The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  There followed a thick, muffled explosion, and a choking gasp.

  Gillespie sagged forward to his knees, rocked back and forward. Cupped his face with hands that seemed to stiffen into claws, gasped a second time, and collapsed over on his side. One eye stared, Cyclopean like, through the V formed by two spread fingers. Reflected in that single eye was malevolence and intolerable pain.

  George Baron, however, took no further notice of his victim. He knew exactly where he had placed that single bullet. He lifted the leather bag from the floor and set it on the desk for a closer inspection of its contents. Satisfied, he pulled the zipper shut and was about to step over Gillespie’s body towards the door when he thought he heard a sound in the hall.

  Indecision gripped him. His lips tightened. He took a firmer grip on the gun still held in his right hand. Then taking two steps backward he looked out the window towards the drive. Except for his own machine, the drive was wetly empty.

  He pivoted suddenly, as if swung around by some unseen hand. Then froze into stark immobility as his eyes focused on the shadowy apparition of one whom he thought was dead. Standing in the opening was Simon Crole, water dripping from sodden garments. His eyes seemed abnormally large with accusation. And his lips were twisted crookedly. He looked surprised.

  An errant gust of wind came walking through the casement window. Laid gusty hands on the door, and firmly closed it. The spell broken, George Baron raised his arm rapidly and fired five shots through the door panel at the exact spot at which the apparition should be standing.

  Then, drawing in a deep breath, he leaped forward and jerked the door inwards. The hall was empty—that part of it which he could see. He could feel his heart pumping in a way it was not accustomed to as the valves opened and closed with irregular thuds.

  He stood there with the prize gripped in one hand, a faintly smoking revolver in the other. His lips moved. “It can’t be. I’m seeing things. I know. I’m nervous, jumpy. Must get control of myself. Must. .

  He whirled again. Simon Crole was in the room, feet spread wide, staring at the body on the floor. When the wind had blown the door shut he had followed the crooked hall to a second door. He passed through this second opening just as Baron moved towards the hall.

  Baron said: “You’re not dead.”

  The surprised smile was still on the agency man’s face. “Drop your gun, Baron. Everything’s ended. There’ll be no more murders.”

  “So? I admire your nerve, Crole. But it’s not going to save you now. No man can stop me, even you, clever as you are.”

  “Words, Baron. You can’t kill me like you did the others. Two of your hired mobsters tried it. Did it work? No. They lied to you, Baron. They lied because they weren’t as proficient in their art as they thought they were. Two against one. And they both had guns. I was unarmed the same as I am now. And even you can’t hurt me.”

  The eyes of the attorney became brittle. “I was warned against you, Simon Crole, by a man named Coughlin. I didn’t heed his warning because I thought I had a better brain than you. I still think so.”

  “Whistling in the dark. That’s what you’re doing, Baron. With every beat of your heart you know that fear is getting you down. Put away your gun or drop it. Either way suits me. The police are on their way. Listen! Can’t you hear the sirens?”

  “No!” George Baron’s eyes flashed. “Neither can you.” He raised the gun till it was level with Crole’s chest. “Selingo!” he screamed. “Get up here. Fast! Thought I was alone, eh? I’m not. Two good gunmen. You won’t get past them a second time. .

  Crole moved in. Baron leered unpleasantly and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked and kept on clicking as he frantically tried to make empty cartridges explode.

  His eyes narrowed. He swung with the gun barrel and missed. Crole had him suddenly by the wrist. The attorney dropped the bag and struck wildly at the agency man. Crole hit him hard. Baron crashed against the wall, his hand pawing a bruised cheek.

  His eyes forked lightning, his lips foul curses. They seemed out of place with one so extremely suave and sure of himself. But Baron was no longer a dignified attorney. Civilization had dropped from his shoulders. He was a criminal, a murderer—and a traitor to his own kind.

  He rubbed his eyes to hide the molten hate he felt for this one man who stood between him and freedom. He was stalling for time, waiting for his two hired killers to come to his aid.

  “I’ll divide with you, Crole, evenly, dollar for dollar. You’ve got everything to gain. A hundred thousand dollars. Don’t you see, man? It’s a fortune—a fortune for each of us.

  “Stop looking at me that way. Maybe I tried to kill you. Let it pass. We’ll be friends, not enemies!” He strained his ears for footsteps in the hall. And all he could hear was the beat of rain and the sigh of the wind.

  “I might have known,” said Crole, coldly, “that you’d try to bribe me. But if I wanted that money, Baron, I’d take all of it. And you wouldn’t stop me.”

  “You’ve got to listen to me, Crole. What will you gain by turning me over to the police? Glory? You know perfectly well that’ll go to somebody else. Money? A small fee. You’re no more honest than I am. I’m offering you a fortune just to step out of my way.”

  Simon Crole was bending over Gillespie. “This man isn’t dead,” he said, “but it’s no fault of yours, Baron.” He shook his head slowly. “But whether he lives or dies, the answer is the same. You’ll get the rope, and so will those...”

  “Raise ‘em, guy! Reach for the ceiling!” The command was ominous and came from behind.

  Simon Crole lifted his hands slowly, his eyes slitting as he turned ever so slowly.

  “Good,” breathed Baron. “Keep him covered.”

  “What’s the argument?” asked Selingo.

  “Gillespie accidentally got in the way of a bullet from my gun,” said Baron, his self-confidence returning in a flood. “Then this private detective came in through the door.”

  Selingo rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Move over against that panel next to the window, Ghost. This guy Crole is full of tricks. Let him have it in the belly if he starts anything. What’s this talk I heard about a fortune being split?”

  Baron moistened his lips. “Nothing that concerns you. Keep this man covered while I...”

  “Oh no, Baron. You’re slippery as Crole. I don’t trust you either. What do you mean by a fortune? Me and Ghost take all the risks and maybe our share is a couple grand. Come clean.”

  “The fortune,” Crole explained, “is over two hundred thousand dollars. Baron was entitled to half of it, Gillespie the other half. But Baron was a hog. He wanted it all. So he gets rid of Gillespie. Nice playmate you’ve got, Selingo.”

  “Yeah. Keep your lips buttoned up, Mister. I ain’t forgot how you shoved that bald head of yours into my neck. And I still remember how you slugged me down at the hotel.”

  The eyes of the agency man ranged slowly from Mokund to Selingo, then came to rest on the baseboard behind the desk. He saw then what he looked for. Leahy was a good man. Damned good. By now he should be well on his way down the county road.

  He wondered, idly, how long it would take the police to get here. And without realizing it, he found himself in the same position as Baron had been but a few seconds ago when time meant everything.

  “Maybe I was a little rough with you, Selingo,” he said, smoothly. “After all, you and your little pal had me on the spot—were going to bump me. I don’t like to die any more than the next man.”

  “Kill him!” croaked Mokund.

  “Don’t rush things,” said Crole. “There’s no hurry as I can see. We’re all alone on the mountain.”

  “You remarked about a siren a moment ago,” drawled Baron.

  “Bluff,” said Crole. “How was I to reach the police?”

  “I wonder. Did you come here alone?”

  “Alone, Baron. On a hunch. Didn’t expect to find so many people here. It was a great surprise.”
>
  “You’re due for a still greater one, Crole.”

  “Like Gillespie, for example.”

  “It was necessary to remove him,” nodded Baron. “He was in the way. And it’s going to be necessary to remove you.”

  Crole wagged his head sadly. “It’s going to be dangerous for you and your mobsters, Baron. Their description and that of their car is being broadcasted and teletyped all over the state.”

  “They’ll never pin that on us,” boasted Selingo. “Won’t they, though? Have you forgotten Coughlin?”

  Baron shrugged. “His tongue was sealed the same as yours is going to be.”

  “You killed Coughlin, Baron?”

  “I had no other alternative, Crole, any more than I have with you.”

  “Then you admit it,” persisted Crole. “And you tried to frame it so that the blame would fall on me.” George Baron bent and picked his gun from the floor. “I still don’t see how you escaped a formal charge.”

  “You guys have palavered long enough,” broke in Selingo. “One of us has got to bump him.”

  Crole said: “My arms are tired.”

  “Don’t put ‘em down,” warned Selingo. “Maybe I’d better frisk you.” He came close and patted the agency man’s hips. Felt beneath the arms for a shoulder harness, and scowled. “Where’s your rod?”

  “I don’t carry any.”

  “You mean you came here all alone—without no gun?”

  “That’s correct. I don’t need any. Right now I’ve got something just as deadly. Going somewheres, Baron?”

  Selingo’s gun arm wavered as he flung a startled glance at the attorney gathering up the zipper bag.

  Crole’s right arm jerked downward. His elbow jammed Selingo’s wrist, knocking the gun one side. It exploded harshly and the bullet went through the open casement window showering the carpet with glass.

  Selingo howled as the edge of Crole’s hand clipped his wrist. Sharp pain caused him to drop it. They fell on it together. The gun in Ghost Mokund’s hand began to blast with sustained thunder.

  George Baron faded, the zipper bag clutched tightly to his chest.

  Crole wrapped his arms around Selingo’s neck, and with his foot he kicked the gun across the room. Mokund came closer. He had to be careful not to shoot the wrong man.

  “Blast him!” screamed Selingo. “He’s killing me...”

  Their twisting, surging bodies rolled towards Mokund. He hopped back, collided with the edge of the open casement window, lost his balance, recovered, and stood swaying.

  Expressionless he watched the two men on the floor. Their strained, harsh breathing rasped against his ears. Crole’s big body was now at the top of the heap. Mokund aimed his gun. Bodies twisted. Now Selingo was in the line of fire. Mokund wasn’t a fast thinker. Nor was he over-endowed with physical courage except when the magic of the white powder coursed through his body.

  He wished he had some now. His gun arm started to tremble as thought suggestion created a throbbing desire for the drug. Selingo screamed again. Then the sound was abruptly choked off as a bunched fist hit him in the mouth.

  Mokund backed away warily. His body was against the wood paneling of the room. The craving was upon him. He fought against it. Instinctively he rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nostrils. Something like an animal-like whine pushed his lips open.

  His eyes left the combatants on the floor, swerved slowly and came to rest on a dark-faced man standing in the hall. Comprehension dawned slowly. Here was someone to kill. He could kill all right if there wasn’t anything in the way. He was a good killer—with a gun.

  The trembling went out of his arm. He lifted it for a snap shot. His eyes paled, became icy. “Ummm!” he grunted, his gun arm starting to move down.

  But the downward movement started a split second too late. The arm of the man in the hall whipped forward like a striking snake. A single steel fang shot out, hissed sharply. And the blade of the thrown knife buried itself in Mokund’s wrist.

  He cried out sharply. The gun slipped from nerveless fingers, and he stared with shocked, protruding eyes at the bright thing in his bleeding wrist.

  José Hernandez jumped into the room. He picked up Mokund’s gun. Without any hesitation he gripped its barrel and brought it down with a resounding thock on Gene Selingo’s head.

  The man groaned and went limp. Crole got to his feet, breathing heavily. He looked curiously at Mokund writhing on the floor with the point of a knife sticking through his wrist.

  “José,” he said, admiringly, “thanks. You get better all the time. How much was it I promised you for this day’s work?”

  “The amount was thirty-five dollars aside from the freedom of a debt to you of ten. That was our agreement.”

  Crole picked up Selingo’s automatic, thought of something, and leaned close as he whispered into Hernandez’s ear. “Ten times that amount, José. That’s what you will be paid. You have my promise. Now please go down below. I think I hear a car out on the drive. But give me the little man’s gun before you go. Fine!”

  XVII. VOICES OF THE DEAD

  George Baron had everything to be thankful for. Currency, bonds. The prize was intact, and he hadn’t had to share the fortune with anybody. He realized that he couldn’t have arranged it better.

  No need to worry over the mobsters from the east. Crole was as good as dead right now. Then Selingo and Mokund, though aware that he had abandoned them, would immediately get out of the state.

  He had had a close call—two in fact. But his quick thinking had enabled him to avoid both traps. He smiled pleasurably at his own astuteness as he guided the car down the long grade to the main highway.

  It loomed before him now, just beyond a red-diamond sign which read: STOP.

  He stopped and his eyes narrowed for he had seen two blue uniforms in a car that was turning onto the county road. He pretended not to notice the car, shifted into second gear and sent his machine hurtling into the outer lane of north bound traffic towards the not too distant airport.

  Leahy, riding with the driver in the police car, turned in the seat. “Captain, stop that car! Baron’s in it. He’ll get away!”

  The police car trembled to a stop. Jorgens leaped out. Two motorcycle patrolmen had been following the police machine. The captain flagged them to a stop and pointed at Baron’s disappearing machine. “Arrest the driver of that car. Bring him to headquarters, car and all. Never mind if he squawks. If it’s a false arrest, Leahy, believe me I’ll take it out of Simon Crole’s hide. Up the hill, driver,” he ordered, climbing back into the machine. “Damn this rain!”

  José Hernandez, polite and slightly nervous of the blue uniforms, led Captain Jorgens and Sergeant Breen into the room of death. Simon Crole sat hunched in a chair, a gun in each hand. The mobsters were sitting with their backs to the wall. Selingo was glaring his hate. Mokund was sniffling as he stared at the handkerchief Crole had used to bind his wounded wrist.

  “Well?” rumbled Jorgens, his eyes darting bird-like from the corpse on the floor, to the other two men, then back to Simon Crole in the chair. “Don’t tell me, Simon, that there’s been another murder.”

  Crole pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “That’s the way it is, Captain. And the killer got away—an attorney named Baron.”

  “We passed his car at the foot of the hill,” said Jorgens, “and I sent two highway patrol officers to bring him to headquarters.”

  “Fast thinking, Captain, for you.”

  “Blame Leahy. Who’s the stiff?”

  “James Gillespie.”

  “Oh hell,” raged the police captain. “Him again.”

  “He’s been murdered a second time, Captain. This time for good. Once when his car went over Iron Mountain into the canyon, and now with a bullet from George Baron’s gun snuggling close to his heart.”

  “There’s going to be an unholy row about this in the papers, Simon.”

  “There’d be a worse row, Captain, if everything wasn’
t solved. I wish you could have gotten here sooner to hear Gillespie’s last words, but it really won’t make much difference.”

  “What might that mean?”

  “Oh, several things of an important nature concerning my client—and me.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, me. Simon gets a break, Captain. A swell confession.”

  Jorgens shrugged and turned to Breen. “Send the driver down to the nearest phone and get word to the medical examiner. We can’t do anything till he looks at the body.”

  “If you’ll just keep an eye on these two hoods,” said Crole, yawning and rising to his feet, “I’ll be going home. You should be able to handle it without me.”

  “All right. But remain near your phone until...”

  “I won’t be going anywheres, Captain. My work’s about done, except collecting my fees.”

  “Fees!” scoffed Jorgens. “Cripes, don’t you ever think of anything but how much you can bleed from your clients?”

  “Bleed is not the right word, Captain. My clients always give me what they think I deserve. A sort of an elastic arrangement, but it always works out swell for everybody concerned.” He rubbed his nose for a moment and said: ‘The red car belonging to these mobsters is in the garage. Thought you ought to know.”

  Selingo’s mouth spewed a vile epithet.

  Crole sighed. “You boys should have stayed in the east and away from our city. Coming out here was just too bad. Be seeing you, Captain.”

  He inclined his head towards Leahy. Together they went out into the crooked hall. “Get possession of the necessary things,” he ordered. “We’ll leave the rest for the D.A.’s men to gather up.”

  Leahy disappeared and came back in a few moments with something wrapped in a towel. “All set,” he said, “but how are we going to get back to town?”

  “Scavillo will be somewhere outside,” said Crole, trustingly.

  And the cab driver was there, waiting in the rain.

  They were gathered together in the District Attorney’s office, a dripping, sullen and slightly puzzled group of men.