Crole lunged towards the chair, his mind intent on getting his hands on the gun. Ghost Mokund watched him with cold eyes. Took three forward steps and brought the barrel of his automatic down hard on the agency man’s head.
Lights flashed across the retinas of Crole’s eyes. He felt sudden pain, then the sensation of falling through breathless space where everything was shadowy and obscure.
He seemed to fall quite a distance without hitting bottom. Presently he was no longer falling, but sitting, with his back to the chair, his thoughts jumbled and unpleasant.
Ned Anderson came out of the bathroom carrying a dripping bath towel. He placed it on the agency man’s head. “You’re doing fine, Simon. I thought for a time that...”
Crole took the towel and massaged his head. “It takes more than a rap with a gun to kill me. My head’s tough. Geez, but it hurts.” His eyes clouded as he looked around.
Anderson interpreted the glance. “They’re gone.”
“How long?”
“Five minutes, maybe ten.”
A ponderous sigh puffed out Crole’s lips. “Too bad. And two interesting gentlemen. I talked with the police about them not more than half an hour ago. Then I meet them face to face. You didn’t by any chance hear them use any names?”
“They didn’t talk much except the big fellow.”
By this time Crole was on his feet and reaching for a bottle of Scotch on a nearby table.
Anderson grabbed him by the arm. “Not unless you want to take a long, drugged sleep and lose your taste for liquor,” he said. “I saw them put in little white sticks. The big fellow said: ‘You drink this sleeping powder. It won’t hurt you. It’s painless. And when you wake up your taste for alcohol will be gone.’ That’s what he said.”
Crole sniffed uneasily at the contents of the bottle. An odor, similar to that of bitter almonds, impinged upon his nostrils. “You sure as hell would lose your taste for alcohol if you drank this stuff,” he said quietly. “For it would kill you about as quick as anything you could pour inside you. These little white sticks you saw were Cyanide of potassium. Once this chemical comes in contact with the stomach acid, it turns into Prussic acid. Its action is fast. Death in only a few minutes even with so little as one tenth of a gram. Sleeping powder? Sleeping death!”
Ned Anderson sat down abruptly. His face was white. He ran fingers through his tousled hair. “I’m glad you came, Simon.”
“What did they want?”
“I already told you,” said Anderson, bowing his head in the palms of his hands. “They came in, quiet like, dropped the little white sticks in the Scotch bottle, told me it wouldn’t hurt to drink the stuff. Said it was necessary that I take a long sleep so that I’d forget my steady drinking.”
Crole went to the bathroom, found some adhesive tape and fastened a narrow strip over the cut in his cheek. Coming back into the room he said: “You didn’t drink any, did you? But of course you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d still be on the bed.”
“I was half-crocked, and the idea of ridding myself of the liquor habit was tempting. My future didn’t look any too bright. I never was any use to anybody. Never pretended to be. Just a waster. Miss Laird sort of snapped me out of it, but it didn’t last. I’m a no-good bum, fit only for the gutter.”
“Please don’t start crying,” said Crole. “Didn’t I tell you to leave everything to Simon? I meant it, too.
And on a hunch that you might need a little moral courage I called you up to ask you out to supper tonight.”
“I heard the bell ring. But when I started to get up the big fellow took down the receiver and the little guy pointed a gun at me. Didn’t say a word, just looked at me with his fishy eyes.”
“Your death was planned to look like suicide. Gunfire in a hotel is dangerous, even if the walls are thick and practically soundproof. So pack your bags,” he ordered. “You’re leaving.”
“Leaving? Where to? I like this hotel. Why should I leave?”
“You come with me, or you stay here and get murdered.”
Anderson moistened his lips. “You mean—they’ll come back?”
“Don’t talk,” snapped the agency man. “Do like I tell you. I’m charging you a considerable fee for my agency services, Anderson. And from the looks of things, I’m going to earn every nickel of it. Take my word for it, somebody wants you out of the way. Coming to your room as they did may seem somewhat crude, but it might have worked if I hadn’t blundered in when I did.”
“Who would want to kill me?”
“Does it matter? Isn’t the fact ugly enough? Two hundred thousand dollars is worth any kind of a risk, and believe me, these men will make another attempt unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you get out. Leave the hotel. Take up quarters where they can’t trace you. And that’s my job—to protect you until I can discover who is behind all this.”
“Then I’m to leave. .
“Now. Within five minutes.”
In slightly more than five minutes everything Ned Anderson had in the room had been jammed into trunks and two bags, and the trunks were marked for the hotel storage room. Then the two men went down to the desk. Anderson paid his bill, left instructions concerning his trunks, and, with Simon Crole holding tightly to his arm he was guided through the lobby to the same entrance Crole had used in coming to the hotel.
Scavillo’s cab was not in sight. Crole relinquished his hold on Anderson’s arm and went out to the curb. Traffic at this time of day was dense. A stream of bright yellow cabs were jammed along the curb. For several minutes he looked up and down the street, then went back to where he had left his client.
Anderson was nowhere in sight.
Back into the hotel went the agency man, his jaw twitching. He wasn’t worried—merely peeved. Downstairs he went to the cocktail bar. Anderson was seated on a red leather stool at the rail, his fingers curved around a whiskey glass.
Crole unhooked the fingers from the glass, shoved it along the bar, dropped a half dollar beside it and said to the barman: “He don’t need it. Drink it yourself.” Then to his client: “Next time you pull a stunt like that I’m going to smack you down. I mean it. Do you think I enjoy this business of being slapped around trying to keep you out of trouble?”
Anderson smiled crookedly. “I was thirsty.”
Simon Crole lowered his voice. “Listen, Anderson. Do you remember the man who tried to kidnap Miss Laird? Well, he was murdered within a dozen feet of my office. I almost landed in jail when the killing was investigated. I still am not certain but what the District Attorney will do his damndest to fasten that killing on me.”
The eyes of Ned Anderson became serious. “But surely, Simon, they can’t accuse you of a thing like that.”
“They can do anything they want to, providing they can get away with it. I managed, for the time being, to beat the rap. But that doesn’t mean that I can continue to. I’m not infallible. See that gray sedan parked in a ‘no parking’ zone, the car near the corner? There’s a District Attorney investigator in that car. He’s following me wherever I go.”
He indicated the stream of traffic flowing beyond the curb. “And those two men who tried to poison you. Any one of these cars may be theirs. Somebody is desperately determined to destroy either one or the both of us. That’s why I’m taking you away. I can take care of myself—but you...you’re causing me quite a headache. So I’m going to sink you out of sight. Ah! There’s our cab. Stick close to me,” he finished, shouldering across the sidewalk and out into the street. The cab door opened. Crole shoved Anderson inside and climbed in after him. “Home, Scavillo,” he called to the hacker. “And there’s a gray sedan going to be tailing us. Get rid of it.”
Scavillo’s cab purred down the street and stopped abruptly at the first intersection where the blue light gave him the right to proceed. He waited until the last moment, just as it was turning to red, then eased the car across the street while drivers of machines moving
the opposite direction had to slam on their brakes to avoid a crash. But the maneuver had placed a swarm of cars between Scavillo’s cab and the pursuing machine.
At the next corner he turned right then left went through a tunnel, crossed another teeming intersection, and, once more in the clear, said from the side of his mouth: “How am I doing?”
Crole looked back. The gray sedan was no longer behind them. “All right to go home,” he called.
They left the cab in front of the apartment house and went swiftly inside. At the switchboard Crole stopped. “If anyone calls or comes to ask questions about this man who’s with me, just forget you saw him. As far as you’re concerned, I was alone when I came in.”
The girl operator, while accustomed to Simon Crole’s more or less erratic behavior, looked uneasy.
“Don’t worry, darling,” grinned Crole. “The police aren’t after him if that’s what’s troubling you. It’s just that he’s a client of mine and in need of protection.”
In the quiet of the apartment Crole looked at his watch. “Haven’t much time if we’re to pick up Esther by seven. And by God! If anything happens to keep me from eating tonight, I’ll go stark insane. Step on it, Anderson. Get your clothes changed. This spot is gonna be your home for a time.”
At five minutes to seven Crole, bathed, shaved and dressed in evening clothes, looked through a parted curtain to the street outside. Scavillo had returned and his cab was at the curb. Anderson came to the big detective’s side. He was white, shaky.
“You think it’s going to be all right—my going out to dinner?”
“Sure. The place where we’re going is almost like a private home. Nobody’ll bother us there. All set. Let’s go.”
The Wild Oaks Tavern was once a wealthy man’s home. The wealthy man had sold it. Remodeled, it became a landmark of respectability. Hidden in the foothills at the extreme north boundary of the coastal city, far off the main boulevard, it was a retreat men and women could not enter unless they knew of its existence and were admitted by a husky doorman who knew all its regular patrons.
A rambling structure of gabled roofs, dormers, and odd-shaped private rooms, it was the rendezvous of oil men, wealthy ranchers, screen stars and gourmets.
The doorman did not unbend from his loftiness when he saw Crole and his party. He looked at Anderson, then questioningly at the private detective.
“Friend of mine,” said Crole. “He’s quite all right.”
“And the lady?”
“An old friend of mine. She’s been here before.”
“Very good. Step inside. The lounge is on the right.”
It wasn’t until they were seated at a table in a private room that Simon Crole felt he could relax. “Well,” he sighed. “I feel very old tonight. Esther, you look beautiful in that emerald green dress. If you should wear that gown in court, you’d knock the jurymen cold.”
A waiter came in bearing gifts in the form of cocktails.
Esther Manning sipped her sidecar with enjoyment. She was tall, slender and strikingly beautiful. From a department store detective she had gravitated to Crole’s agency and had been a clever operator. Police and social service work had taken her from him. Then the law had called. Now she was a member of the bar, serene, competent and still ambitious. She smiled fondly at the big, round-faced man with the bald head.
“You knew, Simon, that Ned and I were old friends?”
“That’s the first thing I told him,” said Anderson.
“Yes,” said Crole, savoring his old-fashioned. “I knew that. And it made me feel sad. That former friendship kept me from earning a fee of twenty thousand dollars. I hope, someday, that I’ll be able to forget that huge fee. Right now it rankles inside me like a twinge of rheumatism.”
The waiter came in with food.
“Double order of everything for me,” said Crole, unfolding a napkin and taking a firm grip on the silver.
The meal was leisurely and quiet. Over demitasse Crole said: “I’m a mild, patient man, Esther. But my patience is at an end now that my bodily needs have temporarily been assuaged. What did you find out?”
Esther Manning picked up a spoon and traced an invisible pattern on the table cloth. “Mr. Anderson’s house in Los Gatos canyon was sold for eighteen thousand dollars cash to a man by the name of Henry Brenan of London...”
“Henry Brenan, Henry Brenan,” repeated Crole. “You sure that’s the man’s name who bought it?”
“I’ve still got a good memory, Simon.”
“A lot better than mine. Ummm!”
“Why did you ask?”
“Nothing,” said Crole, thinking of the oblong of cardboard that looked as if it might have at one time been fastened to a key. If the cardboard had been fastened to the key with a piece of string, then somebody must have recently decided to make use of the key and had torn off the string and cardboard. Could Gillespie have done this? Or had Coughlin been sent to the office for the key?
The orchestra started to play softly. Esther became restless. Anderson rose gallantly. “May I?” he offered.
“I’ll be back, Simon,” promised the girl.
Alone, but far from lonesome, Simon Crole leaned farther back in the chair, crossed his big hands over his chest, and allowed his eyes to droop shut.
His thoughts began to arouse vague questionings now that he was contented and well-fed. He could forget about the house in Los Gatos canyon. Legally, it was out of reach and the owner in London. That left George Baron who had offered him a big sum to bring back a fugitive witness from the east, and the two men who had attempted to poison Anderson.
But wait a minute. That wasn’t all. There was still Edward Smith from Lima, Ohio. What was it Coughlin had whispered? Gillespie’s double. But why double? Was i that Smith resembled Gillespie? Suppose he did? Maybe it was important. But why?
The big detective opened his eyes long enough to roll a cigarette, pour himself a drink, then began to brood about Coughlin. If the other private detective had had a secret file, where the devil did he have it? In his office, undoubtedly. He speculated on the possibility of burglary.
Esther and Anderson came back, flushed, happy. “Gorgeous music, Simon. Want to...”
Crole had risen. “An old buzzard like me dance with a charming girl like you? Perish the thought, darling. I know my good points, and dancing isn’t among them.”
Anderson poured himself a drink from Crole’s bottle. “This is a grand place, Simon. This liquor all right to drink?”
“Has been right along, and I’m still awake.”
“I’m not a drunk, Simon. I’m just a victim of the stuff.” He sat back, smiled pleasantly, and began to hum quietly that sad, minor lamentation expressing a gnawing sorrow.
Esther said, as Crole held a match to her cigarette: “Why so pensive this evening, Simon? Everything all right?”
“Nothing’s ever all right. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. I almost had a murder rap pinned on me this afternoon. If I had any hair, I’m sure it would have turned white within the hour.”
“Murder rap?”
“Yes. An agency man named Coughlin. Mortally wounded, he staggered into my office and practically died in my arms.”
“Was he able to tell you who...?”
“He thought he was telling me, but I couldn’t hear what he gasped. There was plenty of confusion in the old office for a while. The D.A. thinks I’m implicated. Captain Jorgens can’t make up his mind. Meanwhile there’s a man named Edward Smith who fits in somewhere. I’m trying to trace him. Matt’s gone by plane to Lima, Ohio, to check from that point westward.”
“You mentioned earlier an offer of twenty thousand dollars,” said Esther. “Who’s behind it?”
“A man named George Baron.”
“The attorney?”
“Know him?”
Esther examined her pink finger nails. “Yes, and I think he’s one of the most handsome, debonair gentlemen I have ever met. A slick, consciencel
ess man who knows always what he wants, and how to obtain it with the minimum of effort.”
“It makes me feel ill,” admitted Crole, ruefully, “to have had to turn down his offer. I could have handled it through a New York agency, but he would have none of it. He wanted me to take it personally. Since I was already hooked up with Anderson, I had to let it go by the boards. Twenty thousand dollars,” he mused. “Any way you look at it, Esther, that’s considerable money these days.”
The waiter knocked discreetly on the door and came in holding a telephone in his hands. He plugged the loose end of the cord into a socket close to the table, looked at Crole, said: “The gentleman said it was very important. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Okay,” said Crole, squinting doubtfully at the instrument. He knew who that call would be from. Only one man knew where he was.
After the waiter had gone Esther asked. “Who is it?”
“The police,” sighed Crole.
He took the receiver from the hook. “Simon Crole speaking. Oh! Good evening, Captain. Ummm! You would have something of a disagreeable nature to discuss. All right. I’ll wait. Why should I run away? Where could I go? Now listen. This place where I am is respectable. So if you’ve got a lot of cops with you, park them outside. Okay. Bye.”
Esther spoke casually. “You seem to be in some difficulty with the police.”
“That isn’t unusual. Captain Jorgens is compelled to play along with the District Attorney’s office. At the same time, if there is a pinch to be made, he wants his office to get the full credit. It isn’t anything I hold against him. It’s just that we’re two different men. But we manage to get along—after a fashion.”
He rubbed his hands briskly. “One thing more, Esther, I want you to do for me, and I’ll swear it will be the last. If you have Henry Brenan’s address in London. I wish you’d telephone London and verify the sale of the house. Have you any connections there?”
Esther nodded. “David Spindler, a wholesale jeweler. He’ll do anything I ask him to.”
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 11