached garage on the other close by the property line. The door of this was open and empty, and Ballard, spotting this as he stopped beyond the drive, said: “If the husband is out it will be easier. . . . You say you’ve met her?”

  “What you mean is,” Standish said, “will I lead the way?”

  “Yeah. You get us in and I’ll do the talking.”

  There was a light on behind drawn curtains on the right, and a few seconds after Standish rang another light popped on over the front door. They stood on the square concrete slab which made the second of two steps while a woman’s face appeared in the diamond-shaped glass in the upper part of the door. Presently a latch clicked and the door opened on a chain.

  Standish took off his hat and said: “Good evening, Mrs. Johnson. I’m Dr. Standish. We met a couple of years ago when—”

  “Oh, yes.” The chain was removed and the opening widened. “You’re a friend of Ralph’s. Is—is that why you’re here? Did they find him?”

  “This is Lieutenant Ballard of the city police. Yes, they found him. The lieutenant would like to talk to you. May we come in?”

  She moved backward with some reluctance. “I don’t know how I can help. My husband’s bowling. He should be back in another half hour or so—”

  Her voice trailed off and she backed into the center of the rectangular room, a pleasant-faced woman in a neat blue-and-white-print house dress. She looked to be in her early thirties, with dark hair and eyes, a nice complexion, and, at the moment, a nervous, harried manner. She backed to a sofa upholstered to match two overstuffed chairs. She sat down gingerly, knees together and hands folded in her lap while Ballard cleared his throat.

  “Where?” she asked before he could speak. “Where was he hiding?”

  “Do you know the room upstairs in the back of Hennessey’s? What they call the musicians’ room?”

  “I’ve heard Ralph speak of it.” Her eyes opened and things happened behind them. “He was there all this time?”

  “The piano player found him around eight tonight. He was dead, Mrs. Johnson. According to Dr. Standish, probably for twenty-four hours or so. He’d been shot in the temple. The way it looks it was suicide. I’m sorry.”

  She caught her breath quickly and the fabric of the print dress tightened across her breasts. She said: “Oh, no!” and her hands flew to the sides of her face. For a second or so the shock and bewilderment of the announcement took charge of her features and then some inner effort to keep her self-control won out over the emotional impact.

  “Killed himself? Ralph?” The hands slid limply down from her cheeks. “I don’t believe it. Why?”

  “Because we think he shot Jess Flemming last night,” Ballard said, and went on quickly to state the official position.

  Standish, no longer listening to the familiar arguments, glanced around the comfortable but ordinary room. He found himself wondering about Mr. Johnson and Estey’s five-year-old son, and what effect this would have on his life. He remembered the insurance policy Estey had spoken of and now, as if by some magic of telepathy, he heard the woman open the subject.

  “We can get along without the twenty-five a week Ralph was supposed to pay for Billy’s support,” she said, her mouth pinched and a strained, closed look on her face. “My husband makes a good living. But I counted on that insurance policy.”

  “What policy is that, Mrs. Johnson?” Ballard said.

  “For ten thousand dollars. It was to be for Billy’s education. It was part of the divorce settlement. It had a suicide clause for the first two years and it wasn’t nearly that long. Now Billy will get nothing. But Ralph would never think of that.”

  She stopped and again something happened to her face. The pinched look had gone and a slackness came and now the lower lip trembled and the eyes filled.

  “I don’t mean that,” she said, her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t talk like that. We had some good times at first, some wonderful times. Ralph was working regularly and cutting records right and left. Never for himself. He’d never push hard enough for that, but other band leaders would ask him to sit in. I still have most of them. Those old records, I mean. I didn’t mind the hotel rooms and the small apartments and the traveling. I never played an instrument but I enjoyed being around the band and Ralph said I had a good ear.

  “It was different after Billy came. Ralph could have settled down. He had lots of talent and good offers and he was a fine arranger. He could have made it with a studio band and from what I’ve heard once you do you’re set. If you behave yourself you have a steady spot and good money and you can live like other people instead of moving from one job to another and never getting more than a few dollars ahead.”

  She swallowed and said: “I guess with Ralph his trumpet came first. He used to quote something that Louis Armstrong once told him. Something about having to give more time to the brass than to the piano or the drums or the reeds or the strings. He said if you were going to blow that instrument right, you had to devote your life to it.

  “I came from this part of the state,” she added, “and when we came back here and I saw Ralph was never going to change I couldn’t take it any longer. He had ability but he wouldn’t compromise. It was as if things finally caught up with him and there was no way to go but down. I still don’t believe he killed that man Flemming. I can’t figure why he should, but then I never really could figure Ralph.”

  She stopped abruptly, as though aware of her voice for the f
irst time. Tears glistened on her cheeks now as memories of happier times broke down her defenses. She made a loud sniffing sound, came quickly to her feet, and almost ran to a table near the door. When she had opened her handbag and found a handkerchief she blew hard, her back to them. She wiped her eyes before she turned.

  “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “What can I tell you that I didn’t tell that detective that came here this morning to question me?”

  “What did he want to know, Mrs. Johnson?” Ballard asked gently.

  “He wanted to know if I’d seen Ralph lately and I told him no. He said didn’t I ever see him, and I said before Ralph started those Sunday-afternoon jazz concerts he used to come every other week and take Billy for a ride.” Again she dug at her eyes with the wadded handkerchief. “What am I going to tell Billy?”

  The sound of the muffled, desolate voice that expected no answer brought a growing thickness to Standish’s throat. He felt hot and uncomfortable and helpless. Now he nudged Ballard and gestured toward the door with a small jerk of his head.

  “Billy’s young, Mrs. Johnson,” he said. “He doesn’t read the newspapers. All he has to know is that his father has gone away on a trip.”

  “We went over Estey’s hotel room pretty thoroughly,” Ballard said. “We couldn’t find anything that would tell us whether he had any relatives or not. Would you know about that?”

  She stood straighter now, hands at her sides and clenched but not rigid. “He had a married sister out West somewhere. I might have her address. Do I have to get it now?”

  “In the morning will do,” Ballard said. “Someone will have to notify her. Think about it. Maybe discuss it with your husband.” He followed Standish to the door. “Someone will call you in the morning. You can let us know what you want to do.”

  11

  ON WEDNESDAY, Paul Standish was again forced to have his sandwich and milk at his desk. He had met Dr. Emerson at the morgue at seven and the autopsy had been routine, showing nothing significant except the head wound. He had told Mary Hayward about Estey, keeping his account as brief as possible and listening absently to her shocked and bewildered comments. He had made four house calls and now, his sandwich finished and Mary out to lunch with friends, he called police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Ballard.