Murder on the Docks

by H. Paul Doucette

  “Did the boss say how long I gotta stay here?” he asked as she turned away.

  “No. Just that you have to stay here off the streets,” she answered then left, closing the door behind her.

  Twenty minutes later, Kline headed downstairs to the kitchen. He could smell the aroma of beef stew emanating from the room. He stepped inside, there was a small wooden table with four chairs, a large bowl with a knife and spoon beside it sitting on it. There was also a plate with two slices of homemade bread and a saucer with a block of real butter on it.

  “You want tea?” she asked.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he said, sitting down.

  “You will have to stay upstairs in your room after six o’clock. There will be visitors arriving who prefer not to be seen.”

  He had scooped up a spoonful of the hot stew. It tasted pretty good. She could cook, right enough, he thought.

  “Yeah, okay. You got anythin’ ta read in here?”

  “I’ll get you a copy of the paper. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. How ‘bout somethin’ ta drink? Whiskey’d be good, but I’ll settle on a coupla beers. And some cards.”

  She nodded and he went back to the stew. He didn’t like being holed up here away from his mates and his woman, even if it was in a swell’s cathouse.

  Later that evening, he was lying on the bed in his long johns when he heard a woman’s laughter coming from the hall. Some asshole was about to get his coals raked, he thought with a crude chuckle.

  He reached for the half full tumbler of whiskey she brought up and downed it in a single gulp, relishing the heat as it went down his throat. He put the glass back on the side table then pulled the woolen blanket over him and settled in.

  * * *

  The next day dawned bright and clear...and cold, with the sun promising to win out over the frigid air that hung over the city. The last of the winter snow, now sullied and dirty, clung stubbornly to the curbs in low banks and up the side of buildings. Patches of ice pock marked the sidewalks making walking dicey.

  Men, women, soldiers and sailors crowded the sidewalks even at this early hour. Most dressed in greatcoats and winter wear with turned up collars, hats pulled down over their ears. This was the same view I saw every morning out of the steamed-up window of the tramcar I rode to the station.

  I looked away from the window and back at the front page of the Chronicle. The lead story reported Hitler’s seemingly unstoppable push across Europe: Poland, Austria, Belgium, France. And now it looked like Stalin was going to make a deal with the Germans. I shook my head and folded the paper and stuffed it in my coat pocket. It was hard to read the news these days without awakening old memories from another German leader’s continental ambitions. I saw my stop coming up and pushed those thoughts back into the box I kept them in. I stood up and pulled the cord to signal I wanted off then made my way to the exit.

  “Hey, Robie,” someone yelled when I stepped inside the station. I looked in the direction of the caller. It was the duty sergeant, Jim Roach waving me over.

  I pushed my way through the crowd of people in front of his desk.

  “What’s up?” I asked when I finally reached him.

  “Some guy was brought in ‘round five this mornin’. Pissed to da gills an’ goin’ on ‘bout witnessin’ a murder.”

  “Yeah? Where is he?”

  “In the tank,” he said, “wasn’t anyplace else ta put ‘im.”

  “Okay. Get a uniform to wake the guy up an’ take him to the interview room. Get him a coffee and make sure he stays put.”

  “Okay,” he said, looking around for one of the uniforms about to start his shift.

  “Thanks,” I said and headed for my office.

  Behind me, Roach called out to a uniformed cop, “Hey, Mike.”

  I hung up my overcoat and hat on a peg then went and poured a mug of coffee. I noticed Pete wasn’t at his desk. Must’ve had a good night, I thought.

  Pete arrived about five minutes later.

  “Mornin’” he said, giving me a sheepish grin.

  “I won’t ask,” I said. “Grab a coffee an’ come with me.”

  “What’s up?” he asked pouring a coffee.

  “Jim Roach tells me someone was brought in with a skin full claimin’ to have witnessed a murder. I got him in the interview room.”

  “No shit,” he said, stepping behind me. “You thinkin’ he saw...?”

  “Dunno. Let’s go ask him.”

  There are small cells in the rear of the station where we usually held the drunks or trouble makers the beat cops picked up. These days they are often crammed with too many people, mostly young servicemen, merchantmen and the odd civilian.

  We reached the interview room at the end of the hall and went inside. A cop was standing over a man sitting at a small table under a bright white light. He was holding a mug of coffee in both hands, trying to steady himself. He looked to be in his forties and was dressed in standard work clothes of a general laborer.

  “Mike, isn’t it?” I asked the cop.

  “Yessir,” he said.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Not much, sir. Guy’s name is Gerald Butler. Lives up in Greenbank,” he said, passing me the man’s wallet. I looked inside. I saw his driver’s licence, a union card, a creased black and white photograph of a man that looked like him with a woman on his arm. The only other item was a small Saint Christopher medal wedged in a corner.

  Butler took a gulp of the coffee then looked up at me trying to focus his bleary eyes.

  “I’m Detective Robichaud. You told the duty officer outside you witnessed a murder. Do you remember doin’ that?” I asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “I need a smoke,” he said. His throat sounded raspy, rough, like sandpaper scrapped across cement.

  “Someone give him a cigarette,” I said.

  The cop pulled out a pack of Player’s Navy Cut, took one out and passed it to Butler.”

  “Light,” Butler said, holding the cigarette up between his nicotine stained fingers, his hand shaking.

  The cop pulled out a Zippo and flipped it open, thumbing the wheel, sparking the wick.

  “T’anks,” Butler said pulling in a deep drag on the cigarette which immediately triggered a major bout of coughing ending with him hacking up a black gob of phlegm which he spit onto the cell floor.

  “Better?” I said. “Now what this about you witnessin’ a murder?”

  Butler was starting to come around and looked around the cell.

  “Am I unner arrest?”

  “Not yet. We put you in here so we could talk to you.”

  He took another pull on the cigarette. No coughing this time.

  “So? This murder?” I said again.

  “I don’t know nuttin’ ‘bout any murder,” he said.

  “Then why’d you come in here claimin’ you witnessed a murder?’

  “Don’t remember doin’ that.”

  I knew what was happening. His head was starting to clear, and he was beginning to realize the spot he had put himself in.

  “Well, you better start rememberin’,” Pete said, “or you’ll spend time at Rockhead to clear your head.”

  “What for? I ain’t done nuttin’. You cain’t hold me.”

  “Wrong. You were brought in pissed to the gills. That’s public drunkenness and good for a week, maybe more. “

  “Bullshit.” Butler spat.

  “Maybe an’ maybe not,” I said. “But you’re in here now an’ if you want out then you’ll hafta talk to us.”

  I could see the first signs of fear register on his face as he tried to weigh his options even though he was still feeling the effects of the booze. It was at that moment an idea came to me.

  “Tell ya what,” I said. “Let’s start with an easy question. Who do you work for?”

  “Wh...what?”

  “It’s a simple question. Who do you work for? You got a job, right? Otherwise you’d be a vagrant.”


  “Yeah., I got a job. I ain’t no vagrant. I gotta place.”

  “There, that wasn’t so hard. Now who do you work for?” I asked again, keeping my voice at the same tone.

  “I dunno,” Butler said, looking nervous.

  “What’s that mean?” Pete snapped. He stood off to my side with his arms crossed over his chest, looking menacing. He picked up on what I was trying for and jumped in as the hard cop.

  “Nuttin’. I work when sumbody needs extra hands, ya know, like a striker or a driver, shit like that.”

  “So that means you work on trucks then?” I asked.

  “What? Yeah, s’pose so.”

  “Were you workin’ a coupla nights back around two in the mornin’? Say, down on the docks?” Pete said.

  “I ain’t sayin’ nuttin’ else,” Butler said defensively, as he looked away from Pete.

  “Okay. Let’s try this, do you know Maurice Laurier?” I asked.

  “Huh...no,” he said with a hint of fear in his voice.

  Gotcha, I thought.

  “Look, it’s okay to say you do. It isn’t a crime if you know him. I imagine there’s a lot of people who’ve heard about him.”

  Butler seemed to hesitate for a moment then said, “Yeah...I guess I ‘eard da name sumwhere.”

  “An’ you never did any work for him?” Pete said.

  “No.” He dropped the butt end of the cigarette on the cell floor and ground it under his foot. I signalled for Mike, who was standing quietly to the side, to give him another smoke.

  “Do any of the truckers you work for do any jobs for Laurier?” I asked after he took the cigarette and lit up.

  “Dunno. I get hired to sling cargo dat’s it.”

  “Okay. Tell us who hired you two nights ago.”

  “An’ what was the job?” Pete added.

  Butler looked from me to Pete then back to me.

  “Ain’t got nuttin’ more ta say.”

  I figured we had pushed hard enough for now and gestured to Pete to follow me back to the office.

  “Okay, Mike. Lock ‘im up. Get the duty officer to call Rockhead and prepare a cell for ‘im. I’ll send the arrest order out in a bit.”

  “Yessir,” the cop said, closing the iron barred door with a clang and locking it.

  Back in the office, Pete said, “Looks like we got us a witness.”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said. “My gut tells me this guy was one of the men on the truck that dumped the body and probably saw who actually attacked Slaunwhite. But we got to shake it out of him. Maybe a coupla days at the ‘Rock’ will jog his memory and loosen his tongue.”

  “I gotta a coupla buddies work at the prison. Maybe I can get them to make his stay a bit more, um, uncomfortable.” Pete cracked a nasty grin.

  “Sounds good. Make the call,” I said, returning to my desk with a fresh mug of coffee.

  Butler was taken up to Rockhead Prison in the north end within the hour along with several other characters. I was hoping his stay there would shake him up enough to convince him to cooperate.

  It was around noon when Mulroney called in.

  “Detective Robichaud,” I said into the phone when I picked up.

  “Robie, it’s me, Phil,” his now familiar voice said into my ear.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just received the phone log from the phone company. As you know, we’ve been monitoring all long distance calls in and out of the city since the outbreak of the war.”

  The government had implemented a number of surveillance practices since we went to war, mostly intended to identify possible German agents or other sympathizers trying to send information out. One such tactic was the monitoring of all long-distance phone calls by the phone company. The main concern was information reaching the German Embassy in Boston or New York. It had been a successful tactic, nabbing a half dozen people in the city who were passing vital information to people in other cities, although, many of these proved to be innocent lapses in judgment.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Guess whose name showed up on the list?”

  “You got me? Who?”

  “Maurice Laurier. He made a call yesterday to Montreal.”

  “No kiddin’. Now that is interestin’,” I said. “I’m guessin’ you got a transcript of the call?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sending a copy over to you by messenger. You should have it in the next half hour.”

  “Thanks. Anythin’ interestin’ in it?”

  “Nothing noteworthy. We’re assuming he’s aware calls are being monitored so we think he’s using a prearranged code. In this case, the call only lasted about two minutes. Some nonsense about having a job available here for someone in Montreal. Anyway, someone is coming down by train and should be here today or tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thanks. By the way, how are your people in Montreal makin’ out with your request for more information on Laurier? Any luck yet?”

  “Not a lot so far. They did find a couple of references to someone by that name but haven’t made a solid connection to him so far.”

  “They say what those connections were?”

  “Hang on, I’ll get the file,” Mulroney said. I heard the phone hit his desk and what sounded like him getting up. He was back a few moments later.

  “Let’s see,” he said, when he came back on line. “Interesting. Looks like there’s a reference to a possible connection with a known underworld figure in Montreal. Oh, this is interesting, this person is suspected of being connected with the Corse Unione. But unfortunately, what they have so far is all circumstantial and paper thin.”

  “Hmm. I’m not surprised to hear any of this,” I said when he finished. “When I worked with the Boston Police, I had a number of run-ins with the mob. It was there that I heard about that group. I heard they were operatin’ in Canada, mostly out of Montreal. They’re based in Marseilles, France, I think. Anyway, they had connections with the American mob. Their main business was drugs, mostly heroin.”

  “Michael was right about you.”

  “Huh?”

  “He said you were a man of many talents. I’m surprised the security service hasn’t tried to bring you into the fold.”

  “Wouldn’t’ve accepted if they did. I’m needed right where I am at, an’ this is what I do best.”

  “I get that. Like I said before, there are days when I miss good old fashioned policework. Anyway, I have ordered the phone company to monitor Laurier’s phone on a twenty-four-hour basis.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “We have certain, um, powers which we can implement as needed.”

  “Interestin’” I said.

  “I’ll pass along anything that comes in as it relates to your investigation.”

  “Thanks. Listen, let’s meet up sometime for a drink. Maybe bring Michael along that way we can meet up at his mess.”

  “Good idea. You’re on,” he said then was gone.

  * * *

  It was only eleven in the morning and the canteen was already packed tight with a sea of black coated sailors. There were a few civilians mixed in among them as well as some young women.

  Pete stood inside the door on a narrow ledge scanning the room over the heads of everyone. The noise was a loud dull confusion of voices and scattered laughter. A pale blue cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the room. He was looking for someone in particular – a pretty young woman he had met a couple of months ago.

  Her name was Peggy Ferguson. Originally from Pugwash, a small community north of Pictou on the Northumberland Strait, she came to the city in ‘38 looking for work and adventure. She found both.

  She was twenty-five years old and attractive; standing at five foot four with a slim figure and all her parts in the right proportions. She had an open and friendly personality and didn’t lack for any male attention. However, she kept herself free of any serious attachments, telling Pete once that she had lots of time to settle down but for now, she just wanted to have as mu
ch fun as she could.

  When he hooked up with her, she was working one of the dance halls as a taxi dancer: the men paid a dime to dance with any of the girls there. She kept half of anything she made. His ‘relationship’ with her developed into a special friendship...he was one of the few men she shared her bed with from time to time. She was also an invaluable source of information that she picked up in the course of her working day.

  After several minutes it was clear she wasn’t there. He stepped down and headed back out on to the street. He stood there a moment deciding on his next move. There was another lunch-room about a ten-minute walk away. It was popular with several men he knew who were always there on the hustle, so he headed down to Barrington Street.

  Jimmy Danson was standing at his usual spot across the street from the café. He worked for one of the underground blind pigs, or bootleg joints, as a hawker. He stood just in from the bustling crowd on the sidewalk, wearing his overcoat and fedora, the ever-present cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth. He held his arms across his chest with his gloved hands buried in his underarms.

  Pete crossed over at the corner, mingling with the crowd. He knew if Jimmy spotted him, he’d take off at the double. He managed to step up to him from his blind side.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” he said as he reached him, clamping a big hand on little man’s shoulder. “You still pushin’ that rotgut for Billings?” Warren Billings was one of the city’s many bootleggers.

  Danson jumped, throwing his arms out. “Jesus Christ, what’re ya tryin’ ta do...give me a heart attack?”

  Pete ignored his complaint.

  “What? Me?” Danson said. When he turned and saw who it was, he relaxed. “Ya know I don’t involve meself wit sumone like ‘im.”

  “Right,” Pete said, grinning. “An’ bears don’t shit in the woods.”

  “Hey...” Danson started to protest, putting on an exaggerated pained look.

  “Relax. I’m not here to bust yer chops.” Danson gave Pete a funny look. He knew what was coming.

  “I need some information. You hear of a guy named Ed Kline or Harry Jencks?”