The Man who was Murdered Twice by Robert H. Leitfred

Author:Robert H. Leitfred
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Phocion Publishing
Published: 2019-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

X. SLEEPING DEATH

As if suddenly turned into marble, Simon Crole froze to immobility. Only his eyes refused to obey the clipped command. They pivoted in their sockets in a searching arc and focused on a small, thin man with a boyish face standing rigidly at the foot of a bed, his right arm bent sharply at the elbow, his fingers gripping a dull-blue automatic.

On this bed sprawled Ned Anderson, still clad in a dress suit, his hair tousled, his necktie askew, and an expression of mild alarm on his dark, dissolute young face.

“Simon,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come. These men don’t want you to interrupt their efforts on my behalf. They think they can cure me of drinking. Maybe they can. But I don’t want to be cured. I want to get tight and stay that way. I’d offer you a drink, but they put a sleeping powder in my last bottle.”

The man who had fallen to the floor as the door crashed against him had meanwhile regained his feet and was rubbing his bruised nose with the palm of his hand. He was a big man, Crole noticed, as big as himself, and his eyes were like two chunks of smoky agate.

“Sorry,” said Crole, “to have busted your nose. But it was in the way—and you with it.”

“Sorry, hey?” growled Selingo, licking his thick lips. “Mister,” and there was a menacing threat in his voice, “you don’t know how sorry you’re really gonna be.”

He reached into a holster harness strapped beneath his armpit and lifted out a flat automatic—a twin to the one held so rigid by Ghost Mokund. He jammed the barrel against the ribs of the agency man.

“What’s the idea of crowding in where you wasn’t asked, hey? And I fell for that old wheeze of the collect telegram when I know damn well the hotel pays for all wires that come in for guests. You the guy who phoned?”

“Yeah,” said Crole. “I called this room and heard somebody take the receiver from the hook. So I knew the room wasn’t empty.”

“Smart fella, hey? They told me where I came from that the cops in this town are easy to get along with.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you,” reproved Crole, mildly. “The cops are plenty tough in this town—especially with hoods like you and your friend with the gat.”

“So,” exhaled Selingo, noisily, “you’re a cop, hey? And you figure maybe to get tough...” His arm bent suddenly at the wrist. The automatic in his hand lashed swiftly, cruelly. The sharp edge of its gunsight raked the agency man’s cheek.

Simon Crole’s mildness vanished. His eyes slitted. Though big, he was fast. With a pantherish lunge he moved to the left side of Selingo so that the gunman’s body was between him and Mokund’s line of fire, crooked his arm in the same swift movement, and drove it upward.

His knotted fist thudded with a pile-driver smash just underneath the big gunman’s ear. He followed the first blow with a looping left jab that was timed to meet Selingo’s jaw as the gangster spun around.

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