The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  “Yes, Sergeant, you’re doing fine. I still want to hear about this Smith, but when you mentioned that Auburn, you unintentionally gave us an unusual tip. Do you remember who was in the car?”

  “Couple of hard-looking men I thought at the time. But they had plenty of money. In fact they passed me a twenty and I turned it over to the chow fund at the Desert Inn to help feed the poor bums we had to turn back.”

  Jorgens rubbed his palms briskly. “I’m banking on that memory of yours, Sergeant. Now we’ll get back to Smith. He had a letter promising him a job in the coastal city. You recall the letter?”

  “Damn right. He wanted to read it to me, but I said I could read plenty good. It said his qualifications were good and he was expected not later than the 15th.”

  Captain Jorgens shot a quick glance at the agency man. But Simon Crole was staring impassively at the lithograph of the Darktown Fire Brigade.

  “Who signed the letter?” barked Jorgens.

  Sergeant Breen pursed his lips, frowned, and his eyes went vacant. “I don’t remember,” he said, uneasily.

  Jorgens pounded the desk with a clenched hand. “Damn it, Sergeant, you’ve got to remember. Concentrate! The signature is important. It holds the clue to a couple of murders.”

  “I’m trying to think,” said Breen. “I can see the letter plain. And the date, and that part about the qualifications. Ain’t it the berries how the name eludes me.

  Jorgens got to his feet, his face working. “That!” he raged, pointing to the sergeant and fixing Crole with a bleak stare, “is what I have working for me. He sees a name. And he can’t remember. He’s paid to remember such things. He’s even trained. He’s an ordinary cop when I recommend him for a sergeancy. And this is what he tells me: ‘Ain’t it the berries how the name eludes me.’ Nothing’s ever going to be right from now on. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Finished?” asked Crole, stifling a yawn.

  “All right,” snapped Jorgens. “You go on from where I left off. Ask the sergeant...”

  “Take it easy, Captain. Breen knows the name. Just because he can’t say it when you start screaming at him is no sign he won’t remember it. Sit down, will you. You’re wearing out my floor.”

  He swung on Breen and smiled warmly. “Sergeant, I want you to forget what you saw on that letter. We’ll get at it by another method—the method of association.

  “Now listen. I suggest this desk. What do you immediately think of? Answer quick.”

  “Blotter, typewriter...”

  “Good. Try this one: Siren.”

  “Police.”

  “Murder.”

  “Coughlin case...” He hesitated, looked foolish and said without conscious thought: “Gillespie.”

  “Ummm!” grunted Crole.

  “So help me!” said Breen, somewhat startled. “That’s the name, Gillespie! I remember it now. The name is James Gillespie.”

  “Observe,” said Crole, “how beautifully the idea of association works in the mind of an intelligent officer.”

  “If the sergeant wasn’t a trusted and capable law-enforcer, Simon, I’d say you were kidding me.”

  “You would. But Sergeant Breen does not work for me. He’s your man—not mine.”

  “All right,” conceded Jorgens. “But we’re still right where we were a few minutes ago. What’s the reason back of all this?”

  “The modus operandi,” said Crole, “is simple—greed for another man’s wealth—a sum in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. The plan was simplicity itself. When James Gillespie saw the possibilities of becoming the owner of this small fortune, he cast about for a safe method. To abscond openly was not to be considered.

  “What does he do? He finds a man in the middle west who closely resembles him. Brings him to this city with an offer of a job. Arranges with this man to drive his car to a certain place. Gives him his keys and other things. Then hires two men to destroy him so that the killing would appear accidental.

  “Edward Smith of Lima, Ohio was selected for this purpose. And Edward Smith now lies in the morgue under the name of James Gillespie, a victim of a rather gruesome murder—murder by substitution. Which leaves Gillespie in the clear.”

  “Are you talking about the Gillespie who was murdered?” asked Sergeant Breen, innocently.

  “My God,” complained Crole. “Have I got to go through all this again? Yes, it’s the same man. The smart boys on the press made a little mistake aided and abetted by the police.”

  “At your suggestion,” said Jorgens, drily.

  “What I said,” argued Crole, “was that the victim found in the car was murdered. I never mentioned Gillespie.”

  “Enough!” snapped Jorgens. “I’ll uncover Gillespie if he’s still in the city. I’ll also get a description of Smith, finger prints if he has any and birth marks. And I’ll know damn soon who this cadaver is we’re still holding at the morgue.”

  “Who is this fellow Smith you keep talking about?” asked Breen. “Is he the same Smith who came through the barrier? ‘Cause if he is I’ll know him.”

  “Even if his face and torso are badly burned?” quizzed Jorgens.

  “I’ve got something better than that. The little finger on his right hand was cut off at the first joint.” Captain Jorgens actually beamed. “Sergeant, I was all ready to call you a poor, dumb flatfoot. I’m glad I didn’t.” He picked up the phone once more and called his office, issued a brief order and seated himself on the desk while he waited. When the captain set the phone down again his face was once more wearing its funeral wreath of official dignity.

  “The corpse at the morgue,” he said, “is undoubtedly that of Edward Smith. Breen’s sharp eyes have established an identification that will have to be further verified. But it looks like we’re on the right track.”

  “That’s fine,” approved Crole. “It seems that we have reached an amicable understanding with each other for once.”

  “You may understand me, Simon. But I’ll be damned if I understand you or your methods. Listen. I called the Commodore. It was necessary that I get Ned Anderson down to headquarters to explain his relations. .

  Crole broke in, shaking his head slowly back and forth: “You see, Captain, my client left the Commodore yesterday. In fact I, personally, moved him out because his life was threatened.”

  Jorgens’ eyes became speculative. “So? You never told me a word about this.”

  “Of course I didn’t. It didn’t seem necessary. I took Anderson to another hotel farther from the center of town. Those two hoods were...well, I got there just in time to save him from drinking whiskey doped with Cyanide of potassium they were going to make him swallow. I came out second best in the fight that followed, but he didn’t drink any of the poison.”

  “You must be slipping, Simon.”

  “I guess I am. Now I’ll present a few more points of interest.”

  Jorgens nodded. “I think you’d better present them all, Simon.”

  “At the right time, Captain. You know me, or you should by this time. Have you ever been left out of an arrest on any of my cases?”

  “Never.”

  “All right. Just to keep the record straight, Miss Laird had reasons to believe Gillespie, with his power of attorney, was slowly draining Anderson’s bank account of its available cash. When Anderson arrived at our coastal city she, on her own responsibility, went to him and acquainted him with the facts. Someone suspected her and had her followed. The man who shadowed her was Coughlin. He evidently had orders to get her away from Anderson. A snatch was attempted. Anderson butted in and broke it up.

  “You’ve already read the portion of a note the girl wrote him. And you’ve probably accepted the fact that the girl is in the east. I’d like to believe it, Captain. But I can’t. The telegram received by the girl’s mother seemed genuine, and was. But its contents might have been faked. Gillespie, and others, are nothing if not determined to protect themselves. And they’ll not stop at one murder�
�or two. I think Anderson will be safe if he stays inside the hotel. He promised me he would. Nothing but a direct order from me will take him out to the street.”

  “If you think he’s positively in danger,” said Jorgens, “I can send a couple of my men to his hotel. Between them they can watch the hall and his door.”

  “Maybe you’d better,” sighed Crole. “He’s a trusting sort of individual, and I’m not under-rating the brains of Gillespie and those men working with him. But wait, I’ll call him and tell him about the officers you plan to send to the hotel.”

  He thumbed the telephone directory, found the Franklin on San Felice and spoke the number. “Mr. Anderson’s room, please.”

  “Sorry,” answered the hotel operator. “Mr. Anderson left early this morning. A gentleman, a friend of his called. They left together. Is there any message you’d like to leave, sir?”

  “None,” said’ Crole, shaking his head dejectedly. He hung up.

  Captain Jorgens sniffed. “Well? Are we too late?”

  Crole nodded. “Yeah. Too late. And to think that Anderson promised me he wouldn’t stir from the hotel unless I ordered...” He checked suddenly and his mouth began to twitch. Abruptly he called the hotel again and said to the switchboard operator: “I just finished talking with you about one of your guests, a Mr. Anderson. Remember?”

  “Yes. What is it, please?”

  “You told me he left with a friend. Could you describe the man?”

  “Who is this calling?”

  “Police Department,” said Crole, throwing a quick glance at Captain Jorgens.

  “He seemed like a middle-aged man,” said the operator. “Well-dressed, gray mustache. I don’t remember anything else about him.”

  “I see. But did he give any name when he asked you to phone Mr. Anderson?”

  “Oh yes. We always take names in cases where we make calls.” There followed a slight pause as the operator consulted her list of calls made. “Waiting?”

  “Yes,” said the agency man.

  “The man who went away with Mr. Anderson gave the name of Simon Crole. That’s all I know, sir.”

  “Thanks. It’s enough.” Again he hung up. “The description she gave of the man whom Anderson left with,” lied Crole, for reasons of his own, “is of no help. But the name he gave is quite familiar. It was Simon Crole.”

  Captain Jorgens searched for a cigar to chew on. Found one, and clamped it between his teeth. “Simon Crole, eh. Been walking in your sleep?”

  “Hardly.”

  Captain Jorgens frowned heavily. “Sergeant Breen,” he stated, “you’re to forget everything you have overheard in this office until the proper time comes. Simon, this case is getting top-heavy. Two murders, now a kidnapping. You’ve got to draw in the strings. I’ve gone with you as far as I dare without getting myself in trouble with the District Attorney’s office.”

  “I know all that, Captain. And it’s got me slightly worried.”

  “Slightly? You’d better take this thing serious. The D.A. is in a black mood. In case you don’t know it, there is a reform movement yammering for a clean-up in city politics—especially the police and public prosecutor’s offices.”

  “I’m not concerned with the District Attorney,” said Crole. “He’s out to get my license revoked. Maybe he’ll succeed. He’s an honest and sincere public official. And so are you, Captain. Neither of you could be bribed. But the D.A. thinks I’m crooked. And he won’t rest easy till he closes my office.”

  “You’ve got him all wrong, Simon.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a lot of things to do, Captain. And so have you. Let’s quit this harangue before we both lose our tempers.”

  “I’ll be in my office all day, Simon—close to the phone.”

  “That’s fine. Keep your big car ready. I may need help before the next twelve hours.”

  “You mean...”

  “I mean the showdown’s close. I’ve been pushed around all I intend to be. Now I’m going to start pushing myself. G’bye. And remember what I said about keeping your big car ready.”

  Jorgens nodded, looked as if he might say something more, then signaled Breen. Together they left the office.

  “It’s about time,” scolded Etta.

  Crole looked up inquiringly. “You telling me?”

  “Yes, boss, I’m telling you. Esther has been in the woman’s room out in the hall for the past half hour waiting for you to get through with your heart-to-heart talk with the police.”

  “Shocking!” grinned Crole. “Go get her, precious. Scram!”

  XV. CONVERGING PATHS

  Esther entered Crole’s office looking hot and bothered. She dropped into a chair and said: “I’ve just about got time to make a report and get over to Judge Barnum’s court for the noon recess.”

  “I’ll be very attentive,” said Crole.

  “At six this morning I started to put in calls, one to Washington, and one to my friend’s office in London. There is no record of Henry Brenan in the consul’s office, or the office of the American Express. Nor was there any passport issued to Henry Brenan in Washington. He doesn’t exist. It’s my opinion that Gillespie arranged the sale through a dummy, selling it to himself.”

  “I suspected that much,” sighed Crole. “Now I’m sure that the house deal was a phony.”

  Esther got up. “I had the calls charged to you.”

  “Fine,” said Crole. “Send me your bill. I’ll multiply it by two, and hope you can collect.”

  “I’ll collect,” promised Esther, flouncing out the door.

  The girl had no more than left when Leahy appeared, looking somewhat crestfallen. “I guess,” he began, sitting on the edge of the desk, “that we won’t obtain possession of the secret file.”

  Crole’s eyebrows moved up. “No?”

  “No. I was down to the D.A.’s office all morning. And finally, on an excuse that the investigators had taken something of mine when they cleaned out Coughlin’s desk, I got into the property room. There I found the list of things they were holding. But the memorandum book that Coughlin called his secret file was not amongst things. I searched pretty carefully. It wasn’t there.”

  Crole gnawed on his lower lip. “Sure it was there in the first place?”

  “Positive. I saw them put it in a box with some other things. While I was pawing around Minifie comes in and asks casually what it is I’m looking for. I told him nothing important—just a few notes on the horses that are scheduled to perform on the Santa Anita race track when the course opens.”

  “I think,” said Crole, “that the D.A. has got the jump on us. He hasn’t been bothering me all morning: When he’s ignoring me I know he’s got something in the way of a surprise—and a disagreeable one.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “Nothing—as far as he’s concerned. I’ve got other angles to be traced. Listen, Leahy, and I’ll explain exactly how my agency stands in regard to these murders.”

  When he had finished, Leahy whistled softly. “It looks like your angles are beginning to point in a single direction. I’ve met Gillespie, but I never imagined him capable of anything like what’s happened.”

  “One never knows. And with nearly a quarter of a million at stake, men can develop the characteristics of beasts who know no law but that of the jungle.”

  The telephone broke in harshly. Simon Crole regarded the instrument with dark suspicion, muttered beneath his breath, and took down the receiver. “Hello,” he said.

  “Mr. Crole?” asked a voice. “Listen. This is Scavillo.”

  Gene Selingo puffed heavily as he reached the county road following a steep climb from the canyon. Alone he had scrambled down its steep slope in search of Simon Crole’s body. He had not found it, but he had found the .38 automatic that the agency man had snatched from his fingers a second before he went plunging out the car door. He had it now in the holster beneath his armpit.

  The fact that he had been unable to discover Crole’s body
did not alarm him greatly. After all the canyon was a deep hole of a place, and he hadn’t been any too thorough. The loss of the gun had worried him. But now that he had it safe in its holster once more, he shrugged off the remainder of the problem.

  Ponderously he walked up the county road. Half a mile from the spot where he looked for the body, he saw a taxi drawn up beside the road. The driver was smoking a cigarette and seemed little concerned at sight of the big mobster striding along the road.

  Selingo walked over to the cab and looked inside. “You’re a long ways from the city, mister. Expect to pick up a fare?”

  “Naw,” shrugged Scavillo. “Just looking at the view. I always drive up here when I’m close by. A guy don’t see views like this cruising around the city.”

  “What’s in the view to look at?” Selingo wanted to know.

  “I guess I’m simple. I like to look at the mountains.”

  “If you was to ask me, I’d say you was balmy. I think,” he added ominously, “that you’d better move on. This is private property up here and we don’t like to have the place jammed with people we don’t know.”

  “Okay,” said Scavillo. “I was just ready to leave when you came.” The starter awoke the cab engine to life, and the taxi lurched down the county road.

  Gene Selingo watched it until he could no longer see it, then turned, frowned, and kept going along the road until he reached a pair of iron gates anchored in columns of native rock.

  Inside these gates, leaning against the stone-work, stood Ghost, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, hands thrust deep in his coat pockets.

  “See anything of a cab around the place?” asked Selingo.

  Mokund shook his head. “Ummm!”

  “Geez,” spat Selingo, “what a hole I’ve been in. But I found my rod. And was I relieved.”

  Together they walked up a gravel drive that circled widely through lanes of cypress and eucalyptus trees.

  Beyond them was a rambling, spacious structure of wood and stone—the home of Ned Anderson.

  They passed the caretaker, a beetle-browed Mexican who was clipping a hedge. They circled the house, went past a tennis court, an empty swimming pool, and by this circuitous route reached the service entrance to the kitchen.