by Ben Benson
“Well, I’ve been the closest to it, sir.”
Newpole glanced at me. “Don’t forget you’re only a boot. You’ve been a cop a little over three months. It takes years to become cop-smart. I’ll bet you’re still taken in by phony excuses on traffic violations.”
“Not so much now,” I said. “I’m learning. Last week I had one. I was on a traffic patrol on the Pike and I stopped a speeder. He told me, all excited, that he was rushing to the hospital because his wife was there having a serious operation. So I offered to escort him and clear the way. And I told him when we got there I’d be interested enough to inquire about his wife’s condition. He said, ‘Okay, you win. Give me the ticket.’”
Newpole said, “That one was old twenty years ago when I was riding patrol. So you’re learning. After all, there are just so many things they can teach you at the Training School. The technical stuff, mostly. You have to find out yourself about human nature, through experience.”
“And murder?”
“The same thing. You can’t always go by the book. You have to mix science with common sense.” He puffed on his pipe. “Take this Pomeroy case. We have a good list of suspects. People who might have reason to kill Pomeroy. There’s Osanger, but his gun doesn’t fit. There’s Cluett, but his gun doesn’t fit, either. There’s Craird Waldock, who has no gun at all. There’s the young girl in Eatonville whose brother threatened Pomeroy. He said he never had a gun, but he has no alibi for that night. He said he went to Revere Beach by himself and rode on the amusements. The alibi stinks. So what? Is that enough to charge a man with murder?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“I’m going to talk to this Roger Flagg again this morning. He should be waiting at the Wrentham Barracks. Come on along, Ralph. I want you to see him.”
*
Twenty minutes later we were driving along U. S. 1, toward Providence. Newpole turned right on 140, drove down the narrow road and stopped in front of the blue neon State Police sign.
There was a tiny lawn, on it twin poles flying the American and Commonwealth flags. Beyond the lawn was an old two-story white house with green-trim windows.
Newpole drove into the yard on the right and stopped his car at the long wooden garage. A Ford panel truck was parked there. It had gold lettering on the sides saying Eatonville Cleaners.
“Flagg’s here,” Newpole said. “He works as a driver for those cleaning people. Been with them about eight months.”
We left the car and went around to the front. Newpole stopped and looked up at the old white house. He said, “They ought to be getting a new building here. This barracks is a real old one.”
“I heard talk about putting up one of the regulation brick barracks.”
“Just talk,” Newpole said. “It’s up to the legislature. They have to make the appropriation. And they like appropriations to bring in votes. How many votes can three hundred and thirty state troopers scattered all over the state bring them?”
We went inside. There was a narrow hallway with a wooden bench along the side. Sitting on the bench, hunched over, elbows on his knees, was a nineteen-year-old boy. He was wearing a brown zipper jacket and chino pants. He straightened up when he saw us. He had a sallow, unshaven face. His eyes were nervous and harried.
A young sergeant came out of the duty office on the left. His name was Dick Lentz and I knew him only slightly. He nodded to me, spoke to Newpole for a moment, then walked into the adjoining teletype room. Newpole motioned Flagg into the duty office and pulled up a chair for him. Then he went behind the desk and sat down.
“Roger,” he said, “this is Trooper Ralph Lindsey.”
“Yes, sir,” Flagg said worriedly.
“Let’s go over what we spoke about yesterday,” Newpole said affably. “You admit having a fight with Vince Pomeroy. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Flagg said.
“This was Monday in Eatonville. Outside the Legion Hall. You hit him.”
“Yes, sir. Just once. I told him to keep away from my sister, Marylou.”
“Why, Roger?”
“He was a jailbird. He had done time in Shirley. He was no good.”
“Why go after Pomeroy? Why didn’t you talk to Marylou?”
“We did,” Flagg said. “My father gave her a beating. But she sneaked out and saw Vince anyway.”
“How old is she, Roger?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“Maybe she liked Pomeroy.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You can’t tell. Maybe if you treated Pomeroy half-decently he wouldn’t be such a bad kid. Maybe you’d like him, too.”
“No, sir,” Flagg said, “I wouldn’t. Marylou was impressed the way he spent money, gave her a good time. That’s all. She admits it now.”
“Too bad,” Newpole said. “There’s one thing about your story that’s not so good. We have a witness to what happened in front of Legion Hall. They say you not only hit Pomeroy, you threatened to kill him. Didn’t you, Roger?”
“Well—” Flagg hesitated. “Yes, sir. But I didn’t mean it.”
“So you threatened to kill Pomeroy and Wednesday night he was found dead. It doesn’t look so good, does it, Roger?”
“I didn’t kill him, Lieutenant. I told you so a dozen times. I didn’t mean what I said to him. Jeez, everybody talks like that.”
“Tuesday evening you were seen talking to Scotty Cluett downtown in Eatonville. That was about an hour before the dance. You didn’t go to the dance, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“How did you know Cluett?”
“I’d seen him around. Different dances and things. He’d played basketball for Carlton High when I played for Eatonville. I graduated last year when he did.”
“So you talked to Cluett. About what?”
“Well,” Flagg said, “he drove by in his car and stopped me. He was asking questions about Vince.”
“What kind of questions?”
“He wanted to know if Vince Pomeroy was shooting off his mouth about anything.”
“What did you tell Cluett?”
“Well, I guess I told him Pomeroy was no good—a jailbird. And Vince must be mixed up in some racket because he was flashing a lot of dough around. I told him to tell Vince to keep away from Marylou or I’d fix his wagon.”
There was a clatter from the teletype machine in the next room. Its message bell tinkled. Newpole cocked his head for a moment, then said casually, “You must have liked Scotty Cluett pretty well.”
“I had nothing against him,” Flagg said, almost defiantly.
“Didn’t Cluett have a record? Wasn’t he a jailbird, too?”
“All right. But Scotty was smooth. A big-time operator.”
“So it’s all a matter of degree,” Newpole said thinly. “Scotty was a bigger thief than Pomeroy, so you admired him. You like only the big crooks, is that it, Roger?”
“No, sir,” Flagg said uneasily. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What did you mean?”
“I mean Pomeroy kind of disgusts you. He was such a small-time little bum.”
“Maybe you should be disgusted with yourself, too, Roger. After all, I don’t think you ever did more than steal a few things in the five-and-dime, and take things out of the kids’ lockers in high school.”
Flagg’s face flamed red. “Now wait a minute. Some blabbermouth has been talking, making up stories—”
“You didn’t graduate from Eatonville High, did you? You were expelled for stealing from the locker room.”
“It was a frame,” Flagg said. “You must have been talking to that long-nosed boob of a headmaster—”
“Don’t open a big mouth,” Newpole said quietly. “It’s stupid to try to lie to me. I’ve been up against some of the biggest liars you ever saw. You’re strictly an amateur, Roger.”
“I don’t know why you’re picking on me about that stuff in high school. I wasn’t the only one.”
“I don’t g
ive a toot what happened in high school,” Newpole said. “What irks me is that you admired Cluett. You know what happened to Cluett, don’t you?”
“I heard last night.”
“He was shot down like a rabid dog. Shot down by a state trooper, a young cop not much older than you.” Newpole glared at him. “Maybe you want to try your luck on the bigger stuff, too, Roger.”
“No, sir,” Flagg said.
“All right,” Newpole said. “Why didn’t you go to the dance Tuesday night?”
“I had a fight with my girl, Eunice.”
“About what?”
“She was fooling around with other guys too much.”
“Pomeroy, too?”
“Not Pomeroy,” Flagg said loftily. “She wouldn’t look at Vince.”
“And Wednesday night, the time Pomeroy was killed, you say you went to Revere Beach—alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me once more what time you left Eatonville.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“How?”
“I took the truck.”
“Without permission?”
“Well, I have the key. The truck was laying around in back of the cleaning plant. Nobody was using it at night.”
“How did you go to Revere?”
“Over through Cambridge and Everett, onto the Revere Beach Parkway.”
“Why didn’t you use the East Boston tunnel? It’s shorter.”
“I didn’t want to pay the toll.”
“You didn’t care, anyway. You were using the company gas. All right, where did you park in Revere? You must have a stub from a parking lot.”
“I didn’t go to a parking lot. I left the truck on Campbell Avenue and walked down.”
“Maybe you’ve got some other proof you were in Revere. Maybe you won a kewpie doll or one of those lamps with a ship on it.”
“No, sir. I didn’t win anything.”
“What did you do?” Newpole asked.
“Well, there’s always bait around. Stag girls, I mean. I picked one up.”
“What was her name?”
“Ruth. I don’t know her last name.”
“Where does she live?”
“I didn’t ask her. I didn’t stay with her long. She wanted to go roller-skating and I didn’t feel like spending any dough on her. So I left her.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I just walked along the boulevard for a while, went in the arcade, on the roller coaster once. Then I went home.”
“The same route?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you arrive in Eatonville?”
“About eleven. I went right to bed.”
Newpole scratched at his nose. “It’s not much of a story, is it, Roger?”
“It’s the truth.”
“How much do you earn driving that truck?”
“Forty-eight a week.”
“So you could use some extra money, couldn’t you?”
“Sure, anybody can.”
“So if Cluett gave you some money, and a gun to shoot Pomeroy, it would be like killing two birds with one stone.”
“Cluett never spoke about anything like that.”
“Do you know Kenneth Osanger?” Newpole asked.
“No, sir.”
“Never even heard of him?”
“Yes, I heard of him. Pomeroy worked on his farm and Scotty worked in his garage. But I never met Osanger to talk to.”
There was a glass paperweight on the desk. Newpole moved it around slowly with his forefinger. “All right, Roger,” he said. “You can go now.”
“Yes, sir,” Flagg said, standing up.
“But don’t go on any trips. We might want to talk to you again.”
Flagg went out quickly. I heard his truck start up and drive away. Newpole left the office to talk to Sergeant Lentz for a moment. When he came back we went outside and into his sedan.
“There you are,” Newpole said, starting the car and putting it in gear. “The kid had no alibi.” He backed the car out onto the road. “I could have arrested him. Some outfits make a lot of arrests on a murder. It looks good in the newspapers. But if you arrest someone on a charge of murder, he has the right not to talk. This way we got more out of him—as much as it was. Don’t ever get arrest-happy, son.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Nice kid, that Roger,” Newpole said. “Just the right, bright, All-American boy to uphold the honor of his sister. Nice kid, the sister. Marylou told us she was worried about Pomeroy. She was afraid he was going around with a bad gang and she pleaded with him to stop. The girl is a liar. All the time she was milking him. She took an expensive watch from him, a gold compact, money. Poor Pomeroy. He was hit on all sides. The reformatory is filled with his kind of sucker. The little thieves who’ve been taken by the bigger, the smoother, the virtuous thieves. Don’t you think little Marylou feels as virtuous as all get-out?”
“Yes, sir, I guess she does,” I said. I looked out the window at the rolling green fields. “But the main thing that bothers me is this. How was the murder committed?”
“It bothers me, too,” Newpole said. “But the important thing to remember is that most murders are simple. These trick murders, locked rooms, intricate gadgets—well, they happen once in a great while. We’ve had them, but not very often.”
“Here you have one,” I said. “Somebody got into the house surrounded by cops, shot Pomeroy without anybody hearing it, and got out again undetected. How could it happen that way?”
“We don’t think it happened that way,” Newpole said. “At least, we hope it didn’t. Because if anybody got by us that way we might as well turn in our badges. It would show Tileston and I were pretty lousy cops. And I always thought we were pretty good at it. No, the answer lies somewhere else.”
“Maybe some of these alibis aren’t as strong as we think, sir. Maybe they can be broken. For example, I keep thinking of Craird Waldock. His alibi rests on a widow in Norwood.”
“Yes, the buxom one. Sure, son, the alibi can be broken. The widow could be lying. But what does that prove? Where’s Waldock’s motive?”
“He had a connection with the gang,” I said. “He bought the first stolen car. He kept snooping around, watching me, watching Pomeroy.”
“Sure,” Newpole said. “And he was buying parts from Osanger, too. But the stolen car he bought had a switched motor from a wreck, and Waldock claims he knew nothing about it. He said he was taken in like the other dealers were. We can’t prove differently.” Newpole took one hand from the steering wheel and scratched thoughtfully at his lank hair. “Of course, it’s not as kosher as he makes out. I think Waldock knew what the score was. He got a good buy on that one car and he had a taste of it and wanted more. He was buying the scrap from Osanger and he was smart enough to know where it came from. I don’t think Osanger trusted him much. But Waldock kept nosing around like a hound dog on a scent. Eventually, when he had the goods, he was going to face Osanger and demand Osanger funnel the hot cars through him. That’s what I think, but go prove it. And if we did prove it, so what? All we can do is slap his wrist.”
“So you’ve eliminated Waldock from the murder?”
“Hell, I’ve eliminated nobody. So far we haven’t come up with the weapon. We’ve done one thing, though. We’ve pinned down the time element. A farmer living across the road from Osanger’s saw Pomeroy drive away in the station wagon that night. It was 8:10 and Pomeroy was heading toward Eatonville.”
“Alone, sir?”
“The man doesn’t know. It was dark. He thinks Pomeroy was alone, but he wouldn’t swear to it. Anyway, at 8:10 Pomeroy left the Osanger farm. At 8:30 he arrived in Eatonville, which is the normal length of time it would take. At nine you found him dying in his room. What could have happened in those fifty minutes? During that time Cluett, Osanger and the two girls were in Lil’s Cafe, and Waldock was in Norwood.”
“How about Mrs. Osanger, sir?” I
asked.
“Ken’s mother? Sure, there’s another one. She says she was in the house all evening.” Newpole shook his head. “As far as we know there may be a dozen more suspects. Pomeroy had trouble with people in the past. We’ve working through Eatonville, through Carlton, through the Shirley School and Lyman. We’ve searched for the weapon with warrants. We’ve talked to neighbors, to the local cops who knew him. Maybe there’s an old grudge somewhere and it has no connection with the auto ring.”
“So it doesn’t look very good, does it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “We’ve got one or two ideas how the murder was committed. But we don’t like to go off half-cocked. The idea is to wait until you collect all your facts and sift through them.” He smiled over at me. “We’ve broken tougher ones than this and we’ve muffed easier ones. Just give us time, son.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “And how’s Leta Nofke?”
“All right, I guess. She’s still working at the laundry. Why?”
“How is she taking all this, Lieutenant?”
He glanced at me quizzically. “To tell the truth, son, I don’t know. She never once changed her expression in all the times we’ve questioned her.”
“She’s had a bad time,” I said. “What are you going to do with her, sir?”
“Nothing. I can’t tie her in with the auto ring. Not actively.”
“And Mrs. Osanger?”
“We’ve charged her with being an accessory. I think we can make it stick.”
I said, “I’d like to see Leta, sir.”
He pursed his lips. “A man who’s getting married shouldn’t be thinking of a blonde. But go ahead, see her. Maybe it’s better to get these things out of your system before you walk down the aisle.”
I could feel my face grow warm. I changed the subject quickly. “What about the Osanger barn, sir? Have you searched it?”
“Only a quick look,” Newpole said. “The lab men are coming there this morning. I don’t like to trample things before they pad around. They know what to look for. Why, son?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I’ve had an idea all along. Maybe it’s a long shot. But would you take me out to the barn, sir?”
“Sure,” he said. “But I thought you were anxious to get back into uniform and rejoin your troop. And, also, you want to get ready for the wedding, don’t you?”