The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32

by Frederick Nebel

  A girl was standing by the veranda rail, looking out into the darkness. A dimmed porch light made a faint glow on her fuzzy blonde hair. The damp river breeze ruffled her blue gown. She stood motionless, tense. Muffled was the constant throb of the jazz band below. A train went by at the river’s edge, far down the bluff.

  CARDIGAN took a step out onto the veranda floor. The girl whirled, her dress corkscrewing about her legs, her red mouth open. Cardigan stopped. In her hand was a glint of metal. Cardigan could see the convulsive rise and fall of her bosoms. Her face was white as a ghost’s, her eyes wide and staring.

  Cardigan went close to her, put his hand on the gun, twisted slowly this way and that until her fingers let go. She did not move. The fingers that had held the gun remained splayed. Her breath started to come in intermittent shudders.

  Suddenly she gasped and collapsed. Cardigan caught her and let her down gently to the floor. Her mesh bag fell to his knee, slid off and fell to the floor. He let her lie. He opened the bag, ransacked it. He left bills and change, cosmetic compact. He took out a neat sheaf of white cards, thrust them in his pocket. He thrust her gun in his pocket.

  Footsteps made him look around. Gould was there. And another man.

  “What’s this?” Gould clipped.

  “Lady fainted,” Cardigan said, and stood up.

  The man with Gould had his gun out. He jammed it against Cardigan’s back.

  Gould bent down. He lifted the woman in his arm. “Come on,” he said.

  The man with the gun prodded Cardigan and Cardigan followed Gould into a room where Gould laid the woman down on a divan. The sound of the jazz band throbbed in the room. The woman on the divan stirred, groaned. Gould went into a bathroom and came out with a wet towel. He patted the woman’s head. He looked up at Cardigan.

  “You’re funny, Cardigan.”

  “Like a crutch, huh?”

  “I’m going to see what this song and dance of yours is all about— Hello, miss. Better?”

  Her eyes, open now, rolled around in their sockets; rolled slower and then stopped rolling, to steady on Gould’s narrow gray face.

  “I—I must have fainted,” she breathed.

  “What did that guy do to you?”

  “Where?”

  “The big boy there?”

  She looked at Cardigan for a long minute.

  Cardigan growled, “Don’t be an airedale, Gould. I found her lying out there.”

  “You shut up,” Gould said.

  The woman passed a hand over her eyes. “I—just fainted. It was hot downstairs and I came up for some air.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him before. Just let me alone. Let me rest—please. I’ll be all right.”

  Gould’s forehead puckered. “This is funny.” He got up and looked at Cardigan. “I said this is funny.”

  “I heard you the first time,” Cardigan said. “What kind of a come-back am I supposed to make?”

  Gould’s left eyebrow twitched. He made a nervous, impatient gesture with both hands. “Go on. Go on, get out now…. Leave her alone in here a while, Sam. Go on, Cardigan. But by God, this is funny!” He pivoted toward the woman, biting his thin nether lip. “Are you sure this guy—”

  “Please—please let me rest. I tell you I just fainted. It was hot… and I fainted.”

  Gould sniffed irritably and went to the door with a nervous doggedness. He opened it. Cardigan and Sam followed him into the corridor and Gould, closing the door, shook his bony forefinger threateningly under Cardigan’s nose.

  “I’m getting damned tired—”

  “Don’t wave your mitt under my nose, Gould!” He threw Gould’s hand down violently and his mouth became sullen.

  Sam started to crowd him. Cardigan swung on Sam abruptly and bit him with a hot gray stare.

  “And you, baby, think again before you yank that roscoe on me!”

  “Says which?”

  “Sh—now—sh!” muttered Gould petulantly. “Out in the hall, you saps you!” He waved to indicate the lack of privacy.

  Cardigan rumbled, “Well, tie this lapdog outside then.”

  Gould screwed up his face into an expression that was intended to be ferocious. Cardigan chuckled. Gould blew out an exasperated breath and Cardigan passed him and rocked down the corridor. He entered the gambling rooms again, mingled with the crowd around the roulette wheel, touched the elbow of the short, thin girl. She moved her left hand and he looked down at it. In her palm was a slip of paper on which was scrawled, “$4,000.” He turned and passing behind her said, “Beat it.” In a minute the small, thin girl left. He was in the foyer when he saw her leave and enter a taxi. Five minutes later he got his hat and coat from the check room and was shrugging into the coat when Gould appeared. Gould stopped and regarded him narrowly.

  “Goom-by,” Cardigan said.

  Gould didn’t say anything. He kept biting his thin nether lip in nervous irritation. Perplexed indecision strained in his eyes.

  AT a quarter to twelve Cardigan braked his shabby roadster in front of the Hotel Andromeda. He went through revolving doors into the lobby. There were many men and women strolling around in evening clothes. There was supper dancing in the Peacock Room off the north wing.

  He sat down in a leather divan and watched the main entrance for five minutes. Then he got up and crossed the lobby to where the small, thin girl sat. He dropped down beside her.

  “Any luck?” she said.

  “Maybe.” He took out a sheaf of small white cards and held them so she could see.

  “That’s the blonde, huh?”

  “And not peroxide, sister. She pulled a swoon on the veranda. She had a gat—in her hand. Whether she was going to do the dutch or was getting set to go after White I don’t know. I took it away from her. Who was the Spanish number?”

  “Somebody called her Miss Monteclara—Nita Monteclara. But that’s a lot of braunschweiger. Her name’s Becky Steinwein. She models for underthings. The maid in the dressing room gave me the lowdown unasked. She’s taking this chap White for a fare-thee-well. The blonde looked daggers at her all night—and there was murder in them blue eyes, suh.”

  Cardigan squinted. “And White went in the red for four thousand?”

  “By his inamorata’s hand. She played everything but the corners and he kept cheering her. Pardon me if I seem to yawn.”

  “Hit the hay, Pat. See you at the office.”

  Small and trim, pretty in a quiet, certain way, she went to the elevators.

  Bush, the Metropolitan dick, bumped into Cardigan deliberately and said, “So that’s your new operative, Cardigan?”

  Bush got rid of a hollow, uncertain laugh and Cardigan left him standing in the center of the lobby.

  Chapter Two

  The Diamond Trail

  WHEN Cardigan came heavily into his office next morning Miss Gilligan, his stenographer, said in her always startled voice, “Oh, Mr. Cardigan—oh, Mr. Prier of the Jewelers Cooperative Indemnity telephoned and asked—”

  Cardigan, heading for his private office, said, “Call him back,” and closed the connecting door behind him.

  Miss Gilligan put through the call.

  “Hello, Mr. Prier,” Cardigan said. “We got some breaks last night…. Well, don’t get excited. We just found the jane White jilted and the headache he’s running around with now…. I’d rather not mention names…. Yes, White’s still spending like hell. Four thousand last night up until the time I left…. Well, that’s a problem. Either he fenced the stuff as soon as he came out of stir or he’s living and playing on the stuff…. Yes, it’s getting my strictly personal attention…. “’Bye.”

  He hung up, lit his first cigar of the day, gathered together a number of sheets and went into a long room where four desks stood in a row. Three men were working over reports.

  “Morning, chief,” they chorused.

  “Hello, gang. Blaine, that client’s yelling that we’re
holding him up. Spend another day on that stolen radios case and if nothing breaks we’ll sign off. You’ve covered about everything and we’re not going in for cut-rates…. Hennessy, you’ve got to wangle a photostatic copy of the Dixon Hotel register for June 10, 1929. Don’t go over fifty bucks…. Katz, I want a record of Ludlow’s bank deposits during August. Drop the Flemming case. He’s reconciled to his wife.”

  When Cardigan returned to his private office Miss Gilligan was standing in the doorway. She said, “A Mr. Ullrich to see you.”

  “What’s he want?”

  Miss Gilligan shrugged.

  Cardigan dropped to his swivel chair heavily. “Well, shoot.”

  Mr. Ullrich almost bounded in. He was a roly-poly man with cheeks like red apples, a big-toothed grin in a small mouth, dancing blue eyes.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Cardigan! Good-morning to you, sir!”

  He extended a stubby arm, gripped Cardigan’s hand hard. He yanked a fat cigar from his breast pocket.

  “I’m smoking,” Cardigan said. “Sit down.”

  “Yes, yes! Well, well, Mr. Cardigan, this is a grand day! A grand day to be alive!”

  Cardigan eyed him curiously. “Senator Ackerman’s right hand man?” he tried.

  Ullrich slapped fat palms on the desk joyously. “The old eagle eye, Mr. Cardigan! Yes, sir!” He sat back in the chair facing Cardigan and rocked with laughter.

  Cardigan’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing. He crossed his big brown hands on his flat stomach, creaked his swivel chair gently to and fro and took slow puffs on his cigar.

  “Well!” said Ullrich, getting his breath. He rubbed his fingers back and forth on the edge of the desk with a gentle, caressing motion. Back of the laughing bubbles in his eyes was a wily, speculative look. “Well, Mr. Cardigan.” He looked up with his bright, dancing eyes and tongued his cigar back and forth between grinning teeth. “Senator Ackerman, you know, has his country home in Lancaster County. Lovely place, Mr. Cardigan. Ah—you were out in the county last night, were you not? Yes, yes, of course. I came here to— How is business, Mr. Cardigan?”

  “Swell.”

  “So. So indeed! Well, well!” Ullrich took three quick puffs on his cigar, grinned into space. “Ah—Phil Gould was a bit upset. You know Phil: kind of jumpy and nervous. Since—since the Civic Service League started to percolate in the county.”

  Cardigan was impersonally blunt. “We’re not working for the Civic Service League, Mr. Ullrich.”

  Ullrich’s chuckle bubbled and he made vague gestures. “Of course, of course. Well, you see, out in the county, we like to keep things running nice and smooth. Phil’s a good sort. Only he gets worried—and when he gets worried—”

  “He runs to Senator Ackerman,” nodded Cardigan. “And why? Because the senator is one of the big backers of Gould’s gambling casino. So now what?”

  This bluntness teetered Ullrich for a minute. Then he said, “It’s just—well, Phil was worried the way you were—”

  “I’m not interested in the casino,” Cardigan said. “I’m not working for any civic uplift organization. Why I was there last night is my own business.”

  “You know, Senator Ackerman is a good man to stand in with.”

  “My boss is in New York and they never heard of him there.”

  Ullrich stood up, his face wreathed in smiles, his eyes shining. “Then that is all, Mr. Cardigan.” He pulled at his breast pocket. “Do have a cigar.”

  “Thanks, but they look too heavy.”

  Ullrich shook hands violently, went out buoyantly.

  Pat sauntered in saying, “Who was sunshine and happiness?”

  “Don’t think because you wear skirts, sister, you can bust in here an hour and a half late.”

  “Boo!”

  “That’s a nice hat you have on, Pat.”

  THE Shelby Arms was a nondescript apartment house on Washington Boulevard. The chemical cleaners hadn’t touched the bricks in years. Cardigan entered the small, stuffy lounge, climbed three steps to a mezzanine and stopped at a chest-high desk. A fat woman sat behind it, knitting.

  “Miss Carmory’s apartment,” Cardigan said.

  “There’s no switchboard. She’s in 411.”

  The elevator was self-operated. Cardigan got in. The doors wheezed shut. He pressed a button numbered 4. The elevator wheezed upward. He opened the doors when it stopped and entered a narrow, dim corridor. He poked around in the shadows until he found a brown door with 411 on it.

  The blonde opened it. There were circles under her eyes; the lids were puffy. She was pretty in a faded-flower way. She had a nice chin and wore a pepper-gray ensemble and a silk blouse of lighter gray. She regarded Cardigan with round blue eyes wide open and expressionless. But in a split minute her mouth loosened and a hurt look came into the eyes. There was something oddly harried about her but at the same time her air of passivity was definite.

  “Come in.” Her voice, like her shoulders, was listless.

  Cardigan pushed through the doorway, took a single-room suite in with one casual glance. His hair stood out from his ears like a shaggy mop. His jaw was big, brown, heavy. A floor board creaked beneath his weight.

  The girl stood looking with tired eyes at a window and said, dully, “I knew you’d come.”

  Cardigan looked in the bathroom, started toward the kitchenette. The girl shrugged.

  “I’m alone,” she said.

  His “O.K.” was low, resonant. He sat down on a straight-backed chair, crossed one leg over the other, closed his left hand around the ankle and sat regarding the girl with a deep, thoughtful frown. Presently she turned and looked at him.

  “So you knew I’d come,” his low, deep voice said.

  She nodded and let herself down slowly into a divan. She rubbed her hands slowly together and said nothing.

  He said, “If you were going to turn that rod on yourself last night I’m glad I stopped you. If you were getting steamed up to turn it on Burt White—well, that’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

  “Burt White?”

  “Or maybe the Spanish flame that’s turning him all hot-and-bothered these days.”

  Her lips made a round O and remained that way for a minute. Then she whispered, “Who—who are you?”

  “These playboys out at the casino last night were itching to hand me a rough deal. Gould had a brain-wave and decided that I was there on a big tail. He hopped around like a hen on a hot griddle all night.”

  She nodded. “I know. After you left he quizzed me again. I said—well, what I said when you were there.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Well, you could have told about the gun. Thanks for helping yourself to my cards.”

  “Manicurist, eh?”

  “Who are you?”

  Cardigan put both feet on the floor, leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. “Three years ago six unset diamonds were lifted from a diamond merchant in the Hotel Midlands. Value of seventy-thousand dollars. The diamonds were insured by the Jewelers Cooperative Indemnity. Catch on?”

  She said nothing in a blank-faced way.

  Cardigan stood up, took three steps, jammed hands into pockets and planted himself in front of her. “Burt White was in the hotel at the time. He had a room in the rear, eighth floor, looking down on Bennington Court. All right. The diamond merchant’s room was busted into, he was slugged—in the dark—and a guy got away with the diamonds. At 12:40 A.M. At 12:35 White tried to get a telephone number. Party didn’t answer. He tried again at 12:43. No answer. The defense claimed that a man couldn’t have got from Room 709 to 818 in three minutes. White got off on the robbery charge but just for spite they sent him up for three years for concealed weapons. A man said that at 12:45 he saw a woman hurrying out of Bennington Court. The defense proved that at midnight this man left a speakeasy plastered to the eyebrows and the clerk in the hotel where he lived said he fell in the lobby at 1:00, still plastered. So that killed that. Still the diamonds had disappeared
. The indemnity company took it on the nose. Two weeks ago they engaged me to jump on the merry-go-round. You get me?”

  SHE kept staring down at Cardigan’s feet. “I thought you were a detective of some kind.”

  “How’s to play ball?”

  She got up slowly and walked the length of the room. She turned and looked at Cardigan and smiled wearily, shaking her head. “I’m afraid you’re up the wrong tree,” she said.

  “No one knew who White’s girl friend was. They tried to catch on through letters to him when he was in stir. There were no letters. He figured that out too. We got him lamped the minute he came out. We found out last night who his heart was. I said—was.”

  She colored. “Burt White? Who is Burt White? I don’t know him. Who is he?”

  “Ask me who is Nita Monteclara.”

  Her color deepened. Cardigan liked the way her chin tilted. She said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, please.” Her voice throbbed.

  Cardigan strode to her. Shaggy-headed, massive-shouldered, he towered threateningly above her, an ill wind in his eyes. “I know you’re lying, Miss Carmory. You tell a lie bum as hell. I’ve got White figured out and I’ve got you figured out. I know he’s chucking money away and I happen to know that when he came out of stir he was stony. We’ve been smack on his tail all the time and we’ve found that in two weeks he’s spent fifteen-thousand bucks. That ice was fenced while he was in stir by his pal or he’s fenced it since he got out or he’s borrowing till he can fence it. You’ve been singing, ‘Lover, Come Back to Me,’ and the punk lams on you for—”

  Calmly she said, “Please, you are wrong. This is all like a story to me.”

  “There’s some dough in this for you if—”

  “I work for a living.” She looked at her wrist-watch. “I have an appointment at 11:00.”

  He searched her pallid face with glittering eyes. His wide lips tightened against his teeth. “You’re White’s ex. At the casino last night you watched every move he and the Monteclara flame made. You were going to do something with that gun. For God’s sake don’t hand me a run-around like this. White’s ditched you and why you’re worrying about him I can’t see. You look pretty O.K. to me. That guy’s a louse four ways from the jack and I’ve got the finger on him but I need more evidence.”