The Man who was Murdered Twice

by Robert H. Leitfred

  District Attorney Minifie sat grimly behind his desk, his tired eyes straining in an effort to look into every face at once. Selingo and Mokund were sullen. Linked with steel cuffs, all their bravado was gone. Mokund was still sniffling.

  Breen and Captain Jorgens were the puzzled ones. Leahy, his face registering nothing in particular, stared at the dirt under his finger nails. And Simon Crole alone seemed to be the only pleasant spirit in the room.

  “Anderson,” Minifie was saying, “has told a somewhat incomplete story. Miss Laird’s is equally incoherent. Coughlin is dead. But he left behind a small book filled with cryptic notations. These notes seem to indicate, Crole, that he feared you for some reason not quite clear. I’m afraid I’ll have to hold you pending further investigation.”

  “So you had the book all the time, eh?” smiled Crole.

  “All the time. Perhaps you’ll explain at this hearing why you murdered Coughlin.”

  Crole said patiently: “Coughlin was shot by George Baron.”

  Minifie’s lips tightened. He shot a sudden question at Gene Selingo. “Was Baron the man who shot...?”

  “How the hell should I know!” snarled Selingo.

  “Your machine forced Gillespie’s over the hill. Don’t lie now.”

  “I ain’t talking.”

  The phone rang sharply. Minifie took down the receiver. “Office of the District Attorney,” he said. He listened for a moment then set the receiver on the desk. “Yours, Captain Jorgens.”

  The captain placed the receiver near his ear. “Yeah?” he said.

  The voice over the wire was clearly audible. “We arrested Baron, but he got nasty and hauled out a gun. We afterwards found out that the rod was empty. But by that time a slug from O’Rourke’s .38 special went through his head. He squawked once, then quieted down. He’s been quiet ever since.”

  “You mean he died?” snapped Jorgens, petulantly. “That’s right,” said the voice. “We have his body in his own car in front of headquarters. What shall we do?”

  Simon Crole, hearing distinctly the officer’s report, said: “Tell him, Captain, to pay special attention to a bag with a zipper top. It’s filled with money and bonds that are the property of my client, Ned Anderson.”

  “Keep a couple of men guarding the machine and everything that’s in it,” ordered Jorgens. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. Let anything disappear from that car and someone will have to answer to me personally.” He hung up rather violently.

  District Attorney Minifie, who had also heard the voice, said: “George Baron dead, Gillespie ditto, Coughlin the same. No one left but these two gangsters, and they won’t talk. It looks like things are going to be even more difficult to explain, Crole.”

  “Mind if I smoke, Mister District Attorney?”

  “Why should I, if it will help your thinking.”

  “My thinking is all done—and finished with.” He rolled a flat cigarette and puffed contentedly.

  “Perhaps you can explain your unwarranted attack on one of the investigators this afternoon. Smoke two cigarettes, Crole. You’ll need them.”

  “One’s quite enough,” said Crole, drily. “And it’s time I was getting back to my office. Leahy, if you’ve got that evidence with you, I wish you would place it on the District Attorney’s desk.”

  “Evidence?” Minified voice was almost a whisper. “Whose?”

  “You ought to know your own property when you see it, Minifie. It’s the detectaphone outfit you had a man install in my apartment. It didn’t work out so well. The man who installed it was so stupid as to disturb a favorite picture of mine. I guessed what was behind that picture right away.”

  Minified eyes began to grow sad.

  “So,” Crole continued, “since everything was still in my apartment this afternoon, I sent Leahy over after it. We were going to a house that formerly belonged to my client, and I reckoned it might be a nice toy to take along with us.”

  He paused, inhaled, and smiled. “We took it. Leahy wired it through a hall to the right room. And everything said in that room is down on this nice black disk. You will hear my voice, Baron’s, and the yammerings of his hired killers. But best of all, Mister District Attorney, you’ll hear the final confession of James Gillespie, the man who was murdered twice. I had to bring the tiny microphone close to his lips. But he managed to whisper most of the details of his embezzlement before his voice choked up.”

  “I see,” said Minifie, collapsing tiredly, his head leaning against the back of his chair. “Evidence of that kind, taken in that manner, is acceptable to me, Crole.”

  “I was quite certain it would be.”

  “You can go, Crole. The longer I look at your face, the sicker I get. The wax record, of course, will remain the property of my office.”

  “Of course, since it was yours in the first place. No bad feelings, I hope.”

  “Yes,” sighed Minifie. “But I’ll get over them soon enough.”

  Simon Crole smiled again, signaled to Leahy, and together both men left the prosecutor’s office.

  On the way to his own office Crole said to Leahy: “You did an excellent job. Want your money now?”

  “Any time,” said Leahy.

  “Come down in the morning, and your check will be ready.”

  “Okay,” said Leahy. “I’ll be there—early.”

  When he reached his office he found it crowded. It was late. But Etta was still behind her desk, valiantly waiting. He patted her shoulder on the way in. “Everything’s over, precious. You can call it a day and go home. If you feel like celebrating, I’d suggest a new fur coat. Winter’s coming, and there’s gonna be plenty of rainy days. But no more than two hundred bucks, precious. If it’s a nickel more than that, I’ll make you send it back.”

  He was always doing nice things like that. It made the moisture jump to the back of her eyes. She pressed two fingers on her lips, touched them lightly to his cheek and said: “You’re swell, boss.”

  Blushing, Simon Crole went into his own office and there found Ned Anderson, Virginia Laird, and—once more clad in a chocolate-brown suit—José Hernandez.

  “José,” he said, “the banks are closed!”

  “That’s all right, Señor Crole. I will come in the morning. As you said, ten times the amount you promised me. That is a sum I cannot reckon without paper and pencil.”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars,” boomed Crole. “Be down early.” He pressed the Mexican’s hand. “You saved my life, José. Even when I have paid you, I’ll still be in your debt.”

  “There is yet Manuel,” said Hernandez.

  “Yes, Manuel. But believe me, José, the next time he needs to be set on the straight and narrow road, I’ll attend to it personally.”

  José Hernandez left, beaming.

  Crole turned to his client. “Well?”

  “Is it all over, Simon?” asked Anderson. “Practically, and you’ll get back every cent that Gillespie had of yours up to the moment he was killed. It may take a few days, but it won’t have to go through the courts.”

  He turned to Virginia Laird. “You have gone through a somewhat disagreeable experience, my dear. And I admire your courage in coming to Anderson in the first place. What made you do it?”

  “I really don’t know,” said the girl, softly.

  “And she lost her job,” said Anderson, “because of me. I asked her to marry me once. She said ‘don’t be silly.’ Tonight, when I am again a guest at the Commodore, I’ll ask her again.”

  Virginia Laird smiled at the agency man. “What would you do?”

  “Accept him, my dear, and congratulations to the both of you.” He extended his hands.

  “Make out your bill for services, Simon,” said Anderson, “and...”

  Crole led them to the hall door. “Come in tomorrow, and we’ll talk everything over.”

  “We’ll be here,” nodded Anderson. “Good night, Simon.”

  Crole’s smile was heavy with fatigue. �
��Good night, my friends.”

  The office quieted. Crole dropped into the chair behind his desk. There was a commotion in the hall but he paid no attention to it. His mind was on his comforting bottle of Bourbon. He stood it on the desk.

  In came Matt Ridley, wet and flushed. “Am I in time, boss? Did I do good work on the Smith angle?”

  “Couldn’t be better, Matt. And the case is closed.”

  “Gosh! So soon? And me not in at the finish.”

  “I had other help. Capable men, too.” He poured two liberal glasses of the Bourbon, and smacked his lips with anticipatory cluckings. Sighed, and reached for the last glass in the drawer. Through the door came Captain Jorgens—dour as usual.

  Crole filled the third glass, and darkly surveyed what remained in the bottle.

  “I’m glad to see you again, Captain. Is everything all. right at police headquarters?”

  Jorgens savored the Bourbon. “Things are in a mess. Two fresh bodies on the morgue slabs. Otherwise everything is all right.”

  “Minifie was slightly annoyed when he sent me away. Has he gotten over his grouch?”

  “After hearing what was on that wax record he couldn’t very well do anything else. But he was having a grand time with the reporters when I left. There’ll be extras pouring from the presses before the next couple of hours.”

  Simon Crole drank slowly, enjoying the flavor. After a moment he said: “You did not come here, Captain, just on the off chance of getting a drink. Suppose we clean up the last point, if there is still one left.”

  “There is,” said Jorgens. “Among the papers we picked up in Gillespie’s office there was a will and an insurance policy.” He glanced at Crole sharply. “Did you know about either of them?”

  “Slightly,” nodded Crole. “I checked the insurance policy for possible motivation, and drew a blank.” Jorgens took a cigar from his pocket, eyed it speculatively and thrust it between his teeth. “Have you collected from your client yet?”

  “Not yet,” sighed Crole. “I was too tired to be bothered right now. The fee will be exceedingly large.”

  “That I can well believe if the client is rich. But you must know already that there was something unusual in Gillespie’s policy. And that the beneficiary was to be selected according to the terms of the will.”

  “I knew that,” nodded Crole.

  “But did you know that Gillespie never thoroughly trusted George Baron; that he went into this scheme of embezzlement against his will and at the instigation of Baron.”

  “That I surmised.”

  “But did you surmise what that particular clause in the will was?”

  “No. I was and still am—quite ignorant.”

  “I’m glad you’ll admit it. Listen. When Gillespie took out that policy he did it with but one purpose in mind. He wanted somebody to square his account—just in case he was accidentally or otherwise killed. And to the person who turned up his killer goes the face value of the policy—Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Simon Crole sat very still letting this choice morsel circulate through his mental mechanism. Finally he said: “Then I collect from the insurance company. That it?”

  “Yes,” choked Jorgens. “Can you match that for luck?”

  The lips of the private detective twitched and formed themselves in their usual surprised smile. He wagged his head solemnly. “No, Captain, I can’t match it. I don’t believe I’d care to try.” He rubbed his hands, blinked, and said solemnly: “Another drink, Captain Jorgens?”

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