Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 206 - The Man Who Died Twice

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THE MAN WHO DIED TWICE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE BRIDGEWATER CRIME
? CHAPTER II. A DEAD MAN'S JOKE
? CHAPTER III. SHADOW BAIT
? CHAPTER IV. BLIND MAN'S BLUFF
? CHAPTER V. HOW TO MAKE A STAR
? CHAPTER VI. WHIRLPOOL OF DEATH
? CHAPTER VII. VICTIM NO. 2
? CHAPTER VIII. THE CORPSE THAT WALKED
? CHAPTER IX. A TRICK WITH A SPONGE
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW PLAYS A TUNE
? CHAPTER XI. THE THIRD STOOGE
? CHAPTER XII. THE PORTABLE HOUSE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN IN THE WELL
? CHAPTER XIV. INVITATION TO MURDER
? CHAPTER XV. THE CLOSING NET
CHAPTER I. THE BRIDGEWATER CRIME
LIKE most State capitals, the town was not overly large or overly important in an industrial way. Politics
was its main business. Here were located the various branches and bureaus of the State government. But
the two buildings that really dominated the town were the domed capitol and the lovely executive
mansion where the governor lived.
The executive mansion was an architectural gem. Broad steps led to its entrance. Inside was a huge foyer
and a richly carpeted staircase. An elevator carried lawmakers and job hunters to the private suite on an
upper floor where the governor transacted business when he was at home.
A pressroom was on one side of the entrance foyer. Its door was always open. Nobody could come or
go without being seen by the eagle-eyed political reporters from the capital city's three daily newspapers.
The pressroom was as untidy as a rabbit hutch. Papers littered the place. There were more cigarette
stubs on the floor than in the brass cuspidors. Phones jangled incessantly. Visitors usually gasped at the
disorder when they peered in. Sometimes they became pests by asking a lot of silly questions about
newspaper work. But the door of that press coop always stayed open.
It made it easier to spot important personages and buttonhole them for news.
Such a man was now passing the press-room doorway. He had not descended in the elevator. He had
come down the broad staircase, where a couple of guards were stationed to prevent the common herd
from trespassing. He nodded pleasantly to the guards and they touched their caps respectfully.
He was a heavy-set, well-dressed man who radiated respectability. He carried a leather brief case in one
hand. The other held a cigarette in a long black holder.
"There goes Richard Benton," one of the reporters in the pressroom said quickly.
He dropped his poker cards. So did the other newshawks. They piled out the doorway into the foyer.
They blocked off Benton's exit.
Benton smiled. He was a famous New York lawyer. He didn't come to this State capital very often.
When he did, doors opened magically for him. He and the governor were personal friends. Benton had
contributed heavily to the party election fund. He was reported to be interested in a pending
water-power bill. His presence today at the executive mansion might be significant.
"Anything new, Mr. Benton?"
"Not a thing, boys. My visit today was purely a social one. As you know, the governor and I are old
friends. I happened to be in town, so naturally I dropped in to see him."
A reporter from an opposition newspaper gave Richard Benton a hostile stare.
"Did you and the governor happen to discuss the water-power bill which now awaits the governor's
signature?"
Benton lost his smile, but he kept his temper.
"I told you that my visit was merely a friendly call."
"The water-power bill is generally agreed to be a much-needed reform measure. Are you in favor of it?"
"No comment."
"The governor promised in his campaign speeches that he would sign such a bill. Did he tell you he
would?"
"No comment," Benton repeated curtly.
His growing anger merely widened the grin of the reporter. If Benton got sore at the heckling, he might
blurt out something that would make good headlines. So the reporter persisted.
"It is rumored that you have a big financial interest in water power. It has been stated, and never denied,
that you would like to see the governor break his promise to the people and veto that reform bill. What is
your comment on that?"
"My comment is good morning, gentlemen," Benton replied suavely.
He strode briskly through the foyer to the exit door. He walked rapidly down the broad stone steps to
the sidewalk. The reporters trailed him, firing questions on the run. But all they got was a tight-lipped
smile and silence.
Richard Benton got into a taxicab. He spoke loud enough to be heard clearly.
"The Bridgewater Hotel, please!"
Reporters made no effort to follow the cab. They realized that an attempt to prolong the interview was
merely a waste of time. Besides, there were more reporters at the Bridgewater. Maybe the hotel
newshawks could succeed where the political boys had failed. And it was always possible that Benton
had told the truth and there was nothing sensational in the wind.
A glance at Richard Benton's face in the taxi, however, might have excited his disappointed questioners.
BENTON had dropped his smiling mask. His mouth twitched. He seemed both puzzled and nervous.
His glance dropped to the leather brief case in his lap. His hand crept to the fastenings of the bag. He
seemed itching to open the brief case.
Finally, he did.
Pawing hastily through a mass of papers, Benton withdrew a long envelope. The envelope was sealed.
The puzzlement in Benton's eyes was replaced by a kind of baffled greed.
"I wonder just what is in that duplicate envelope," he whispered to himself.
Suddenly, his frowning face lifted. He saw the taxi driver staring covertly at him over one shoulder.
Instantly, Benton's manner became casual. He replaced the sealed envelope in the brief case. Leaning
backward, he put a cigarette in his long holder and began to smoke calmly. He looked like a man without
a care in the world.
The pose of indifference stayed with him while he deftly ran the gauntlet of the newsmen at the
Bridgewater Hotel. He told them the same thing he had told the reporters at the governor's mansion. To
everything else he snapped, "No comment!"
But when he gained the privacy of his room, Richard Benton was trembling with suppressed eagerness.
He laid his brief case on a table as gently as if it might contain a fortune in jewels - or dynamite!
His movements became rapid and stealthy. He made sure that the door of his room was locked. He
withdrew the key and shoved it into his pocket. Into the keyhole Benton stuffed a wad of paper to
discourage any eavesdropper who might tiptoe down the corridor to peep into his room.
Then Benton walked alertly to the window.
It was a rear window. It faced a narrow court, with no windows opposite. A fire escape led to a dark
alley, which in turn led to a side street around the corner from the Bridgewater's ornate lobby.
Richard Benton locked the window and drew down the shade. It made the room pitch-dark. He
snapped on the lights with a low-toned murmur of satisfaction. He turned and stared at the steam radiator
in his room. The sight of it brought a tight smile to his lips.
His next action was prompt - and peculiar. He turned the control handle at one side of the radiator until
he had shut off the steam. Then he unscrewed the metal valve at the other side. He took the valve off
completely and laid it on the floor. This left the hole for the air vent wide open.
Turning the control handle gently, Benton allowed steam to escape in a small white plume. It made a faint
purring sound that was not audible in the corridor outside. It looked like the tiny jet of steam from the
roaster of a peanut stand.
But Benton was interested in something a lot more important than peanuts. With a quick clutch, he
opened the brief case. He took out the sealed envelope that had made his eyes glitter so strangely in the
taxicab.
He used the steam from the radiator vent hole to open the gummed flap of the envelope. It was one of
two identical envelopes Benton had brought with him to his private conference with the governor. He
read it hungrily.
The sight of it brought both amazement and fear to Benton's eyes. The amazement remained, but the fear
gradually faded. It was replaced by a cold, shiny greed. Benton put the document back into the
envelopes and shoved it in his inside packet. His voice was a whisper of delight.
"Good heavens! I should have guessed it was something like this! What a fool I have been - what an
absolute fool!"
There was silence for a moment. Then the whisper of Richard Benton's voice made a rustling like the faint
squeak of a rat:
"Five thousand dollars, hell! This means millions! From now on, I'm going places!"
He turned toward the coat and hat he had thrown carelessly on a chair. He could barely see them
through the haze of greed in his eyes. He was completely indifferent to the fact that there was a closet
door behind his back.
The door of that closet was silently opening.
Through the narrow crack, a hand emerged. The hand was gloved. Its steady fingers slid, unseen by
Benton, about three inches along the smooth wall. There was a light button there. As a gloved fingertip
touched the button, Benton repeated his jubilant whisper: "From now on, I'm going places!"
A click of the wall button plunged the shade-drawn room into darkness.
"You're right, my friend," a voice growled. "You're going places - straight to hell!"
THE unseen intruder sprang. Richard Benton whirled as the light went out. He tried to shout.
It was too late. A palm choked off his terrified yell. The muzzle of a gun jammed against Benton's wildly
thudding heart. The killer fired at such point-blank range that the flame from the gun ignited the victim's
clothing. Sparks began to eat through the cloth in a widening circle.
Benton crashed to the floor. There was a bullet through his heart. He had died instantly.
The noise of that single gunshot in a closed room had been terrific. But the killer didn't seem to be unduly
worried. Laughter echoed softly in the darkness.
A match flared, disclosing for an instant gloved hands and a masked face. The mask had been pushed
aside from the killer's lips. The tip of a cigarette glowed. The killer was calmly soothing his tense nerves,
following a perfect ambush and an easy slaughter.
He kept puffing steadily even when he heard the frightened voice of a chambermaid outside the door.
She kept pounding on the door.
"Glory be to heavens! Is there anything wr-r-rong in there?"
The murderer heard the chamber maid rush away. The diminishing sound of her feet told him in which
direction she had run.
Not even the crash of gunfire and the fear of tragedy could break down ingrained habit of a hotel
employee. The woman was racing toward the employees' staircase at the distant end of the corridor.
It meant that the chambermaid was taking the longest possible route to reach the clerk's desk in the lobby
downstairs, to report the shooting inside a locked room. It gave the unknown gunman ample time to
make a perfect getaway.
His glowing cigarette dropped to the floor. It was crushed out under his heel. He darted toward the
window and raised the shade. A swift click took care of the window latch. The sash lifted.
A dark figure bounded lightly to the fire-escape platform. He faded without a sound down the slanting
ladders. The gloom of the narrow alley swallowed him. He vanished in the direction of the side street.
If the killer had a car waiting, it was an efficient one. There was no echoing sound from a motor. No
clash of gears.
In the locked room in the Bridgewater Hotel, the corpse of Richard Benton lay flat on its back, staring
fixedly at the ceiling with three wide eyes. The blood-drenched eye over Benton's ruptured heart was by
far the largest.
Pounding fists and excited voices sounded presently outside the locked door. The wadded paper in the
keyhole was pushed inward and fell to the floor. A passkey grated. The door was flung open.
A red-faced, gray-haired man with a derby hat was holding the passkey. He also had a gun. This was
Regan, the house detective. With him was the hotel manager. Behind them trailed three ferret-eyed
reporters from the lobby downstairs. They were the trio with whom the dead man had so recently
talked.
But Richard Benton was very dead now. The newshawks gasped as they stared down at the hideous
bullet wound over his heart, with its circle of charred cloth from the flame of a gun muzzle.
The gun that had killed him was gone. So was the murderer. It was obvious that the killer had sneaked
from the closet, fired his one grim shot, and had then made a shrewd getaway via the alley fire escape.
Hissing of escaping steam from the vent hole in the radiator added a grotesque note. The unscrewed
valve still lay on the floor. Nearby was the crushed stub of a half-smoked cigarette.
Regan, the house dick, uttered a quick order.
"Don't nobody touch nothing! I don't want this case gummed up!"
He hopped to the telephone and flashed a call to police headquarters. He felt better at the thought that
the homicide squad was on the way. But anger flooded his face when he saw one of the reporters grab at
the phone he had just laid down.
"Let that alone! Want to blur fingerprints?"
"Nuts! You just used it yourself!... Hello! Operator! This is Eddie Kramer of the Daily Express. Gimme
the executive mansion, in a hurry!"
He got it. He talked to the governor, after a swift and razor-sharp argument with the governor's
confidential secretary. Eddie Kramer had tragic and sensational news that put the governor himself on the
phone in a hurry.
The governor sounded queer. His voice seemed peculiar to the shrewd Eddie Kramer. There was
amazement in his tone, horror - and a kind of savage rage.
"Thank you for letting me know about this at once, Eddie. I'll be right over!"
Kramer hung up. He swung toward his fellow newshawks.
"The governor sounded as if he was glad that someone had bumped his good friend, Richard Benton.
Wow! I wanna talk to my rag!"
But Regan, the house detective, stopped that. He made the reporters chase downstairs to the public
phone booths in order to file their preliminary stories about the crime. Then he locked the room door. He
didn't open it until the homicide squad arrived.
THE homicide squad found itself confronted by a Grade A mystery. That steam from the opened valve in
the radiator didn't seem to make sense. Richard Benton had, of course, removed the valve before he had
taken off his gloves. The cops didn't know that.
They assumed, wrongly, from the absence of fingerprints, that Benton's killer had monkeyed with the
radiator. The lack of prints seemed to point to the killer.
Going over the room, the fingerprint detail discovered plenty of prints. But all of them matched the fingers
of the dead man.
The crushed cigarette stub on the floor was a bit more definite. It wasn't an ordinary butt. Police noses
sniffed sharply at it. It was a menthol cigarette. An opened package on the dead lawyer's bureau
contained only a popular brand of cigarettes. The killer must have had a tender throat and tough nerves!
He had calmly smoked a cigarette to relax his tension before he had fled!
There were no prints on the menthol cigarette stub.
Nor did Richard Benton's brief case disclose any satisfactory reason for the sudden ambush that had
snuffed out his life. It contained a few routine papers, none of them in any way noteworthy.
The inspector in charge of the homicide detail knelt gingerly beside the sprawled corpse, to give it a
careful and painstaking search. But before he could begin, there was a knock on the door. The cop on
duty outside poked his head in, with a respectful murmur:
"His excellency, the governor!"
The governor strode in without his customary polite smile. He seemed in a cold and bitter rage. Without a
word, he crossed the room and stood staring down at the body of his friend. The sight of Benton's
bleeding body seemed to harden his rage.
"I don't know who killed him," the governor said, "but if ever a man deserved death, Richard Benton did!
He was a dirty, double-crossing rat!"
CHAPTER II. A DEAD MAN'S JOKE
INSTANT silence was created by the bitter accusation. All eyes turned toward the governor. He stood
with clenched fists, staring down at the corpse of the New York lawyer who was supposed to be one of
his best friends.
The police inspector blinked. He was worried by the sensational statement he had just heard. He yanked
open the door and spoke to the cop on duty outside.
"Don't allow anyone else to enter this room. Especially reporters!"
"Yes, sir."
He returned to where the governor stood. His manner was respectful, but firm.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to ask you to explain that remark. Have you a definite reason to believe that
Mr. Benton was a crook?"
"Forget it," the governor said. "I spoke impulsively. Whether my accusation is true or not doesn't matter.
There are some things better left unsaid. Particularly when politics is concerned."
"Have you any idea who killed this man - or why?"
"None. His death is a complete mystery to me."
The inspector looked unhappy. But he was a man of honesty in his devotion to police duty. He stared
grimly at the most influential man in the State.
"I hope you see the spot I'm in, sir. A murder has been committed that will be a newspaper sensation.
Not only in this State, but in New York State, where Richard Benton lived. It can't be covered up or
hushed. I've got to do my duty. My duty is to question you - or resign."
The governor smiled wanly.
"You're right, inspector. Richard Benton's rottenness can't be covered up, and it shouldn't be! He came
to me today with as dirty, and as cowardly, an attempt at blackmail as I ever encountered in my whole
political career! I say cowardly, because Benton didn't have the nerve to make his rotten demand to my
face. I only found out after he had left."
"I don't understand," the inspector murmured. "How could Benton blackmail you without your being
aware of it until after he had left?"
"Perhaps you had better let me explain," the governor said.
His explanation was a story of greed and double dealing. Richard Benton had come to see the governor
as a personal friend; as he had on many other occasions.
This time, however, he had seemed agitated and nervous. The governor noticed his friend's peculiar
behavior and commented on it. But Benton laughed away any idea that he was worried. He departed,
finally, after a lot of aimless talk.
But he left behind him on the governor's desk a sealed envelope. He asked the governor to read it
carefully, when he found the time.
The governor's attention was diverted by a couple of visitors for whom appointments had been made.
But he was puzzled by Benton's accountable nervousness and his eagerness to depart. As soon as he
could, the governor opened the letter and read its contents.
It was a bold attempt at blackmail. It was backed up by a threat to ruin the governor's career if he failed
to do what Richard Benton demanded.
"Benton wanted me to veto the water-power bill now awaiting my signature," the governor said harshly.
His words created another sensation. The water-power bill was a reform measure that had been agitated
throughout the State for nearly twenty years. Every decent citizen wanted it. It had been passed by both
branches of the legislature.
The governor had publicly announced his pleasure at the privilege of signing so necessary a law. He had
even invited prominent leaders from all over the State to be present at the public signing of the bill, as a
historic occasion.
This was the bill that Richard Benton had demanded that the governor veto!
"The paper he left for me was typewritten and unsigned," the governor said. "The blackmail threat was
the dirtiest part of it. It was faked blackmail - if you understand what I mean. Certain innocent things I
had done, people I had been persuaded to meet by Benton, places I had gone to in his company - all this
was stitched together to make me seem a blackguard in my private behavior."
The governor drew a deep breath of disgust.
"It was so cleverly contrived, that no newspaper editor would have been afraid of libel. There were more
hints of evil than out-and-out charges. It made me mad clean through. I was getting ready to come over
here to Benton's hotel and thrash him within an inch of his life - when Eddie Kramer, of the Daily
Express, telephoned me that somebody had shot Benton to death."
"Wasn't Benton interested in the old water-power set-up?" the police inspector asked. "Didn't he have a
lot of money invested in some of those fly-by-night utility companies which the reform bill would have put
out of business?"
"That is correct. If I had vetoed the reform bill, Benton would have profited enormously."
"I can see that," the inspector said. "But I don't understand why he was killed. That part still doesn't make
sense."
DROPPING on his knees beside the corpse, the inspector resumed his interrupted search of Benton's
pockets. It brought instant confirmation of the governor's story. There was a long envelope in Benton's
inside pocket. Its flap had been steamed open. Inside was the carbon copy of an unsigned typewritten
note.
It was a duplicate of the one described by the governor. He showed the inspector the sheet that Benton
had left for him. The two documents were identical.
"That proves it," the inspector growled. "The guy was a crook, all right."
"I wish there was some way to hush it up," the governor said sadly. "He must have been insane! He was
my friend for nearly thirty years. Do we have to let the newspapers know about the blackmail angle?"
"I'm afraid so. The letter Benton left with you and the carbon copy found on his body will have to be
marked as evidence and turned over to the district attorney."
The governor sighed. But the faint murmur he made was drowned out by a louder sound. A scuffle was
going on outside the door. The voice of the cop on duty was lifted angrily. Then the door flew open. Two
intruders rushed in.
One of them was a woman. She was gorgeously beautiful. Her eyes were as blue as cornflowers. Her
hair was like pale gold. Even in her excitement and worry, her loveliness was stunning.
Not so many years earlier, she had been one of the most popular stars on the musical-comedy stage. She
had left the stage after she had married. Her name was known to every man in the room even before she
parted her red lips to identify herself.
"I'm Claire Benton. What has happened to my husband? Why are these police here? And why am I not
permitted to enter?"
The man with her gulped nervously. He was a good-looking young man, with even white teeth and a face
like a collar ad. He spoke soothingly to Benton's wife.
"Take it easy, Claire. There is probably nothing seriously wrong."
"Oh, I forgot. This is Paul Hardy, a very dear friend. What are police doing here? And where is my
husband?"
The inspector's glance flicked sideways. From where Mrs. Benton and Hardy stood, the body of the
dead man was invisible beyond the projecting corner of a piece of furniture. The inspector continued to
talk gently.
"Am I to assume that you are worried about Mr. Benton's safety?"
"Of course! What's become of him? Has he been kidnapped?"
"Maybe you had better tell me - why you think someone would kidnap him," the inspector said.
It came in a frightened rush of words. Claire Benton had been worried by her husband's behavior. He
had acted as if there was something on his mind. He had evaded her questions and had told her not to
annoy him. The previous morning, he had abruptly packed a bag. He said he had to make an unexpected
trip to this State capital. He promised to be home by midnight.
Midnight came, but not Richard Benton.
"I waited until three a.m.," Claire said faintly, "then I telephoned the Bridgewater Hotel here. I knew it
was his favorite hotel in the capital. The clerk told me Richard had registered but had gone out. He
promised to have Richard telephone me in New York, when he returned. But I got no message. So I
took a train, came here in a taxicab direct from the station - and where is Richard?"
The inspector hated to do it, but it was part of his duty to hand a shock to this pair and then watch their
reaction.
He led them across the room to where the sheeted body lay. He twitched off the covering.
Paul Hardy uttered a cry of horror, Claire Benton was made of sterner stuff. She stood perfectly quiet,
swaying slightly as she saw the hideous bullet wound above her husband's heart. The inspector thought
she was about to faint. But she shook him off.
"Who did it?"
"I don't know, madam. I was hoping you might give us some sort of clue."
She shook her head woodenly. It wasn't self-control that made Claire Benton so calm, the inspector
realized. She was stunned by the sight of her husband's bloody corpse. The inspector watched her
narrowly, as well as Paul Hardy. But he could see nothing revealing in either of their faces.
THE governor had moved into the background when Benton's young wife and her companion had
rushed into the room. Now he stepped forward. Claire recognized him.
"Governor! You've got to help! You're Richard's friend -"
"I'm sorry, Claire," he said slowly. His face was stony. "I was Richard's friend up to an hour before he
was killed. I'm sorry to say it, but I have no further interest in him. Your husband was a rogue!"
Paul Hardy sprang forward, said harshly:
"What do you mean? Governor or no governor, you can't say that about Mr. Benton, or I'll smash you in
the jaw!"
Claire restrained her impetuous companion.
"Be quiet, Paul! Let me talk to him, please... Why do you call Richard a rogue? Have you any proof?"
The governor's jaw tightened. He showed her the two typewritten letters - the one he had been handed
by Benton and the carbon copy. He repeated the ugly tale he had already told the police.
Claire Benton shook her golden head. There was a tragic smile on her lovely face.
"It's not true! How could it be? You've known Richard nearly thirty years! You yourself admit that until
an hour before he was murdered you still were his friend! How can you stand here, with Richard dead,
and brand him as a rogue?"
"The facts themselves are the answer."
"Facts sometimes lie! A man like Richard wouldn't change his character overnight! He was one of the
leading lawyers in New York. Did he ever before today, to your knowledge, commit a crime?"
"No," the governor admitted.
"Then why should he be a rogue now? Is it because he is dead and can't defend himself? Are you sure
there isn't some monstrous conspiracy afoot?"
"Such an idea is sheer fantasy," the governor said. "I see no reason for changing my mind about your
husband's behavior. Perhaps he was insane."
"Rot!" Claire Benton said. "Richard's mind was as clear as a bell! There's something strange behind his
blackmail demand on you - and the prompt way in which he was killed by an unknown assassin."
There were tears in her blue eyes, but she winked them desperately away. A thoroughbred, if ever there
was one, the police inspector thought. Then his eyes narrowed alertly.
Claire had dropped to her knees beside her husband's body. She was peering at his stark face. All at
once, she uttered a high-pitched cry, began tearing fiercely at the corpse's clothing.
"Stop that!" the inspector shouted.
He sprang forward to restrain her but he was too late. Claire Benton had ripped open her husband's vest
with a violence that made the buttons pop. Another clutch tore his shirt into a jagged ribbon. Benton's
flesh was exposed, with the ugly bullet hole above his heart.
But Claire wasn't staring at the bullet hole. Her eyes were glued on the bare expanse of the dead man's
chest.
"Inspector!" she gasped. "I was right! You've been tricked by some criminal. This man on the floor is not
my husband!"
摘要：

THEMANWHODIEDTWICEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEBRIDGEWATERCRIME?CHAPTERII.ADEADMAN'SJOKE?CHAPTERIII.SHADOWBAIT?CHAPTERIV.BLINDMAN'SBLUFF?CHAPTERV.HOWTOMAKEASTAR?CHAPTERVI.WHIRLPOOLOFDEATH?CHAPTERVII.VICTIMNO.2?CHAPTERVIII.THECORPSETHATWALKED?...

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