Simon Crole laid the paper down. Food was placed before him. He eyed it biliously. Gillespie dead. Accident or suicide? What did it matter. The two hundred thousand dollars, Crole knew, would not be in the wrecked machine. It would be hidden safely away, of that he was certain. But it would not be where either he or Anderson could touch it. He might as well forget all about it. Whatever Gillespie left behind would have to pass through the hands of an executor or some legal body. So the case was closed. And that was that.
He got up slowly, aware for the first time in many days of his big body. A promising case. A swell fee, and Gillespie, drunk, sober or plain crazy, had crashed his car off a mountain grade.
He looked at his watch, promptly forgot what he saw and shoved it back into his pocket. Abruptly he lunged out of the restaurant. A taxi took him to police headquarters. He went directly to the office of Police Captain Jorgens, a dark-faced, bitter man who chewed cigars, scowled and fought crime in all its big time sordidness. A heavy-jowled, suspicious law enforcer, honest, capable, but occasionally ham-strung with the red tape of officialdom.
The black bristles of his mustache seemed to stand out straight as his still blacker eyes focused on the round face of the private detective. He had a ponderous respect for Simon Crole’s ability. Crole had solved a score of the city’s big crimes, and placed the glory of the arrest and clean-up in the police captain’s hands. Always the private detective had kept his own connection with these cases deep in the background, asking for no public recognition, receiving none.
Captain Jorgens would have liked to have caught Simon Crole red-handed in criminal connivance merely for his own bitter satisfaction. He would have relished nothing better than to be able to say: “Simon, your foot slipped this time. Now try and talk yourself out of it.”
Small wonder that Jorgens should have his spells of occasional bitterness. He genuinely liked Simon Crole, but he hated to admit it either personally to Simon’s face, or behind the private detective’s back.
His eyes were moody now as they focused on the scarred lips that made Simon Crole look surprised when Jorgens knew he was not. “Hello,” he said gruffly. “What’s on your mind?”
“You don’t look happy, Jorgens,” said Crole.
“Maybe you grin and laugh out loud when I’m not around. But the minute I appear on the scene you turn loose all your bad nature on me. But that’s okay. I know you, and you know me. Now be a good shipmate and tell me I have your permission to visit the morgue and—wait a second. I also want to have a look at that blue Buick coupe that crashed through the guard rail on the Iron Mountain road this afternoon.”
Captain Jorgens shrugged heavily. “What’s your interest, Simon?”
“Just my curious nature getting the best of me.” Captain Jorgens drummed the desk top with nervous fingers. “I don’t like ambulance chasers. Can’t a man have an accident without cheap lawyers and private dicks wanting to know...”
“Somebody else have the same idea?” asked Crole, innocently.
“No,” sighed Jorgens. “That was merely a loose observation. You’re the only one.”
Crole rubbed his hands. “That’s fine. I like to be alone. Can work better. Where’s the car?”
“Where do you suppose? At the bottom of the mountain.”
“Okay, Captain. I’ll take a run out there tonight, and I’ll look at what’s left of Gillespie. Mind calling the morgue attendant and telling him I’m on my way to view the cadaver?”
“Wait a second, Crole. Have you any reason to suspect...”
“Nothing’s ever as it seems in this world, Captain.
That’s what makes it so interesting, and profitable, for private detectives and other individuals.”
“Nuts! An accident, I tell you. Hundreds of them every day.”
“Ah!” sighed Crole. “You ought to become better acquainted with Conan Doyle. I’ll amble along now. Be seeing you.”
He left the captain’s office and went downstairs to the morgue. The air in the long room was cold, damp and impregnated with an odor peculiar to all repositories of the dead.
The attendant in charge guided him to a slab where a body lay covered with a sheet. “I guess this is the guy you want to see. I’m warning you though that he’s not a pleasant sight. Cooked just enough to be messy.”
Simon Crole allowed his eyes to range over the remains of James Gillespie. The hair had been burned entirely from the skull. Arms and legs were blackened. There were marks of a surgeon’s scalpel on the abdomen wall.
“Autopsy,” explained the attendant. “He wasn’t drunk. Just in too much of a yank to get around those hair-pin turns.”
Crole nodded. “Yeah. Some of them are pretty sharp. Well, I’ve got an eyeful. Too bad.”
“Ain’t it. But I guess he had plenty of insurance for his family, though. That’s a point in his favor.”
“Insurance?” Crole took a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a ten spot.
The attendant looked at the money, then at Simon Crole. “Yeah,” he said, “insurance. These men came in with a flock of reporters. One of them represented the Oregon Mutual company. Didn’t say who would collect, but I guess it would be plenty. The other company sent two men. They wore caps but had on new suits. Only one of them talked. The other one just grunted.”
Crole smiled pleasantly. “What did these two men look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. The one who grunted had a funny face—like a boy’s. Smooth. No wrinkles. But he wasn’t a boy. The other had a face like yours—kinda round. His lips were thicker than yours and he had a big mouth.”
“You didn’t hear them call each other by name, did you?”
“Nope. They said they represented the—what the hell was that company. A New York firm, the Guardian Life.”
“And Gillespie was insured in both companies?”
“That’s what the first man said and also those two men who came in together.”
“I see,” said Crole. “Lucky thing for the survivors. Well, thanks. Here, take this.” He extended the bill. “Someday I might want a favor.”
The attendant grinned as he pocketed the money. “Very few favors I can do for people, Mr. Crole, except show them the stiffs.”
An enigmatic smile twisted Crole’s face. “Yeah? You’d be surprised. By the way, when were these insurance men here?”
“I don’t remember exactly—around four o’clock.”
“Does Captain Jorgens know they were here?”
“I dunno. Not from anything I said. Lots of people come down here for purposes of identification. Can’t keep track of all that come. Why?”
“No reason at all,” shrugged Crole. “Just wondered is all.”
He left the unpleasant walls of the morgue and went out onto the night street, rolled a cigarette, lit it and searched for a cab. He found one and climbed in.
“Right under Jorgens’ nose,” he mused, settling back against the leather cushions, “and he missed it. Insurance. Hmmmm! Two men—one with the face like a boy. He doesn’t talk, merely grunts. There is something wrong with the lay-out. It isn’t like insurance claim adjusters. Those adjusters can talk, and do.”
He frowned into the night rushing past the taxi windows. “There’s something screwy about this accident. It comes at the exact wrong time. I think, Mr. James Gillespie, those policies of yours will be worth investigating.”
The cab came to a stop. Simon Crole got out. When he reached his office building, the last elevator had stopped running. Grunting his displeasure, the big agency man puffed up seven flights of stairs.
VI. MURDER CLUES
Light gleamed through the frosted glass door panel when Crole reached his office. He went in. Matt was there, sitting at Etta’s desk, reading the Ledger.
“I was on my way home when I came across this.” He shoved the newspaper across the desk. “Too bad, boss.”
“I read it,” said Crole. “As a matter of fact I had a hunch that som
ething might have happened to Gillespie, so I called up city editor Farrel. After reading the bad news I went down to the morgue.”
“What happens next?”
“Got your car?”
“It’s down in the parking lot.”
“We’re going for a ride. The Iron Mountain grade. Gillespie’s car is still at the bottom of the gorge it plunged into. We’re going to give it the once over.”
Ridley said without getting up: “What’ll it get you?”
“I don’t know. Something. Always there’s something, Matt.”
“Hell, it was an accident. Tough on Gillespie. Tough on client Anderson. And tough on our office. I can see with half an eye that the case has blown up. We’re out, boss, in case you don’t know it.”
Crole went to his desk and got out a flashlight. “I dislike to climb around mountains at night, but I guess I’ll have to do it.”
“Wait a minute,” protested Matt. “You saw the body didn’t you? It was identified, wasn’t it? Okay. Then what’s to be gained by scrambling down a mountain to look at a wreck?”
“Believe me, Matt, I’m not any happier about this than you are.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me?”
“I haven’t eaten since this morning. That news item took away my appetite early this evening. I’ve had, maybe, four drinks all day. I had what looked like a profitable case dropped in my lap. On top of that I was smacked over the head and the man I’m looking for goes and gets himself killed. I insist I’m not happy, but that don’t excuse me from this excursion to Iron Mountain.”
“I’ll drive you wherever you want to go,” said Matt, shuffling to his feet. “And I’ll slip and scramble down any mountain you can name. But I’ll be damned if I can make myself understand why all this is necessary.”
“Just take Simon’s word for it, Matt. We’re going places, me and you. Push out the lights and don’t argue any more. Anderson’s case isn’t closed—yet. It’s still wide open.”
“Let’s go,” said Matt, resignedly. “I guess I must have spoken out of turn.”
The wreckage of the Buick coupe was thorough and complete. It lay on its side, its body crushed, raked with deep scratches, and blackened inside. Crole took one look at the interior, shrugged, then began to circle it slowly.
He looked beneath it, under the hood. Flashed his light inside beneath the instrument panel, then over the charred cushions. He noticed then that in one part of the seat cushion there was a burn considerably deeper than the surrounding area.
Leaning inside he sniffed. A fire extinguisher had evidently been used by someone to quench the flames for the odor of chemicals was strongly mixed with charred cloth. He stuck his fingers into the hole and promptly cut one on a piece of broken glass. Swearing softly he withdrew his hand, the glass with it.
“Incendiary bomb,” he called to Matt. “It was thrown into the car. Hmmmm!” He went around to the back, unscrewed the gas tank cap and sniffed again. “Tank a quarter full at least. So it wasn’t a gas explosion that caused the fire. The car was on fire when it went through the guard rail.”
Matt Ridley stood with his hands in his pockets, doing nothing. “Boss, you’re making these things up.”
Crole screwed the cap back on the tank. “The case becomes more involved each minute. What first appeared as an accident now looks like a deliberately planned murder!”
It was Matt’s turn to swear softly. He did and at some length. Finally he stopped and said: “Gillespie bumped off? Geez, boss, that’s a long shot. Who’s to gain by his death?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. I’ve already got a lead. In the morning we’ll check it. Meanwhile, it looks like I’ll have to have a heart to heart talk with Captain Jorgens.”
“You seen all you want to see?”
“I’ve found out plenty—here. Let’s go back to the road.”
Once they reached the highway Simon Crole didn’t immediately get into the car. Instead he walked uphill till he came to a turnout. The ground dirt was crisscrossed with the marks of tires. He examined them for a moment, then returned to the break in the guard rail.
Wheel marks showed that the Buick was going uphill and on the wrong side of the road. Just before the break in the rail, there were skid marks in the macadam that indicated either a sharp twisting of the steering wheel, or sudden pressure from the right against the Buick’s fender and front wheels.
There were other marks of tires biting into the soft macadam at the left of the road. Crole took one look at the design. The tires of the second car left a series of oblique lines.
Matt following close behind, peered also at the tire tracks.
“What make?” asked Crole.
“Generals,” said Matt. “A high-priced tire on a high-priced car. That’s only a guess about the car though.”
“Look at those tracks and skid marks carefully,
Matt, and tell me what you see. I want to see if it conforms with my own guess.”
Ridley pointed at the skid marks. “Those were made by the Buick, this afternoon when the sun had softened the macadam. The car was moving uphill, probably in the center of the road. Another car comes up behind, squeezes in between the Buick and the right shoulder of the road, then swerves to the left. The Buick don’t give ground, so this other car nails it about here.” He indicated a left-angle skid mark.
“Keep going,” said Crole.
“When the cars came together the Buick was forced over the edge through the rail, and the other car just barely swerved back to the road, judging by the tracks farther up the hill.”
“Excellent,” beamed Crole. “Let’s go home.”
The girl at the switchboard at Crole’s apartment house turned to the private detective as he came through the door.
“A Mr. Anderson has been calling for the past two hours.”
“Leave any message?”
“You’re to call him at his hotel.”
“All right. Put through the call. I’ll take it in the apartment.” He sighed, reached in his pocket, removed therefrom a five-dollar bill. “This isn’t a tip, dear. I’m giving it to you out of a generous heart. But don’t overlook any calls for me during the next couple of days.”
Upstairs in his apartment he took off his coat, flung his hat on the living room table and poured himself a drink from a partially filled decanter. But before he could lift the glass to his lips the phone rang sharply. He reached for the instrument, fumbled the glass and it splintered against the floor.
“Hello,” he said, gazing soberly at the broken glass on the floor. “Anderson? Your voice sounds kind of thick. What’s the trouble? Oh, the girl. You couldn’t find her. Well, don’t worry. She’ll turn up. I know how you feel. But remember, she was a stranger to you. You don’t know her friends or habits. And she may have been sent out of town. Better take a drink and go to sleep.”
He hung up and with his foot pushed the broken glass under the table. Thoughtfully he filled a second glass and drained it. Content for the moment he searched for tobacco and papers. His fingers encountered a small oblong of cardboard. He regarded it dully for a moment before realization dawned as to where he had found it.
There were marks on the card, but they were so faint as to be almost invisible. He’d have to examine it with his microscope at the office. He tucked it back in his pocket, paced up and down the room a couple of times, then picked up the telephone, spoke a number and was connected with Police Headquarters.
“Captain Jorgens? Simon Crole. Listen. I’m giving you a hot tip. But understand, Captain, that my name isn’t to figure in what might develop. Swell, now listen.
“The man who was identified as James Gillespie was not an accident victim. He was murdered! Get it? Bye.”
Officialdom taken care of, Simon Crole felt he could relax. He went out to a kitchenette in the back of his apartment and began to rummage in an electric refrigerator.
On a small table he set two bottles of beer, a chunk of salami
, crackers, cheese and an unopened bottle of gerkin pickles. He flanked these solids with condiments, ketchup, mustard, hauled up a chair and sat down with a contented sigh.
The phone rang—a discordant jangling.
Crole pushed back his chair and went into the living room. He took the receiver down. “Yeah,” he said.
Matt Ridley’s voice came over the wire. “I forgot to tell you about young Hernandez. I scared him all right. Scared the hell out of him. He thought I was gonna take him to jail. Geez, was I good. I took him to his father. The old man said if I’d give the kid another chance, he’d get him a job in the walnut packing house. So young Hernandez agreed, and so did I.”
Crole said crossly. “G’wan to bed. I’m trying to eat.”
He set the phone down, yawned, stretched and went back to the little table in the kitchenette. But the scream of a siren down the street halted him before he reached it.
Pivoting, he moved determinedly through the apartment to a front window, pulled the shade aside and looked down at the curb. A police car was sliding to a stop out front.
“Oh hell!” he muttered. “I should have known better than to merely suggest something to Jorgens.”
The big fist of the Police Captain was banging on the door panel. Simon Crole left the window and opened the door. “Well, well,” he said. “I heard the siren ten blocks away. Figured there must at least be a bank robbery in the offing, or a massacre.”
“Skip it, Simon,” growled Jorgens, kicking the door shut with his heel. “Sour humor like yours is wasted on me. What’s this business about murder? Damn it, you could have given me some idea instead of hanging up.”
“Did I say something about murder?”
“You most certainly did.”
Crole shrugged resignedly. “Have a drink, Captain?”
“A small one. What’s this under the table?”
“A liquor glass I dropped. Got excited answering the telephone.”
“You’re getting old, Simon.” Jorgens sipped his drink, his dark, bitter eyes on the agency man. “What about this murder?”
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 6