The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  “You can leave with the thousand cash now, boys, or you can stick around and make considerably more. You know the risks, However,” he added, studying the ash forming on his cigar, “I don’t anticipate much trouble from the police. I have every reason to believe that a certain individual in this city who might cause us trouble, has been or will soon be eliminated from the scene.”

  “Who the hell you got in mind?” asked Selingo.

  “I’ll tell you who he is later,” said Baron, “after we have reached a working agreement with each other. In the meantime, I think we had better call at the bank. You boys must need money.”

  “Yeah?” Gene Selingo’s big mouth slitted into a wide grin. “Maybe you think we don’t know it, hey?”

  “Ummmm!” grunted Ghost Mokund, crushing his cigarette.

  The pen of George Baron moved swiftly across the face of a check made out to cash. He tore it from the book, tucked it in his pocket. “We’ll go down to the bank now,” he said.

  “Why should we?” said Selingo, mistaking Baron’s suave exterior for something it was not.

  The eyes of George Baron began to retreat into the back of his skull. A sudden tautness drew his lips into a thin leer of contempt. “Listen,” he said in a thin, steely voice. “We might as well get our relations with each other straightened out. You men will work for me. You’ll obey my orders. And I’ll pay you damned well—in cash. Otherwise, no dice.”

  Selingo said: “You needn’t get sore.”

  “My eyes are wide open,” said George Baron. “I know where I’m going. I ask only loyalty and obedience. Take it or leave it. What will it be?”

  “We’ll stick with you,” said Selingo, after a moment of swift thinking. “I gotta hunch you’re a right guy. How do you feel, Ghost?”

  Mokund looked as if he might grunt, flipped a cigarette between his lips, lit it, inhaled and said: “Okay.”

  The tension relaxed. George Baron led the way downstairs to the bank. The other two men followed, subdued and silent.

  Simon Crole sat behind his desk, feet elevated to its top, hands crossed over the center button of his coat. There was neither fear nor elation in his round face—merely a tolerance for the wild confusion that swirled in and out of his office.

  Captain Jorgens with a couple of radio car cops was looking down at the stiffening body of Coughlin. Daniels and the other investigator from the District Attorney’s office—the same two whom Crole had christened apes—were standing close to the hall door, their hands suspiciously close to their hip pockets. There was an “I knew this was bound to happen” expression on their faces. And they were prepared to start shooting if Simon Crole made any movement to leave his office.

  Two flash guns popped blindingly as the photographic experts took pictures of the dead man. They popped a second time in the general direction of the blood-smeared floor and carpet.

  The medical examiner, a thin man with myopic eyes and a ghastly sense of humor, came through the door carrying a black bag. A happy man, the examiner, on whose shoulders the tribulations of mankind rested lightly.

  “Greetings, gentlemen, greetings,” he bowed. “How are you, Captain Jorgens? And you, gentlemen of the press. I should have arrived earlier. My car broke down. It’s always breaking down.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “And the cadaver. Where is...?”

  “Over there, Doctor,” pointed one of the cops.

  “Ummmm. So it is. So it is.” He bent over the body, pulled back eyelids, felt of the hollow in the dead man’s neck, then at the pulse, and finally turned back the blood-smeared coat.

  Everybody started talking at once. A reporter had grabbed up the phone and was trying to reach his city editor. Out in the front office another reporter was sitting on the desk and trying to make Etta talk.

  “Leave me alone,” snapped the girl.

  “Standoffish, hey? Think you’re a wise gal. That the line?”

  Etta recovered her bland smile, used it, said: “On your way, scandalmonger. Nobody asked you inside.”

  “Try and keep me out. Listen, baby. I got what it takes to put janes like you in their place. You won’t get anywhere with me taking that attitude. You’ll talk and talk plenty...”

  Simon Crole had risen to his feet as their voices reached his ears. Abruptly he sighed, relaxed. He saw Matt Ridley’s homely face coming through the front door.

  The reporter snarled as a vise-like hand clomped down on his shoulder, swung him around and lifted him bodily from the desk.

  “Don’t get fresh with the office help,” said Matt. “And if you have to sit, use a chair. Otherwise stand up—on the floor.”

  The reporter jerked his shoulder from Matt’s hand. His eyes were cloudy, his mouth crooked. Ridley spoke quietly: “Don’t say it. It won’t help you, and it might make me mad.”

  He sat down in the spot vacated by the reporter and flung a quick glance around him. “Looks, kid, like the place is pinched. Boss in his office?”

  Etta nodded. Rapidly she told him everything that had happened. He sat quiet, apparently unmoved and mildly interested. And the investigation continued.

  “Dead less than an hour,” said the medical examiner, “of a bullet wound through the upper abdominal wall inflicted by person or persons unknown. A small trace of whiskey on lips and chin. How much inside I don’t know. An autopsy would show.” He turned on Police Captain Jorgens. “Where’d it happen, in this room?” Jorgens scowled. “I don’t know. He died here. He may have been shot here. That’s what I’ll have to find out.”

  “Well, that’s your job, not mine. I’ll make out a murder ticket, but it could be suicide. Simon,” he grinned at the private detective, “you’re an intelligent man, and you know more about what happened than the rest of us. How do you figure it?”

  “You hit it the first time,” shrugged Crole.

  “Then it’s murder, Captain,” said the examiner. “Take it from me, it’s murder. Crole should know. Simon, you’re on the spot. Excuse the levity. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Police. Police who? Po-lice get the hell out of here. Well, I’m going. Nothing more I can do here. I’ll examine the cadaver later on, Captain, if...”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary,” said investigator Daniels, portentously. “Coughlin was killed by a slug from Crole’s Luger. Here in this office, by all the signs.”

  Two interns in white jackets came in with a stretcher. The body of Coughlin was placed upon it and carried out. The fingerprint man was wrapping the Luger in a handkerchief. Photographers were milling around for additional shots. And the newshawks waited for handouts.

  “Clear the office, Captain,” said Crole, wearily. “You put on a good show. I got a good laugh out of the medical examiner, and a pain in the neck at Daniels’ ugly suspicion. Keep Daniels here with you and send the rest of the mob home. Otherwise we’ll get nowhere.”

  The rabble had quitted the agency office. Simon Crole sat behind his desk. Beside him was Etta. Across from him were Captain Jorgens and Daniels, representing the District Attorney’s office.

  “Now,” Crole was saying, “I was down in Minifie’s office, as Daniels already knows. I left there and came directly here.”

  “You stopped and made a phone call,” corrected Daniels.

  “So I did. I had forgotten.”

  Jorgens coughed. “About this Luger, Simon?”

  “I’m getting to it. But while I was away—all right, Etta. Tell Captain Jorgens what happened while I was out of the office.”

  Etta told him.

  “Hmmmm!” grunted Jorgens. “Coughlin comes in, wrangles the gun from your secretary. Goes away. Then later returns to your office and dies from a bullet wound caused by your own gun.”

  “That’s my story, Captain,” insisted Crole, “and I’ll stick to it. But I’m not laying claim to the silencer. That was clamped on while in Coughlin’s possession.”

  “You insisted,” said Jorgens, “that Coughlin, though mortally wounded, came into your office alon
e and unaided, and rather disagreeably croaks on you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Captain Jorgens pawed at the bristles of his mustache. “That ought to be easy to check, since he must have come up on one of the three elevators.”

  “I was hoping you’d get around to this angle,” said Crole. “It struck me right away that a man in Coughlin’s condition would attract attention the second he entered an elevator. And the operator would be sure to remember his actions and face.”

  Captain Jorgens turned to Daniels. “You’re not in my department, Daniels. And I can’t tell you what to do. But if you want to get hold of the elevator men and take them down to view the body, it might help both our departments.”

  “Sure,” said Daniels. “I’ll take care of it.”

  After the investigator had left, Jorgens fastened his bleak eyes on the private detective. “Maybe you’ll talk, now that we’re alone. How and where did Coughlin fit in? And what’s your quarrel with him?”

  “No quarrel,” said Crole, “that I know of. But I think, I have a notion that he’s linked with the murder of James Gillespie.”

  “Any tangible reason for this quaint notion?”

  “Nope. It’s just something that’s in the air.”

  “As usual, Simon, you tell me what you want me to know, but you never tell me all you know.”

  “You’re pretty good yourself, Captain, when it comes to holding things back.”

  “What’s your grievance, Simon?”

  “Wasn’t I the one who pointed out that the man your office identified as Gillespie was murdered?”

  “Yeah. Sure!”

  Crole nodded. “I didn’t mind, Captain, your office getting credit for being, as the papers expressed it: ‘Astute officials.’ That part’s okay with me. You take the glory. Me—I’ll take my fees. But since you gave Minifie the impression of having uncovered the murder yourself, it placed me in a bad light. And Minifie was convinced till I argued him out of his notion, that I murdered Gillespie.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jorgens. “But the police and the district attorney’s departments are separate. And there’s bound to be misunderstandings.”

  “Which explains why I prefer to work alone.”

  “By God, Crole!” raged the police captain. “You’ll work with me hereafter, or I’ll know...”

  The telephone rang. Etta started to reach for it. “I’ll take it,” said Crole. “Hello,” he called. “Oh! Fine, darling. But keep it till some other time. Simon’s busy. Believe it or not, a man was practically murdered in my office. Call me tonight. Call me at supper time. We’ll have dinner together. It’s been nearly two days since I’ve had so much as a smell of food. Right. Bye.”

  “Or I’ll know,” continued Jorgens, “the reason why.”

  “I forgot what it was you were saying,” said Crole, rolling a cigarette.

  Captain Jorgens swore crossly.

  “Dear me,” said Etta. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’ll go back to my desk.”

  “Yarrrgh!” choked Jorgens, pounding the desk with his fist. “You’ve got everybody trained around here.”

  “The young lady,” explained Crole, patiently, “objects to the Captain’s swearing. She’s a genteel person. Hell! She won’t let me get away with it. Why should she make you an exception?”

  Captain Jorgens found a broken cigar in his pocket, eyed it moodily and clamped it between his teeth. “Well,” he growled, lifting his bulk erect. “We’re agreed on one thing. Coughlin was murdered.” He walked to the window and stood looking outside.

  “That’s something,” said Crole, pouring himself a glass of Bourbon.

  Ridley came sidling out of his cubby-hole of a room and sat down in the chair vacated by Etta. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Crole knew why he was there and what he wanted. “Help yourself,” he said.

  Which Matt Ridley did with neatness and dispatch.

  The police captain, hearing the tinkle of glass and gurgle of liquid, heaved around with red-eyed exasperation, muttered beneath his breath, and again turned his eyes to the contemplation of the buildings outside the window.

  IX. MURDER TO COME

  Daniels, the investigator from the District Attorney’s office, came back into the room swaggering with importance. On his face there was a knowing smile of satisfaction in a duty well done.

  “I took all three of the elevator operators down to the morgue, Captain Jorgens, and let them look at Coughlin’s body. And not a single one remembered bringing him up allowing that he was in bad shape from the mortal wound. And there wasn’t a drop of blood in any of their cars.”

  Captain Jorgens sucked in a deep breath like a swimmer going into action. Here was something tangible into which he could sink his molars. And he was prepared, mentally, to bite deep.

  His voice was no longer petulant with exasperation. It was strong and deep—the voice of a police officer sure of his ground.

  “Well, Simon, it looks like you almost got away with murder. Daniels is an ace investigator. He knows his stuff. His report, backed by the testimony of the elevator operators, is likely to prove more convincing than your story. Your facts don’t check—not by a long shot.

  As I see it, there’s only one thing for me to do under the circumstances. I am going to charge you with the murder of Coughlin. There’s no other way out for me.”

  “Listen, Captain,” said Crole. “You aren’t prepared to arrest me. Neither is Daniels. The fact that Coughlin wasn’t observed in the elevators doesn’t make out a case against me. As a matter of fact it strengthens a hunch I have been nursing for the last couple of hours.”

  “Save your breath,” Daniels snapped. “You’re sunk.”

  Jorgen’s eyes clouded with vague, disturbing doubts. He knew Simon Crole better than most men. Knew his weaknesses. And by the same token—knew and respected his strength. Knew that Crole was one of those rare individuals who become progressively better as the situations around him become worse.

  The police captain’s inclination was to cut the investigation short and take Crole with him to headquarters on any kind of a technical charge. But his better judgment argued against any such move. For this officer sensed, deep within him, that Simon Crole must have an ace card tucked away inside that bald head of his, waiting to play it only at the last minute. Bitter experiences out of the past warned him to go slow.

  Simon Crole’s lips twitched in their surprised smile. “Listen patiently, Captain—you, too, Daniels, to what I have to submit in the reconstruction of this crime.”

  “No need for reconstruction,” said Daniels. “It’s all plain enough. Don’t you agree with me, Captain Jorgens?”

  Jorgens did not agree, but did not say so. He merely said: “Let him talk. Many a suspect has talked his way into a labyrinth that ended in complete confession. Say what you’ve got to say, Simon. We’ll listen.”

  “Fair enough,” said Crole. “Here’s an angle I want you to consider. While I was at the District Attorney’s office, two men, we’ll say, came up in the elevator at different periods and got off at this floor where they met. One of them, Coughlin, came into my office knowing I was not here, and why.

  “He secured my gun by telling my secretary that District Attorney Minifie had sent him for it. Believing him, my secretary gave him the weapon, and he left my office.

  “Somewhere on this same floor he again met the man who came with him. This man fitted a silencer to the gun’s barrel—not in the hall, but in some empty room or office. There may be an empty office on this floor. I don’t know. I do know, however, that there is a men’s washroom. The lock to the door has been broken for the past week, which the manager of the building or the janitor can testify to.

  “Assume under this hypothesis that the unknown of these two men attempted to force Coughlin to do something he did not want to do.”

  “You’re assuming too damn much,” snorted Jorgens, “and you know it.”

  “Coughlin,” resumed
Crole, smoothly, “was a private detective like myself. He knew his limitations as such. But let’s assume again, for the moment, that Coughlin figured he had gone plenty far in obtaining my gun under false pretensions and was unwilling to further incriminate himself in this other man’s schemes.

  Captain Jorgens took up the story thread unwillingly. “They get into an argument,” he stated, “and the argument ends in a fight. And since the unknown man has the gun, poor Coughlin is the one who takes the bullet in his belly.”

  “Right,” grunted Crole, wagging his head with appreciation. “Now, Daniels,” he continued, “will you check what I have suggested? Examine the hall outside for traces of blood. Try all the office doors without firm names on the panels—and Daniels, don’t overlook the washroom.”

  Daniels flung a sharp glance at the police captain.

  “Go ahead,” said Jorgens, defiantly. “It won’t take you more than five minutes.”

  In less than five minutes the investigator was back in the office. There was no longer a look of satisfaction on his face. His mouth was slightly out of line, and there was a queer, tight expression in his eyes.

  “There’s blood in the hall, small spots. The man who spilled that blood came down the hall from the washroom to Crole’s door. Some of the spots have small teeth at their edges, others are shaped like exclamation points. And they indicate the direction the wounded man was moving quite accurately. But—Crole might have done the shooting in the washroom and afterwards...”

  “I suppose,” interrupted Crole, “that it’s your business to solve crimes. It happens to be mine, too. But how about the gun? Would I leave it kicking around my office floor? Wouldn’t it have been simpler for me to have left Coughlin in the washroom rather than bring him down the hall into my office, then obligingly incriminate myself by leaving the murder weapon on the floor?”

  “All this argument is getting us nowhere,” said Captain Jorgens.

  “All right,” agreed Crole. “Take me down to headquarters. Lock me up in a cell. Charge me with murder and see how far you get with your investigation. And while I’m locked up what do you suppose will happen?”