The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  The eyes of Captain Jorgens slitted. “You tell me!”

  Simon Crole stared at the police officer, past him, and his eyes focused once more on the lithograph of the Darktown Fire Brigade. Hunger gnawed at his vitals. His eyes swerved downward to the leather couch where Coughlin had died.

  Memory recreated the scene. The moving lips whispering huskily. The pain-racked eyes. Broken words—incoherent for the most part. Yet they meant something. They formed a picture with lines running in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. Could those lines be straightened, joined together in their ordered sequence, the incoherency would vanish. And out of the rush of broken words would emerge the final picture—crystal clear in every detail.

  In the light of what he already knew, the pendulum that represented human greed had not yet swung its full arc. Its movement would accelerate before it would slow up at the terminal of its oscillation. And Crole sensed instinctively that this terminal had not yet been reached—would not be reached until another man had died. Somewhere in this incompleted picture of greed was a man by the name of Edward Smith.

  The fan-wise wrinkles arching outward from the corners of Simon Crole’s eyes slowly deepened. His lips twitched, and he said quietly: “There is yet another murder to come. And nothing any of us can do will stop it.”

  “Even with you in jail?”

  “In spite of it, Captain.”

  “He’s nuts!” clipped Daniels.

  Captain Jorgens pawed at the bristles of his mustache, shifted the cigar wedged between his teeth, glared at nobody in particular, said: “We’re all nuts, and just a shade removed from idiocy. A man brings Coughlin to Simon Crole’s door. Shoots him in the belly, pushes him inside...”

  “Coughlin borrowed the gun first,” corrected the agency man.

  “What does it matter? Coughlin comes staggering through the door, and the murderer chucks the weapon in after him. And nobody—neither you, Crole, nor your secretary—has the remotest idea who the killer was or how he got the gun on your office floor.”

  “He must have opened the door,” said Crole, “while Etta was down on the third floor getting Doctor Cane.”

  “And you didn’t hear him?”

  “No. I was busy making Coughlin comfortable.” Captain Jorgens shrugged. “Let it go at that. But the investigation will go on. I’ll have Coughlin’s murderer under lock and key within twenty-four hours, or I’ll turn in my badge.”

  He turned on Daniels. “I’m going back to headquarters to see what the experts have turned up in the way of prints on that gun. Coming along?”

  Daniels flung a swift glance at Crole. Saw only a slumped figure behind the desk, smiled knowingly and said: “Sure, why not?”

  Together they left the office, and peace reigned once more.

  Simon Crole snapped erect the moment they were out of sight, reached for the phone, changed his mind and turned to Matt Ridley, who had sat through the grilling without saying a single word.

  “What did you find out, Matt?”

  “I found Anderson in the hotel. He was sad and quite drunk. I got Virginia Laird’s address out of him, took a couple of drinks and left him stretched out in a dress suit on the bed.

  “Out on the street I grabs a cab and goes out to see Virginia’s mother. A swell old dame. She wasn’t worried. A telegram had come early in the morning from Kansas City. Virginia is on her way to New York by plane. Special business for her boss, James Gillespie.”

  “Odd,” observed Crole, looking at his watch. “But I was offered twenty thousand dollars if I would go to New York, too.”

  “Geez!” gasped Matt. “That’s a lot of dough.”

  “It hurt me to turn the offer down.”

  “Hurt you? I should think it would paralyze you. Whyn’t you snap it up?”

  “Reasons,” said Crole, “too numerous to mention. I figured, also, that someone wanted to get rid of me quickly. And I didn’t want to be gotten rid of.”

  “That’s as good a reason as any,” agreed Ridley.

  “Speaking about planes,” said Crole, “you’ll be taking one tonight, Matt. You will go to Lima, Ohio. You will search the various records of that town and find out all you can about a certain individual named Edward Smith. Etta will give you expense money. As soon as your report is ready, phone it to me.”

  Matt Ridley beamed. “Swell. I ain’t been in a plane since I closed that case in Yuma. Edward Smith, huh. Who the hell is he?”

  “Stupid,” said Crole. “Do you suppose I’d waste good money sending you east by plane if I knew who he was? Find out for yourself and phone me.”

  Matt Ridley left, humming the latest swing tune.

  Etta came into Crole’s office sometime later. She had on her hat and coat. In her hand was a penciled memorandum.

  “It looks like you’re going places,” observed Crole.

  “I’m going home,” said Etta. “I’ve had enough of this mad-house for one day.”

  “But you’re coming back?” Crole really looked alarmed. “You...”

  “Of course I’m coming back—tomorrow. But I’m through for today. I’m all tight inside.”

  “You had me scared for a minute, precious. I thought you were quitting your job.” He cupped the palms of his hands against his eyes. “I wish I was tight. I wish I...Honest to God, kid, do you realize how close I am to actual starvation?”

  “Want me to send up something from Herman’s?”

  “No, I guess not. I’ll go down. .

  “You look seedy, boss, and in need of a shave. Esther called while you were having the last and final argument with the captain. You’re to pick her up at seven o’clock at her home.”

  “Seven o’clock,” mused Crole. “That’s a long time to wait for my dinner. I don’t know whether I can hold out till then or not. But you run along, precious. You stood up swell under everything. And I’m proud you work for me instead of somebody else. What’s that paper in your hand?”

  “It’s a report on the insurance policies you asked me to get information on.”

  “Good girl,” taking the paper from her hand. “Now run along. Scram!”

  Etta waved him an airy kiss from the doorway. “That’s for being a brave man while all those horrid people were insisting you murdered that man.”

  An amused smile lighted Crole’s face. “Brave? Kid, I was scared witless for fear that they actually would pin the murder rap on me.”

  The door closed behind her rustling dress. He heard her heels tapping out jaunty steps in the corridor, the clang of the elevator door, then blessed silence dropped over his office.

  He poured himself a drink and sipped it slowly. After the glass was empty he constructed a cigarette, and, still wary of the trick lighter used a match instead. Then leaned back in his chair to scan the insurance report.

  “Item one,” he read: “The Guardian Life of New York have never issued a policy, either life or accident insurance, to James Gillespie.”

  Crole whistled softly and his mind went winging back to the dank chamber of the lost dead. Once again he was hearing the voice of the morgue attendant recounting the description of the two men who posed as representatives of the Guardian Life. ‘Only one of them talked. The other just grunted. 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.’

  “Hmmmm!” thought Crole. “Easy to recognize if I only knew where to look for them. And that would be a job. I think I’ll turn that part over to the police. They’re better equipped to find these two men than I am.”

  He turned to the paper in his hand and read: “Item two: The Oregon Mutual Insurance Company have a twenty-five thousand dollar policy on the life of James Gillespie and it’s still in force. The beneficiary of this policy—under a special ruling of the company—is to be selected by the executor of the last will and testament of James Gillespie, and according to i
nstructions contained in the deceased’s will.”

  “The Devil!” frowned Crole. “There’s no telling who the beneficiary will be. He’s to be picked by the executor. This insurance angle isn’t of much help. Well, maybe Esther will have a report that will throw some new light on things. If it doesn’t I’ll have to switch to the technique of the old-time harness bulls. Grab the nearest man and beat or sweat the truth out of him.” He picked up the telephone receiver and gave the operator the Police Headquarters number. “Hello,” he said. “Connect me with Captain Jorgens.” After a long pause the voice of Jorgens boomed over the wire. “Hello! Who? I can’t hear you.”

  “The name is Crole. C as in cash. R as in Rubles. O as in onions...”

  “What is this—a class in spelling? Sorry, Crole. I’m busy whether you realize it or not. You must think that all I’ve got to do is listen to the lies of a notorious private dick...”

  “Don’t hang up, Captain, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Sorry?” The wire almost smoked before the captain’s oath-crusted vocabulary ran out. “Call me next week. Do you hear? Next year!”

  “I want,” said Simon Crole, unabashed, “to talk to you now.”

  “Always you want to talk. I should think you’d get sick at the sound of your own blabberings. Well, maybe you’re now going to confess...”

  ‘ “What a one-track mind you’ve got, Captain. Can’t you forget about me long enough to put your mind on something else?”

  “On what, for instance?”

  “Two men who were at the morgue yesterday looking at the body of James Gillespie. They told the attendant they represented the Guardian Life of New York. They lied. I checked with the Guardian people over long-distance telephone today. If you want a description of them, talk with your attendant.”

  There was a ripping sound at Jorgens’ end of the wire as if the captain was tearing out his hair. A short silence, then: “You wouldn’t know who these men were, would you, Simon?”

  “Honestly, no. But I have a strong hunch that they’re closely connected with Gillespie’s death—if not the actual killers.”

  “Going to be in your office this evening?”

  “Nope. I’m taking a lady to dinner.”

  “Where?”

  “Wild Oaks Tavern.”

  “Okay, just so long as I know where I can lay hands on you.” The connection clicked. Jorgens had hung up.

  Crole got out his watch and looked at it. Quarter to five. Two hours yet before he had to call for Esther. He went to the window and stared intently below. In a recessed doorway across the street fie saw one of Minifie’s investigators.

  “Taking no chances,” thought the agency man. “And Jorgens no doubt has one of his own detectives watching also. Suppose I’ll have to put up with being followed, but I don’t like it.”

  He sat very quiet for a few minutes, thinking, then picked up the phone and called the Commodore. “Mr. Anderson,” he directed the hotel operator.

  There followed a click as the room was plugged in. A long wait, then a very faint second click. This second click was caused by the receiver in Anderson’s room being taken from the hook. Yet nobody answered. He listened intently. A puzzled frown creased his forehead. Finally he spoke in an impatient undertone. “Oh the Devil, he doesn’t answer.” He waited for a moment, smiled knowingly at another faint click, and hung up.

  Someone, he knew, was in Ned Anderson’s room—someone who did not care to speak into the phone. He lifted the receiver again and called a number. “Is Scavillo and his cab in the rank? Swell. Send him down to my office, pronto. Simon Crole. Tell him I’m in one big yank.”

  He got up, crushed a felt hat to his head, locked up and took the elevator to the street. On the curbing in front of the building he took time out to roll a cigarette while he looked around.

  The District Attorney’s man had wandered absently to the same side as Crole and had taken up a position close to a Yellow cab. Crole pretended not to see him. It didn’t make much difference anyhow. When it became necessary to get rid of the man, he had a system that always worked.

  A few minutes later, Scavillo’s cab warped to the curb and the private detective got in. Not until they had covered two blocks did the hacker turn part way around in his seat.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Crole?”

  “Fine, Scavillo. I’ll be going to the Commodore. You’re to wait for me outside. Won’t be gone more than half an hour.”

  The driver nodded. “Did you know we were being tailed?”

  “Yeah. Man from the District Attorney’s office.”

  “Want me to pry him loose?”

  “Nope. Let him ride around. He’ll feel better if he knows what I’m doing and where I am.”

  He left the cab at a side entrance, strolled into the lobby and stopped momentarily at the desk. The clerk behind it turned stony eyes on the agency man.

  “Customs inspector,” lied Crole, with easy assurance, giving the clerk a momentary glance at his private detective badge. “Looking for a man named Ned Anderson. I believe he’s registered here.”

  “Six-O-Nine,” intoned the clerk. “Elevator to the right. Can we be of assistance?”

  Crole wagged his head. “Think not. Routine investigation.”

  He got into the elevator, left it at the sixth floor and walked softly down a carpeted hall to room 609. A glance up and down the corridor. It was empty. His fingers closed around the knob. It wouldn’t turn. He backed away, then came towards the door again making considerable noise.

  Loudly he rapped. Waited and listened. He rapped again, shrugged and said: “Telegram for Mr. Ned Anderson.”

  There was movement behind the door as if someone had brushed against it. A voice said: “Slip it under the door.”

  “Against the rules. It’s a collect telegram.”

  There was furtive movement beyond the door, and the slight metallic scratch as something brushed the door handle. Slowly the latch controlled by the knob began to slide back.

  Crole braced himself, his big shoulder within an inch of the panel, his eyes on the knob. When he saw it turn once around he heaved forward.

  The door rocketed inward, struck against a human body and sent it sprawling in an enraged heap. A thin curse blued the air. Crole kept right on moving till he was inside the room. Then closed the door behind him with a backward thrust of his heel.

  The man who had fallen to the floor was scrambling to his feet. His nose looked crooked on a face that Crole was already familiar with. Here was one of the men who had visited the morgue.

  “Freeze!” croaked a voice off to the right.

  X. SLEEPING DEATH

  As if suddenly turned into marble, Simon Crole froze to immobility. Only his eyes refused to obey the clipped command. They pivoted in their sockets in a searching arc and focused on a small, thin man with a boyish face standing rigidly at the foot of a bed, his right arm bent sharply at the elbow, his fingers gripping a dull-blue automatic.

  On this bed sprawled Ned Anderson, still clad in a dress suit, his hair tousled, his necktie askew, and an expression of mild alarm on his dark, dissolute young face.

  “Simon,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come. These men don’t want you to interrupt their efforts on my behalf. They think they can cure me of drinking. Maybe they can. But I don’t want to be cured. I want to get tight and stay that way. I’d offer you a drink, but they put a sleeping powder in my last bottle.”

  The man who had fallen to the floor as the door crashed against him had meanwhile regained his feet and was rubbing his bruised nose with the palm of his hand. He was a big man, Crole noticed, as big as himself, and his eyes were like two chunks of smoky agate.

  “Sorry,” said Crole, “to have busted your nose. But it was in the way—and you with it.”

  “Sorry, hey?” growled Selingo, licking his thick lips. “Mister,” and there was a menacing threat in his voice, “you don’t know how sorry you’re really gonna be.”
>
  He reached into a holster harness strapped beneath his armpit and lifted out a flat automatic—a twin to the one held so rigid by Ghost Mokund. He jammed the barrel against the ribs of the agency man.

  “What’s the idea of crowding in where you wasn’t asked, hey? And I fell for that old wheeze of the collect telegram when I know damn well the hotel pays for all wires that come in for guests. You the guy who phoned?”

  “Yeah,” said Crole. “I called this room and heard somebody take the receiver from the hook. So I knew the room wasn’t empty.”

  “Smart fella, hey? They told me where I came from that the cops in this town are easy to get along with.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you,” reproved Crole, mildly. “The cops are plenty tough in this town—especially with hoods like you and your friend with the gat.”

  “So,” exhaled Selingo, noisily, “you’re a cop, hey? And you figure maybe to get tough...” His arm bent suddenly at the wrist. The automatic in his hand lashed swiftly, cruelly. The sharp edge of its gunsight raked the agency man’s cheek.

  Simon Crole’s mildness vanished. His eyes slitted. Though big, he was fast. With a pantherish lunge he moved to the left side of Selingo so that the gunman’s body was between him and Mokund’s line of fire, crooked his arm in the same swift movement, and drove it upward.

  His knotted fist thudded with a pile-driver smash just underneath the big gunman’s ear. He followed the first blow with a looping left jab that was timed to meet Selingo’s jaw as the gangster spun around.

  Selingo staggered, bellowed with choking rage, and chopped viciously at Crole’s face. The agency man faded backward. The automatic exploded with muffled thunder, and a bullet went into the ceiling.

  The agency man straightened. His arm whipped back, then forward, gathered speed, and bunched knuckles exploded beneath Selingo’s jaw. As the gunman fell, Crole kicked the automatic from his fingers. It skidded across the room, struck the leg of a heavy chair and started to spin. When it stopped its spinning, it had moved out of sight beneath the chair.