The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  In the kitchen itself they saw a dark-visaged man, another Mexican, fixing a panful of potatoes. He whittled the potatoes with a glittering, straight-bladed knife, instead of peeling them. On a shelf was a stack of fresh-made tortillas. To Selingo, they looked like stale, thin pancakes.

  Over a range, heated with large wood chunks, hovered a fat round-bodied woman, with shiny black hair plastered tightly to her spherical head. Her face bore a striking resemblance to the stack of tortillas, and there were tiny globules of sweat on her forehead.

  Through the kitchen wandered the two mobsters from the east. Past a butler’s pantry into a breakfast room. Past this into a sun room. Then up a curved flight of stairs into a hall of confusing angles.

  Selingo stopped at a certain door, moistened his lips and pushed it open. There were twin beds in the room. Ned Anderson was roped to one of them; Virginia Laird to the other. The eyes of Virginia were frightened. She turned her head on the pillow so she could look towards Anderson.

  He saw the movement and smiled. Reassured, she closed her eyes to shut out the vision of these horrible men.

  “Eeeeeeah!” yawned Mokund.

  “It won’t be long now,” said Selingo, significantly. “Soon’s the big guy gets back we’ll start talking business.”

  They closed the door, strolled farther along the twisting hall and reached the door of another room. They pushed through. Seated in a chair near a desk was a pale and very frightened man. He was reading a newspaper that said among other things that he had been cleverly but foully murdered. That, of course, was not what frightened him. He had been prepared to read of his own death, but he was shocked almost into a paralysis to read of Coughlin’s murder.

  What had at first seemed amazingly simple was no longer simple. Complications had sprouted like octopus arms. There seemed to be no end to the mess in which he was involved. Anderson’s death might have helped. But that blundering private detective had interfered. Thank God he was eliminated—a broken body in the deep fastness of Los Gatos canyon. He’d remain there for years without being discovered. A few hours more and he’d be away from all these complications, and with wealth enough to last him the rest of his years on earth.

  He must pull himself together, regain his courage. He stared coldly at the mobsters in the doorway. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Selingo. “Just looking the place over.”

  “You’d better stay outside and watch the road.”

  Selingo smirked cunningly. “Okay. Come on, Ghost.

  From the way things feel, I’d think we’d better look our bus over. No telling when we’ll have to start back east.”

  Back they went through the crooked hall, down the stairs, through breakfast room, butler’s pantry and kitchen. The fat, round-bodied woman was still sweating over the stove. But the Mexican who had been whittling potatoes was no longer in the kitchen.

  Gene Selingo noted his absence, but not particularly. His mind was on the sleek, red car in the garage back of the house. Ghost Mokund, his face a blank, trailed alongside the larger man. Occasionally he sniffled, and an uneasy look flicked momentarily in his glassy eyes.

  George Baron, immaculately attired, glanced with approving eyes at his packed bags. The east was calling him. And he was leaving the coastal city without a qualm. His home was in order. He was traveling light. Things could be replaced.

  “Coughlin,” he thought, “was right about Simon Crole. The private dick was too damned smart. But all that is over with. Brains aren’t of any use in the skull of a dead man.”

  He looked at his watch. Examined his reflection in the mirror and was pleased with his appearance. He recalled, pleasurably, that he had things well in hand. Anderson and the girl were where the police couldn’t reach them. The mobsters were watching things. Gillespie would get the cash out of hiding. And it would be divided impartially, dollar Tor dollar.

  A hard glitter came into George Baron’s eyes. He was not accustomed to dividing things with other men. He didn’t intend to now. The risk had been too great and would continue to be great until Gillespie had passed the talking stage. His hand felt for the reassuring bulge in his hip pocket, then suddenly stiffened as a knock sounded on the door.

  “What is it?” asked Baron, without moving.

  “Mr. Baron,” came the voice of the houseboy. “There’s a man outside to see you. His name is Daniels.”

  The hard glitter returned to George Baron’s eyes. Daniels, ace investigator for the District Attorney’s office. What could he want? What did it matter what he wanted? It was bound to be serious. There had been a slip-up somewhere. Perhaps nothing important, but important enough to warrant Daniels coming to his apartment.

  “Bring him in,” he called.

  Without undue signs of haste he carried his bags from the living room to the top of the back service stairs. Stopping in his bedroom he took a lounging robe from a hanger, fastened it around him, removed his hat, and went direct to the bathroom. Making certain that the drain in the tub was open, he opened both cold and hot water faucets. Then, with the collar of the robe held tight around his neck, he took a position close to the door and opened it only wide enough to display his head and shoulders.

  Daniels came through the hall door and into the room. George Baron greeted him cheerfully from the bathroom doorway. “Just cleaning up a little, Daniels.

  Have a chair. Be with you in five minutes.” Carefully he inched the door shut.

  The investigator took out a package of cigarettes, lighted one and leaned comfortably back in Baron’s most comfortable chair. There was a smug, satisfied look on his face—the same sort of an expression his face had worn when he had erred in thinking he had a perfect case against Simon Crole.

  The minutes passed. Water ran in the bathroom in a torrent. Baron was making a good job of cleaning up. The cigarette burned itself up. Daniels lighted another one. More minutes passed., He began to twitch uneasily as he glared towards the closed door.

  Finally, he got up, crossed the room and knocked. No answer. He opened the door. A shower of steam swirled into his face. He shouldered through it, shut off the water, and waited for the room to clear. He saw, then, that it was empty. There was a door leading to Baron’s room. He passed through it and arrived at the back service stairs. But there was no sign of George Baron. He had quietly slipped away.

  Daniels clomped back into the living room and called his superior on the phone.

  “Someone must have warned him,” said Minifie. “But that’s all right. We’ll get to him through someone else. Go over to Simon Crole’s office and bring him in. Use any excuse you want to. And if you see Leahy, bring him in too. I haven’t any doubt but what he’s gone over to Crole’s side. Crole’s good at bribing. Once we get them down here, we’ll start sweating them. I’m eternally weary of being made a fool of by that private dick. Get rough if you want to. But bring him in.”

  Daniels slammed out of the house. Dark clouds hung low in the sky. Sudden gusts of wind picked up dust and torn paper, whirling it around street corners. He drove downtown and parked. Hurried into the building where Crole had his office and crowded into an elevator.

  Simon Crole, his hat on the back of his head, stood by his secretary’s desk looking at his watch. “Precious,” he said. “One of the men who made things unpleasant for me last night was seen by Scavillo. I’m sure of it. And where he is, there I’ll find the other. Maybe they’re all there.” His eyes clouded. “If I take a gun, I’ll be laying myself open for trouble. If I don’t take one...hmmm! I wish Leahy would get back. Every second is important...”

  The hall door opened suddenly. Investigator Daniels stood in the opening. “Going somewhere?” he asked in a voice mildly sarcastic.

  “I thought I would,” said Crole.

  “Right. You’re coming with me—to the D. A’s office. Leahy here?” He looked through the open door into Crole’s private office.

  “I sent him away on important business,
” said Crole.

  Daniels thrust the hall door shut with his heel. “I can find him later. But you’re coming with me—now!”

  “Yeah?”

  “A-hunh! In case it hasn’t as yet penetrated your thick skull there are still such things as material witness, obstruction of justice, and malfeasance. You’re facing all of them.”

  “I’m in a hurry, Daniels,” said Crole, evenly. “Will you please get the hell out of here and leave me alone. Your office hasn’t a thing on me. Never has. And I’m warning you now that if you interfere with me you’re going to regret it.”

  Daniels became mildly abusive. “Why you cheap dick. You can’t get away with it this time. We’re plenty wise to your methods. Taking money from both sides always has its kickback. And before our office is through with you, you’ll wish you’d taken up some other profession.”

  “Stupidity,” mused Crole. “How many errors are committed in thy name. Daniels, unless you’ve got a warrant for my arrest...”

  He stopped. The hall door back of the investigator was opening. Leahy was coming in. Crole knotted his fist and cupped it in the palm of his left hand.

  “Well if here isn’t George Baron,” he grinned.

  Daniels whirled. Crole hit him then. Daniels staggered, recovered, and reached for his gun. Crole hit him again—a crushing hook to the jaw. Daniel’s groaned, his eyes turned glassy. Sighing, he collapsed.

  Etta stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth to muffle an involuntary scream. “Take it easy, precious,” soothed Crole. “I didn’t want to do it. But I’ve got to get out of here. The lives of several people are involved. He’ll be all right in five minutes.”

  He faced Leahy. “Did you get anything?”

  “Yeah, it’s all down in the car packed in a suitcase.”

  “Good. I guess we’re already to leave. All right. Let’s get out of here before investigator Daniels comes out of the fog.”

  Though neither man knew it. the paths of Simon Crole and George Baron were rapidly converging upon a central point.

  But Crole, his eyes half closed as he slouched on the back seat of Scavillo’s cab, knew one thing—and knew it rather well. If his hunch proved wrong and bounced back in his face, District Attorney Minifie would be in a position to carry out his threat—which would mean the loss of his agency. Minifie had cherished the thought for so long a time that it had become an obsession with the man.

  Crole started to roll a cigarette. The bouncing cab spilled his tobacco. Leahy produced a pack of tailor-mades. Crole took one, lighted it and stared out the cab window.

  There sure was going to be a storm—the first of the season. About time. Moisture was already forming on the windshield. Scavillo turned on the wiper.

  The cab careened drunkenly through traffic and finally reached a four-lane boulevard. The lanes soon became stretches of smooth glistening cement. The cab slowed for an intersection, went beyond it and turned up the familiar county road.

  “Go beyond the house,” ordered Crole: “We’ll walk back to it.”

  They got out beneath the shelter of trees close to a wire fence.

  “Want me to stick around?” asked Scavillo.

  “Yeah,” nodded Crole, turning up his coat collar against the rain. “I think you’d better.”

  Crole led the way. They found a gate, passed through. The wind was tossing the flat, pointed leaves of the eucalyptus trees against the rain. Beyond the trees loomed the rambling house, gaunt, dripping. Occasionally a thin curl of smoke spewed from a chimney at the back of the house only to be whipped into nothingness as the wind pounced upon it.

  The two men stood still, watching, listening. Trying to find some evidence of life. A man came out of a small building in the rear of the main house. He looked back over his shoulder as if fearful of what might be following him.

  Crole raised his voice. “José!”

  Hernandez whirled and came trotting through shrubs. He looked different without his chocolate colored suit. Relief was on his face as he stopped before the agency man.

  “Mr. Cole. I am so glad you have arrived. They are here. Many are here in this grand house. Two are tied with ropes. With my own eyes have I seen them.”

  “Man and woman?”

  “Yes. And a third has a room to himself where he broods. He is not a happy man.” He pointed at a tall jacaranda tree. “The windows of that room are close to that tree.”

  “Anybody else, José?”

  José Hernandez reverted to type. “Nombre de Dios! They are an evil pair. They move all over. Never are they quiet.”

  Crole turned to Leahy. “Couple of imported mobsters.” Then speaking to Hernandez. “Where are they now?”

  José shrugged. “I do not know. I avoid them. To protect myself I have only this.” He displayed the knife with which he had whittled potatoes.

  “It looks like a good knife,” said Crole.

  Hernandez wiped the wet blade on his pants. “With it,” he said, without any trace of boasting, “I once killed a bandit in my country.”

  “That’s fine, José. But get it out of sight. You won’t need it here. Your next problem is to get us into the house without anyone seeing us.”

  Hernandez nodded and led them through an ivy-covered cellar entrance. They followed him closely.

  There was an anxious look in the agency man’s eyes as he turned to Leahy. “The contents of that suitcase. Are you sure you can...?”

  “Leave the job to me, Simon. I’ve had experience. It ought to work, providing...”

  “Sure, providing we’re lucky. And Leahy. Once you get the things in proper shape, I want you to slip into the room Hernandez will point out. In it are two people. One is my client, Anderson. The second is Gillespie’s secretary. Take them out of the house to Scavillo’s cab and send them to my office. Ride with them as far as the nearest phone on the main highway and put in a rush call for Captain Jorgens.”

  “You intend to stay here alone?”

  “José will be with me. Do like I tell you, and don’t worry.”

  Their voices became hushed as they crawled up the steps leading to the butler’s pantry. As they emerged into a region of many shelves, Crole could hear the steady drumming of rain against a window. He was thankful for the outside disturbance. It would help to deaden the sound of their movements in the upper rooms and hall.

  They climbed the stairs softly. The house was deathly quiet. There was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the swish of rain.

  XVI. LOS GATOS CANYON

  As George Baron drove his car through swirls of rain along the curved drive in front of the rambling house, he saw that both Selingo and Mokund were standing in the shelter of the front porch roof.

  He did not remove his bags. Simply turned off the ignition switch and walked with dignity up the front stairs where the two mobsters waited him.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Just swell, Mr. Baron. Couldn’t be better,” said Selingo. “You look like you’re going places. I can see the bags on the back seat of your car. Things getting hot down below?”

  “Very. But I’m not leaving till you boys are taken care of.”

  Ghost Mokund scratched a match on a porch column, lighted a cigarette and flicked the burning wood ember out into the rain. If he had any thoughts at all, they were sewed up tight in the back of his head.

  Selingo said: “Just so as you don’t fade, Baron, and leave us here in this lonesome spot. We aren’t looking for trouble. And we aren’t backing away from it. We got plenty coming, and...”

  “Don’t start anything,” warned George Baron, “with me. I’m on my way to collect. When I return, you and Mokund will receive everything I promised you.”

  “Maybe I’d better go with you, Baron.”

  “It isn’t necessary. Stay here where you can watch my car and the driveway—just in case.”

  “Sure,” grinned Selingo. “But don’t take too long. I want to scram out of this locality. It’s
beginning to get me. These mountains feel like they’re pressing down on me.”

  Baron looked at his henchman sharply, shrugged and went inside.

  James Gillespie tried to appear casual when George Baron entered the room. But it was hard to be casual when a fortune of two hundred thousand dollars is involved. He hadn’t wholly trusted Baron when he made out that insurance policy. He didn’t trust him now. The room felt suddenly hot. He went to a casement window and opened it. Wind and rain stung his cheeks.

  George Baron said: “An investigator from the District Attorney’s office came to my house. I don’t know how they traced things to me. It’s time we left the state.” His voice was suave as usual. He might have been explaining a certain point of law to a doubtful judge.

  “I was afraid something would happen.” Gillespie’s mouth and hands began to tremble.

  “My car’s outside,” said Baron. “I’ll take you with me to the air field.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a transport leaving for Chicago in three quarters of an hour. We can make it easy.”

  Gillespie knew, as he had known all along, that the moment he had dreaded had come—the division of cash and bonds. He swallowed heavily and tried by a feeble pretext to put off the inevitable.

  “Is it necessary that we leave now—in this storm?”

  “Quite. If that investigator traces me here, I’m afraid certain acts we have committed might prove a strong deterrent against our ever leaving the state.”

  James Gillespie nodded. And his smile was a weak lip movement. He took the cushion from the chair in which he had been sitting. Turned it over. The inner springs had been removed. In their place was a black leather bag with a zipper top.

  “You selected a good place to conceal it,” said Baron. “How much is there?”

  Gillespie bent down and began to take out packages of currency and bonds. Baron crossed to the other man’s side. Deliberately took the gun from his hip pocket, jammed it against Gillespie’s side, and without a flicker of emotion in his suave face, pulled the trigger.