Ray Irish Mystery Case File - The Condemned Don’t Pay Well

Chapter 2

After Anderson left the room, Crawford rotated a finger alongside his temple to show Irish his thoughts on the man’s sanity.

I guess I can play along, Ray thought.

Anderson came back with a musty, dog-eared leather book held in his shaking hands. The pages were yellow and brown with age, ready to crack like thin ice. Anderson carefully opened the book and pointed to a specific page. He asked Irish to read it.

“These few pages in this chapter show a concise history of this estate. Since I’ve been here, I’ve wondered about the past with this land and the house. As you can see, my home has several architectural styles from the previous owners. Then I discovered certain old trees had weather-beaten wooden signs nailed into them. Certainly, I never noticed them before. They had to be pointed out to me.”

“Why did it take so long to find those signs?” Ray wondered aloud.

“Well, they’re difficult to read but each sign contains a man’s name,” Anderson ignored the question, caught up in his tale.

“This whole thing grabbed my imagination, and I started looking deeper into the information. I even had Crawford bring me some books on the area from the local library.”

“That’s true,” the broker said as he lit another cigarette while sitting comfortably in a chair. “You kept peppering me with questions every time I came out here.”

“About a year ago, I discovered the names on the trees were the same on the tombstones, located inside a private graveyard a mile behind the house,” the old man continued. “Yet, I never got the connection between the two until I read this passage. It explains the reasons for the curse.”

Irish read the handwriting swiftly. He gave a low whistle at the information, then signaled Crawford to join them.

“Well, you’ve got four different people killed on this estate over the years. All of them hung from trees on your land,” Ray agreed with an air of skepticism. “It says two executed because of witchcraft, while another got himself hung by a mob as a murderer. The fourth person could be a suicide since it says nobody ever found out who killed him or why.”

Irish shook his head after he handed the book back to Anderson.

“You’re wasting your time. Every village in Maryland has stories like this. You just have the misfortune of owning land they used for the gallows at some point,” he continued. “Every bit of trouble gets handed down and becomes wives’ tales about curses. You’re even doing it right now about Mendez. For all we know, he jumped out in front of me to commit suicide, or maybe he slipped. Either way, people will let their imaginations go wild.”

Crawford licked his lips. His puffy eyes lit up with dread.

“I think I’ll go back to town,” he said. “I’m not needed, and we need to do something about Mendez. That way, I can notify the police, eh, Mr. Irish?”

“You’ll remain here,” Anderson snapped. “Otherwise, you’ve seen the last business from me, Crawford.”

He looked over at Ray.

“You’re skeptical about this supernatural stuff. That’s what I brought you here. Now, it’s really happening, I need your help. I’m old and I don’t want to believe in ghosts. But Mendez’s death scares me even more. Maybe I’m stirring up something by being here.”

The thin man ran one hand through his mop of white hair. He appeared to consider something important, then looked around the room.

“It’s true that isolation can do things to your mind. But Mendez — Crawford, you suggested perhaps it was suicide. We both know that’s nonsense! Mendez was going to retire in a few months. I promised to pay him a pension.”

He looked over at Irish.

“You said when you hit him with your car, he came from out of nowhere. Did you notice anything else?”

“Yeah, for a moment, I thought he dropped in front of us. But I guess it was my eyes playing tricks on me. We were driving pretty fast, and the headlights just picked him up suddenly.” He paused, replaying the event in his head.

“I probably should have looked closer at the body. However, Crawford was concerned about you. Still, something about Mendez’s broken neck makes me think the car didn’t do that to him since it was more of a glancing blow. Also, his clothes had rips through them. My guess is he got them from the thorn bushes along the road that I saw.”

“If I wasn’t with you as a witness, I’d say you’re making an alibi for the police,” Crawford told Irish. “I think you’re right about him running into the road. I didn’t see how else it could happen. It’s too crazy to think about.”

The broker looked at his client.

“Mr. Irish is right. Something was wrong when it happened. Maybe something scared your man, and he ran through the bushes in fear? He might have picked up on your worries. You should really consider leaving here.”

“No, I’ll not believe that. Besides, Mendez knows this place like the back of his hand. He wouldn’t run into the road. That’s why I think somehow, someone killed him. I tell you I’m going to be next. In fact, I know the spot.”

“Hold up here,” Irish pushed back his fedora. “Mr. Anderson, while I agree with you that a lot of things sound strange, I’m not buying curses or spooks. I want to know why you are so sure it wasn’t suicide or an accident? Give me something solid that tells me to look into this as a murder.”

Anderson got up and went to the mantle of the fireplace. He pulled an old .45 Colt revolver off the top, then headed for the front door.

“Follow me and I’ll show you. And stay close.”

Irish glanced at Crawford, who looked even more nervous. However, both men followed the old man. Ray unhooked the safety strap holding his 1911 pistol in his under-shoulder holster as he watched the old man pick up a flashlight sitting on the table by the door.

Anderson led them across the porch, down the steps and into the gardens. They followed a winding path for several minutes, with the old man halting a couple of times to search the woods at unexpected sounds. Finally, they came to an ancient tree with heavy limbs spread high in the air above them. The flashlight beam centered on a small piece of wood. They couldn’t read the impression of words due to age and partially covered in moss. 

“I had Mendez use paper and pencil to trace out the words,” Anderson explained. “It says Jonathan Greer hung here 1840. Now, on to the next one.”

“Hard to believe the old wood lasted for over a hundred years,” Crawford commented.

“I agree,” Ray told him. “Hold that light on the sign again.”

After a long look at the tree and the wood, the shamus nodded to himself.

“Well, it’s hard to make out any name, but something’s scratched into the wood. For now, I’m assuming what Mendez told you is accurate.”

“The others are this way,” the old man told them impatiently. “Now, you can see why I’m not happy about finding these things.”

As they continued, Irish asked a question.

“This path appears to head back to the road. Is that correct? How much land does your estate sit on?”

The old man nodded.

“I own the original section, which is six hundred and forty acres.”

“Mr. Irish, you surprise me with your keen sense of direction, even at night,” Crawford said. “I get turned around out here if I’m not careful.”

“Yeah, I’ve had experience traveling at night with nothing but stars for direction. That comes with stinking Pacific islands,” the shamus growled.

“This path was the old road that led to the house, then on to the next village.” Anderson ignored the comment. He knew about the private detective’s war experience from Crawford’s background check on the man.

“There are five trees on my land that hold such signs,” the old man continued. “Like I said, I’ve already matched the names on the trees with the tombstones.”

“Two things are bothering me.” Irish tugged on his ear. “First, the book you had told us nothing about locations of the hangings. Second, there were only four hangings.”

“That’s because of the next tree I’m about to show you,” the old man told them with an air of surprising swagger.

They finally reached the next ancient tree, which held a similar sign. However, this time, the wooden sign nailed into the tree was newer with easily read letters.

 PAUL ANDERSON HUNG HERE 1948

 “Now you understand,” Anderson stated with a strange mixture of fear and awe. “Someone intends to hang me from that tree. That’s why I don’t go anywhere without my gun. I’m not going down without a fight!”

“Alright,” Irish said. “I’m convinced there’s something crazy going on around here. Let’s get into the details, Anderson. How many servants?”

“Three. Mendez, of course, then there’s Dodson. He’s my butler and takes care of most day-to-day items. Dodson is like a friend. He’s served me for almost a quarter of a century. Then there’s the cook, Ainsworth, who has been with me for five years. I’d trust both of them with my life. They have no reason to hurt me.”

“I get it,” Irish grunted, “but there must be a reason. Let’s talk about your enemies.”

“I can’t believe someone would want to murder me.” Anderson shivered, using his flashlight to look over the area. “I’m sure of that since I only handle my transactions with Crawford. Any of my business rivals are back in New York. They wouldn’t come at me personally. Come on, we’d better go back to the house.”

Irish walked beside the old man and he kept one hand on a gun, which he’d transferred to his side pocket. Crawford brought up the rear. Irish looked over the area while reminding himself that someone went to a lot of trouble to set this charade up.

I’m not buying into ghosts!

Suddenly, Crawford stopped. Pointing ahead, his face looked pale as a ghost in the beam of Anderson’s light.

“Mr. Irish! Mr. Anderson! Look over there! There’s something on that tree trunk.”

“Wait a minute, that’s not right,” Anderson said as his eyes bulged from fear.