On the seventh floor of a building in coastal city’s business district, one of these agencies had a suite of offices. The glass panel of the door was labeled: SIMON CROLE, SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR.
In the front office behind this door at her neat desk sat Etta, plump, bland and keen. On either side of the secretary’s desk were two doors. One led to a small room usually occupied by Crole’s operator, a singular individual known as Matt Ridley.
The other door led directly into Simon Crole’s consulting office. The room contained chairs, a wardrobe, a couch covered with worn leather, and a heel-scarred desk.
The head of the agency, Simon Crole himself, sat behind the heel-scarred desk scanning a tabloid which featured the latest developments along California’s eastern borders where the police were trying in vain to stem the tide of undesirables flowing into the promised land.
A big man, Simon Crole, with a certain feline grace in his every movement—and he was quite bald. Wrinkles slanted fan-wise from the corners of his eyes. And his lips, whenever he smiled, twisted slightly out of line because of an ancient scar, creating the impression, and wrongly, that Simon Crole was in a state of perpetual surprise.
His eyes swerved from the tabloid sheet as the interoffice phone buzzed. He took down the receiver and spoke into it, softly. “Good morning, precious.”
Etta’s voice purred sweetly over the wire. “A gentleman to see you by the name of Lefty Swope.”
“I don’t know him. What’s he want?”
“I am not clairvoyant.”
“Then send him in.” He hung up.
Lefty Swope swaggered through the door, his left shoulder held high, his jaw out-thrust, teeth grinding on something in his mouth. One eyelid drew down more than the other as if that eye could not quite make up its mind whether to remain closed or open.
Simon Crole smiled expansively. “How are you, Lefty?”
“Aw, not so good. Quite a place you got here. Must make a lot of money?”
Crole looked at his meager furnishings as if seeing them for the first time. “No,” he admitted sadly. “The stuff is ancient. I thought for a moment that the place was really better than it was.”
“Aw, the hell with it,” said Lefty. “I ain’t trying to start an argument. I come here because they’s a guy in this town I don’t like. I’m in business. See? It’s legit all right. But this guy don’t like me, see? Nor I, him. It’s mutual.”
“You don’t like each other, eh? That it?”
“That’s only half of it. We ain’t never going to like each other. I opens a little food joint. Chili beans, hamburgers, you know—all that sort of thing. Along comes this Greek and opens a place right across the street and starts to undersell me. He can afford to. He steals all his stuff. His whole family works for him...”
Crole raised his hand. “Let’s get this straight. You don’t like this Greek. Okay. What do you expect me to do?”
“I want you to send a couple of plug-uglies up to his joint and beat him up. Every day I want that Greek beat up until...”
Simon Crole sighed. “Lefty, I sympathize with you. This Greek should be beat up. But that isn’t my business.”
“You got detectives working for you, ain’t you? Huskies that know how to handle tough guys like this Greek? Hell, I’ll pay. I’ll pay ten bucks every time the Greek gets knocked for a loop.”
Simon Crole took papers from his pocket and rolled a flat cigarette and got out his trick lighter. It worked the first time. He smiled unbelievingly at this minor miracle. “My agency, Lefty,” he said, mildly, “never undertakes a case for less than a single day’s work. And the fee is a flat hundred and fifty a day.”
Lefty’s partially closed eye opened. “The hell you say? Why, I could get the Greek bumped off for half that amount.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Get you into trouble. Tell you what I will do, however. I’ll give you the name and address of a man who will talk business with you and no questions asked.”
From his desk pad he tore off a piece of paper and scribbled a name and address. “There you are,” he said, pushing the paper across the desk. “Go and see this man. Give him ten bucks and he’ll chew your Greek’s ear off.”
He nodded a brusk dismissal.
“Thanks. How much this gonna cost me?”
“The service is gratis. Good day.”
“S’long, Mr. Crole.”
After the man had left Simon Crole again picked up the tabloid. Again the buzzer. He took down the receiver.
Etta’s honeyed voice said: “A lady to see you.”
“Send her in.”
A hard-looking blonde entered. Her lips were like two pieces of straight, red string. Above them were sullen eyes, heavily daubed with mascara. “Betty Autry is my name,” she began.
Crole nodded pleasantly, but felt otherwise. Long training enabled him to recognize the type. He wouldn’t get along with this woman.
“It’s about my husband,” continued Betty Autry. “I want a quick divorce and plenty of alimony. My husband is wealthy. But he’s tight, stays away from other women, and objects to my having a good time. You know how to arrange things like this, don’t you?”
Crole nodded. “Yes. I could handle this very nicely. In other words, Mrs. Autry, you want your husband framed—a sort of a modern badger game. Infidelity, divorce, then alimony. The three always seem to follow each other.”
Betty Autry nodded. Her sullen, eyes were on those of the private detective. “I want it so that I’ll get the divorce on good grounds so that the judge...”
“I’m sorry,” said Crole, shaking his bald head. “Framing people isn’t my type of business. You’ll have to try some other agency.”
Fury blazed in Betty Autry’s eyes. “If it’s a question of money...?”
“Not in the least. My reputation, Mrs. Autry, is really something I must consider. My business is legal and licensed, and I’m under bond. And since it’s my business, I reserve the right to choose my cases. I’m sorry, of course, that. .
Something very much like an animal snarl parted the red strings that formed this selfish woman’s lips. “If that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll find another agency. There are plenty in this city. Good day, Mister Simon Sanctimonious Crole.” The hall door slammed viciously behind her.
Simon Crole got to his feet and wandered into Etta’s office. “Precious,” he asked his secretary, “is there something about my face or clothes that makes me look like a thug or a cheap operator?”
Etta eyed him blandly. “You’re not handsome, if that’s what...”
“It isn’t what I mean at all. The clients—they’re getting worse all the time. We haven’t had a quality case in...”
The hall door opened. A Mexican in a chocolate-brown suit sidled in. He smiled apologetically at the private detective. “Am I speaking to Señor Crole?” he asked in very good English.
Simon nodded. “Come inside.” He shrugged helplessly. “Now. What is it you want?”
“Your help, Señor Crole. It concerns my erring son.”
“You and everybody else want my help. This seems to be my free clinic day.”
“I will not trouble you very much.”
“Sit down. Start talking.”
“José Hernandez,” said the Mexican, sitting down, “is my name.” Here he took out a fat roll of money. “So that you will understand I expect to pay my debt.” He smiled wistfully.
“I’m glad you expect to pay, José. All my customers today have been poor. Those that weren’t poor were bad people.”
“I also am poor, but not bad. You are not of the police, are you?”
“No. I am not of the police.”
“That is very nice. The police I distrust. Now. My son, Manuel, is a good boy, but he does not work. Soon I shall take him into my business. But he does not wish it. He would rather loaf and regard the legs of girls who labor in the walnut packing plant. He has ideas—most of them will cause trouble.”
“I think I understand, José. Your boy is good, but he’s keeping the wrong kind of company, and you’re afraid he’ll get arrested by the police.”
José nodded vigorously.
“You want me, perhaps, to put the fear of God into him so that he’ll keep going straight.”
Perplexity returned to José’s eyes.
“Scare hell out of him,” said Crole.
“That is what I desire,” beamed the boy’s parent.
Crole took down the Mexican’s address. “I’ll send one of my men out to your place tonight. You point out your son. My man will take care of the rest.”
Honest José Hernandez extended his entire roll. Simon Crole looked at it longingly, then shook his head. “If it works out, José,” he said, “you pay me ten dollars.”
“Good. Some day I pay you ten dollars. Thank you.” He smiled apologetically once more and left the office.
Simon Crole fashioned a cigarette and lit it with a match rather than face disappointment in the trick lighter. “Matt!” he called aloud.
Matt Ridley, Crole’s only operator, came out of the adjoining room. His hat was on the back of his head. He looked bewildered, which he probably was, for he never thoroughly understood the motives of the man he worked for. His chief value to Simon Crole was an utter lack of fear, a zest for investigation, and an unswerving loyalty that was above any form of bribe.
Matt nodded. “I saw the roll he was holding in his hand more than I saw him. Funny colored suit. Talked good English, and likes his kids, as all Mexicans do.”
“You’re improving,” said Crole. “Well,” pushing the name and address across the desk, “you go up and see him tonight. He’ll point out his kid. Just act natural and he’ll think you’re a flatfoot. Then flash your badge—not too close. And give him the works. Threaten to take him to jail where they work hell out of the prisoners. And anything else you can think of. But scare him—and scare him good.”
“I’ll give him a scare that’ll freeze his insides.” He rubbed his palms together. “You turned down money in that Autry woman.”
“I know it,” said Crole.
“I hope,” said Matt, staring at the bottom drawer of Crole’s desk, “that you haven’t been smacked by the reform bug. You turn down a case involving thousands of dollars, and take on a poor Spig for a ten dollar fee. No business of mine, though. I could do with a snack of that Bourbon in the bottom drawer. I know it’s there be...”
The buzzer sounded. Matt sighed and turned regretfully away. Crole took down the receiver, listened and said wearily: “Send him in, precious. My day is ruined anyway.”
A man with a thin, tanned face entered, nodded and dropped into a comfortable position on the leather couch. “Ned Anderson is my name. I’m an incompetent sort of a person, so I have been told. I’m easy-going, shiftless and inclined to be tolerant about everything and everybody.”
Simon Crole squinted at his caller. “That’s quite a confession. Are you sober?”
“Quite. Been so since last night.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“First, let’s get me straight. I’m an old friend of Esther Manning who...”
“Worked as a store detective,” finished Crole. “She also worked for me once, then graduated into police work, social welfare, and now she has her own law office.”
“She sent me here,” said Anderson. “I’ve been away—around the world. I just got back. Yesterday. Heard some bad news regarding my estate. Everything gone. Money, stocks and bonds, and a twenty-one room house in Los Gatos canyon.”
“You mean,” said Crole, “that while you were away...”
“While I was away I was robbed by the man who was supposed to protect my estate.”
“How could a man get away with anything like that? Didn’t you have papers to sign? Didn’t you realize...?”
“I signed a paper before I left giving this gentleman full power of attorney over everything I possessed.”
“Oh!” Simon Crole rubbed a knuckle against his nose. “Lose much in the transaction?”
“Well over two hundred thousand, plus that twenty-one room house in Los Gatos canyon.”
Crole drummed the desk top with his fingers. “That’s a large sum, Mr. Anderson. We’ll leave the house out of the discussion and stick to the money part.”
“No,” insisted Ned Anderson. “That house belonged to me and I used to like it. Still do. Want it back.” Crole shrugged. “What’s the gentleman’s name?”
“James Gillespie. Investment counselor, broker and all that sort of thing.”
“If Gillespie is guilty of defrauding you out of your estate, Anderson, it looks to me like a case for the police and the courts. When did you discover your loss?”
“At my hotel last night I had a visitor—a girl named Virginia Laird, secretary for Gillespie. She came to me because she thought I was a sap to hand everything I owned over to Gillespie. She told me that Gillespie was losing heavily in the stock market and that a check against my personal funds for seventeen thousand dollars had, by mistake, passed through her hands. It seems Gillespie lost all his own money in Wall Street.”
“What else do you know?”
“The girl left me, wouldn’t let me take her home. I started to follow her for some reason I afterwards forgot. On the street outside a man posing as a police detective grabbed her and tried to sneak her away in a cab.”
Crole’s eyes seemed heavy with sleep. “Well?”
“I didn’t like to see the girl manhandled so I got a little rough with the man who told her he was a detective. They drove away without the girl. Afterwards I took her home.”
“You figure that someone was watching the girl and heard what she told you?”
Ned Anderson nodded. “Yes.”
“When did you check up on your losses?”
“This morning, as soon as the bank opened. I also called the Tax Assessor’s office. The house in Los Gatos canyon is no longer mine. It belongs to some gentleman in London.”
“Were you wiped out entirely?”
“Three thousand dollars is all I’ve got left.”
“And your object in coming to me, Anderson, is to get your money and property back?”
“Esther Manning said you were the best private dick in town. Said also that if anybody could get it back you could.”
“My fees for this class of work are heavy, Anderson.”
“The sky’s the limit with me. Any part of the three thousand I’ve got is yours as a retaining fee. Name your figure.”
“One thousand down, Anderson.”
Ned Anderson took a check book from his pocket, wrote rapidly and placed the oblong of paper on the agency man’s desk. Crole eyed the piece of paper meditatively without picking it up.
“About this Gillespie. I suppose you had a rather violent scene with him in his office this morning before coming here?”
“I went there for that particular purpose,” said Anderson, calmly. “The door was open. But the office was deserted. No one was there. The place was somewhat upset. Even the safe door was open. It looks to me as if Mr. Gillespie had departed rather suddenly.”
“Wait,” said Crole. He took down the receiver and spoke to his secretary. “Dial James Gillespie’s office. If anybody answers, ask for Gillespie.” He hung up.
After a time Etta’s voice came over the wire. “No one answers.”
Simon Crole’s eyebrows moved up. “She reports that no one answers.”
“That’s the devil of it,” said Ned Anderson, moodily. “I’m not surprised at Gillespie skipping out. That’s to be expected. But it’s the girl I’m worried about.”
“The girl?”
“Yes, Miss Laird, Gillespie’s secretary. I called her home this morning. Talked with her mother. Found out that she had gone to work as usual. Whether she ever reached the office or not I couldn’t find out. But somebody had been there, that’s certain.”
“You think, Anderson,
that Miss Laird...”
“I’m hiring you to do the thinking, Crole. Gillespie knew that she had certain knowledge of that seventeen-thousand dollar check. Someone must have hired that man who tried to force her into the taxi last night. If Gillespie isn’t back of it, then who the devil is?” Simon Crole smiled benignly. The case had its angles, and right now, they appeared sharply defined.
He had merely to locate Gillespie, apply pressure of the right sort—a threat of criminal action in courts that were not lenient with malefactors of this type of swindling—force Gillespie to disgorge, collect an additional fee, and close the case. He started to roll a cigarette when Ned Anderson’s voice stopped him.
“If anything happens to that girl, Crole, if she’s been kidnapped...”
“You mean murder?”
“Exactly!”
The benign expression fled from Simon Crole’s face. “I begin to see why you’ve come to me. But if it’s murder, Anderson, the case will partly pass out of my hands, but I’ll see that your interests are protected.”
“When will you start?”
“I suppose,” said Crole, picking up the check and rising to his feet, “that I had better start at once. It is understood, of course, that I am the only one you have engaged to investigate your affairs.”
“You’re the only one.”
“Let’s go,” said Crole, “and see if we can find the estimable James Gillespie.”
At Etta’s desk on the way out he stopped, endorsed the check and handed it to her. “Open an account with Mr. Ned Anderson. Credit it with this amount, and give me some money, fifty dollars from my personal account.”
Smiling, he turned his big, round face on his new client. “All right, Anderson. Your affairs are about to be put in order, without, I hope, too much skullduggery.”
IV. THE MISSING BROKER
The door opened easily.
Simon Crole stepped boldly into James Gillespie’s luxurious office. Behind him tagged Ned Anderson, pale and remote.
The room in which he found himself was large, airy, and quite empty. One of the windows was open. Beside it stood a safe. That, too, was open. The open safe was the first thing Crole noticed.
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 3