Читать книгу The Venus Death: A Ralph Lindsay Mystery - Ben Benson - Страница 8

WHEN I arrived in Cambridge it was eight o’clock at night. Our house was an old white bungalow with a little white picket fence around it. The lawn was freshly mowed and the leaves had been raked. I knew my mother had been working around the yard. It made me ashamed of myself because I should have been home to do it last Sunday.

I came up the walk to the front porch. The rolled evening paper was there, cast deftly by the bicycle-pedaling newsboy. I picked it up and opened the front door. I caught the savory fragrance of roast beef.

My mother called, “Ralph?”

“Yes, Ma,” I said.

She came into the living room. I bent over and kissed her. She was a small, bustling woman, with bright, alert eyes. Her face and her gray hair were damp with the heat of the stove.

“You’re almost an hour late,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I was delayed.”

“You can’t blame us for being worried,” she said. “You haven’t been home for ten days. I know it’s a long trip. But it means so much to your father.”

“How is he?”

“The same. He was in his room resting last I knew. He should be up by now.”

“I’ll go in and help him.”

“No. You know how he hates to have you help him into the wheel chair.” She stood back and measured me. “You look all famished and tuckered out. Have you lost weight?”

“No. But I’m like a bird dog when I sniff that roast beef. Is it ready?”

“It’s been ready for an hour,” she said. “Here’s your father coming.”

He came into the living room in his chrome wheel chair, the one I had bought him with my first two weeks’ trooper pay. He was emaciated and gaunt, and his face had a pallor, and his hair seemed grayer than ever before. His hands were blue-veined and bony. He was wearing an open-throated sports shirt. There was my mother’s hand-knitted coverlet over his wasted legs. He put his hand out. I took it. I could feel the dry, fragile skin.

“Let’s look at this boot trooper,” he said with mock sternness. “Push those shoulders back. There, that’s better. Ralph, why didn’t you come home your last two days off?”

“I got tied up with a few things, Pa.”

“It’s a long trip, Walter,” my mother said to him, quick to defend me. “It’s over sixty miles, and after a boy comes off patrol he’s tired. I should think you’d speak to Fred Walsh and have Ralph transferred. He could go to Framingham, or Andover, or Concord. Then he’d be much nearer home.”

“Now you know that’s foolish, Millie,” my father said. “They have reasons for stationing a trooper away from his home. It’s better he doesn’t know any people in his assigned area.” Then he turned to me. “How’s Fred Walsh?”

“Fine,” I said briefly.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“He’s tough,” I said. “I’ll get used to him.”

“I worked with Fred quite a few years,” my father said. “He’s a good cop and a good troop commander. Hard, but fair. Maybe he’s a little bitter, Ralph.”

“Why should he be bitter? He’s the troop commander. It’s almost like being God.”

“Don’t be blasphemous,” my mother said.

“Fred Walsh has to retire next spring,” my father said. “When a man gives his life to an organization–”

“But the younger ones coming up,” I said, “they have to have a chance, too. If the older officers stay in grade too long, we’ll never make it.”

“The young ones,” my father said. “Always impatient, restless. But what will a man do when he reaches Walsh’s age? He’ll be only fifty. Is his life over?” He shook his head sadly. “When I think of it, there ain’t many left of the old gang now. Outside of the Commissioner, Major Carradine, Fred Walsh and Bob Clyde in Ballistics, I guess there’s nobody left from my time.”

“There’s Ed Newpole,” my mother said.

“Well, I was talking about the uniformed branch. Ed left the troops and went into the detective branch. A detective ain’t the same thing.” He swung his wheel chair around and faced me. “Anything new in the troops? Any new weapons?”

“There’s a new .45 carbine,” I said. “It’s semi-automatic.”

“We never had those kind of weapons,” my father said, shaking his head. “When I look back–”

“I think you’ve bothered the boy enough for now,” my mother interrupted. “You go wash up and let Ralph wash up, too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” my father said, saluting her. He winked at me. Then he wheeled happily out of the living room and bumped the chair over the threshold of the bathroom.

“It’s his whole life,” my mother said softly. “He talks to me about the troops all day long. And do you see how his face lights up when you come home? You must be kind and patient with him, Ralph.”

“Sure, Ma,” I said. I patted her cheek and went into the bedroom. I took off my jacket and unstrapped the holstered gun and put it into the bureau drawer. I put the badge in, too. I felt immeasurably lighter now. It wasn’t so much the actual weight of the two objects, but the symbols they represented.

I came into the living room with a bath towel in my hand. I picked up the newspaper. I looked across into the dining room and I noticed the gold-embroidered linen tablecloth on the dining room table. Then I saw the folded linen napkins. Instead of the usual heavy tumblers I saw the crystal goblets. There was a silver-plated relish dish and my mother’s homemade watermelon pickles. Now she was at the table, moving around, laying out her best silverware. She had changed to a white ruffled apron.

I came into the dining room. “You expecting company?” I asked.

“Didn’t your father tell you over the phone?” She brought her hand up and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. “Ellen Levesque is coming to dinner.”

“He didn’t tell me,” I said, rubbing the stubble on my jaw. “Look, we’ve known Ellen since she was this high. She’s been here to dinner before. You don’t have to put out the family heirlooms to impress a kid like Ellen.”

“She’s not a kid. She’s twenty-one.”

“Twenty,” I corrected. “I’m three years older than she.”

“Your father was five years older than I.”

“Now what is this? Who’s talking marriage, Ma?”

“You have,” she said calmly. “Often. And with Ellen.”

“We never mentioned anything definite. There was no definite time.”

“Aren’t you in love with Ellen?”

“Sure. Ellen and I–” Then I stopped and I could feel the redness creeping over my face. I was thinking of Manette Venus.

“What?” my mother asked.

“I ought to have time,” I said hurriedly. “I’m still in my probationary period and I haven’t had my first pay increase yet. I don’t think this is the time to talk about it.”

“Your father and I have talked about it,” my mother said firmly. “We don’t exactly blame you for not wanting to come home. It must be dull for you to sit here and talk to a crippled old man, a man who does nothing but relive his life as a trooper. If you had a wife, you wouldn’t want to stay in Danford. And your father is afraid you might start hanging around bars and drinking. You know what would happen if you got drunk in a public place. You’d be dismissed from the troops.”

“I’ve never been drunk in my life,” I said. “He needn’t worry.”

“But he does worry. Well, never mind it now. Dinner was ready an hour ago, and Ellen was waiting for you. She went home for a moment. I do want this to be nice. I’ve entertained very little since your fathers accident. When he was well he liked the little extra touches. You know, I think I’m going to use the silver candleholders.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t you, Ma?”

She put a finger thoughtfully to her mouth. “I think I will. Just this once we’ll eat by candlelight. And I don’t care if your father does joke that he can’t see what he’s eating.”

“Sure,” I said. Then I heard my father come out of the bathroom. I went in to take a quick shower and a shave.

I was putting on a fresh shirt in my bedroom when I heard the front door open. Then I heard my father’s dry rasping cough and Ellen’s quick, bubbling laughter.

I came into the living room and Ellen whirled around suddenly. She was a china doll of a girl, slim and as supple as a reed, with black wavy hair, green eyes and a saucy, freckled nose. She was wearing a skirt and blouse and her usual flat sandals. She came up and kissed me on the mouth. Then she reached up and rubbed some of her lipstick from the corner of my lip.

“Hello, Ralph,” she said. “Your nose is peeling again.”

“You know I never could tan.” I grinned.

“We’ve missed you,” she said. “We haven’t seen you for ages.”

“We’ll make sure he comes home more often,” my father said.

I started to say something, but my mother put her arm around Ellen and said, “Let’s go in to dinner.”

We had dinner. There was a bouquet of white gardenias Ellen had brought. My father made the expected joke about not being able to see what he was eating and his usual reminiscences about the troops. After it was over, and my father had gone to his bedroom to catch his favorite TV crime program, Ellen and I helped my mother with the dishes. Then my mother shooed us out of the house.

We went onto the porch. Ellen sat down on the porch glider. She took a deep breath. “Indian summer,” she said. “The air is hazy and there’s a smell of woodsmoke and burning leaves. It’s the best time of year. Don’t you think so, Ralph?”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s ride into Boston and see a show.”

“No, let’s sit out here for a while.”

I leaned against the porch railing and took out my pipe. “Do you mind if I smoke the old incinerator?”

She looked up at me in surprise. “You know I always liked your pipe. You look perfectly handsome in a pipe.”

“Thanks,” I said, filling it from my pouch. “I have to keep it at home. There’s no time in the barracks for a pipe. You go on patrol, go to bed, wake up and go on another patrol. No good for pipe smokers. They need leisure. And you can’t sneak a pipe smoke in a cruiser like you can a cigarette.”

“You sound a little sullen tonight,” she said. “What happened, Ralph? You stayed away from home for ten days. You never did that before.”

“Maybe you’re just getting to know me.”

“After all these years? No, I know you from way back. I remember you from the days when we used to hitchhike to Walden Pond. Or don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I do,” I said, puffing on my pipe. And I did remember. She had been a gawky little kid then, with thin spindly legs, a skinny boyish body and a tense face. When she ran, the ribbons on her pigtails streamed out in the wind. She had a fierce little temper, erupting like a volcano and subsiding quickly. There was a time when I dropped a frog down the neck of her dress. She raked my face with her nails and kicked my shins, and five minutes later she was all contrite and came running with iodine for my scratches.

“We used to go to Walden Pond,” she said. “It was where Thoreau had communed with nature. I often hoped some of the atmosphere would rub off onto us. I used to examine you closely to see if you were turning into a brilliant philosopher.”

“It didn’t work,” I said shortly.

She looked sharply at me. “Nothing seems to be working tonight,” she said quietly. “At dinner you hardly spoke a word. It’s not like you.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say a word. My father was telling us about when he was a corporal at Andover. We’ve heard those stories a hundred times. He keeps looking back all the time. Why doesn’t he look ahead?”

“To what?” she asked. “What future is there for him? He’s a paraplegic, and inside he’s dying by degrees. How much more time does he have, Ralph? One year? Two? Five? Would you deny him the little pleasure of his anecdotes?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a damn moron tonight. I wish I was like him. I’m not. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cop.”

“Why not?”

“Listen, I put in over a hundred duty hours a week. I’d like more time off. At least, I’d like evenings to myself. No wonder they retire a trooper at the age of fifty. He’s all beat out by then.”

“But you knew all this when you went in.” She swung back and forth on the glider. “Ralph,” she said gently. “What’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“The girl you met.”

I reddened. “What do I have? A glass door in my head? How did you know I met a girl?”

“It shows,” she said. “What else could it be? Ralph, what’s her name?”

“Manette Venus,” I said.

“I see,” she said. “You met this girl and that’s why you haven’t been home. And she doesn’t want you to be a trooper, either.”

“All right,” I said. “So that’s what happened.”

“Where did you meet this Manette Venus?”

“What difference does it make? I was at a bar having a glass of beer. We started talking.”

“You mean she picked you up in a saloon.”

“You don’t have to make it sound dirty, Ellen. It was mutual. She was lonely. She was a stranger in Danford. She knew nobody.”

“So she went to a barroom and picked you up. And never mind the misguided gallantry. You never picked up a girl in your life. You wouldn’t know how. And what does she look like? Smooth sultry blonde? Big blue mascaraed eyes and silver lacquered fingernails? Sexy legs and rhinestone high heels on her shoes?”

“She’s a blonde, yes. But not–”

“What does she do?” Ellen interrupted. “Work as a hostess in a dance hall?”

“No. She’s in the office of the Staley Woolen Company.”

“But why pick you? What does she want? A good time? Where are you going to get the money to spend on that type? What is she asking for?”

“Nothing. She–”

“You’re a big hick,” she said, her voice tense and distraught. “She must want something. You went after her like a seal after a fish. You swallowed the bait. What happens now? What happens when she spends all your money and gets tired of you?”

“No, you have her wrong. Listen, she’s in trouble–”

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” she said, her face set and rigid. “I’m the little dirty-faced kid next door, remember? I don’t have any ring on my finger. We talked about marriage, sure. But what’s talk? Talk is cheap. It would be better if I went into a saloon and wiggled a snaky hip at you.”

“Look, you’re making this sound a lot worse than it is. It’s childish–”

“Is it? It’s because I thought you were too good for any barroom girl. And it’s because I’m a poor sport. And it’s because I happen to be in love with a big lug and I don’t want to let him go. Now do you want me to open the rest of my diary?”

“No,” I said. “Ellen–” I left the railing and went to her. I reached out and tried to take her hands. She slid away and stood up.

“Say good-by to your father and mother for me,” she said. “Tell them the flowers and candles were a good idea, but it was a little too late.”

“Ellen,” I said sharply. “You have it all wrong. I told Manette–”

“I could kill Manette,” she said. She fled down the stairs and ran across the sidewalk to her house.

I didn’t go after her. I knew her, and I knew her temper. It would be a few hours before she simmered down. Until then she would not talk to me. And I knew I couldn’t go into the house and face my mother, either.

So I took a walk. I walked down to the Charles River. I walked along the embankment, past the Harvard dormitories and the gilt-knobbed Lars Anderson Bridge. I was in familiar surroundings. I was home. And the more I walked, the more distant Manette Venus became.

I was back in the barracks at 3:00 P.M. the next day, Thursday. I signed in. Stan Maleski was duty sergeant.

“You’re back early,” Maleski said to me. “You’re not due in until four.”

“There’s somebody I have to phone,” I said.

I went into the guardroom and called the Staley Woolen Company office. They told me Manette Venus was out. She had left at noon and had not yet returned.

I called Glen Road and spoke to Mrs. Reece. She said Manette had come home about twelve-thirty and had gone right out again. No, Manette had not explained why she had left work early. But she had told Mrs. Reece to expect her home at six.

At five o’clock I went on patrol with Phil Kerrigan. It had been cloudy, windy and warm all day. At dark it began to rain gustily and fitfully.

There had been a gas station holdup in Connecticut and the two armed men had last been seen heading for the Massachusetts line in a stolen car. We had the cruiser in a roadblock at Route 114. We stood beside it, the intermittent rain slashing at our blue raincoats, streaming down our faces, dripping from our cap visors. Kerrigan had his head cocked, watching for headlights in the blackness, listening for tires on a wet road.

I was standing near the open window of the car and I heard the crackle of the shortwave radio. I opened the door and poked my head in. The time was 9:10.

The radio was saying, “–holdup men have been apprehended by Cruiser 19. A Signal Seven for Cruiser 36. Cruiser 36. A Signal Seven.”

I called to Kerrigan. “The roadblock’s off,” I said. “But there’s a message for us to call our station.”

Kerrigan came over, took off his cap, shook the water from it and got into the car. He radioed the barracks. The dispatcher told us to come in immediately.

Sergeant Ray Beaupré was at the duty desk. I knew it was bad as soon as I saw him. His voice had a tinge of strain in it as he told us Captain Walsh was waiting for me in the troop commander’s office.

I went in there, my dripping raincoat making a puddle on the floor. Walsh was in civilian clothes, his necktie hastily knotted and askew, his face darkened by a day-long stubble. He was talking on the telephone and when he saw me he motioned me to sit down. He said, “I’ll call you back,” and put the phone down quickly. He shuffled some papers on the desk as I took off my raincoat and sat down. He said, “They tell me you know a girl named Manette Venus.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s bad news,” he said.

I waited, my heart beating harder.

He rubbed his jaw. “These things a cop sees all the time. He tries to take them in stride. He never expects them to get close to him. I don’t know why not. It’s the law of averages. A man’s got to get hit sometime.” He looked at me. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Manette Venus has been murdered.”

“What?” I asked it stupidly, as though I hadn’t heard him. “Who?”

“Manette Venus,” he said quietly. “She was murdered. Tonight about seven-thirty. The Danford cops notified us over an hour ago.”