HE WALKED into an office where a curly-haired blonde sat at a desk reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. It was a one-room suite and there were two desks.
Cardigan said: “The boss around?”
She sat back and crushed out her cigarette. “No. He stepped out a couple of minutes ago. Can I do something?”
He mentioned the address of the empty house on Washington and asked: “Who’s renting it?”
The girl got up, sauntered across to a filing-cabinet and took out a card-index, which she thumbed leisurely. She shrugged. “Nobody. It’s for sale.”
“When was it last rented?”
“No record here that it was ever rented. The owner moved out a year ago and went to California. Why, would you like to rent it?”
He shook his head, said: “No. Who was the owner?”
She put back the card-index, closed the filing-cabinet and came sauntering back to the desk. “Gustav Wohlman. He used to be in the dairy business.” She sat down and took a pat at the curls above her left ear.
Cardigan was eyeing her steadily.
“Ever hear of the Coast-to-Coast Auto Tourist Society?”
“Uh-uhn,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re trying to sell me something, you’re wasting your time.”
“Ever hear of a man named S.N. Talbott?”
She squinted up at him. “What is this, an intelligence test?”
“Did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you ever hear of a man named John Strawn?”
“Listen, mister, are you trying to be funny?”
He said: “I’m trying to get some information.”
She tossed her curls, gave him an exasperated look. “Well, this doesn’t happen to be an information bureau. It’s a real-estate agency. Ansel Bundy owns it. I work for him. My name is Agnes Mahoney and I get twenty bucks a week and I don’t like wiseacres that walk in here and horse around. If it’s real estate you’re interested in, this is the place. Anything else, you’re up the wrong tree. Is that clear or do you want it under a magnifying-glass?”
“Agnes,” he said, “I could use you. If you ever get out of a job, try the Cosmos Agency and ask for Jack Cardigan. That’s me.”
“Oh, so you sell real estate too, huh? Trying to horn in on that property, huh?”
He shook his head. “When your boss comes in, tell him to phone me—right away.” He scaled a card onto the desk.
She glanced at it, then frowned and picked it up. Her blue eyes lifted and for an instant lay curiously on his face. Then she shrugged, put the card under a glass paperweight. “O.K., I’ll tell him.”
Cardigan turned to go out but at that instant the door opened and a small, fat, rosy-cheeked man breezed in, grinned from ear to ear, said: “Well, well—how do you do! Looking for me, sir?”
“If you’re the boss here, yes.”
“I’m the boss. Have a seat. By all means, have a seat. What was the name?”
“Cardigan. Cosmos Detective Agency.”
Bundy took off his derby, scratched his bald head in thought. Then, “Of course, of course! You have an office here in town. Well, sir, I’m at your service.”
“Swell,” said Cardigan. “You handle a house over on Washington Boulevard. Vacant now. Gustav Wohlman—”
“Yes. Yes, of course. The old Wohlman house.”
Cardigan nodded. “The post office has been delivering mail there for quite some time.”
Bundy laughed, his stomach bouncing. “Ridiculous! The place has been vacant for a year.”
“That’s what’s funny about it,” Cardigan said. “It’s vacant, but mail’s being delivered there—to the Coast-to-Coast Auto Tourist Society.”
Bundy shook his head. “There must be some mistake, I never heard of the people. I ought to know, because I’m the only agent handling the property. You must be in error. You or the post-office department.”
“Suppose,” said Cardigan, “you and I take a run over there.”
Bundy looked at his watch. “Really, I’ve got an appointment—”
“This is important. We can run over in five minutes.”
Bundy looked at Agnes Mahoney. He shrugged and said: “All right, just to convince you, Mr. Cardigan.” He put on his derby and said: “Phone for me, Miss Mahoney—and say I’ll be a little late.”
“O.K.,” she said.
Cardigan went out into the hall and walked with Bundy to the head of the staircase. Then he said, “Just a minute—I forgot something,” and headed back for the office. As he opened the office door, Agnes Mahoney clapped her right hand over the telephone mouthpiece, moved the receiver from her ear down to her cheek. Her eyes were wide, level, her lips pursed.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” Cardigan said, picking up the packet of cigarettes he had left behind.
“I’m waiting for my call,” she said dully.
He winked and left, joined Bundy, who had come halfway up the corridor, and went with him down to the street. Bundy hailed a cab and they rode off.
“It’s really very curious,” Bundy said, putting his round fat head on one side, peering down his short nose. “Are you—er—investigating for the post-office department?”
CARDIGAN shook his head. “No. I’m just trying to locate this so-called tourist society. Somebody apparently once tried to locate ’em—and got knocked off.”
“Mmmmmm,” hummed Bundy, rolling his eyes in surprise. “That is something, isn’t it? Who was it?”
“It’s in today’s papers. A man by the name of Talbott.” He added: “His name ain’t in the papers. He was that unidentified man—”
“Oh, I read that. In Sixth Street, you mean. But I didn’t read anything about this tourist society being connected—”
“Nobody knew—until I found out this morning.”
“Ah, yes. Then I suppose you’re working for Talbott’s family?”
Cardigan frowned, shook his head, said grimly: “No. There was a young kid killed too. You read about that—”
Bundy struck his knee. “By George, sir, you’re right. That’s where I saw your agency’s name. I’d been trying to recall— Yes, yes, of course.” He dropped his voice, shook his head slowly. “Awful, about that poor young boy!”
The cab pulled up in front of the Washington Boulevard house and Bundy bounced out. Cardigan paid and Bundy said: “I’ve only the back-door key along. We’ll have to go around back. Let’s do it quietly—so that if anyone’s inside—”
“I catch.” Cardigan nodded.
Bundy led the way around to the back door, walked on his toes down into the areaway and was careful about making no noise when he inserted the key in the keyhole. He put a finger to his lips, opened the door quietly, inch by inch. Then he entered, still walking on his toes, and Cardigan followed. Cardigan followed him through the basement rooms, then up to the first floor.
Bundy paused at the head of the staircase and whispered: “You see the place is empty.”
“You take this floor. I’ll go upstairs.”
They moved from the deep gloom of the hallway and then Cardigan climbed to the top floor, walked through the rooms, came out to the top of the staircase noisily. Bundy called up: “Nothing down here.”
“Here, either,” Cardigan said and rattled his big feet down the stairs. He walked to the hall door, peered through the dirty window into the dim vestibule. His eyes slid first to one side, then to the other.
Bundy struck his hands together. “You see, Mr. Cardigan, there must be some mistake. The place is entirely empty. You can tell by the dust that no one’s lived here in months.”
Cardigan turned away from the door, went past him and entered a large room where the light was better. Bundy came in, beaming, rubbing his hands together.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like for us to get going. I have an appointment—”
“With me,” Cardigan said, pulling his gun and turning.
Bundy’s features seemed to
shoot upward as his eyes popped.
Cardigan said: “Raise your hands.”
“But look here, now—”
“Up, up, Mr. Bundy,” Cardigan grunted, coming slowly toward him.
Bundy backed up, his short fat arms rising, a look of pain and indignation on his face. “You can’t do this!” he bleated. “You can’t hold me up!”
“Keep the hands high, Mr. Bundy, and stop backing up.”
A spasm of terror raced across the man’s fat face and he turned and bolted through the doorway into the corridor, plunged into its gloom. Cardigan jumped after him, heard him stumble frantically down the stairway to the basement. The big Cosmos op bowled down the corridor, tunneled down the dark, closed-in staircase. His feet hammered on the way through the basement and, reaching the kitchen, he took a terrific jump and landed on Bundy as the latter yanked open the rear door. The door was slammed shut so hard that its glass panel fell out, crashed on the cement areaway.
“Oh—ah—uhn—” gulped Bundy.
Cardigan gripped him by the throat and bounced him off the wall beside the door; caught hold of him again, held him with his left hand while he used his right hand to press his gun against the fat man’s stomach. “Now,” he said, “what about those letters?”
Bundy choked. “Letters! What letters?”
“You picked up some letters that were on the floor inside the front door.”
Bundy spluttered: “I beg your pardon, I did not! What the devil are you talking about?”
“Put up your hands!”
BUNDY raised his hands and Cardigan went through his pockets. There were no letters. Cardigan began to get very red in the face and Bundy, panting indignantly, began to smooth down his rumpled clothing. He panted: “I am beginning to think, sir, that you’re a madman. I’ve a good idea to have you arrested.”
“That,” said Bozeman Shadd, framed in the broken panel, “would be a very good idea indeed.” He opened the door, his face lined with a tight, malicious grin. “Just say the word, mister.”
Cardigan scowled. “How did you get here?”
“Dummy, I asked that taxi-driver where he took you.”
Bundy began to look very puzzled.
Shadd said: “I’m Lieutenant Shadd, mister. I just arrived in time to hear you say you ought to have this big bum arrested. What’s the charge? Any charge, mister, just so long as I can toss him in the can.”
“Listen,” broke in Cardigan. “Not so fast. This was all a mistake. I thought I heard someone down here and in the darkness I grabbed hold of Mr. Bundy by mistake, manhandled him a bit, and he got sore.”
Shadd grunted. “Suppose you let Mr. Bundy do the talking.”
Bundy shrugged. “Well, let’s forget it. Fact is, I was sore at being manhandled—even though it was a mistake.”
Shadd scowled. “Yeah?” He looked at Cardigan. “And what are you doing in here any way?”
“Well, you see,” said Cardigan, “I got a phone call—and I guess it was a crank phone call. Some guy called me up and said that if I wanted to find the man who killed my office boy I should come to this address. Well, I came out and the place looked empty, nobody answered the bell. So I saw Mr. Bundy’s real-estate sign in the window and went over and told him. We came over here and he opened up.”
Bundy still looked injured, and complained: “He accused me of possessing some letters, even. Why, I don’t know. He’s a most unreasonable man—but, as I said, we’ll drop it. He’s doubtless upset over the death of that boy.”
Shadd looked angry. “That’s no excuse for him to slam you around. You make a charge against him and I’ll—”
Bundy shook his head impatiently. “I can’t be bothered. I’m much too busy to be running to court. Besides, you two men seem to have a personal grudge, and I want no part in that. I must go. I have an appointment and I’m late as it is. But,” he said to Cardigan, “if you try any of your barroom tactics again, sir, I’ll take advantage of the law. And now I’ll thank you both to get out.”
Cardigan gave him a sour frown and heaved out into the areaway. Shadd followed. Bundy came last, saying: “And I’ll have to have this window repaired.”
“Send me the bill,” Cardigan muttered, climbing up the areaway steps and walking off through the littered yard.
Chapter Four
Hide-out
ON Washington, Bundy got in a cab and rode off. Cardigan walked and Shadd walked beside him, though Cardigan was so wound up in bitter thoughts that he was hardly aware of the lieutenant.
They came to a corner where two uniformed policemen stood. One of the policemen said: “Hi, Lieutenant.”
“Hi, boys,” Shadd said; and then, “Grab this guy.”
Cardigan stopped and looked at Shadd in dark amazement.
“Grab him!” Shadd snapped.
The two cops closed in on Cardigan. They were big men and they locked him between them. Shadd put on the manacles.
“What’s this for?” Cardigan muttered somberly.
“For striking an officer,” Shadd said. “Or did you forget?” He whistled for a cab, saying: “Come along, boys, in case he gets ideas.”
Cardigan’s face grew dull red, his mouth warped savagely. “Some day, Shadd, I’m really going to strike an officer. I’m going to whittle you down to a hoarse whisper.”
“Get in the cab, loud-mouth. You’re on the wrong wave-length.”
At headquarters, Shadd took off the manacles, sat on the desk in his bare office and said: “Are you going to talk or am I going to toss you in the can?”
Cardigan turned around, strode out of the office, down the corridor, and into another office. Shadd came pounding at his heels. Inspector Fisk was sitting behind his desk plunking a typewriter; he was a beetle-browed man with a heavy preoccupied look.
Cardigan said: “Inspector, I want to know what I have to do to keep this guy from getting under my feet all the time.”
“Now look here!” Shadd exploded, getting between Cardigan and the desk. “You cut out pestering the inspector.”
“Yeah, cut out pestering me—I’m busy,” sighed Fisk.
Cardigan rapped out: “I won’t be shoved around by Shadd here!”
“I’ll shove you around, boy!” Shadd roared; and to Fisk, “He took a sock at me—right in Olive Street! Me—an officer!”
Cardigan said very close to Shadd’s face: “You had no right to make that crack about me—about the kid.”
“Now, now,” said Fisk, “I’m busy. Will you lads please get the hell out of my office?”
Shadd leveled an arm toward the door. “Get out, Cardigan.”
“I won’t get out! I came in here to get justice!” Cardigan whirled on Fisk. “Because this onion didn’t have brains enough to see if Talbott owned a car, he got sore because I happened to find out where Talbott came from. Now I can’t shake him. He thinks I know everything about the case. I don’t know a thing. I’m trying to find out, but every step I take, he’s under my feet.”
Fisk pondered. Then he said: “Boze, go downstairs and get what dope you got on the case. Bring it up here.”
“Right!” clipped Shadd, and stomped out.
Fisk got up, patted himself on the stomach and said: “Excuse me while I go out and get a drink of water.” He marched out of the office whistling.
Cardigan, after a minute, stepped out into the corridor, strolled to the elevator and rang for it. It came up and he rode it down to the basement and walked out into the street. He strode along Twelfth, turned into Olive. His face was dark with anger.
WHEN he entered the Edge Building and banged into the Cosmos office Miss Elfoot said: “Did you meet Pat?”
“No.”
“Well, she went out to that Washington Boulevard address after you.”
He stopped on his way into the inner office and frowned at Miss Elfoot. “Huhn?”
“Yes. She came back here from headquarters, where she found the slugs were from the same gun. I told her where you
’d gone and off she went after you.”
“When’d she leave?”
“About twenty minutes after you left. Later, she phoned back and said that the place was empty but that she was going to hang around and watch it.”
Cardigan’s lips tightened. “Listen. If Shadd shows up, tell him you haven’t seen me. I’m going out to the Bundy Real Estate Agency, on Locust. If you hear from Pat, phone me there. If I’m not there, I’ll phone you later.”
Miss Elfoot said: “You sound as if you’re going to town.”
“I’m going around in circles,” he muttered, “and I got to pull out of them.”
He slammed out and went down to the street and climbed into a taxicab. It headed out Lindell while Cardigan sat with his elbows on his knees, his big hands dangling loosely. There was a dark, lowering look on his face, and menace in his eyes. He did not once look out the cab windows but sat staring straight before him. When the cab drew up in front of the office building on Locust he remained seated for a moment, deep in thought. Then he pushed open the door, shoved his leg out and swung to the pavement. He paid the driver and entered the building, climbed upstairs and strode darkly toward the real-estate agency’s door. The door was locked.
He opened it with a master key, stepped in and let the snap-lock bolt itself shut. Crossing to the desk, he sat down and pulled out all the drawers, rifled them. He found nothing interesting, so he rose and moved to the filing-cabinets, skimmed through correspondence, cards, real-estate listings. Nothing he found roused his curiosity. He sat down again at the desk, leaned back, pulled out a cigar and nipped off the tip. A match flamed off his thumbnail and he puffed the cigar to a nice red end. Then he drew out his gun and laid it on the desk and swiveled a bit in the chair, to face the door.
It took half an hour to smoke the cigar down. Rising, he tossed the butt out the window, emptied the ashes after it. The phone rang and he looked at it for a few seconds, then picked it up. Miss Elfoot was on the wire. As she spoke, he took out a pencil, scribbled on a piece of paper.
“Sit tight!” he said, and hung up, pocketed his gun.
He strode long-legged to the door, let himself out and heard the lock snap shut. His big feet made a lot of noise on the way down the stairs and he ran out in the middle of the street in order to stop a taxi; gave the address and jumped in, adding: “I don’t mind speeding a bit.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37 Page 29
