by Ben Benson
“You can’t really believe that,” I said. “Because no matter how you twist it, Billy Nesbit went out that Friday morning and robbed and murdered a motorist. It was Billy, not Ernie Congdon, who fired the shots into the man’s back. Then, in his charming manner, he had you lie for him and become an accessory to the crime. And all along he was selling me a bill about friendship and wanting to become a trooper. A big, sincere act that I was gullible enough to swallow. And he ran away and let Ernie take the rap alone. That’s how much your warmhearted friend used all of us, Karen.”
“I’ll never believe such a thing,” she said.
“Yes, you will,” I said. “Someday it’s going to come to you, like it has to me.”
We drove into Ashendon and turned into Grasshopper Lane. I parked in front of her house, stepped out, went around and opened the door for her. Across the street two women stood on the sidewalk talking. They stopped talking to stare at us.
She came out of the car and said, “Billy told me this once. He said he had a certain feeling about you. That if the chips were down—that if he were ever in trouble—he could come to you. You would give him a break. A chance. A sporting chance.”
“I thought of that once,” I said, “but only for a very short time. He’d have been wrong, Karen. I’d give him no chance.”
“He couldn’t have misjudged you that much,” she said. “I’m disappointed that you hardly know his true character. Billy is good and kind and loyal. And I don’t really think you mean these things you say about him.”
I didn’t answer, because you could not discuss Billy Nesbit rationally with her. She was a girl who had to find out the truth by herself. It would take a great deal of time, and disillusionment.
I said good-by. She, in turn, reached out impulsively and shook my hand with a soft, confident smile. Then she ran into the house.
Chapter 25
A week went by. Except for one of the Lowell daily papers and one of the weeklies in the Concord-Lexington-Ashendon area, the Somers case faded from the newspapers. But the search for Billy Nesbit went on.
John Nesbit came home from Japan, gray and haggard and overwrought. He was closeted with the district attorney and Lieutenant Newpole for several hours. When he came out, the newspapermen were waiting for him. In a quick flurry, the case was back on the front pages, the Boston papers included. John Nesbit appealed to his son to surrender, wherever he was.
There was no surrender.
Another week went by. The case petered out of the papers again. Mid-July and hot. Lieutenant Newpole came into the barracks one day at lunchtime. When he sat down at the table, I looked at him questioningly. He shook his head.
“Don’t get impatient,” he said. “Billy must be starting to scratch, too. He’s young and he can’t wait. We can. He’ll make his move soon.”
“I keep wondering where he is,” I said.
“So do I,” Newpole said.
“He’s sort of made a game out of it,” I said. “The piece of adhesive tape on the chin for identification, the way he hammed it up with the ticket seller at the airport. As though he deliberately wanted us to know his destination was Miami.”
“Oh, yes,” Newpole said. “The old decoy business. I’ll bet my next month’s pay he’s stashed away a lot closer to home. And he’s bound to make a move soon.”
It was on July eighteenth when I heard of Billy Nesbit’s move. I was in uniform then on a Route 2 patrol. The day was hot and humid, with hardly a breeze, and the cruiser was like an oven. 10:15 A.M. I received a Signal 16 sending me to 19 Grasshopper Lane, Ashendon. Karen Morgan’s house. I was there in a swift seven minutes.
A black detective sedan was parked in front of the house. I pulled up in back of it. Lieutenant Newpole got out of the black sedan and met me on the sidewalk. He was wearing a badly wrinkled, gray tropical suit.
“It’s happened,” he said to me. “Billy sent a letter to Karen Morgan. I’ve seen the envelope. Nesbit’s handwriting, all right. The postmark is New York City, July 16. No return address on the envelope. We couldn’t expect that much, though.”
“He’s close to home, all right,” I said.
“Yes,” Newpole said. “I wanted you with me when I go in and talk to the girl. The postman delivered the letter about ten minutes ago.”
We went up the flagstone walk. But before we could reach toward the bell, the door opened. Karen Morgan stood there. She wore a short red cotton jersey, brief white shorts and flat white sandals. Her hair was fluffed away from her face and held back by a white ribbon. She looked cool and comfortable and very pretty.
She said, “Ralph, I saw your police car drive up. I didn’t notice the lieutenant’s car at all.”
I took off my cap. “May we come in, Karen?”
“Of course,” she said. Her voice was very animated. “It’s terribly hot out, isn’t it?”
“A beauty,” I said. We went inside. In the living room the shades were drawn and it was cooler.
Newpole took off his gray straw hat and wiped the inside band with a handkerchief. “Miss Morgan,” he said, “I’m here to ask you for something. I hope you bear me no grudge.”
“A grudge, Lieutenant?” she asked. Her voice lilted and she seemed very flippant. I had never seen her so buoyant. “Why should I bear a grudge? You had your duty to perform, and all that sort of thing. It hurts you worse than it hurts us. What other trite remarks do you use?”
He smiled. “I don’t remember using any of those, Miss Morgan. I suppose you know why we’re here?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Lieutenant.”
“We’re here because you just received a letter from Billy.”
She had not known. It was a complete surprise. I could see that in the crimson flush that crept up from her neck and shoulders. The flippancy and buoyancy were gone. “How did you find out?” she whispered. “There was nothing on the envelope.”
“Miss Morgan,” Newpole said, “I’ve followed that letter since it hit the post office. It came from New York City and it was postmarked 7:00 P.M., July 16th.”
“And, I suppose,” she said bitterly, “you’ve read every word of it.”
“No,” he said. “I had no right to open and read the letter.”
“I wouldn’t think that would stop you.”
“Let’s clear the air right now, Miss Morgan,” he said. “You can drop the clever remarks. You’re a young girl and I’m old enough to be your father. And in the performance of my duties I expect courtesy—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For the moment I was agitated. I was picturing a group of men reading my personal mail, ridiculing—”
“Nobody read your personal mail,” Newpole said. “The postal inspectors stopped the letter and examined the postmark. They called me and we looked at the handwriting on the envelope. I followed the letter here. That’s all I did. That’s all the post office did. Now I’d like to see the letter.”
“You’re not serious?” she asked.
“I said I’d like to see the letter.”
“But how do you know I still have it?”
“You got it about ten minutes ago. It’s the very first communication you’ve gotten from Billy since—”
“He might have phoned me.”
“He didn’t phone you, Miss Morgan.”
“I might have destroyed the letter after I read it.”
He shook his head. “The first letter from a loved one? No. It’s something to tuck away. To be read over and over again, until the words are almost memorized.”
“Is that why you called Ralph Lindsey here?” she asked. “To shame me into handing it over to you? You thought I’d have a soft spot there?”
“Frankly, yes,” he said. “I wanted Ralph to help persuade you. You see, I’ve known Ralph since he was born. It might surprise you that I’m his godfather.”
She looked at me. “Yes, I am surprised. I didn’t know there was such a close relationship.”
“It’
s true. I know Ralph and I think he knows me. He knows, basically, I’m an ethical man. I try to do things first the right way, the legal way. Will you give me that letter, Miss Morgan?”
“No,” she said. “You have no right to expect it.”
He said, “There’s a murderer loose, and we want him. And there’s no help from the people who should help. So, if it means cutting a few corners to get this murderer, then I’ll cut those corners.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“If necessary,” he said, “I’ll take this house apart to find that letter. But I don’t think it’ll be necessary. You’re a law-abiding person, and an intelligent person.”
She looked as though she was about to cry. She said, almost inarticulately, “And you just spoke about being ethical.”
“Listen, Karen,” I said to her. “He could have taken that letter before you got it. He could have opened it, read it and resealed it. But he didn’t. He didn’t because first he had to try it the right way, and he thought you’d co-operate.”
“Co-operate?” she asked, flinging her head back. “You think I’d help capture Billy? You think I’d be treacherous enough to do a thing like that?”
I took her by the arm then, drawing her away, leading her into the small dining ell. There against the sideboard I said to her, “The dramatics won’t work. He won’t leave this house without the letter. He’ll risk a civil or criminal suit, or censure from the court. But he’ll get the letter because it’s vital evidence to him. And evidence, legally or illegally obtained, is what stands up in court. Don’t underestimate him, Karen. The letter—please.”
She was silent and motionless for several moments, breathing heavily and unevenly. I expected her to burst out crying. But no tears came to her eyes. Instead, she reached into the cleft of her bosom and brought out a folded sheet of note-paper. She pushed it at me.
“There,” she almost shouted. “I’m giving it to you, not because of any threats to me, but for only one reason. Read it. There’s nothing in it, anyway. Nothing. You already knew from the postmark that it was mailed from New York. Read it, and then tell me how you’re going to find him.”
I passed the letter over to Newpole. He looked at it carefully. He turned it over in his hands, held it up to the light, then handed it back to me.
“Read it,” he said, “then give it back to her.”
Karen darling:
A few words to let you know I’m safe and sound. I know exactly what is going on because I’m following the case in the papers every day. What I am doing is best for everyone. Have faith in me always.
Love, forever and ever,
Billy
“I hope you’re satisfied,” she said.
“Thank you,” Newpole said. “Yes, I’m satisfied, Miss Morgan.”
I held the letter out to her and she snatched it away. She said, “All you have to do now is go to New York and find him. Pick him out from among ten million people. Go ahead.”
“Good-by, Miss Morgan,” Newpole said.
“Good-by, Lieutenant,” she said. Her voice sounded like a jeer. “Have a good trip.”
“Good-by,” I said to her.
We went out of the coolness and into the hot, broiling sun. On the sidewalk Newpole looked back at the house. He put his hat on his head, set it carefully, and said, “So there it is, son.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” I said. “You’re leaving for New York right away?”
“Yes. We don’t want him to slip away.”
“I’d like to go with you,” I said. “There was some question in your mind some weeks ago about my sense of duty.”
“A passing thought,” he said. “I’ve never asked you to prove anything to me. There was no need to.”
“I want to prove it to myself,” I said. “I’ve made some mistakes in this. I was wrong about the girl, and about Billy Nesbit. Especially about Billy Nesbit. I stuck my neck out for him that day, and he ran. I guess I got hurt a little. My pride and my judgment, Lieutenant.”
“Everybody makes mistakes in judgment,” Newpole said. “That’s why we live in an imperfect world. What hurts you most is your pride. You’re young, and these things always hurt the young ones easily. So what if you’re there when we take him? Will revenge solve anything?”
“No, Lieutenant,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking of revenge. I was thinking some cops might get hurt when you go up against him. I know Billy, and I have an idea how his mind works. I might be a little help that way. And it would mean something to me.”
Newpole looked down the street. I glanced in that direction, too. All I saw were the shimmering waves of heat dancing on the pavement. He started for the detective sedan.
Then he turned his head and, over his shoulder, he said curtly, “Go home and pack a bag.”
Chapter 26
Lieutenant Newpole and I drove into Boston that afternoon. We left the cruiser at the State Police parking area at the International Airport. The flight to New York took fifty-five minutes. From LaGuardia Field we took a cab to the courthouse of New York County at 155 Leonard Street in lower Manhattan.
It was a massive, gray, modern limestone building that faced the park at Foley Square. As we went up the wide stairs, I stopped and read the legend over the doorway, EQUAL AND EXACT JUSTICE TO ALL MEN OF WHATEVER STATE OR PERSUASION. And I supposed that would have meant Billy Nesbit, too.
We went up the elevator to the District Attorney’s Squad on the ninth floor. A Captain O’Melia was expecting us. He and Newpole spoke briefly, then a Detective-Sergeant Brady was called in.
Brady was a man of medium height, bristling iron-gray hair, tanned face, chiseled lips and a square chin. He knew Lieutenant Newpole, and they shook hands and I was introduced. They chatted for a moment. Then, as we sat, Brady listened to Newpole.
When Newpole finished, Brady nodded his head. “Well, sure,” he said. “We have two out-of-town newsstands in Times Square. The paper you want is the Lowell Spectator?”
“It’s the only daily that’s still carrying the case,” Newpole said.
“Let’s take a ride,” Brady said.
We went down to the street and got into a New York Police detective car. We inched uptown through the traffic into Times Square. The stand at the Times Building did not carry the Spectator. We walked up another block.
There was a stand, with a striped canopy over it, against the side of a building. The proprietor was a gnarled little man with a shriveled arm. He said he received one copy of the Lowell Spectator and sold it to the same man every morning.
Sergeant Brady said to him, “Joe, can you make this man for us?”
“Sure, Sarge,” the little man said. “The boy comes around here every morning about ten o’clock for his paper. Nice-looking kid, twenty or twenty-one. Sport shirt and slacks. Real polite. One of the politest kids I ever seen in my life. You don’t find them these days.”
“You know where he’s staying?” Brady asked.
“No, he never told me.” Joe pointed a misshapen finger uptown. “He walks up to me from there, buys his paper—he’s reading it while he’s waiting for his change. He walks back the same way, reading all the time.”
“And he picked up his Spectator this morning?” Brady asked.
“That’s right. Said he’d see me tomorrow the same time. Ten o’clock. We talk it up once in a while when it ain’t busy.”
“About what?”
“Current events. Smart kid. You mean he’s a wrongo?”
“Yeah,” Brady said. “Now listen, Joe. When that paper comes in tomorrow morning, you take it and put it up there on the top shelf. Then when this boy shows up for it, you get up on that wooden box and reach. That’s all you do. Reach up and get him his paper.”
“Sure,” Joe said. “Do just what you say, Sarge.” Then he added hopefully. “Be some shooting maybe?”
“There’ll be no shooting,” Brady said. “Why are all you little guys so bloodthirsty?”
We walked away
from the stand back to the curb and the detective car. Amidst the honking of horns, the din of traffic and the jostling of pedestrians, Newpole leaned over to Brady and said, “Jack, I don’t want to take Nesbit here.”
“Why not?” Brady asked. “We jump him quick. There’s no pain.”
“No,” Newpole said. “His gun is the evidence, the clincher in the case. A K-32 Masterpiece, S & W. It’s long-barreled with target sights. He wears only a sport shirt and slacks. Where’s he going to stash it? The gun will be hidden in his room—or wherever he’s staying. We’ll have to follow him there.”
“Those are the tough ones,” Brady said, pulling at his lower lip. “I don’t like those.”
“I want an ironclad case against this boy,” Newpole said. “I want a first-degree conviction against him.”
Brady looked at him. “Ed, you’re not taking this personal, are you?”
“It’s personal, all right,” Newpole said. “I’ve known the boy’s father for many years. A nice family. A hell of a nice family. But the boy deliberately shot a helpless man in the back.”
Brady shook his head slowly. He looked away and his cop-wise eyes roved over the crowd. Then he opened the door of the car.
“I thought,” Newpole said, almost apologetically, “that I’d stay here for a while. Just hang around and see the sights.”
“Just in case the boy comes back to talk to Joe or something,” Brady said. “I’m way ahead of you. What do you think I have a squad for? And what’s the Times Square detail for? The place will be under surveillance from now on, so don’t worry about it. Tonight I’m taking you and your young trooper friend to Frankie and Johnnie’s. Remember?”
“You shouldn’t ought to, Jack.”
“Well, I want to.”
“Ah.” Newpole grinned. “Upstairs on Eighth Avenue. That’s food.”
Chapter 27
We were up and out of our hotel room at five-forty-five the next morning. At six-five we were having breakfast on 45th Street off Times Square. When we finished, we walked out into the cool morning. There was a high haze over the city.