The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37

by Frederick Nebel

  “Pull up, you!” Cardigan yelled, drawing, leveling his gun.

  The man dived behind a lamp post as two small girls came skipping out from an areaway into the line of imminent fire. Seeing Cardigan with a gun drawn, they squeaked and cowered and then ran around in circles. The man behind the post was no fool; he simply ran away down the sidewalk. The little girls ran this way and that. Cardigan, charging forward, swung to the left to avoid running over them, but one of them seemed possessed of the same idea. He almost fell over her, he did stumble and lose headway. Seconds were precious. The man was well ahead. Then the second little girl got in the op’s way and in trying desperately to avoid trampling on her he fell over his own feet and added a year’s wear to the elbows of his overcoat. When he regained his feet the man was out of sight. He strode angrily on and reaching the next corner stood there boiling with anger and frustration. There were quite a few people here; they were marketing or just standing around. Busses rolled by, and trucks, and a few taxicabs. Across the street was a saloon.

  Cardigan crossed and pushed open the door and stood up at the bar. He was scowling to himself, and he growled: “A double rye.”

  Hube Boggany, who was having a beer at the other end of the bar, picked up his glass and brought it down to Cardigan’s elbow.

  “I thought we had a date, Jack.”

  “We did, Hube,” Cardigan growled. “But I got tied up. I’m sorry.”

  “What was you going to show me?”

  “Well, Hube… well, it was this way. Some guy phoned me and said a certain party told him I was in town and gave him my address. He said he’d heard great things about me. He asked me if I was interested in making five hundred bucks. I said anybody was interested in making five hundred bucks and I asked him what I’d have to do? He said it would be something a little on the shady side. Well, I was going to hang up on him. Then I thought of you. I figured here was a chance to give Hube Boggany a break. So I said, ‘O.K., let’s hear it.’ Then he told me to meet him at two at Race and Fillmore. So I phoned you to be there too. Then I got tied up. This guy said he’d wear a brown hat, a brown double-breasted overcoat, and he’d carry a cane. Did you see anybody around there dressed like that?”

  “No, Jack. I didn’t.”

  “Maybe you didn’t notice. It makes me sore as hell, Hube. There might have been something hot there that might have given you a break. Ten to one the guy was a heel.”

  Boggany looked interested. “Maybe he’ll call you again, Jack.”

  Cardigan frowned, said intimately under his breath. “Maybe the guy did show up, Hube, and recognized you for a copper.”

  Boggany nodded. “Maybe, Jack.” He drank his beer thoughtfully. “You know, Jack, I think I’ve figured out why you’re in Danbridge.”

  “Good. Why?”

  “You’re hunting them counterfeiters that’s supposed to be operating here.”

  Cardigan said nothing, one way or the other. He tossed down his drink and gave Boggany a large wink. Boggany chuckled, rubbed his plump hands together. He clapped Cardigan on the back.

  “Yes, Jack, old kid, I knew I’d figure it out sooner or later, I knew.”

  Cardigan clapped Boggany on the back. “Good old Hube!”

  “Ah, good old Jack!”

  Then Cardigan looked at the clock on the wall, exclaimed: “Hell, I’m late for a date again!” He tossed a half dollar on the bar, said, “Got to scram, Hube!” and was out of the bar before Boggarty could get himself straightened out.

  HE phoned Samuel Clayburn from a midtown booth, using the name of Baker to the office switchboard and to the secretary who answered. The voice of the secretary was not the one who had answered on an earlier occasion. Then Clayburn was on the wire.

  Cardigan said: “Who was the secretary just answered?”

  “She’s not my secretary. She’s a girl I drafted from the general office. My secretary became ill and had to leave about an hour ago.”

  “That’s what she said!”

  When he left the booth he took some memoranda from his pocket. Luella Deya, 449 Kingstown Street. There was a cab handy and he climbed in and ten minutes later the cab stopped and he got out. Before him stood a six-storied red brick building with two potted spruces outside the entrance. The apartment house had a small lobby with a mat rug on the floor. There was nobody around. Cardigan went to the rear and found a door with the word Superintendent on it. He pressed a button and in a minute a fat man appeared yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  “Where’s Miss Deya’s apartment?” Cardigan asked.

  “Third floor. Thirty-two.”

  It was a walk-up. The staircase was narrow and the steps were of dull red tile. There were three doors on the third landing and Cardigan pressed the button of 32. He pressed it three times, at intervals. No one opened the door, so in the end he fiddled around with his set of master keys. It took him five minutes to get in.

  The apartment was very small. The living-room was small, the bedroom was smaller, the kitchen was little more than a hole in the wall. The apartment was also empty. But Cardigan saw signs. A closet was bare of any clothing. A bureau was completely empty. The door of the bathroom cabinet was open and the cabinet was empty except for an almost depleted tube of toothpaste and an empty bottle of eau de cologne.

  He went down to see the superintendent again, and said: “When did Miss Deya move out?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Well, she did.”

  The fat man pawed sleepily at his chin. “She must be crazy. Only the other day she paid her rent a month ahead.”

  Cardigan shrugged and left the building. He felt like a man all tied up in knots and it angered him that while having a beautiful set-up laid out before him there was no way of making it pay dividends. He had lost the man who had been on the point of taking a crack at Boggany. He had lost Luella Deya, the connecting link.

  He strode on in the blasting wind, his face reddening with the cold. He walked ten blocks without realizing it and then looked up to find himself in front of police headquarters. A car came skidding around the corner and braked to a sharp stop. The chauffeur, a policeman, got out of the front and Hube Boggany got out of the rear and rocked toward the steps. He caught sight of Cardigan, flung up an arm.

  “Hey, Jack! Hey, did I just have a close shave!”

  Cardigan strolled up to him. “You look healthy enough.”

  “I am, but it’s my fault I do, boy! Remember that saloon? Well, I walk out of there and I walk up Merton Avenue and I don’t like the taste in my mouth so I stop at one of them chewing gum machines and get a hunk of gum. I’m looking in the mirror on front of it, admiring myself, when I see this bunny across the street pulling a gun.” He tapped the large breast pocket on the left of his raglan overcoat. “This is the place to carry a gat, Jack—no fooling. I scoop my gat out of here and turn and I don’t hold six marksmanship medals for nothing. I drill that guy three times and all he does is bust the mirror in the chewing gum machine with a wild shot.”

  Cardigan swallowed. His bright idea had almost cost Boggany his life twice over the space of a very short time. He actually gripped the detective’s arm, said: “Good work, Hube! I’m damned glad!”

  Boggany shook his head, puzzled. “I thought for a minute it might have been the guy made the date with you, but this guy was dressed different—he had on a blue fedora, a black overcoat and he didn’t carry no cane.”

  “Any reason why he should have taken a crack at you?”

  “That’s what gets me, Jack. None I know of.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Who was he, you mean. He ain’t anymore, boy. I put my postmark on him and mailed him where all rats go. He was a lug by the name of Toronto Komoski. He used to be mixed up in a dog track several years ago; he used to slam down on crap games and I hear he was suspected of white-slaving. I never met him before but the copper on the beat knew him…. Well, I got to rush, kid. See me again.”

  Cardigan walke
d, and the shivers that danced up and down his spine were not caused by the cold wind. It made him sick when he realized how close he had come to being the cause of Hube Boggany’s death.

  Chapter Four

  Stormy Scholtz

  CARDIGAN shaved at six and put on a clean shirt. He put on the same tie he had worn since his arrival in Danbridge; it was, in fact, the only tie he had along. A stiff wind was rattling the windowpanes and this called for a stiff drink. He poured four fingers of Irish whiskey into a water glass and downed it. It jolted, but not unpleasantly. He dropped the empty bottle into a waste basket, piled into his ancient ulster and yanked on his shapeless fedora. Anticipating a thick, juicy steak, he drummed his big feet down to the main-floor corridor, pulled open the hall door and barged out through the lighted vestibule. Halfway down the outside steps he stopped short.

  Mae Riley was leaning against the iron newel post at the foot of the steps. It was pretty dark. The street lights had been turned on but they were at her back and above, so he could not see her face clearly. But he knew it was Mae, he could tell by the outlines, the rig of her clothing. Standing where he was, he scowled down at her.

  “Well, Alice in Wonderland, imagine my surprise,” he said caustically. “The only difference between you and a bad penny that turns up all the time is that you can toss the bad penny in the river. A wise gal, eh? I don’t think so too much. Any town that you and me are in at the same time might just as well be a goldfish bowl as far as I’m concerned. Count on it, baby; count on it any time When you’re around I rate about as much privacy as a flagpole sitter or an incubator baby. All right, go ahead, hang your head. Be silent. Look injured.” He strode down the steps, shook his finger at her and muttered: “If there wasn’t a law against it I’d wring your neck. I’d—”

  She rolled a bit against the iron newel post. He saw her hand slipping from the top of it, the fingers sliding across the iron. He grabbed hold of her arm. Her body rolled away from the newel post and he could feel her sway in his grip. He shook her.

  “Mae!” he muttered, his eyes suddenly wide and sharp. “What’s the matter, kid? Mae—”

  She was, he saw, almost out on her feet.

  He walked her up the steps, practically lifting her at each step. He got her into the corridor and then he picked her up in his arms and carried her up to his apartment, laid her down on the sofa. Pulling off her hat, he saw that her hair was tousled. There was a black-and-blue mark on her face. She was not completely out but she was not far from it. Her left hand was clenched and he saw a piece of paper protruding between its fingers. He pried the fingers open and took out a crumpled corner of a newspaper. Along the margin was written in pencil 2221 McFadden. 3 rings. Top floor. Broken knob. He thrust it into his vest pocket, dropped to his knees.

  “Mae—hey, Mae!”

  Her voice was wandering: “Came to… warn you… Jack. They tried to get me… tell your… your address.” She sobbed. “Maybe I did… can’t remember….” Her head rolled to one side.

  He heaved up and headed for the whiskey bottle, then remembered that it was empty. Swiveling, he took a look at the door, bit his lip, then barged out and locked the door, ran downstairs. He knew where there was a drug store nearby and he reached it in three minutes and bought a pint of rye and a bottle of smelling salts. It took him another three minutes to reach the vestibule of his rooming house. When he got up to the door to his rooms he had a time locating his key; he found it finally but as he was trying to make the keyhole he saw that the door was not completely shut. He gave it a kick and it swung inward. The room, which he had left lighted, was in darkness.

  HE reached in and felt for the light switch, turned it. Nothing happened. He stepped into the room and went groping across it to where he figured the sofa was. His foot struck something that was at once soft and resistant. He dropped to one knee and his bare hand felt around, came in contact with an arm, a hand. His fingers slipped over something moist and a little warm and not thin. He knew that it was blood. There was blood here in the darkness beneath his hand.

  He rose, his throat dry and thick, and felt his way into the bedroom. That light switch worked. He saw that the single wall light in the living-room had been broken. Taking a globe out of the bathroom, he screwed it into the living-room socket. Light glowed in the room. He felt warm and his chest felt tight and congested and there was a heavy brown look on his face.

  Mae Riley lay on the floor in front of the sofa. Her coat was open and there was a red stain about four inches above her right hip, a bit to the front. Her right hand, lying on the carpet, was next to a lean-bladed knife. The blood on the handle hinted that she herself had drawn the knife out of her wound before passing out. Cardigan bent over her, felt her heart beats. They were hardly perceptible. But she still lived. He stood up and took a long step toward the door, intending to go to the wall phone in the hall and call a doctor.

  But Stormy Scholtz stood in the doorway holding a revolver. You couldn’t make out his eyes for the pale glimmer in them.

  “Caught you, eh, Cardigan?” he said slowly, dangerously.

  “Look out, fella. I want to get to that phone in the hall.”

  “How smart, how very smart.”

  Cardigan’s face was red, angry. “Don’t be a fool! I want to get her a doctor!”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “God, I tell you she needs a doctor and I’m going to—”

  Scholtz cocked the trigger. “You keep your hands up!”

  “A doctor, I tell you! I’m going to—”

  He started forward and Scholtz fired. The boom of the gun shook the window panes. Cardigan stopped dismally in his tracks, with a feeling of having been hit on his left arm with a club. For a minute there was no other feeling. Then a line of fire seemed to enter his arm and flash up to his shoulder, across his chest and neck. He winced and leaned on his good right arm against the table.

  He muttered: “For God’s sake get her a doctor! Some guy knifed her! I was going out before and I met her on the steps outside. She was about to cave in. I brought her up here and ran out to get some smelling salts and when I came back there she was, knifed. Get a doctor—better get an ambulance!” With an outcry of rage he barged past Scholtz, headed for the phone. But he saw the sharp-faced rooming-house proprietor in the hallway. “Get an ambulance!” he roared.

  The sharp-faced man hopped to the telephone.

  Scholtz was on his knees beside Mae. “Geez, Mae,” he muttered.

  Cardigan was saying: “You fat-head, I’ve got a sweet arm on account of you!”

  SCHOLTZ stood up and said: “One more chirp out of you and you’ll have a new kind of belly but it won’t do you much good.”

  “Yeah? Well, listen to me, angel child. I had nothing to do with this. But maybe I’ve got an idea who did. And that’s where I’m going, bum arm and all.” He fished the torn bit of newspaper out of his vest pocket. “Read that, if you can read.”

  Scholtz scowled at it.

  Cardigan demanded: “It’s Mae’s writing, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, and what about it?”

  “That’s what she gave me when she came here, and that’s where I’m going. I ought to go to a hospital but what’s the sense of getting patched up and then going out and getting all unpatched again. I’ll get it all over with at one time. She’s probably been held and slapped around a bit. She probably escaped or gave my address and was released. Anyhow, she came here. Why whoever knifed her didn’t go for me, since it was my address they wanted, I don’t know. It’s screwy but I’ll unscrew it. Give me that hunk of paper. I trusted to my memory once on an address and crashed into an old maid’s home instead of the place I was supposed to crash, a creep joint. Come on, stupe, give me it!”

  Scholtz was beginning to look excited in a heavy way. “Now wait a minute. Look at your hand, it’s all bloody. You can’t go around that way.”

  “I can’t, can’t I? Why, once in San Francisco—”

 
“Hurdle the autobiography. I’m not impressed. You stay here and I’ll go. I’ll dust this address better than a vacuum cleaner.”

  Cardigan slapped the piece of paper out of his hand, snapped it up before it fell to the floor. “I’m the laddie that’s going, you kraut. You stay here and sharpen pencils for the story you’re going to write. That’s your business. Leave the rough edges to a guy that knows his way around—”

  “Ha! You, for instance!”

  Cardigan was on his way to the door. Over his shoulder he growled: “I’ve got no time to waste on guys that aim at a guy’s belly and only bust him in the arm. Goom-by.”

  Scholtz bawled to the sharp-faced man: “Brother, you stay here with the gal till the ambulance comes. Tell ’em to spare no expense on this gal, the Morning Express will pay for it. Tell ’em I’ll see them later—just say Stormy Scholtz left in a hurry accompanied by a bad smell named Cardigan, a so-called detective—ha!”

  Downstairs in the lobby Cardigan crowded him, spoke in a low hard voice: “Reporter, you’re horning in on my private parade.”

  “I’m keeping you honest, pal. Come on, don’t be a thick Mick all your life. Let’s go.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “And I’m telling you—”

  “Nuts!” yelled Cardigan.

  “And back at you—roasted!”

  They ran down the outside steps, side by side, calling each other unpleasant names. Scholtz snarled at a taxicab.

  Chapter Five

  Big-Hearted Mick

  NUMBER 2221 McFadden Road was a boxlike frame building of three stories. A store occupied the ground floor. There were two show windows flanking a central door and above the windows and the door was a large wooden sign reading, SECOND HAND FURNITURE BOUGHT AND SOLD. Beneath this legend was another which said, in smaller letters, Anything From A Fountain Pen To A Fire Engine. The two stories above the store were dark. The windows, in fact, were boarded up. But there was a light in each show window and there was another light inside. The show windows were jam-packed with all kinds of cast-off junk.