“What d’ya mean big? What does big mean?”
“Anything you say. You get me by for two weeks and you can name your score.”
“All right. Two weeks for two thousand. How’s that?”
Cantwell dropped his cap, stooped, and picked it up. His face showed a flush not caused by the bending.
He said, “That’s fine. Just fine.”
He sounded relieved and his muddy brown eyes cleared slightly. He tried a smile, switched it off and said again, “Just fine.”
McCarthy said, “In advance.”
“I can get it,” Cantwell said hurriedly, “but not for two weeks.”
McCarthy shrugged and said to Marge, “He shouldn’t have gone to jail. It should have been the goofy house. I should work for conversation.”
Marge shook her head again. She said, “But Pat! Maybe he’s really in danger.”
“What of it? He’s a no-good double-crossing rat by his own admission and I hope to God he is in danger.”
He spoke as if Cantwell weren’t in the room, and the tall thin man said desperately, “Oh, hell, Shylock! It’s a cut on a hundred and twenty grand. How’s that? Worth two weeks’ time?”
McCarthy laughed, again spoke to Marge. “You heard his yarn. There were three of them, Cantwell, Plansky, and Thomes. They killed a bank messenger while they were heisting him and they got caught three days later. Cantwell turned State’s evidence and got off with a lousy five years. Thomes got hung. Plansky got twenty to life. They only got sixteen hundred on the job. And now he makes talk about a hundred and twenty grand.”
He looked at Cantwell then, tapped his forehead with a finger, said, “You’re stir screwy, guy. Now get the hell out of here before I heave you out.”
A patch of red showed in Cantwell’s two cheeks. He lowered his voice and asked, “You ever hear of Herman Wansner?”
“Yeah. He died two years ago.”
“I know that. Did you know he was a fence?”
“I heard it.”
“Did you know he was robbed the night of the same day we pulled the bank job?”
“And I suppose you robbed him?”
“Plansky, Thomes, and me did. That’s the hundred and twenty grand.”
McCarthy asked if this was in cash and he sounded skeptical and winked at Marge again. But he sat back down in his chair.
Cantwell said, blurting the words out in haste: “It’s as good. It’s unregistered bonds and unset stones and it’s as good as money in the bank. Wansner never reported the loss because he’d have had to explain where he got the stuff and it was all hotter than a forty-five. We stashed it and I can’t get it now.”
“Why not?” McCarthy’s voice was less skeptical and his light blue eyes were round and hard. His face was long, high cheek-boned and his beard made dark shadow on his jowls. He looked more than a little like an Irish priest and more than a little predatory at the same time.
Cantwell, encouraged by this changed attitude, hurried on with: “The bonds were from a bank job in St. Louis. The stones came from three different jobs in the East. I was in on the stones with Thomes and Plansky in the first place and we shoved ’em with Wansner. But they weren’t in the bank job. I pulled that with Frankie Giles. We turned the bonds to Wansner but he never had time to sell them before Plansky and Thomes and I got them and the rocks. You get the idea; we sold them to him and then stole ’em back.”
McCarthy said to Marge: “A swell boy, this. I bet his mother never could keep a dime in the house.”
Marge was listening intently to Cantwell. She shook her head impatiently at McCarthy, said to Cantwell: “But I don’t believe I understand, Mr. Cantwell. Why can’t you get these bonds and unset stones now? Didn’t you say you hid them?”
Cantwell said patiently, “That’s it. Frankie Giles is in town. He knows I know where the stuff is. If I go to my plant, he’d be watching me. He’d take the bonds and the stones both. He knows I robbed Wansner and that I can’t go to the police for help.”
McCarthy said, “Take him with you and cut him in, if you’re afraid of him.”
Cantwell took the edge of his right hand and drew it across his throat. “You don’t know Frankie Giles. He’s bad, and I’ve lost my guts.”
McCarthy laughed harshly and said: “You’re in a bad way. Let’s figure this out. I can use the dough.” He said to Marge, “Hon, you run along and come back in an hour or so and we’ll have some lunch. I want to talk this over with pally, here.”
Marge looked troubled and shook her head. She said, “It sounds like trouble to me and it sounds like crooked trouble. I don’t like it, Pat.”
McCarthy walked to the door with her, patting her on the shoulder. He said, “Don’t fret, hon,” and under his breath, “I’m going to throw a curve on this. It’ll work out, hon. You watch.”
Marge Chalmers said she intended to do just that. She also said that Pat McCarthy was the kind of fool that needed someone to watch over him and that she seemed to have fallen heir to this job. She sounded a little bitter about this.
* * *
—
An hour later McCarthy said to Cantwell, “Then it’s a bet and we’ll play it that way.”
He looked up, saw Cantwell with his head cocked in a listening position. Cantwell said, in a worried, frightened tone: “Mr. McCarthy, that sounds to me like somebody in the hall.”
“What of it? People go back and forth all the time.”
“But it sounds like they stopped outside the door.”
McCarthy said: “You got the horrors, guy,” but went to the outer door. He half turned as he opened it, said:
“I think you’re—”
He saw Cantwell’s startled face and turned back to the door just as something struck him above the ear. He went to his knees and managed to tip his head in time to see the next blow coming and he tried to dodge this. He knew the attempt was hopeless, even as he did.
Some time later he came out of his daze and saw a strange face bending over him, stayed conscious long enough to feel a needle prick his arm. As he faded back into coma he heard the rattle of excited voices.
An hour later he said, “Sapped!” in a weak voice and, hazily focusing on the room, asked, “Nurse? Hospital?”
He saw a white uniform loom over him, heard a cheerily professional voice say, “Now, Mr. McCarthy. You’re not to talk. You’ve been injured.”
“I know that.”
“Steady now.”
He could again feel his arm bared for the needle, and as the drowsy feeling again overcame him he mumbled, “But how in hell…”
“Now, now. You’ll hear all about it. You just rest and…” The voice died away in the wave of sleep again sweeping over him.
When he next awoke he saw Marge Chalmers by the bed and as his eyes flickered open she asked anxiously, “How goes the battle? Feel better?”
The nurse, standing by the blond girl, said warningly, “Now, Miss Chalmers. He’s not to talk very much and he’s not to get excited. Concussion’s a funny thing and Mr. McCarthy was very close to a fracture.”
“Sure. I know.”
McCarthy managed to lift his hand to his head and found it bandaged. His voice was both weak and querulous and his eyes were foggy from shock and morphine. He said, “What in hell happened?”
“Don’t you remember, Pat?”
“Remember what?”
“Didn’t you see them?”
“Who?”
Marge said regretfully, “I was hoping you’d seen them. There were two of them, according to the elevator boy.”
“They got away then? That it?”
“Uh-huh! They sapped you and just walked out. I was afraid you had a fractured skull but the X-ray shows it’s all right.”
McCarthy watched Marge’s face and blond head start
in slow circles, go around and around, and gradually grow dimmer. He snapped back to consciousness with the odor of ammonia in his nostrils and the nurse, bending over him, said sharply over her shoulder to Marge:
“Now Miss Chalmers! That’s enough! He can’t stand excitement and talking.”
Marge tiptoed toward the door and McCarthy said faintly, “Marge!”
“Yes, Pat!”
“Where’s Cantwell?”
“You mustn’t talk, Pat.”
“Where’s Cantwell?”
The nurse interrupted sharply with: “Now Mr. McCarthy. That’s enough. You’re not allowed to talk. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Just one question!”
“Well…”
“Marge! Where’s Cantwell?”
The blond girl said, “Pig-head Irish! I suppose you have to know,” in a defensive voice. “I shouldn’t tell you, but Cantwell’s gone. The two men took him with them after they sapped you. Now you got it.”
McCarthy said, “Oh hell!” and closed his eyes. He heard Marge tiptoe from the room, heard the door close, and said, “Oh, nurse!”
She came to the bed. “Now you’re to sleep. What is it?”
McCarthy managed a feeble grin, said, “If a man ain’t safe in the office of the private cop he’s hired to protect him, where in hell is he safe?”
“Now you go to sleep. I shouldn’t have allowed Miss Chalmers to talk with you.”
“You should have tried to keep her from it if she wanted to. That girl’s determined.” He dropped easily back to sleep, smiling to himself, and the nurse sniffed and looked at the door and muttered:
“Blond hussy! The way she talked to him you’d think she was married to him.”
* * *
—
Pat McCarthy patted the rakish bandage that circled his head and covered one eye, and said defensively, “Well, what the hell! Doctor said it was all right if I took it easy.” He looked down at his desk, and then up to where Marge stood accusingly in the doorway.
He said, “Come on in and tell me if there’s any news. Did you go to the station and tell Shannon and Costello about this screwy set-up?”
Marge said she had and that she thought both Mr. Shannon and Mr. Costello two nice men, even if policemen. And then, “They haven’t found a thing yet. I—I just happened to run into something myself.” She made this last admission and looked a little frightened and a little proud at the same time. McCarthy stared back at her, then snapped:
“Spit it out. What crack-brained stunt have you done now? Damn it, don’t you know this is no deal for you to play around with? Don’t you know this is one of those things?”
“I thought you’d be glad I was helping, Pat.” She sounded injured but her eyes didn’t back up her voice. She plainly hadn’t expected McCarthy to think anything of the kind. She went on with:
“I met a man named Orrie Arnold and he runs around with Frank Giles. He’s from St. Louis. That’s where those stolen bonds came from.”
McCarthy tapped the bandage on his head and said bitterly, “So did I meet somebody that runs around with Frankie Giles. And look what it got me. You’ll give that guy a miss from this time on. Get sense; when there’s this kind of money involved, people like that are dangerous.”
“Oh, this Orrie Arnold isn’t dangerous. I’ve got him sold. He likes me.”
“Like hell. Does he know you run around with me?”
She wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything that sounded as though he did.”
“It’s a cinch he knows it. Whoever sapped me must have followed Cantwell here to the office, so they’d have seen you leave here. After all, we’ve been running around for some little time. You lay off.”
“He might say something. He liked to talk about himself.”
McCarthy said seriously, “Now listen, Marge. I mean this. This is no dice. You keep away from this guy right from this minute. You hear me?”
She said, “Yes!” in a sullen voice.
“Now mind. I’m surprised that you’d take a chance with a hood like that.”
“He lives at the Carlton Hotel. On Marin Street.”
“That’s fine. You give him a miss from now on and take in that lower lip before you fall over it. Did Shannon say whether Giles is in town?”
“No, but Orrie Arnold told me he was.”
“What does Arnold look like?”
“He’s nice looking. Dark. Smooth looking.”
McCarthy picked up his hat, winced when he put it on. He said, “I’ve got a couple things to do. You go home and I’ll call you when I get through.”
“Where you going?”
McCarthy looked surprised and answered as though the answer should have been known. “Calling on your boy friend, of course.” He patted the bulge a gun made under his left arm. “If I figure him out as one of the guys that smacked me, I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t see him for some time, hon.”
“Pat! You’re in no shape to go out looking for trouble.”
He grinned at her, said, “I ain’t looking for it, hon. It’s heading for me and I’m just meeting it half way. You trot on home.”
McCarthy pushed Marge out of the office in front of him. On the sidewalk he said, “Home for you, hon,” turned, and drove down Marin Street.
The Carlton Hotel was patronized mostly by the sporting class, and looked it. The lobby was slightly overcolored, slightly overdecorated; the bell boys wore uniforms that were just a little too swanky, were just a little too eager to serve. The four boys on the bench snapped to attention as McCarthy walked in, and he picked the first in line and beckoned him to the side and asked:
“Orrie Arnold? What’s his room?”
The boy stiffened and made his face blank. He said, “You’ll have to ask at the desk, sir.”
He then looked down at the corner of the folded bill McCarthy held, said in the same tone:
“It’s 417 and he’s having a party.” He turned sidewise, palmed the bill, and added, “That’s right down the hall from the elevator, to your right. You can’t miss it.”
McCarthy said, “Thank you,” and went to the elevator. On the fourth floor he waited until two other passengers for the same floor had gone down the hall and out of sight, and then took the gun from under his arm and put it in the side pocket of his coat. His face got a little whiter and his eyes got a hard glassy sheen to them. He started breathing a little faster.
He went down the hall then, peering at numbers as he did, and stopped at 417. He muttered to himself, “Now for it.”
He crowded the door and rapped on it with his left hand, keeping the right in his pocket. He heard somebody fumble with the knob and, when the door swung open letting out a blast of sound, he put his left hand against the breast of the man who had opened it and shoved. The man, off balance, staggered back to the center of the room. McCarthy followed him a couple of steps, took the hand with the gun from his pocket, and snapped out:
“Just everybody hold tight and there won’t be any trouble. I’m not fooling.”
There were four men and three women in the room, and all of them except the man who had opened the door were holding glasses. All were drunk.
The man who had opened the door said, “Whassa idea?”
He was wavering on his feet and his voice was thick. He was very dark, very well dressed, but wore no coat. McCarthy looked past him to the others, said:
“Who’s Arnold?”
The dark man took a staggering little step and caught his balance. He said, “Who wanssa know?”
McCarthy said, “I know now. Get your coat.”
Arnold’s teetering wasn’t quite so apparent with this. His voice was a little surer. He focused his eyes on McCarthy with a little effort, said:
“A pinch, huh
. It’s a bum rap, brother.”
Then his eyes showed more intelligence and he said, “Hell! You’re no cop! You’re—” He stopped with this, took a step back and rested his hand on a table littered with empty glasses and bottles.
McCarthy said, “Yeah, you got it. I’m McCarthy. Put on your coat and come along.”
One of the women giggled and said, “Ain’t we all invited?”
The man by her said, “Shut up, Babe!” and to McCarthy, “What’s the idea in coming in here and putting on an act? You can’t come in here and put on an act and—”
McCarthy said, “Shut up, you heel!” and tipped his gun muzzle that way. The man stared at it, grunted, “Ugh—ugh—” and moved slightly behind the woman he’d called Babe. McCarthy made motions with the gun and said:
“Stay in the clear, heel.”
The Babe woman had looked at the gun as though she didn’t understand what it was. Her eyes suddenly widened and she said, “Why, it’s a snatch! It’s a kidnap!”
McCarthy snapped, “It’s no snatch!” and to Arnold, “Your coat——!”
Arnold said, “You can’t get away with this,” in a voice that was almost normal, and McCarthy snarled, “Can’t I? Watch!”
He brought his right hand back so the gun it held rested against his hip bone, took a step ahead and swung with his left. The blow caught Arnold in the face and Arnold slammed back into the little table holding the glasses and went to the floor. The table and glasses fell on top of him. The Babe woman screamed and McCarthy said:
“Shut up.”
He reached down with his left hand and got Arnold by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He cuffed him then across the face, first with the palm and then with the back of his hand, and Arnold, mind on the gun McCarthy held, took this.
Then McCarthy saw a flash of movement, stepped back, and swung the gun toward a broken-nosed man in the back of the room, and the broken-nosed man let go of the bottle he held by the neck and sullenly held his hands at shoulder height with no word from McCarthy.
McCarthy was breathing hard and noisily. His eyes were hot and glaring and his finger was tight on the trigger of the big gun he held.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 49
