“Close the door,” he said quietly, “and sit down so you’ll be out of my way. I’m going to snoop around while I have the chance.”
“Start your snooping,” yawned Anderson, dropping with a grunt into a chair near the hall door. “I wish you luck, but it looks to me like we’re too late. I guess I’m licked, Crole. A fellow on the boat, a Swami, told my fortune. He said I was making my homeward journey when the stars were cockeyed. He said that certain planets—and he meant the evil ones—were up to no good as far as I was concerned. Said also that alcoholic tendencies were going to exert a tremendous...”
“Skip it,” said Crole. “Get your mind off the Swami. I don’t care what he told you. Listen to me. This case is in my hands. I know what it takes to straighten it out. A fee. Okay. You paid your fee. In a couple of days you’ll be back among the moneyed class. I ain’t kidding you.”
“I damned well hope you’re right,” said Anderson. “Listen, Crole, why didn’t we stop at the Rainbow Grill before coming up here? My nerves are taut as fiddle strings.”
Crole regarded his client as one would a sulky child. “Forget it. Now sit back and take it easy. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to yourself. Just leave this puzzle to Simon, and everything will be jake.”
Anderson’s eyes became wells of sorrow. “Okay, Simon.”
Simon Crole turned his attention to the room that was James Gillespie’s office. He walked to the center of the room, and with feet spread wide allowed his eyes to range over floor, walls and ceiling. Then they concentrated on the furniture.
He wondered, idly, if the closing of what appeared a usual fraud case was going to be as simple as he had first thought it would be. He decided it was. He even speculated on how much of the fee he had already collected would have to be returned to client Anderson.
His lips puffed out as he walked to a desk that was obviously Gillespie’s. Behind it was a mahogany chair the same as the desk. Rich, comfortable furniture. The rug beneath the chair felt as if it must be two inches thick.
Crole sighed as he bent over the mahogany desk. Boldly he opened the various drawers and pawed amongst their contents. His eyes were sharp as a ferret’s. He drew back a little. What was it he looked for? What did he expect to find by snooping? It occurred to him that he was merely putting on a show to impress his client. This wasn’t so good. He really should have left Anderson downstairs, or not brought him at all.
Thoughtfully he rubbed the side of his nose and peered under the desk. He lifted out a waste basket, fumbled through its contents, glanced sideways at Anderson, who was staring moodily into space, then pushed the basket back beneath the desk. He saw then, for the first time, an oblong of cardboard on the rug that hadn’t been there when he first looked. Must have been hidden beneath the basket. Anyway, it was there now.
The oblong of cardboard had a piece of dirty string attached to it, and sometime in the past its corners had been cut off. It looked like a tag of some sort that might have been attached to a trunk or a key. Crole glanced at both sides of it, saw a faint trace of writing impossible to decipher, grunted and tucked it in his pocket.
From his position near the door Anderson began to hum a dolorous tune he had picked up while sojourning in Africa. It was a sad, minor lamentation that undoubtedly expressed a gnawing sorrow.
“Don’t do that,” admonished Crole. “It keeps me from hearing footsteps in the hall.”
Anderson blinked. “I could do that much at least.”
“Missed the point,” said Crole. “Try again.”
“I meant I could listen for footsteps if it would help you.”
“Oh! All right. You keep your ears open and say when. And listen some more. If anyone comes in, you go out, see? And I’ll follow soon after.”
Anderson nodded. “If my eyes are closed, Simon, it doesn’t mean I’m asleep. I think and listen better when they’re that way.”
“Just so long as you know your own habits. Well, I’m not through yet. So far everything looks right—except the open door of the safe.”
He again took a stance in the center of the room, legs spread wide, hands plunged deep in the side pockets of his coat. He noticed for the first time the water cooler to the right of the safe. He took a wax-paper cup from a nearby container and pressed his thumb against a pressure faucet. Noisily he drank.
“Are you drinking water?” shuddered Anderson.
“Nope, just playing with the gadget,” admitted Crole. He went over to Virginia Laird’s desk. Metal mail baskets were empty. He turned back the desk top. Up popped a typewriter. Lowering the machine into its former hiding place he next opened the top right-hand drawer.
In it was a lipstick, a handkerchief, a box of odds and ends—outworn erasers, pencil stubs and a compact the size of a half dollar.
Simon Crole pursed his lips again and tipped the front end of the box upward. Underneath was a folded paper. He smoothed it open and read:
“Dear Mr. A: As you see your doubts and suspicions were purely imaginative. Whatever Mr. G’s relations to you, he has, apparently, no animosity towards me. Very friendly this morning. Perhaps that check I spoke to you about was a bank mistake after all. Let’s forget it. Am being sent out on an important errand. Will finish this note later...vl”
“Find something?” asked Anderson, rousing up.
“Excuse me,” said Crole gravely. “It’s for you.”
Ned Anderson took the paper from Simon Crole’s hand. His eyes took in the meaning of the typed words, then became jumpy as he arrived at the signature.
“Looks like everything’s going to be all right, eh?”
Crole’s big head wagged solemnly back and forth. “Don’t forget what you told me in the office. You checked at the bank, and at the tax assessor’s office. Have you forgotten?”
“Oh hell!” sighed Anderson.
“Another pill that will have to be swallowed,” said Crole. “Miss Laird was here in this office—this morning. Gillespie evidently sent her out somewhere. She hasn’t come back. There’s that to consider as well as the fact that Gillespie himself is missing.”
He turned sideways. There were footsteps in the hall. Crole sat down. Whoever it was passed down the hall to another office.
Crole got up. His eyes were on a door set flush with the left hand wall. Evidently it led to a storeroom. He fingered the knob, twisted it and shoved the door inwards, and with the same movement thrust his head and shoulders inside.
He heard, even before a meteor exploded inside his skull, the swish of the descending blackjack. Instinctively, he allowed his big body to sag and ride the blow. The blackjack caught him just above the ear, and Simon Crole’s lights went out without even a flicker.
A man stepped from behind the door, plunged through the opening. The lapels of his coat were turned up around his throat, and the rim of a gray felt hat drooped low over forehead and eyes.
Anderson came surging to his feet. But he was a little slow. The blackjack thocked down hard. He staggered, groaned and fell into a curled heap.
The man with the blackjack pocketed the weapon, turned down the lapels of his coat, flung a final, despairing glance at the quiet body of the agency man, and closed the door softly behind him.
Etta’s smile was a thing of serenity when Simon Crole trudged through the hall door. “It’s about time you got back. Four clients since you’ve been gone. I had to send them to another agency.” She noticed the bump and discoloration on the side of his head as he removed his hat. “You been in a taxi smash-up?”
Simon Crole sat down on a chair near his secretary. “Nope. No taxi smash-up. Just a plain, everyday blackjack. If I hadn’t dropped with the blow, I’d still been out.”
He took a sack of tobacco from his pocket and rolled a cigarette. Etta supplied the match and asked a question: “Anderson case?”
Crole nodded. “Ahunh.”
“Starting off swell. For all I know you may get bumped off the way you go barging around. What’s the
matter with taking Matt with you once in a while? He knows how to take care of himself when in danger.”
“I didn’t know,” sighed Crole, inhaling, “how close I was to danger. I was never so taken by surprise in my life.”
“You’re becoming senile. Listen, I heard Anderson talking before you took his case, and I say that any man that defrauds another man to the grand tune of a couple hundred thousand plus a twenty-one room house, is some dangerous man.”
“Always you’re right, precious. I walked into this thing with my eyes open, but I wasn’t watching where I was going. However, Anderson got kicked by the same horse.”
He twisted in his chair. “Matt!” he called.
Ridley came out of the office adjoining Crole’s rubbing his eyes. “Sorry to wake you,” said Crole, “but I guess you’ll have to go to work.” He looked at his watch. “There’s still plenty of time before you’ll have to tackle that Hernandez kid. Now listen.”
Briefly he recounted what had already happened. “So,” he finished, “I opened this door to see what was behind it. I found out—almost. I should have spotted that door the first thing. The safe was wide open to wind and rain. And nobody in sight. I kept wondering about that safe door, but I never connected it with the other door.”
Ridley looked at the swelling on his boss’s head. “Smacked you pretty. But what happened to Anderson?”
“Same thing. He was a little longer coming to his senses. I took him to his hotel, placed a bottle in his hands, said adiós, and came back to the office.”
“And what’s this job you mentioned?”
“Before Anderson went down for the count, he got a look at a shield. You see this man had his hat pulled down and his coat lapels turned up around neck and chin. It showed his badge pretty.”
“Cop?” asked Ridley.
“Nope. Private agency like ourselves. Anyhow, here’s the dope. I want you to get into Gillespie’s apartment if possible. I’ve got an idea this agency is working for him. I think this man that was in the storeroom was the same gent who tried to snatch Miss Laird last night.”
“You figure Gillespie will be in his apartment?”
“I figure he’s already skipped to another part of the city. No, he won’t be there, but at the same time I want to be sure. And it’s barely possible you’ll run into some agency man you’re familiar with. Now get going and call me back the first chance you get.”
Matt Ridley looked up the address in the telephone directory, copied it in a book and went back to the room adjoining Crole’s. When he emerged some minutes later he wore the uniform of the gas company’s employee, and carried a satchel of tools.
“If they’s one thing I like,” said Matt, setting his tools on the desk and lighting a cigarette, “it’s being a gas inspector. It always goes over big.”
“On your way,” said Etta. “I’ve seen you in that coat before, and heard that same line of chatter.”
“Chatter,” scoffed Matt. “That’s all you do. Your trap goes like a squirrel’s.” He grinned and winked. “When I come back I’ll bring you a bag of nuts.”
“A drink,” sighed Crole, rising to his feet. “That’s what I need. A good shot of Bourbon and I’ll be okay again.” Through half-closed eyes he looked at his operator. “And that don’t include you. Close the door softly and don’t forget to ring me back.”
In less than an hour the phone rang. Etta relayed the call to Crole. He took down the receiver. Matt’s voice crackled over the wire and into the receiver.
“I’m inside, boss. Been here above fifteen minutes. Got the gas range almost entirely apart in case anyone shows up. The apartment is empty as far as Gillespie is concerned. But his clothes are all here. No bags packed, and no orders to discontinue the utility services. So I guess he ain’t gone very far.”
“Listen, Matt. If he had made arrangements to leave the city, he wouldn’t advertise the fact by notifying the utility companies. Hang around a while longer and keep your eyes opened for anyone who looks like a private dick.”
“Okay. I’m doing a swell job on this gas range. I didn’t know I was so good. Bye.”
“Bye,” said Crole, snapping the receiver in place.
Attorney George Baron looked up from the air-line maps he had been studying. In front of his desk stood two men. One was pale, with a face like a boy. The face was void of expression. This man stood leaning back on his heels, his hands thrust deep in the side pockets of his coat. He was known as Ghost Mokund—and he looked ghostly.
Beside him stood another man, broad of girth, round, ham-like face, thick lips and a big mouth. They both wore caps, were well dressed, and slightly covered with dust. This second man had various names. But at this particular moment and in this town he called himself Selingo. He specialized in mayhem in its various horrible aspects, and was inordinately proud of his reputation.
“Well,” said Selingo, “this guy Smith has been given the works. I don’t like to brag, pal, but when Ghost and me team up on a guy, he ain’t got no more chance of keeping out of hell than the Devil himself.”
“Humm!” grunted Mokund.
“I see,” approved Baron. “And you...you saw to it that the car burst into flames...”
“Did we,” chortled Selingo. “I’ll tell the cockeyed world. Am I right, Ghost?”
“Humm!” grunted Mokund.
“He ain’t very talkative,” explained Selingo, his mouth twisting in a Gargantuan leer, “but he can do things with a car, a rod and chemicals. I’ve seen him go half way up a telephone pole without cracking a fender.”
From a desk drawer George Baron removed a package of currency. “Five thousand,” he said. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” said Selingo, “and won’t know till I finish counting.” He spat on his hands and started to count the bills in the package. “Five grand is right,” he nodded. “Damn lucky thing for you, mister, that it was right. I hates chislers.”
Mokund grunted a third time.
“He does, too,” added Selingo, pocketing the money. “Well, I guess we’ll push on, Mr. Baron. They’s a lot of cops in this town—the kind that look like they take nobody’s lip.”
“I’m glad you noticed that, Selingo. Our cops are dangerous, fast on the draw and crack shots. That’s why I imported you men from the east. Killers don’t last long around here. It might be wise if you both got out of the state—at once.”
“Cops don’t bother me,” said Selingo. “I know how to get along with them. Ran into a barrier at the border. Nothing to it. Slipped a sergeant a twenty and he almost kissed me.”
Baron shrugged. “That sergeant wasn’t looking for you. He was only stationed there to keep out the indigent.”
“What’s indigent?”
George Baron smiled suavely. “The poor.”
“Geez!” spat Selingo. “Don’t it beat hell how the poor are always the goats.”
Ghost Mokund waxed eloquent. “You said it, Selingo.”
On the street outside Selingo turned to his companion in crime. “Ghost,” he said, gravely, “that guy what just turned over five grand to us is not a big shot. He’s wise all right—all mouthpieces are. But he seemed in a hell of a yank to get us out of the state.”
Ghost Mokund lit a cigarette and stared gloomily towards the parking place where he had left the red, low-slung car.
Selingo had expected no answer so he went on. “I figure it like this, Ghost. The cops in this town ain’t got our number—yet. Our car ain’t hot, neither is our money. I figure we ought to look around while we’re here. Anyways I want to read in the papers about that Smith guy. Whadda yuh say. Shall we blow, or stick around.”
Ghost Mokund still stared straight ahead. “Humm!” he grunted.
“Okay,” beamed Selingo. “We’ll stick around.”
The snap decision of these two tough gentlemen was later to cause a dark shadow to fall over George Baron. But that suave and shrewd attorney had already thrust these men from his mind. Oth
er and more important pawns were about to be moved on the checkerboard of crime on which he had constituted himself a prime mover.
His eyes, level and keen, were on a man standing before his desk, studying him, weighing him, wondering just how far he could trust him. Coughlin stood there, his hat on the side of his head, his lips twisted into a leer.
“It’s all off, Baron. It isn’t that I have any scruples against handling your dirty work. I lost all decency and honor years ago. The system took it all out of me.”
“You mean,” said Baron, quietly, “that you’re quitting me? I don’t like it, Coughlin. Not in the least.”
“Sure, I’m quitting. I know when I’m licked.”
“All right. Suppose you start at the beginning.”
“At Gillespie’s office this afternoon. I went there...”
“Yes, I know why you went there.”
“Two men came in. I was forced to hide in a closet. While I was in there I listened to their voices. One was Ned Anderson, the same guy that took a poke at me while I was getting the girl in the cab. The other was...”
Baron lighted a panatela. He seemed not to be listening.
“Simon Crole,” finished Coughlin.
The eyebrows of the attorney arched interrogatively. “Simon Crole did you say? And who might Crole be?” Coughlin laughed sourly. “Just another private dick like myself.”
“What’s so unusual in that situation?”
“The unusual part in that situation, I keep telling you, is that the guy who was with Anderson was Simon Crole, the smartest and the most tricky private detective in town. Believe me I’d rather have the whole city’s police department after me than this one man.”
“What’s the matter, losing your nerve?” queried Baron.
“You don’t know Crole. I do.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“If you’ll take my advice, you’ll pack your bags and get out of town. Crole is that kind of a guy. If Anderson is his client, somebody will have to give Anderson his money back. As simple as that. I ain’t foolin’. Lucky thing for me I had a blackjack in my pocket. Neither of them got a good look at my face, but I sweat plenty before I got into the clear.”
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 4