He closed the door and went straight to the radio cabinet. His lips puckered at its emptiness. Nothing but gin. He disliked it. But he drank some—half a tumbler.
Warmed, he stripped and went into the bathroom. The needle shower of scalding water stung his body into a glow. He used soap liberally, rinsed and finished with cold water.
Standing before a mirror after he had rubbed himself dry, he surveyed the welts and bruises on his body. There was a chunk of flesh gone from his arm. He swabbed it with iodine and covered it with adhesive tape.
Then, clad in a lounging robe, he went into the kitchen, scowled at the broken catch on the rear window and brewed himself some strong coffee. He drank the coffee, smoked a cigarette, and afterwards stretched out on the bed. Sleep came instantly, like a warm comforting anesthesia.
George Baron removed a ten-dollar note from his billfold, smiled at the Commodore porter, and said: “And you say his trunks are to be delivered to the Hotel Franklin, on San Felice street?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the porter, keeping his eye on the money.
“That’s fine.” He extended the bill.
The porter took it. “Thank you, sir.”
“Quite all right,” nodded George Baron, turning away.
He arrived at the Franklin at half past eight. Talked with the operator at the switchboard, and was again liberal with his largess.
Anderson came down after a few minutes, pale and disheveled. He looked with suspicious eyes at the well-dressed attorney. “I thought it was Simon down here,” he said.
“No,” smiled Baron. “Simon couldn’t come. So he sent me. I work for him.”
“I’ve never seen you around.”
“True, but the fact remains I’m in Crole’s employ. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to this hotel. He was the only one in the city who knew where you were registered.”
“That’s right,” nodded Anderson. “Well, what is it you want?”
“I’m taking you to a place in Los Gatos canyon.”
“Oh! What’s the idea?”
“Simon Crole is there. With him is a young lady—Virginia Laird.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Then she was kidnapped after all. And that wire from Kansas City was...”
“Crole’s orders were not to explain things, but to bring you to a certain house you’re undoubtedly familiar with.”
“Well,” snapped Anderson, suddenly impatient to see the girl again, “what are we waiting for?”
While this interesting event was taking place, Simon Crole was being awakened by the insistent ringing of his telephone. He groaned in the spirit as he thought of the day’s tasks—tasks he knew would further drain his vitality.
He dressed with care, called a taxi and was driven downtown. Wary from past experiences, he ate his breakfast before doing anything else. Then, stepping jauntily, he entered his office.
“Morning, precious,” he greeted his secretary, sweeping his hat from his bald head in an exaggerated gesture. “I see you’ve opened the place on time. Any callers?”
Etta looked up from a ledger. “You been in a train wreck?”
“No train wreck. I got tangled up in the city flesh-pots and a couple of them got busted.”
“You have all the marks of a hangover. Captain Jorgens phoned twice this morning. He seems a little concerned.” She handed him a yellow envelope. “Telegram from Matt. I read it, but didn’t call you about it since I knew you would be down in time. You’ll also find José Hernandez inside. He’s been here since eight this morning. Anything special you want me to do?”
“Yeah. Call the manager of my apartment house. Tell him that there’s a busted catch on the back kitchen window. Also call Captain Jorgens. Tell him I’ll be down to see him—after a while.”
He hung up his hat and moved into his private office rubbing his palms together. “Mr. Hernandez,” he said. “The old Don himself. I’m glad to see you. I was coming out to your place sometime this morning.”
“Ha, Señor Crole. I am pleased. My boy Manuel is a changed man. He is indeed. He has gone to work harvesting walnuts. He will be a success. Of that I am assured. I wish to give you money. Never can it be said that José Hernandez is ungrateful.”
“Sit down, José. I don’t want your money. Put it back in your pant’s pocket. In fact I want you to take my money.”
José Hernandez went on the defensive. His jet eyes became sly. He rubbed the rough texture of his chocolate brown suit. “You give José Hernandez money?
I am a man of business, Señor Crole. A Mexican, yes.
But I have the education. When the Americano says he will give me money, I take pause. I am alert like the coyote. I wait for further explanations.”
“In my business I encounter strange situations,” explained Crole. “There is, José, in Los Gatos Canyon, an estate with a house on it. A large house with many rooms. It was formerly owned by a gentleman named Anderson. The house was sold.”
“So long as you do not wish to sell it to me,” began José...
“Attend carefully, José, while I explain. This house, so I am told, is empty except for a caretaker and his family. The caretaker, I am also informed, is a Mexican like yourself.”
“Ha!” breathed Hernandez.
“Should,” continued Crole, “a gentleman of your ability appear at this estate, guarded by one of your own countrymen, I have reason to believe that you could learn whether this big house is empty or not. And if anyone is living in it—who they might be. Is the task too great?”
“There would be the expense of hiring a man to watch my business for the day,” said José Hernandez, “and the expense of a second man to watch the first. Seven dollars should be the expense. Four for the first man. Three for the second. I should also be cheated in spite of this arrangement to the extent of three more dollars.”
“That,” said Crole, “is a matter entirely yours. If you’ll go to this house, acquaint yourself with the caretaker, and find out what I wish to know, I will free you of the ten dollars you already owe me, and give you twenty-five dollars additional. I will also arrange the transportation and pay for it so that it will not cost you a penny.”
“Esta bien!” agreed Hernandez, nodding vigorously. “But there is the matter of a friendship token.”
“The bribe. Of course. Will ten bucks cover it?”
“Of course, sure!”
“Okay. You go home and change your clothes. That’s a pretty loud outfit you’re wearing. Put on some old clothes. And I’ll send a cab to your place. The driver will know where to take you. And you can arrange with him when to pick you up. Now beat it home, José. The cab will pick you up in half an hour. You got it clear in your head what I want you to do?”
“The big house,” said José, checking off the points on his fingers, “is empty.” He checked off the second point. “The big house is also not empty. There is someone inside. It is your wish to know who is there, and how many there are of him.”
“That’s correct.”
José got to his feet. “Adiós. I will return with a report with a quick promptness.”
As the man in the chocolate brown suit vanished into the hall, Crole read Matt Ridley’s telegram.
REPORT NEARLY COMPLETE STOP WILL PHONE YOU TEN O’CLOCK PACIFIC STANDARD TIME STOP BE THERE RIDLEY
Crole laid the telegram down and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to ten. He took down the receiver and called a number. To the voice answering he said: “Send Scavillo to my office, will you. Tell him to leave his cab outside and come up. I’m in a hurry. Right. G’bye.”
He hung up and went into his front office. “Precious,” he said. “Hernandez is working for me. Also there is an agency man, former partner of Coughlin, named Leahy, down on our payroll. So be nice to these new boys...”
The telephone rang sharply. Etta lifted the receiver. A voice said: “Lima operator calling Spring Six—thrrree—”
“It’s Matt!” whispered
Etta. “Take it in your own office.”
Crole went hurriedly to his desk. Sat down, and lifted the receiver from the hook. There was some small confusion on the line, and out of it came Matt Ridley’s clear voice. “Hello, boss! Matt! You hear me?”
“Yeah,” said Crole. “Go slow for a few seconds.” He raised his eyes. In the doorway stood bleak-faced Captain Jorgens, scowling as usual, and plucking at his black mustache.
“Have a chair, Captain,” invited the agency man. “It’s the Captain, Matt. He just came in. Go ahead. What was it you were saying?”
“Don’t let me bother you,” came gruffly from the police officer. “I’ve got all day to hang around. So has the Commissioner and the Mayor. We’re only poorly paid public officials...”
“Save it,” said Crole. “I can’t listen to two people at the same time, and this call is costing me money.”
Jorgens shut up, took a cigar from his pocket, regarded it tentatively, then thrust it back in his pocket. He started to sit down on the leather couch, saw the dark stains, and wandered over towards a chair near the window. Easing himself into it he began to crack his knuckles.
XIV. MURDER BY SUBSTITUTION
Simon Crole, his face impassive as he listened to his operator’s report over the long-distance wire, said: “Is that all, Matt?”
“All?” crackled Ridley’s voice. “What more do you want? Maybe you think I haven’t been sweating since I went to work. My legs have shrunk half an inch from walking from one place to another.”
“You did excellent, Matt. I’ll carry on now from this end. Take the next train...”
“Me, ride on a lousy train? I already got my seat paid for on a fast air liner. I’ll be home in one short time. Bye.”
“Bye.” Crole hung up. Jorgens stirred in his chair and began to clear his throat.
The phone tinkled. Crole took down the receiver and heard Etta’s honeyed voice say: “Scavillo is out in the hall.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” said the agency man. “This seems to be my busy day. Be back in half a minute.”
It was nearly five minutes before he got back. During the absence Jorgens’ temper hadn’t improved.
“You’re like a flea, Simon, the way you keep jumping around. Light somewhere, damn you, so I can get a few things off my mind.”
“You cops,” said Crole, grunting as he slumped into his comfortable chair, “are all alike. Always cranky, always in a hurry. I’ve got some ancient Bourbon, Captain. I’ll not offer you any because I don’t think you’d care for it.”
Jorgens said testily: “Hell with your Bourbon. I’ve got other things to do.”
“You haven’t, by any chance,” broke in Crole, “found the solution to the so-called Gillespie murder, have you?”
“Nor the Coughlin shooting, either. But I have a fair idea that the solution is nearer than you think. And I’m beginning to see eye to eye with the District Attorney...”
“You two men will never see eye to eye in anything. And you know it. It’s always been my contention, Captain, that the police should do the outside work in a murder case, and that the D.A. should do the prosecuting.”
“I believe I’ve heard you say some such thing.”
“If we’re still friends, you’ll share some Bourbon with me. Otherwise I’ll drink alone and think alone. And when I have the solutions of these two murders on a platter, I’ll pass the platter to the man above you.”
Jorgens lunged to his feet and came over to the desk. “Give me that Bourbon,” he said. “I’ll drink it, Simon, not because I regard you as a friend, but because I like it as well as you do.”
Crole sighed. “It’s a roundabout way of saying we’re still friends, but I guess it’s as much as I can hope for from an eternally suspicious police officer like you.”
“All right, all right. But what about these solutions on a platter. Who killed Gillespie? Who...?”
“One at a time, Captain. Everybody, including yourself, seems to be laboring under an erroneous impression. James Gillespie, I have every reason to believe, is not dead.”
Jorgens appeared to choke. His face became beet red. His eyes watered. Otherwise he was quite calm. “The papers said he was murdered. The medical examiner...”
“We won’t get anywhere, Captain, if you’re going to start contradicting everything I say. Now listen and don’t get yourself in a dither. I haven’t any real proof, but I expect to have it by tonight.”
“I knew there was a catch in it somewhere,” complained Jorgens.
“There is a man in this case,” continued Crole, evenly, “who has not yet appeared in the investigations. His name is Edward Smith of Lima, Ohio. He was of the same general size and weight of Gillespie, and looked like him. He was a law clerk, an excellent poker player, and without work until he received a letter directing him to come at once to this city where a position awaited him. He...”
“Wait a second, Simon. Where did you learn...?”
“Matt Ridley’s been in Smith’s home town doing a little private investigating. Maybe you heard him telling me most of this over the phone a few minutes ago.”
“I heard nothing except your big mouth saying ‘yeah’ and ‘ahuh’.”
“Smith’s brother got a card mailed at Williams, Arizona, saying that he, Edward Smith, had lost his car. Somebody had stolen it. That was the last word the brother heard from Edward Smith.”
“Hmmmm! I’m a long ways from understanding the connection between Smith and Gillespie.”
“All right. We’ll get closer to home. Coughlin, as a private detective, was hired by Gillespie and others. Coughlin got to know too much. So he was destroyed. Dying in this office, he tried to tell me who killed him and failed. But he did say something about Edward Smith being Gillespie’s double. That’s why I went to the expense of sending Ridley east by plane to check from the other end. And our next checking point will have to be on the border at Needles. That’s where you come in.”
“You mean,” said Jorgens, beginning to see a little light, “that Smith reached California on foot, and came to this city?”
“Exactly.”
“Ummm. How long ago do you figure that Smith crossed the border into California?”
“Three days ago, maybe four. The card he wrote to his brother was post-marked the nth. The man who was supposed to be Gillespie was killed on the 15th.”
Jorgens examined his knuckles. “The dates are all right. But the actual facts are a long ways from...”
“Didn’t your men at the border check on everybody coming in? If they did, there should be some sort of record on Edward Smith. He had a letter with him. That letter promised him a job. He wouldn’t get turned back at the border.”
“I get the point,” said Jorgens. “Let me see. I shifted the men on duty at the border only yesterday. None of them liked the work. I couldn’t blame them. And those who were on duty when Smith came through are here in the city. Sergeant Breen was in charge. He ought to know.”
He sat down on the desk, picked up Crole’s phone and called Headquarters. “Lieutenant,” he said to the man who answered. “Get in touch with Sergeant Breen and send him at once to the office of Simon Crole. I’ll be here, waiting. Move fast. It’s serious.”
He turned on Crole again. “What else you got on your mind?”
Crole blinked sleepily. “I almost forgot, Captain. The murder car that forced Gillespie’s machine from the road was an Auburn sedan, leather-covered seats, dark red, a late model and General tires on all four wheels.”
“That’s more like it.”
“The driver,” Crole went on, “has a wan face, boyish, and has all the characteristics of a dope addict. His nickname is Ghost. The second of this pair is about my build, thick lips, a wide mouth, and is very, very tough. I have an idea that they once belonged to some eastern mob that’s been scattered by state and federal men. I don’t know, of course. But they don’t belong on this coast. They were imported by...”
“Yeah. Who?”
Simon Crole smiled evasively. “I was going to say somebody. Actually I don’t know. That’s another task for your office to uncover.”
“Who sent Edward Smith the letter bringing him here?”
“I wouldn’t know that, Captain. Ridley couldn’t find out.”
“I’ll get a report out on the teletype describing the car and the two men driving it. Unless it’s in a garage we ought to have it by tonight.”
Once more he talked into the phone describing the murder car and its occupants. When he had finished he said: “That report will flash in all station houses, and go over the air to all our squad cars. Now that we know what to look for, we’ll find it—and damned quick.”
“There’s a Sergeant Breen here,” called Etta from the front office.
“Come in, Sergeant,” growled Jorgens. “You acquainted with this private dick? Well, it’s time you were. He’s the head of this agency. A sly, tricky man who knows his way around. But don’t ever fully trust him or he’ll cheat you out of your life savings. Simon, meet Sergeant Breen.”
The two men shook hands, measured each other and grinned.
“Have a chair, Sergeant,” invited Crole.
Breen sat down, his eyes slightly puzzled.
“Listen,” began Captain Jorgens. “We’re checking on a man named Edward Smith who came west from Lima, Ohio. Sometime between the 11th and 14th he must have passed through your barrier. Remember him?”
“Remember a Smith?” asked Breen. “Hundreds of Smiths went through while I was on duty. I couldn’t remember...”
“To be specific,” Crole cut in-“This man Smith probably came through alone. He was a law clerk, and he lost his car at Williams, Arizona. He carried with him a letter from...”
“Oh, sure!” nodded Breen. “I know the man you mean. He came up to the barrier on foot right after I checked through an Auburn with New York license plates...”
“Hold everything,” said Jorgens, leaning forward. “An Auburn, did you say? And did you notice its tires?”
“Are we talking about Smith or is it something else? I started to tell you...”
The Man who was Murdered Twice Page 15