“Swell. And the house is vacant now, I suppose?”
“Except for a caretaker, a Mexican and his family.”
“Well, now that that’s off my mind...Oh, oh! Do you hear the same thing I do?”
Faintly as though far away came the moaning of a siren.
Esther crossed her silken-clad knees, lighted a cigarette, smiled with pleasurable excitement, and said: “It’s your party, Simon. But I hope it isn’t a pinch.”
“So do I,” sighed Crole. “But whatever happens, the captain can’t take away my appetite with his dark hints and outright insinuations. I’m comfortable and well fed. The evening is still young. And with one more drink I’ll be in full possession of all my faculties.”
He reached for the bottle of rye. But a disturbance in the corridor stayed his hand. He shrugged helplessly, leaned back and waited for the inevitable—his friendly enemy, Captain Jorgens.
XI. BEHIND THE PICTURE
Distressed and slightly apologetic, the waiter opened the door. Crole smiled benignly. “We’re expecting him,” he said. “Show the Captain in and see that we’re not disturbed.”
Captain Jorgens, bulky, grim and black-mustached, stood framed in the doorway staring into the private room. His jaundiced eyes of suspicion swerved from one face to another as if he expected to read guilt in all of them.
From somewhere he produced a half-hearted attempt at something intended for a smile at sight of Esther Manning. Crole he merely favored with a bleak glance. Anderson he didn’t know and showed no hesitation in saying so. “Who’s this man?”
Crole got up. “Ned,” he said. “Meet the best and most suspicious police officer on the coastal city force. Captain, this gentleman is my client, Mr. Ned Anderson. Will the Captain join my little party and accept a drink?”
“No,” frowned Jorgens. “I’m on duty—and here on business.”
“Right, quite right,” said Crole, unperturbed by the other’s gruffness. “Duty is always something to be treated with respect. I admire your attitude, Captain, but I distrust your thirst.”
He filled two glasses with rye, took one himself and extended the other towards the scowling police officer. Jorgens twisted stubby fingers around the glass, drank the rye at a single swallow, blinked and frowned as he returned the glass to the table.
“Simon,” he began. “I think it is about time for you to explain what you know about James Gillespie’s secretary, a young lady by the name of Virginia Laird. I’ve been searching the city for her, quietly so as not to arouse too much suspicion, but she can’t be found. It looks as though she might be able to throw considerable light on things. She may even be an accessory...”
Anderson shuddered and started up in his chair.
“Easy, Ned,” soothed Crole, placing a restraining hand on his client’s shoulder.
Jorgens said exultingly: “Looks as though I rang the bell.”
Crole leaned back in his chair. “If you did, I didn’t hear it.” He grinned pleasantly.
“You know her then?”
“Yes,” agreed Crole, as if knowing her meant absolutely nothing. “We know her. And I suppose that at this moment Virginia Laird is somewhere east of Kansas...Anderson, have you got that wire Miss Laird sent from Kansas City?”
Anderson pawed at his pocket. “The wire,” he said, “was sent to Miss Laird’s mother. She has it, or had. All I’ve got is this unfinished note she wrote to me.”
He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket—the one Crole had found in her desk, and extended it to the police captain.
Jorgens read the typed words, chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip and looked up sharply at Anderson. “When did you receive this?”
“We found it,” said Crole. “Or rather I did, in the girl’s desk yesterday around noontime. I was sort of looking the place over, as it were.”
“What do you mean—as it were? You know damned well you were giving the place a thorough going over since nobody was there to stop you. Someday, Simon, you’re going to run up against a police officer who isn’t as tolerant as I am. And when you do, it’s just going to be too bad for you.” He cleared his throat with a harsh rattle and snapped at Anderson: “What about this telegram? This is the first I’ve heard about it.”
Anderson looked startled. “No, nothing special, Captain. It looked all right to me.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember the exact words. Something like this: Don’t worry. Going to New York on business. Love. Virginia.”
Jorgens grunted.
“You can check on that, Captain,” said Crole, “by taking a ride out to where Miss Laird lives with her mother. And that will dispose of Miss Laird for the present.”
“Think so?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Who sent her east in the first place? Where, exactly, did she go? And for what reason?”
“I suppose her employer.”
“He’s dead.”
“But he could have sent her before he died, couldn’t he?”
“Possibly, but did he, Simon?”
“I wouldn’t know, Captain. But if you’re trying to prove her an accessory before the fact, you’re all wet.”
“You keep out of this, Simon. I’m going to ask Anderson a few questions. There’s something being kept back, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, or...”
“Anderson’s my client,” said Crole. “He don’t have to answer your questions, Jorgens—at least not now. But,” he raised his hand, palm outward, “I’ll be glad to do so in my own way.”
“Maybe you’re this man’s mouthpiece...”
“Miss Manning’s his attorney, if that’s what you mean. I’m simply—sort of a spiritual adviser.”
“Mr. Crole is well within his rights,” said Esther, speaking for the first time. “The legal aspects...”
“Phooey!” spat Jorgens. “Aspects be damned. What I want is a little information, not a lecture from a couple of crime sharks.”
“Tsk, tsk!” clucked Crole. “You’re sore, Captain, or you wouldn’t make such nasty remarks. What’s the difference who answers your questions?”
“Knowing you as I do, Simon, I would say, conservatively, that the difference would be considerable.
You have a way of stripping the truth of the essentials and giving me what’s left over.”
“You wouldn’t have felt that way if I had gone to the D. A’s. office and put them on the right track in regard to Gillespie being murdered. I gave you that choice piece of information and you profited by it. But I’m wasting your time, and God knows, you’re spoiling a quiet party of mine.”
Captain Jorgens relaxed from his stiff attitude. “Another rye, Simon. We’d better stop fighting before we kill each other. Now tell me,” he said, reaching for the amber-colored glass, “where your client, also Miss Manning, fits into the picture.”
Crole told him, swiftly, and sparsely of certain details, how Anderson had arrived in California. How he had been met on the first night by Miss Laird, of her fears and suspicions. Of Ned’s subsequent investigation of his bank account—omitting any reference to the house in Los Gatos canyon, and what he had lately discovered. He did mention, however, the attempted kidnapping.
“It looks,” observed Jorgens, when the agency man had finished, “as if your estate, Anderson, has passed beyond the bounds of recovery. Gillespie’s murder was undoubtedly motivated by the two hundred thousand dollars he withdrew from the bank sometime before your arrival. It also explains the open safe and the absence of a number of stocks and bonds that belonged to other customers.”
“I’m afraid I’m a poor man,” shrugged Anderson. “Ummmm!” grunted Jorgens. “Afraid? Gillespie got your money all right. That’s perfectly obvious. And somebody took it away from Gillespie. You’re broke, and who the hell’s to pay Simon Crole his fee? By cripes, Simon,” chuckled Jorgens. “Excuse me for laughing in your face. No money, no fee. It’s gonna break your he
art.”
He got up laughing. “Bye,” he called from the doorway. “Be seeing you, Simon.” He was still laughing as he closed the door and moved down the corridor.
Simon Crole smiled bemusedly. “I wouldn’t have believed it, Esther, if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears. Never, as long as I’ve known him, have I heard Captain Jorgens laugh.”
“It’s a funny world,” Anderson observed. “Only it’s my money that’s been stolen. And it seems only right that if anybody got a laugh out of it, I should be the one. But I can’t laugh. I get sick just thinking about all those dollars of mine in a bank under somebody else’s name.”
Simon Crole’s voice was grave. “Didn’t I tell you, Ned, to leave everything to me, that you would soon be wealthy again?”
“That’s what you told me. But I’m beginning to weaken.”
“There are angles to this case, Ned, that Captain Jorgens isn’t aware of, and which, naturally enough, I have not acquainted him with. You may recall, if you’re sober enough, his remark about my way of stripping the truth of the essentials and giving him what’s left over. And that’s exactly what I did. I gave him what I had left over, and reserved the choice parts for myself since I am inherently a selfish person and devoted to the rights of my clients who pay me fees. Does that sound involved?”
“It does,” remarked Esther. “Simon, you should have been a lawyer.”
“Jorgens once remarked I should have been a horse thief.”
“Get me my money back,” said Anderson, “and my house—don’t overlook the house, I’m sentimental about that old shack. Twenty-one rooms. You do this, Simon, and like I said, I’ll double the amount you were offered to leave this city and abandon my case.”
“I wouldn’t think of leaving town, Ned,” said Crole. “But I do think it’s time we were going home. Ned’s staying with me, Esther. Two hoods got into his hotel room and tried to bump him off. I’m afraid to leave him where they can find him. Figured my place was not known to them, and he’d be safe for—until I trip them two hoods up and pin a murder rap on them.”
“It’s awful early to be leaving,” said Esther, “but you know what you’re doing I suppose. By the way, did a Mexican named José Hernandez come to your office?”
Crole nodded. “Yes. About his kid, Manuel. I sent Matt out to his place to throw a scare into the lad. You remarked about a Mexican caretaker on Anderson’s old homestead on Los Gatos canyon. This gives me an idea. Do you think I could trust Hernandez to find out a few things from that caretaker?”
Esther nodded. “José probably knows every Mexican in the county, and is highly respected by all of them. And he’s a clever man.”
“I’ll look him up in the morning,” finished Crole. “Shall we go now?”
Simon Crole left the taxi and went with Esther as far as her front door. Here he paused and said: “You won’t forget the telephone call to London. Make it as early as possible. I’ll pay the charges both ways. And ring my office the moment you get a report.”
“I didn’t hear you say anything about paying me,” said the girl.
“I’m not supposed to pay you. But if you see some pretty bauble in one of the nice stores and like it—why, have it charged to Simon. And don’t go over two dollars.”
“The bauble I’m likely to pick out will cost more than two dollars, you skinflint. Two hundred is what you’ll have to pay.”
Crole patted her shoulder. “The sky’s the limit, girl. You know that. Bye.”
As the taxi approached his apartment house, Simon Crole leaned close to the window and peered searchingly along the sidewalks. At first glance they seemed deserted. But he was not deceived. Across from the apartment house entrance was a Monterey cypress tree. And lounging in its deep shadows was the dim figure of a man. Somebody was watching his apartment, waiting for him to return.
“Changed my mind,” said Crole to the hacker.
“Keep right on going. Not too fast, and turn right on the next corner.”
He turned to Anderson. “Man watching my place, I think. Can’t take the risk. I guess it means another hotel. Driver, take us to the Franklin Hotel on San Felice Boulevard.”
Anderson shrugged and was quiet during the crosstown trip. At the hotel both men got out and Crole dismissed the cab. He went to the desk with his client. Saw him registered and in his room. Then turned to go. “You’ll find this a quiet place, Ned. My advice is to have your meals in the room. Keep in touch with me at my office by telephone.”
Anderson shrugged moodily. “I’ve been thinking, Simon. Could Miss Laird’s trip east have any connection with the offer that was made to you?”
“That’s a smart thought, Anderson, but I’m glad you made no mention of it in front of Jorgens. It would have complicated things more than they are now. Forget it. And stick close to this room. And do not, under any condition, leave it without direct word from me or my office. As long as you’re in danger, you must keep off the streets if you want to live. After what happened this evening, you ought to realize that these people mean business.”
“I do,” nodded Anderson. “And I’m still scared—been scared witless all evening. Everything’s in your hands. I’m trusting you absolutely.”
“Swell.” Crole’s face twisted into its perpetual surprised smile. “Be seeing you. And remember, don’t leave the room. Got plenty of money?”
“I cashed a check this afternoon. Yes, I’ve got plenty. Need any more fee payments?”
“I’m not as bad as Captain Jorgens makes me out to be. Whatever my client pays me, I earn. In fact I leave it entirely to their judgment. No, you keep your money for your own needs. And don’t do anything without an order from me.”
“Right,” said Anderson. “But there’s nothing to stop me from...?”
“From taking a few drinks?” finished Crole. “Not the slightest. I know you can hold it. Act the gentleman and keep your head.”
“I’d feel better, Simon, if Gillespie hadn’t been murdered.”
“Don’t let a little thing like that bother you, Ned. Gillespie isn’t dead.”
“Eh? Not dead? Then I’m the one that’s dead. Good Lord, Simon, didn’t I hear you tell Jorgens that you pointed out the fact that his death wasn’t an accident, but deliberate murder? And didn’t I read all the horrible details in the papers?”
“Quite so, Ned. I let loose a piece of information because I could no longer use it. I thought it would keep Jorgens out of my hair. Coughlin’s death caused me many uneasy moments, but one fact still stands out. Gillespie is alive.”
Ned Anderson’s eyes bugged out. “What makes you think so?”
“Veteran instincts, Ned, and a knowledge of crime, how it happens and why. I call it a hunch. But I’ve got my hooks out and they’re bound to snag on something before the next twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, I must get back to my apartment and make the acquaintance of the gentleman who is waiting for me across the street.”
He pivoted, left the room and went out to the street. It took a few minutes to find a cab. Finally he located one and was driven to his apartment.
He didn’t get out directly in front, but a few doors beyond. Humming, he stood for a moment staring at nothing in particular, then crossed over to the other side of the street.
The man he had seen earlier was still at his post in the deep shadows. Crole stopped humming and accosted him. “Looking for somebody, Mister?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing, particularly. Perhaps I’m the man you’ve been waiting so long for. My name’s Simon Crole. Does that convey anything to you? If it doesn’t, okay. If it does—I’d suggest you come up to my apartment and have a drink. Nothing like a nightcap of Scotch or rye to ease off—er, difficulties of a doubtful nature.”
“So you’re Simon Crole, eh?” said the man stepping out to the sidewalk.
Crole’s face showed no trace of the disappointment he felt. The man before him in the soft light of the street lights was neither
of the two men he had earlier encountered in Anderson’s room. “Yeah, I’m Simon Crole. And who the devil are you?”
“Me? Don’t be in such a rush. I’ll talk—at the right time. Been wanting to talk for hours. That’s why I’ve been hanging around, waiting for you to come home.
Damn right HI talk, plenty. How about that drink you mentioned?”
“The drink. Of course. But we’d better move inside. I don’t like the night air. And I want to sit down where I’ll be comfortable.” He turned and led the way into his apartment building.
Stopping at the switchboard he smiled at the girl. “Anybody call or leave any phone numbers to call?”
“Nobody’s been here, Mr. Crole,” said the girl, her eyes on the cords plugged in the switchboard. “A man called and left his number. Do you want me to ring him?” Still her eyes didn’t meet his. She handed him a small piece of paper. “Here’s his number.”
Crole took the paper and read it before crumpling it and dropping it back on the board: “A man from the Edison company was in your apartment while you were away.”
“Thanks,” said Crole. “I don’t think I want to talk to him now. I’ll ring him in the morning. G’night.”
“Good night,” said the girl, her eyes still on the cord plugs.
As Crole clicked the key into the door the man behind him said: “Some swell apartment.” The door opened inward. He looked around. “You must be sitting pretty. This place has class.”
Crole went from one room to the other snapping on lights. “Have a chair,” he invited. “Yes, it’s quite a place.” But his eyes were ranging over every article of furniture in the living room. For years, while living with apparent careless abandon, he always kept his furniture in certain spots. The drapes were never disturbed. Pictures remained just so. His eyes were accustomed to them.
But tonight he sensed that something had been disturbed. The woman that took care of his apartment would never think of violating the arrangement. Yet something was definitely out of line. There was an alien something about the room that was disturbing.
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 12