“Hey, where you going?”
Cardigan turned to see the policeman striding toward him. He took his cigar out of his mouth and said: “To the fights.”
“What are you doing—trying to be funny?”
“What’s funny about going to the fights?”
The policeman jerked his thumb. “I got something to show you.”
“Make it good.”
The policeman’s grin was without humor. “It’s good all right. Come on.”
CARDIGAN put his cigar back between his teeth and followed the policeman into the men’s washroom. The headwaiter was there, patting his forehead with a handkerchief. Lying on the floor, his body twisted, his derby several feet away, was the small man who was looking for his sister. But he wouldn’t be looking for her anymore.
“Good?” said the policeman grimly.
Cardigan held his cigar tightly between his teeth. He saw that the policeman had evidently ripped open the small man’s coat and shirt. The tattered shirt was bloody, and there was blood all over the small man’s chest. His eyes were open, glassy. He was dead. There was a knife on the floor.
The headwaiter was saying, “I’m sorry. Mr. Cardigan, but I remembered he asked where you was sitting, you remember—”
“You could’ve told me when you called the cops.”
“I—I was all mixed up.”
“Who is he, Cardigan?” the policeman asked.
“His name’s Hill—that’s all I know. He wanted to hire us. That’s all I know about him. It’s tough—me just speaking to the little guy a short while ago.”
“Why’d he want to hire you?”
“He was looking for his sister.”
“Was there anybody with him?”
Cardigan turned to the headwaiter. “You didn’t see anybody with him, did you?”
The headwaiter, who was still upset, shook his head.
“What was this here now guy’s sister’s name?” the policeman asked.
“He said it was Elinor,” Cardigan told him.
“O.K., stick around till the lieutenant comes.”
Cardigan, staring moodily down at the dead man, buttoned his ulster and said: “I’ve got a date.”
“You just stick around, I said. You stick around here till the lieutenant comes.”
Cardigan put on his battered fedora. “If the lieutenant wants me, he knows where he can find me. Meantime, just as a suggestion, you ought to keep people out o’ this washroom—you might get some fingerprints.”
The policeman’s face reddened. “I didn’t ask you for no suggestions. I told you to stick around. Now, cut out being cute, and stick around—”
A waiter pushed open the door, said: “Mr. Cardigan here?”
“Yeah,” said Cardigan.
“Phone, out here.”
“See you come back in again,” the policeman warned.
“O.K., I’ll humor you, copper,” Cardigan said and followed the waiter out to the cashier’s desk. The telephone was there, disconnected, and Cardigan picked it up and said: “Hello…. Yes, Patsy…. What?” His bushy brows pulled together and a frown dug deep furrows in his forehead. He bit off, “I’ll be right over.”
He slammed the instrument together, pivoted and went out of the Sea Grill like an ill wind.
Chapter Two
“Take That—Cardigan!”
THERE was no wind in Market Street. The drizzle, cold and penetrating, fell straight down past the street-lamps and the lighted store windows. Umbrellas bobbed and swayed and the windows of passing street-cars were opalescent. People hurried, dodged and weaved. Crowds were in front of the movie theaters. A loudspeaker blared in front of a radio store. Automobiles swished on the wide street, the drizzle dancing and sparkling in front of their headlights.
It was not far from the Sea Grill to the old building where the Cosmos Agency had its office—three blocks. Cardigan’s long legs carried him swiftly through the crowd. The clamor of the city beat upon his ears, but he hardly noticed it. He thrust into the lobby of his office building, saw that the elevator was somewhere aloft and stretched his legs up the wide old staircase. He went up to the third floor and down the wide corridor toward the ground-glass door that was lettered Cosmos Detective Agency.
His big hand closed on the knob, turned it. He gave the door a shove and, as it swung inward, he stood on the threshold, brows bent, a dark curiousness in his deep-set eyes. His assistant, Patricia Seaward, small, trim, stood leaning against the edge of the desk in the front office. Her small, neatly manicured hand was gripping a short, compact automatic pistol. The muzzle of the pistol was aimed at a man who sat on one of the straight-backed chairs.
Cardigan stepped into the office and kicked the door shut with his heel. “Pretty, Pat,” he grunted. He pulled out his own gun, a .38 revolver, and added, “O.K., precious.”
Visibly tired, tense, Pat gave a sigh of relief and dropped her gun into the pocket of the tailored gray jacket she wore. Her hands trembled, as she lit a cigarette. She said: “He’s got a gun in his righthand overcoat pocket, chief.”
Cardigan gestured with his revolver. “Stand up, fella, and look at the wall. Oh, no—not that way. Hands up. Both hands.”
He stepped up behind the man and relieved him of a .32 automatic. He tapped all his other pockets and then said: “Now, sit down again.” He looked at Pat. “So what, Patsy?”
Cigarette smoke was curling round her dark hair. “He came in about five minutes after I sent that little fellow over to look you up at the Sea Grill. He looked like trouble, the minute he came in, so I opened the desk drawer and left it open, so I could get at my gun if I had to. He wanted to know why the little fellow was looking for somebody named Elinor Hill. He thought the little fellow was one of our detectives. I told him he wasn’t—I told him I’d never seen the little fellow before. He wouldn’t believe me. He lost his temper and made a pass at his coat pocket. I beat him to the draw, as you’d say.”
The man was in his twenties. He was slender, well-dressed. He sat rigidly in the chair and stared angrily straight before him, giving no corner of his eyes to either Cardigan or Pat Seaward. His jaw was set, and there was a patch of color on either cheek-bone.
“What’s your name?” Cardigan asked.
“My name’s my own business,” the man said doggedly.
“So you’re going to act that way? You pile in here and get fresh, and now your name’s your own business. Well, brother, it won’t be your own business long.”
The man cocked his chin. “Listen, I made a mistake. All right, I made a mistake. I thought that little guy was a detective. I’m sorry I got fresh with the girl there, but I was all steamed up, and I apologize.”
“All right, good. Now, what’s your name?”
“That’s out. It’s none of your business. I didn’t pull a gun on the girl. She pulled one on me.”
“She took the benefit of the doubt. You made a pass at your pocket, and I found a gun in that pocket—I didn’t find any peppermints.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “Where is Elinor Hill?”
An angry scowl clouded the man’s eyes and he rasped: “Oh, so you are looking for Elinor Hill!”
“A lot of people, buddy, will be looking for Elinor Hill before you have to shave again. Some of these people will be in uniform, and some won’t, but they’ll all be wearing badges—police badges. The little guy is dead. He was knifed within the past half hour, in the men’s room at the Sea Grill, down the street—apparently, because he was looking for Elinor Hill.”
“Oh,” murmured Pat, her eyes round with shock.
THE man’s hands closed on his knees and gripped them tightly. His lips pressed together, and he seemed to wince. Then, suddenly, he looked up at Cardigan with eyes from which all animosity had drained. He seemed, now, bewildered. His face was white, and, against that whiteness, small beads of perspiration began to show.
“So the police will want to know about Elinor Hill,” Cardigan muttered. “O.K., y
ou don’t have to tell me. I’m not in this. The little guy was not a client of mine. He wanted to hire me, but he didn’t have the dough. It’s no skin off my knuckles. I’m clean as the first snowfall.”
He stopped talking, and Pat looked at him. Now, she, too, seemed a little bewildered. A heavy silence descended upon the office. The man sitting on the chair was grimacing. His knuckles were bone-white against his knees. Then, abruptly, he spoke in a clogged desperate voice.
“I wish I knew where Elinor was.” He stared upward at Cardigan and cried: “She’s got nothing to do with this.” He jumped to his feet. “You’re a detective. You could find her. Maybe you could find her.” Anxiety welled in his eyes. “Why can’t you find her for me?”
Cardigan’s smile was bleak. “I charge, mister. The police will find her—for nothing. I tell you, I don’t want to have anything to do with Elinor Hill. The luckiest thing ever happened to me was when her brother didn’t have enough dough to hire me.”
The man squinted. “Her brother?”
“Sure. The little fellow that was killed.”
“Her brother? Who said he was her brother? I don’t believe it. She had no brother. She said she was an only child.” Bewildered again, his shoulders sagged, and he passed a hand across his damp forehead. Then he looked at Cardigan and said in a thick, muffled voice: “Find her for me. I can pay you. I’ve got a couple of hundred in the bank. Listen, I love her. Do you understand that? I love her. I asked her to marry me. And the day after I asked her, she went away.
“We lived in the same rooming-house out on California Street. But she didn’t go away because she was mad at me. She cried when I asked her. She told me she couldn’t ever marry me. She was a mysterious girl, crying one day and happy the next. Listen, I’m sorry I acted the way I did when I came in here. I was just all steamed up. I always figured there was something strange in Elinor’s life, something that made her unhappy.
“That little fellow came out to the rooming-house looking for her this afternoon. It just happened that I was in the hall, and he asked me. I don’t know why, but I was scared—for Elinor. I didn’t like him. I told him she didn’t live there anymore. I told him she hadn’t left any address. That was the truth, of course. As he left, Mrs. Beardsley, who runs the rooming-house, came out in the hall and said, ‘Did I hear someone asking for Elinor Hill?’ I had to say ‘yes.’ Then she said, ‘That’s funny. A man was here this morning looking for her. Was it the same one—a kind of fat man?’ Then she went inside. And then I followed the little fellow. Who are these men? I know—I’ve got a feeling—they mean to harm Elinor.”
“Well, that’s tough mister,” Cardigan said. “And it’s tough I can’t do anything to help you.”
“You can, though. Why can’t I hire you? Listen, my name’s Edward Burke. I’m in the radio business. I sell and repair radios. I live on California Street. I’ve got two hundred and sixty dollars in the Northlight Savings Bank. I’ve got here”—he emptied his pockets—“twenty dollars with me now. I’ve got to find Elinor. Somebody’s after her. Somebody means to harm her—”
“Eddie, my boy,” said Cardigan, “I begin to like you and it’s tough I can’t help you. But the police are in the case now, and I’ve turned over a new leaf. I play along with the police instead of against ’em.”
THE sound of tramping feet in the corridor caused Cardigan to stop, raise an ear. He put his gun away in his pocket and looked at the door. The door whipped open, and Lieutenant Shag Hartman, a big, blocklike man, in a brown overcoat and tan fedora, came in, leading two other plainclothesmen—Sam Rosario and Augie Bauerhaus.
“Well, well, Cardigan, there you are,” Hartman said in a hefty, good-natured voice. “Now, a guy sees you—now, he don’t.” He had his hands in his pockets and, as he spoke, an oval cigarette, cork-tipped, bobbed in a corner of his mouth. He kept on coming across the office, a smile playing at his lips but his eyes cold and blue and squinted at the corners.
“How you feeling, Shag?” Cardigan said.
“Swell,” Hartman said, stopping in front of the Cosmos op. “And I’m going to feel sweller.” He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and whacked his knuckles across Cardigan’s face. “Take that—Cardigan!”
Cardigan didn’t budge. His body moved backward a bit but his feet did not budge an inch. The blow hurt, for, on Hartman’s fingers, were two heavy gold rings.
Hartman stood rocking on the balls of his feet, smiling around his cork-tipped cigarette, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “When a cop tells you to stick around, Cardigan—stick around.”
“You don’t have to crack down on him that way,” Pat cried.
“Lady, keep your oar out of this.”
“Why—because you say so? Don’t be silly.”
“Shut up, Pat,” Cardigan grunted. “Always depend on the lieutenant to swing when he’s got a couple of stooges along.”
“Who’s a stooge?” demanded Sam Rosario.
“What do you think that shield makes you—a cop?”
“Don’t get Sam riled, Cardigan,” Angie Bauerhaus advised. “He gets nervous, every time his brother Bugs fights. Well, Bugs is fighting tonight.”
“That palooka,” spat Cardigan. “Any time anybody hits him an inch below the chin, he yells for a foul—”
“Pardon me, Lieutenant, while I go into swing-time,” Sam Rosario gritted. “It’s amateur night.”
“Keep your pants on,” Shag Hartman said.
“Well, he can’t make cracks about my brother.”
“Forget about your brother,” Hartman growled. “There was a guy murdered tonight.” He turned back to Cardigan, dropping his voice. “Yes, there was a guy murdered tonight.”
There were marks on Cardigan’s cheekbone where Hartman’s rings had struck, and, in his eyes, dark beneath his overhanging brows, a low, vindictive fire glowed. “Yeah. He was knifed. Look around here. Maybe you’ll find the knife.”
“Don’t get sarcastic, Cardigan. I know you didn’t knife the guy. But one of the waiters seen you write something down and give it to him, before he left your table. What was it?”
“One of my cards. He could only afford a cut-rate agency, so, to get rid of him, I gave him Tap Eggleson’s address. You probably found the card on him. It’s no clue, Shag.”
“No, I didn’t find it on the body. I didn’t find no card at all. But skip it. I really came around here, anyhow, just to slap your puss and teach you manners. When a cop tells you to stick around, hereafter—stick around.”
“Slap it again sometime when you haven’t got support along,” Cardigan muttered. “I had an idea, just before you came in here, Lieutenant. You slapped the idea right out of me.”
Hartman strode to the door, saying, “Someday, I’ll slap more than ideas out of you. Come on, boys. We got a murder on our hands. Come on, Augie, pick your feet up—they ain’t nailed down.”
The three detectives filed out. Sam Rosario, going last, slammed the door so hard that Cardigan expected the glass panel to jump out. He curled his lip, fingered his bruised cheek-bone and stared blackly at the door.
“Gosh, chief,” Pat said. “I’m sorry he took that swing at you.”
Edward Burke was gradually letting his breath out. All through the scene which Cardigan had staged with the detectives, Burke had remained in the background, white-faced, apprehensive. Cardigan had fully intended turning him over to the police, but Shag Hartman’s backhanded blow had caused his thoughts to take another track. Now, he raised his dark eyes from the door, swung them, placed them on Burke. Burke, unable to read what was in his face, still nervous and uncertain, found some difficulty in swallowing.
“Give me ten dollars,” Cardigan said.
“Uh—what?”
“You’re a client! Can work with you. I’m behind the eight-ball, myself.”
Chapter Three
Slide Fast, Sister
BY NOON next day, you heard, wherever you went, the name of Elinor Hill. You heard
it on street corners, on the Powell Street cable-car, in lunchrooms, hotel lobbies, along the Embarcadero and around the braziers at Fishermen’s Wharf. You heard it all the way from India Basin to the Presidio. There was a peculiar kind of magic about it. Elinor Hill was not charged with any crime, and yet her name was mentioned a thousand times more than the name of the small man who had been murdered in the washroom of the Sea Grill.
The police dragnet had been thrown out for Elinor Hill, within two hours of the small man’s sudden death. On him, the police had found the scribbled California Street address and, at that address, they learned that Elinor Hill had lived there, alone, in a single room, until six months before. She had lived there for five months. She had lived quietly, unobtrusively. And one day she had moved, leaving no forwarding-address. There was no convenient photograph. There was nothing tangible that Elinor Hill had left behind. Two men had stopped by and asked for her, and one of those men was now dead. The local-precinct men, who made the inquiries at the rooming-house, were unable to send anything worth while to police headquarters, except a vague description of the two men who had stopped there looking for Elinor Hill. One of these men was dead, the other was still at large.
The dead man’s name was not Hill. Papers found in his pocket showed his name to be Vincent Finney, his calling that of a ship’s steward. He had recently sailed in the S.S. Amelia, now lying along the Embarcadero after a voyage from Central American and Mexican ports.
“I see your name’s in the paper, too, chief—eight times,” Pat Seaward said.
“That’s Shag Hartman’s doing,” Cardigan replied. “He likes to make a private detective out as a public enemy. It’s all your fault. You had to go soft-hearted and send that little guy, Finney, around to see me at the Sea Grill. Now, it turns out he was giving me a song-and-dance.”
“Oh, I suppose you didn’t go softhearted? You told him to go around and see Tap Eggleson, didn’t you?”
“All right, Patsy—all right.”
HE TOOK a cab down to the Embarcadero, got off and walked into a pier shed and climbed aboard the S.S. Amelia. She was a small, rusty cargo vessel with a lean stack and an open navigating bridge. Stevedores were working cargo into her. Cardigan climbed to the bridge-deck and found a beefy, big-handed man, leaning against the rail and sucking on a pipe.
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37 Page 35
