Ray Irish Mystery Case File #3

The Condemned Don’t Pay Well - Chapter 1

As promised, the first chapter of a new Ray Irish mystery made for Substack. My goal is to put 2 chapters a week (roughly 1500 words per chapter - webnovel style) until the story is finished. After 10-15 chapters, only paid subscribers can finish the story—there are benefits for people who support my work.

The Ray Irish Mystery Case Files follow a hard-boiled private detective while he takes on strange cases in crime infested Oyster City. Entering his adopted hometown as a drifter, the war-weary shamus stumbled into violence on his first day. He might struggle to pay the rent to his crazy landlord, but Irish is in his element when either the privileged or the rabble come to him.

Whether his case involves deadly racketeers, seductive grifters, or corrupt cops, the shamus knows justice comes in various forms.

Chapter 1

The Nash LaFayette 400 came to a sudden stop.

There was an enormous iron gate barring the drive. Ray Irish looked at his companion with a scowl. The middle-aged Stewart Crawford, broker and the rich man’s general representative, gave him a weak smile.

“Yes,” Crawford said patiently. “This is only the beginning, Mr. Irish. He’s a strange man who lives like those eccentrics you read about. About three miles beyond this gate is Anderson’s house. Or a castle, you might call it.”

“It takes all kinds, I guess,” Irish grunted his disapproval. “What now—you want us to walk?”

Crawford shook his head and opened the car door. Crawford walked to a metal box attached to the gate, pulled back the door, and pressed a small button. Instantly, a voice replied.

“Who is it?”

“Stewart Crawford, Mr. Anderson. I’m here with that private detective you wanted.”

“I must be sure,” the voice said. “If you really are Stewart Crawford, what was the last deal we had concluded?”

Crawford looked back to Ray Irish with an ‘I-told-you-so expression’ as he spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“I sold two thousand shares of Ming Tooling stock. Net proceeds were just short of a seventy-five thousand.”

“Good. You may come in, Mr. Crawford. I am reassured you’ve arrived safely.”

Crawford returned to the car and, before he climbed in beside Irish, the big iron gate opened automatically.

“See what we’re up against?” Crawford shrugged. “He trusts no one. Never did, but it’s gotten worse.”

He pointed to the ancient elm tree with massive limbs overhanging the gate on one side.

“When you’re rich, you can add crazy things like that. He had a company put speakers in the trees somewhere and then they installed a microphone in that box attached to the gate. Anderson only opens the gate electrically when he wants to see someone. I’ll bet we’re the first people to get in since the last time I came by.”

The man leaned back in the seat, pulling out a cigarette from a silver case in his coat pocket.  

“Local stores leave the groceries and his other supplies outside the gate. Anderson sends his people to haul them to the house.” Crawford tapped the cancer stick on the package before lighting it.

“And the place he lives in. Well, I wouldn’t stay there for a thousand dollars a night,” he exhaled with a small cloud of smoke around his face.

“Why?”

Irish slowed as he took a sudden bend in the narrow road. He didn’t have much confidence in his car handling the roads. His old jalopy had plenty of rust and anyone in the car recognized the need for new shocks.

“Because the house has a nasty history,” Crawford continued. “Plenty of blood and death came to this place over the years. I never understood how he could live out here. Believe it or not, he’s a skittish man.”

He paused.

“I’ll tell you it’s the first time I’ve heard Anderson frightened enough to get a shamus.”

“Well, lots of people have a guilty conscious,” Ray replied. Crawford glanced over, surprised at the comment.  

They climbed a hill steadily for a few moments and then the road dipped down into a valley covered in trees. In the distance, atop a knoll, he could see lights which he guessed came from Anderson’s place. Irish noticed the atmosphere carried a creepy vibe, especially as darkness covered the area.

His car picked up speed as it came down the steep incline. Suddenly, there was a blur of something in front of his headlights. Instantly, the horrible dull thud rose from the impact of metal and a human body. There was a confusing sight of black clothing and a leg flipping by the windshield as Irish slammed hard on the brakes. By the time the car stopped, they were well past the spot where they hit the man.

Irish drew a flashlight from the glove box, and he slid out of the car while Crawford kept asking what happened. Finally, Crawford joined him, and the two men followed the light beam back along their route. While Ray looked in the brush edging against the road, Crawford suddenly gave a hoarse cry of horror and hurried ahead. He reached the body lying on the road first.

 “He’s dead,” Crawford said slowly when Irish arrived. “I recognize him. It’s Mendez, the caretaker of the estate. Been here for years and years. What the devil happened, Mr. Irish? I didn’t see him along the road.”

“Neither did I.”

Irish kneeled and examined the body. The corpse lay with the belly down on the road. However, a fully twisted neck allowed the dead man’s face to look at them through open eyes. His denim coveralls showed ripped places stained with mud.

“He wasn’t walking beside the road,” Irish went on. “I didn’t see him until the impact. It’s not an accident.”

The detective scanned around the road with his light. There were no tracks. Then, he shined the light into the canopy of tree limbs above them, but he saw nothing unusual about the large limb hanging over the road.

“What are you saying?” Crawford looked around nervously. “Are you saying somebody did this?”

“Well, he didn’t just run in front of us, or we would have seen him. It looked like he had dropped in front of us when I think about it. You said you didn’t see him on the road. So, he fell out of a tree. Or…”

“I’ve known Mendez for years. It’s crazy to think that he would go up a tree at night only to fall in front of us.”

“Then someone threw this man in front of the car,” Ray said. “His clothing has ripped areas like he was going through brush. That’s not from my car. Also, I don’t think the impact could snap his neck like that.”

Irish scanned the area with his flashlight, feeling unnerved by the stillness of the surroundings. The beam of light exposed several larger tree limbs over the road which could hold a man.

“Say, what about Anderson?” Crawford suddenly asked. “What if something happened to him?”

“First things, first. Grab the man’s legs,” Irish ordered. “We’ll get him out of the road and find Anderson. Then we call the police.”

A few minutes later, Irish’s car stopped in front of a large, strange looking mansion. When Ray got out, he looked over the place. From what he could make out from the porch light and the lights coming from the windows, it carried the styles of three difference eras. The front door opened, then a bent-shouldered, white-haired man came out into the light.

Crawford heaved a sigh of relief.

“That’s Anderson. He’s going to take Mendez’s death hard,” the man warned. “Better let me tell him.”

After Anderson shook hands with Irish, Crawford told the old man about the death of his caretaker.

The effect on Anderson surprised Ray. Instead of sorrow, his face grew agitated, and he trembled. After looking around the darkness like he expected something to show up, he signaled for them to follow him inside.

The front foyer they walked through held a curved staircase to the second floor. A dusty, web covered chandelier covered them in light although several of the light bulbs were missing. Passing through large double doors, they came into a massive living room holding a mixture of antique and modern furniture. Ray guessed the old man hung on to everything he owned with a passion. Two small table lamps vainly tried to light the area near the cold marble fireplace.

As Anderson sat in a well-worn chair, Irish reminded him they needed to call the police.

“I have no phone,” Anderson replied quickly as he scanned the shadows of the room. “Never had one, but we’ll get somebody here. Please hear me out first.”

Ray glanced at Crawford, who shrugged and took a seat on the newer couch near the wall.

“You tell me you’re rattled by the death of your employee, but somehow you want to chat first. That doesn’t make sense,” Irish growled as he continued to stand.

“I’m afraid,” Anderson explained. “I’m afraid to remain in this damned house. Damn thing is, I’m afraid to leave as well. Don’t ask me why—about leaving, I mean—but I’ll tell you why I no longer want to live here.”

Ray sighed and nodded.

“Spill it. After all, you’re paying me for my time.”

“Blah, money means nothing when you’re afraid,” the old man countered, then his eyes narrowed. “They tell me you have some experience with strange happenings in Oyster City. Are you a man who believes in curses or witchcraft?”

Irish pulled off his brown fedora and scratched his head at the question.

“No, I’ve seen some strange things during my time in the Pacific a few years ago. However, a little logic can explain most things.”

The old man nodded his agreement.

“I’ve always thought the same way. Now, I’ve lived here a long time, and nothing ever happened until recently. And then, a week ago, a book in the library fell from its shelf. Naturally, I looked through it since the book contained a complete history of this house.”

He grew excited.

“Like I said, I don’t believe in curses or the supernatural, but something hangs over this house like a damn ghost. It’s ready to strike at me at any moment. Wait, I’ll show you.”