The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You know Johnny Flint, don’t you? Well, it just might be that he’s come up with something.”

  Standish waited, sensing from Ballard’s calm but deliberate manner that Flint’s information, whatever it was, was important and that it might be well to postpone any discussion of his recent discovery.

  “Johnny stopped in Hennessey’s Saturday night for a drink on his way home,” Ballard said. “The doorman is a fellow who has been helpful from time to time in the past, and he just happened to mention that Flemming had some trouble there the night before.”

  “At Hennessey’s?” Standish said, his mind leaping ahead and bracing itself for the disclosure he was afraid would follow.

  “Yeah. Friday night. According to the doorman Flemming traded punches with the guy that plays the trumpet in the band.”

  “Ralph Estey?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “So?”

  “So Johnny asked some questions, sort of passing the time of day but always interested in what Flemming might be doing, on account of his record and reputation. He also talked a little to Larry, the head barkeep. . . . You want to tell it?”

  “I guess you know there’s a real good-looking doll running the checkroom there,” Flint said. “Sheila something or other.”

  “Keith,” Standish said.

  “Yeah. Blond, well-put-together. Greenish eyes that give you the big smile and a lot of false promises. Well, Estey’s kind of sweet on her and Flemming had been horning in, trying to date the girl and being a nuisance, and Estev found out about it. They had some words and Estey made the mistake of trying to take on Flemming man to man. They went out oh the sidewalk and it was a two-punch contest. Estey swung and Flemming, who must have outweighed the guy fifty pounds, flattened him. Estey hit his head on the sidewalk or curb. He was out cold. A doctor happened to be there and insisted on checking him over.”

  Flint stopped to glance at Ballard, who had been watching Standish. Standish was well aware of his steady gaze and was ready when the lieutenant finished the story.

  “According to the doorman the doctor was you. You went across the street for your doctor’s bag and then went inside to look Estey over.”

  “The doorman had it right,” Standish said. “Estey had a concussion and I thought I’d better check.”

  “Umm.” Ballard nodded slightly, his eyes thoughtful and full of doubt. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t mention it.”

  There was an undertone of mild censure in the words and Standish could not quarrel with the statement. There was, he knew, some thought of Estey and the coincidental element of Friday night in the back of his mind, but he had kept it there. He was not sure whether this was deliberate or not and there was some evasion in his reply.

  “I’ve been pretty busy, Tom,” he said. “I remembered the fight but Captain Cavanaugh—and you seemed to go along —was pretty convinced that this was a simple gang killing or a deliberate attempt by someone who decided to pay Flemming off.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. If it wasn’t for this Estey business I’d still think so.”

  “A man with Flemming’s background and character must have made plenty of enemies.”

  “You know he did. He may have been doing some odd jobs for some of the big shots in town—we don’t know about that yet—and if he double-crossed someone or tried to muscle in on somebody else’s racket some hood could have walked in here on a contract and put him away. I’ve already got half a dozen men working on it. We’re going to check Flemming out up, down, and sideways—where he’s been, what he’s been doing, who he’s been seeing.”

  He paused again, rocking slightly on heel and toe. To Standish the pause seemed deliberate and the steady gray gaze narrowed slightly.

  “There was one other little thing that Johnny forgot,” Ballard added. “The doorman said something about Estey’s making a threat. Johnny didn’t pay much attention to it at the time but the way he heard it Estey said he had a gun and he was going to use it if Flemming gave him any more trouble. Did you hear anything like that?”

  Standish had no further thoughts of evasion. In his own mind he could not picture the man he knew as Ralph Estey walking in here and cold-bloodedly shooting Flemming without further provocation. He was also well aware of his job and the ethical considerations involved.

  “Yes,” he said, “I did hear a threat. It didn’t mean anything at the time because it was the kind of a thing any man might say under the circumstances. I still think it was nothing but talk, but I did hear it.”

  “Well, Johnny’s going back and find his friend, the doorman. This time we’ll get a proper statement but right now I think I ought to have a word with that trumpet player just in case. Do you know where he fives?”

  Standish nodded, remembering his one visit to Estey’s room in a second-class hotel not far from the railroad station where the rates were modest and the clientele undistinguished and not too prosperous.

  “He has a room—or did have a couple of months ago—at the Empire Hotel.”

  Ballard said “Good enough” and started to turn away but Standish touched his arm and gestured toward the inner hall.

  “I found something in the kitchen that could be interesting. I think you ought to take a look before you leave.”

  He led the way after Ballard had sent Flint on his next assignment. He pointed to the white piece of paper on the counter. When Ballard started to reach for it, he stopped him.

  Ballard scowled first at the paper and then at Standish.

  “Where did that come from? It wasn’t there before.”

  “No.”

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s what they used to call a ‘powder paper.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Druggists use them to put up certain types of prescriptions.”

  Ballard listened to the explanation, understanding it well enough but not quite believing it.

  “What the hell, Doc,” he said. “I thought everything was pills these days.”

  “Everything is—mostly,” Standish said. “But Bromo doesn’t come in pill form, does it? Or Enos or Sal Hepatica. You want something to dissolve quick in water, or any liquid for that matter, you don’t use a pill, do you? You don’t even use a capsule, which is the way most powder is contained these days. Even that takes time for the gelatin to dissolve.”

  He went on quickly then, explaining how he had washed his hands and thrown the towel at the wastebasket, how he had happened to spot the paper which had fallen near the baseboard.

  “There are still a few grains stuck in one of the creases. Enough to analyze, I think.”

  Ballard’s eyes were half closed now as he considered the paper and the problem it presented.

  “You got any idea what it is? The powder, I mean?”

  “I’ve got an idea. If you fold that paper carefully you can preserve the substance and take it over to Clem Jones, the city chemist. I’m pretty sure he can give you a definitive answer.”

  For a silent second or two Ballard seemed to be grappling with the idea. His expression suggested that he did not particularly care for the thought but he was a thorough and competent police officer and he understood that he could not ignore the possibility that Standish had presented.

  “You say you know what it is? Okay, what?”

  “It will only be a guess at this point,” Standish said. “It isn’t anything you could use in court.”

  “We’re not in court, Doc. Come on,” he added with some impatience, “there aren’t any witnesses; I’m not going to quote you.”

  “My guess says that that paper contained chloral hydrate.”

  Ballard stared at him. “You mean the stuff they used to call ‘knock-out drops’?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Standish said. “It may not be exact but it’ll do.”

  “But even if you’re right,” Ballard persisted, unwilling as yet to give credence to the doctor’s theory, “the stu
ff could have been used any time today or maybe even before. I mean, Flemming may have had some broad up here and slipped her a little something to make her more agreeable.”

  “Could be.”

  “I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Sure it’s possible,” Standish said. “That’s why I think I’d better get hold of Dr. Emerson over at City Hospital and do the autopsy tonight.”

  The idea seemed to startle Ballard. “Why tonight? What’s wrong with tomorrow morning? The guy was shot in the heart, wasn’t he?”

  “Chloral hydrate is eliminated from the body very rapidly,” Standish said. “If—and you notice I say if—Flemming happened to take that chloral hydrate for any reason early in the day I doubt if the autopsy would show any traces of it. If, on the other hand, it was ingested shortly before he was shot, Dr. Tracey, the pathologist, should be able to determine—”

  “I know, I know,” Ballard said. “You take out the stomach and put it in a jar and seal it—”

  “Along with the gastro-intestinal tract.”

  “—and Tracey takes a section of this and a section of that,” Ballard continued as though there had been no interruption, “and eventually gives us the word. How long is that going to take?”

  “A while. It depends on how busy he is and when he can get at it. Probably not before late tomorrow.”

  “I don’t get it.” Ballard shook his head. “It’s like Cavanaugh said. Your job is to establish the cause of death and determine if anyone is culpable and it looks like we already got answers on both counts. Flemming was shot and somebody did it. So what’s this—”

  Standish knew what the lieutenant was going to say and he cut him off. “It’s just that I like to know the truth, Tom. I think you do too. If there should happen to be chloral hydrate in Flemming’s system I think we ought to know about it. I think we ought to find out why if we can.”

  Ballard started to say something and then stopped. For he was thinking now as his mind went back over the years he had known Standish, first as a resident at the hospital and later as Dr. Lathrop’s assistant. They’d had lunch together occasionally and now and then a friendly drink. He had heard about the doctor’s experience as an intern in New York when he was riding ambulances and exchanging experiences with various police officers who crossed his path.

  He had heard more than once the two reasons Standish had given for his interest in the medical examiner’s job. As a resident with nothing in the bank, the fees he earned from assisting Lathrop had been important. He had also quoted Lathrop’s thoughts about the importance of a dissecting room in expanding a doctor’s knowledge. “Good surgeons,” Lathrop had said, “cut swiftly, with long, sure strokes, because they see in their minds the true picture of the structure underneath. A good diagnostician should know as much.”

  These were the two reasons Standish had quoted, but Ballard was convinced there was a third, unspoken reason —a basic interest in crime—that Standish had never admitted. A reason he had never put into words and, perhaps, did not really understand himself. As chief medical examiner, a job he would relinquish in another year or so, he was conscientious and dedicated. He had attended seminars on forensic medicine at Harvard every year. He corresponded with other medical examiners who were older and more experienced, and he had clippings from journals which stated the belief that homicides were involved in hundreds of deaths each year that were passed off as natural because of the lack of a proper medical-examiner law. He had nothing against coroners, as such, whose job, too often of a patronage nature, was basically legal; but he felt that no unattended or suspicious death should be accepted as natural without a proper medical examination or post-mortem.

  In the past Standish had helped Ballard on more than one occasion. He did not interfere with police work and it was usually Ballard who came to Standish when he needed help. At such times the only objection came from Mary Hayward, who resented the demands such work made on Standish’s time. She had no inhibitions about telling Ballard what she thought and she insisted in a polite but continuing argument with Standish himself that he would be much better off in every way if he devoted all of his time to his own private practice. Let someone else do the medical examiner s job, was Mary’s creed, and she was steadfast in her belief.

  Ballard had never suggested that the doctor’s persistence in learning the truth was due to this unspoken interest in crime. Since this was easy to deny, it was impossible to substantiate. He did not say so now. He merely took a deep breath and let it out through his lips.

  “Okay, Doc,” he said. “You want to stay up all night, that’s your business. Just give me the cause of death in the morning and bring the slug with you.”

  He folded the “powder paper” very carefully and tucked it between two clean sheets of his pocket notebook.

  “Me,” he said, turning toward the door, “I want Ralph Estey. And maybe I should have a little chat with that hat-check girl. If it hadn’t been for her there wouldn’t have been any fight. Maybe she knows something that will help. What did you say her name was?”

  “Sheila Keith.”

  “Would you know where she lives?”

  Standish said no and followed the lieutenant from the room.

  5

  IT WAS after two before Paul Standish, with Dr. Emerson’s assistance, had completed his part of the autopsy and made his notes. He was at his office at eight the next morning, and he had five house calls to make before he had time to stop at police headquarters. Now, going through the detectives’ room on the second floor on his way to Lieutenant Ballard’s small office, he saw Sheila Keith sitting at one end of a desk while a plainclothesman he did not know worked at a typewriter.

  She was sitting erect in her chair, hands clenched in her lap. She was wearing a plaid woolen skirt and a beige sweater set, her plain navy coat over the back of the chair. She had a scarf over the ash-blond hair and her high-cheekboned face was pale and tense, her mouth compressed and marked with fatigue. The green eyes were dull and a little sick and she did not turn her head or notice him as he passed by. He saw all this as a doctor and wondered how much more pressure she could take before some sort of hysteria took over.

  Lieutenant Ballard was slumped in his desk chair, his appearance suggesting that he had had even less sleep than Standish. His sandy hair was rumpled, so were his clothes. The shave he had given himself earlier must have been hurried and careless because traces of beard showed through. For all of this his greeting was friendly.

  “Hi, Doc,” he said. “Sit down.”

  Standish sat down and spoke directly. “How long have you had the Keith girl here? Not all night I hope?”

  “No, why?”

  “I was just wondering. She didn’t even see me when I came in but I took a good look at her. I’d say she’s had pretty nearly as much as she can take.”

  “Yeah?” Ballard considered the statement and tipped one hand. “Well, it’s not our fault. We paid her a little visit last night around midnight and had to get her out of bed. She was pretty upset when she found out what happened and that we were looking for Estey.”

  “What did she say?”

  “A lot of things, none of them very helpful. We asked her if she had seen Estey any time yesterday and she said no. We asked her if she’d been out during the evening and she said no. Hennessey’s is closed on Mondays and she said she stayed home and washed out some things—there were some bras and stockings and panties hanging in the bathroom— and washed her hair. I told her we could talk some more this morning. I sent a car for her about nine o’clock.”

  “What did she tell you about Flemming?”

  “Not much we didn’t already know. She said she knew him in Florida last year. She said he was a persistent, annoying, and objectionable bully. She admitted there’d been a fight over her Friday night between Flemming and Estey but she said Estey wasn’t the kind that would shoot anyone no matter what he said. And incidentally—”

  Ballard
leaned forward and slid his forearms across the desk. “We got a detailed statement from the doorman at Hennessey’s and what Johnny Flint told us last night was about right. There was a little more but the substance of the story is the same.”

  “And what does Ralph Estey say about all this?”

  “We don’t know—yet.”

  “Oh?”

  Ballard muttered something under his breath that sounded exasperated and profane.

  “We haven’t been able to pick him up. But we will. We’ve got the railroad station, bus terminal, and airport covered. We’ve got stake-outs on Estey’s room at the hotel, the girl’s apartment; we’re keeping an eye on Hennessey’s in case he shows up there. We’ve even got a man on the ex-wife—her name is Johnson now.”

  Standish leaned back, his angular face grave and the dark-blue eyes full of thought. He had already telephoned the city chemist but he wanted to get the word from Ballard.

  “What did Clem Jones have to say?”

  “He said you were right. That ‘powder paper’ you found did contain traces of chloral hydrate. . . . You did the p.m.,” he added defensively. “What did Flemming die from?”

  “A gunshot wound.”

  “Sure. So there you are.”

  Standish reached into the change pocket of his jacket and brought forth the bullet he had removed from Flemming’s back. He put it in the center of the blotter pad and watched Ballard pick it up and turn it between thumb and forefinger.

  “A .32, hunh?” he said, and the words reminded Standish that Estey had said he owned a gun of that caliber on Friday night.

  “You’ve been getting a rundown on Flemming,” he said when Ballard finished his inspection. “Have you got any leads as to who might have walked in there and shot him like that? Have you found any gang connection?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still checking?”

  “Certainly, not that I expect it to do any good. Just give me Ralph Estey and I’ll wrap it up for you. He had the motive-one of the best in the world—and if he’s not involved, where is he?”