“Don’t try to go baritone on me, Gig,” Cardigan said. “You’re at heart a tenor, or maybe a soprano. Some guy phoned me. All right, I told Pat to tell him to shop someplace else. Then you had to stick your oar in it.”
“Get out!”
“What, when I’ve come this far? Don’t be comical so soon.”
Collianti spun around and snapped, “Hey! Nagle! McGorum! Weiskopf!”
Three burly uniformed cops came trampling through the soggy plaster and Collianti said, “Toss this bum out.”
“Now, look here!” Cardigan banged out.
One of the cops said, “School’s out, fella,” and then the three of them ganged on Cardigan and rushed him into the corridor. He got in one blow at the head of the stairs and the next thing he knew he was at the bottom of the stairs. The three cops were there, also. They picked him up and shellacked him all the way down to the hall door. He landed on his neck in the street. A fireman picked him up.
“Be careful, it’s slippery,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Cardigan. “Move a bit, will you? You’re standing on my hat.”
He picked up the hat, crammed it on his head, rubbed an elbow and a knee and looked up at the face of the building while a wicked smile drew his lips tight across his teeth. A fire ladder extended from the sidewalk to the gaping hole in the top floor. He climbed it, the skirt of his ulster bagging and slapping in the wind. As he went into the room through the hole, he saw Collianti and the tousle-haired man still arguing. Collianti turned around.
“Count to one,” Cardigan said.
Collianti, hit flush on the jaw, measured his length in the gummy sludge on the floor.
The tousle-haired man said, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re Treadwell, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Cardigan. You wanted to see me. I’ll be at Pagliacci’s in an hour.”
“What! Are you Cardigan?”
Chapter Two
Suicide Won’t Stick
PAGLIACCI’S smelled of sizzling steaks and chops, hot sauces, spices, and strong cigar smoke. Filippo Pagliacci was a very small broad man with salt-and-pepper suits and always looked neat and well brushed. Besides owning the restaurant, he was a city alderman and carried a lot of weight in his district and elsewhere.
Cardigan poked him in the small of the back and said, “Hello, Paggy.”
Pagliacci wheeled around and burst into laughter. “Holly jizz, Jack, you scare-a de hal outa me! Besides, I’m a-ticklish. Wal, wal, how’s de beega guy, huh? Whassa dat on you’ jaw? You been a fight, ha? You wazza lead wit’ you right, ha? Is bad beezness, keed—you shoulda al-ways lead wit’ de left. Like-a dis!”
“Hey, cut it out, Paggy,” Cardigan grinned, ducking.
Pagliacci gripped his arm, pressed it. “You gotta t’ings on you’ mind, ha?”
“Yeah, maybe. Am I still a good guy, Pag?”
“My shirt she’s a yours, keed.”
Cardigan lifted his chin. “There’s a guy waiting for me.” He went on among the tables until he came to one at which Treadwell was standing with outthrust hand. “I’m late,” Cardigan said. “Had to get patched up a little.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got you into something.”
“Think nothing of it. I got myself into it. Sit down. And tell me what happened and what you want done.”
“Yes, of course. You probably know nothing about me but my name. I own and operate a men’s shop on Barring Street. It’s called Treadwell House.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Treadwell leaned back. He had a fine long head topped by gray hair, which now was combed back neatly. His eyes were gray and deep-set and he had a small but determined jaw. He inhaled slowly and said gravely: “My brother Jerry, of course, is—dead. A gas explosion, as you perhaps know. The gas log was turned on full blast and when he lit a match, which we must suppose he did, the explosion occurred, killing Jerry and wrecking the top floor of the rooming-house. Collianti’s determined to put it down as suicide. I—I can’t believe it.”
“What does Collianti go on?”
“A letter, for one thing—part of a letter. It said, ‘Dear Jerry. We can’t go on like this. One of us will have to do something very desperate.’ The rest of it was charred away. Then, this morning the landlady heard him on the telephone in the lower hall. It’s a coin machine, a dial phone. She heard him say to someone, ‘It’s the only way out. I want to do it. I’ve got to do it.’ Then, he was seated in an armchair—what was left of him—when they found him.”
“Who’s the girl in the case?”
Treadwell shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. You see, Jerry and I didn’t see much of each other. He was younger than I am, much younger—twenty-seven. He was assistant manager at the Gold Club. I’d always wanted him to come in business with me. We—we didn’t get on well. But he was my brother, and I did love him, Mr. Cardigan, under it all.”
CARDIGAN broke a bread stick in two. He said: “Much as I dislike Collianti’s guts, it looks as if he’s reasoned things out. What makes you think your brother didn’t commit suicide?”
Treadwell put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands firmly together. “Strangely enough, though we saw each other seldom, I did run into Jerry on the street yesterday. He was a jolly boy. He looked particularly jolly yesterday. I met him as he came out of the First National Bank. I asked him how he was doing. ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Pretty soon, Amos, I’m going to be a very happy guy.’ I wanted to know why. He said, ‘I’ll tell you later. Have lunch with me next Wednesday.’”
Cardigan frowned. “It still doesn’t mean anything. Collianti still has the edge on you.”
“But I tell you, I feel things. Jerry was not the moody type. He wouldn’t be happy one day and commit suicide the next. It doesn’t make sense. He was found in that chair with his hat and overcoat on. The overcoat was buttoned. The key to his apartment was clasped in his hand.” Treadwell struck the table with the flat of his palm. “Find the woman who wrote that note. Make the police leave the apartment just as it is—everything just as it is.”
“What time was the blast?”
“At twenty past six. This time of year, it would have been dark, naturally.”
Cardigan said, “When Collianti came to, what did he say?”
“He’d have you in jail by midnight.”
“That’s what I thought. Excuse me a minute.”
Cardigan stood up, strode to the front of the restaurant and buttonholed Pagliacci. They went into the bar, and Cardigan said, “Paggy, I’m maybe going to get in some trouble.”
“So how come?”
“I socked a cop.”
Pagliacci made a face as though someone had stepped on his toe. “Jack, why de hal you doing dat alla time? Is bum beezness.”
“Collianti. He had me tossed out of a place, and I spent an hour getting patched up. Get me, I got tossed before I socked him. Can you fix it up? I’m on a job, and there’s no time to kill.”
“I fix,” nodded Pagliacci. “I fix dees up swal. Collianti, ha? Dat lousy dago! I’m a like to fix Collianti some day good! Axcuse, pliss. I go talephone now.”
Back at the table, Cardigan said to Treadwell: “I think it’s O.K. Collianti was once engaged to one of Paggy’s daughters and jilted her. I remembered that when I asked you to meet me here.”
THE wind had an edge like a sharp cold knife. It sliced the length of Du Barry Street, rattling and clapping the canvas marquees of the restaurants and night-spots. There were blue lights and green lights and red lights, winking fast and slow. The Gold Club sign, which did not wink, was a deep yellow. The doorman was a big Negro dressed in purple and gold. The door was black and gold. Inside, the lobby was painted gold and the carpet was deep mulberry and the male attendants were in dinner clothes, the cloakroom girls wearing evening dress. It was after eleven.
The wind came in with Cardigan, tearing briefly at his shabby ulster and shiver
ing the shapeless brim of his hat. His tie was hanging outside his coat and his shaggy hair stood on end.
One of the male attendants came over and said, “The management, sir, recommends formal dress.”
“Swell!” said Cardigan. “Glad to hear it!” He took off his overcoat, his hat, and plopped them into the arms of one of the girls. He shoved his tie back inside his coat.
“The management, sir—”
“I know, I know. The management recommends. And Cardigan regrets. That’s me. Cardigan. Go tell your boss I want to see him. Here or in the bar or in his office. Meantime, I’ll be in the bar. With all this flu around, a guy’s got to keep his throat sterilized. D’you get the name? Cardigan.”
The Cosmos op swung beneath an archway, went down three steps and into a snug, gold-and-glass bar at which there were high stools with soft leather seats and upholstered backs. Everybody was in dinner-clothes or tails but Cardigan.
He said to one of the barmen: “Well, if it isn’t Spanish Ike Moskowitz from the old Nail Hole Bar in Railroad Street. Up in the world, eh, kid? Make it rye, straight, with water on the side.”
“Skip the Spanish Ike, Jack, pal. I’m known as ‘Arnoldo’ here account of I look Spanish.”
Cardigan laughed and downed his drink straight. A hand touched his elbow and he turned to see a blond man, slender and wooden-faced, regarding him. The man said: “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You want to see the boss?”
“You’re not Karnehan. I saw Karnehan once.”
“I’m Nielsen, the manager. What do you want?”
“Karnehan.”
Nielsen studied him closely. “You can talk to me.”
“Sure I can. But I don’t want to. You might be a nice guy, Nielsen, but I want to see Karnehan. Tell him. What do I have to do, go into an act or something? Go ahead, be a good guy.”
Nielsen gave him another prolonged look, then said, “Wait here,” and walked away. He came back in ten minutes and said, “O.K., come on.”
KARNEHAN’S office was on the top floor, and once inside it you heard no exterior sound. It was paneled in oak, heavily carpeted, comfortably furnished. Karnehan sat at a long narrow table playing checkers with a small, slight, freckle-faced man whose red hair clung to his scalp like short-clipped wool. Nielsen closed the door.
Cardigan said, “Nice joint, up here.”
Karnehan was bent over the checker-board and without raising his eyes he said, “What do you want, Cardigan?”
“Talk about Jerry Treadwell.”
“Talk, then.”
Cardigan picked what looked like the most comfortable armchair and dropped into its leather depths. Nielsen remained standing by the door, his fingers thrust straight in his coat pockets, thumbs protruding. The red-haired young man was intent on his game. He made a move.
Cardigan, lounging back, said, “You know more about Treadwell than I do, Karnehan. Why don’t you talk?”
Karnehan made a move. The red-haired man made two moves, captured two men. Karnehan growled and said: “I knew I shouldn’t have moved that one…. Why, Jerry worked here three years. He was Al Nielsen’s assistant. He committed suicide, they tell me. That’s tough. He was a nice lad and he’d have gone far. That reminds me, Al. Don’t forget about the flowers.”
“There was a girl,” said Cardigan.
Karnehan looked up at Nielsen. “He says there was a girl. Now that’s something.” He was a very large man, pink-faced, dead-eyed, gross. His collar was almost hidden by his jowls. He was in his forties. He looked at Cardigan gloomily. “What would you expect? Wasn’t he a good-looking guy?”
“Who was the girl?” Cardigan asked.
Karnehan said to Nielsen, “He asks me who was the girl!”
A slight touch of color came into Nielsen’s cheeks.
“Maybe you know, Al,” Karnehan said.
“Not me,” Nielsen said. “He had no time for the girls around here. He could have had ’em by the dozen.”
Karnehan suddenly swept the checkers to the floor. “To hell with this game! Sometime, Bricksy, I’m going to trim you. I’m going to trim hell out of you sometime.” He laughed heavily in an unfriendly way. “Bricksy’s some checker player.” He struck the table with his fist and said: “Go on, Bricksy, go somewhere else. Beat it.”
The red-haired young man stood up and without a word left the room.
Karnehan’s eyes rolled heavily around the room and finally settled on Cardigan. “No soap,” he grunted. “Jerry worked here. I don’t know a thing about his private life. I don’t know any more about his private life than I know about Al’s here. And I don’t know anything about yours, do I, Al?”
Nielsen gave a little laugh. “I hope not, boss.”
Karnehan stuck a cigar between his sullen lips and said: “You too, Cardigan—hoof out of here. I don’t feel like seeing people right now. I got indigestion.”
Cardigan stood up and nodded to a large photograph of a girl, which stood on a bookcase. “She’s de-lovely,” he said. “Who is she—Miss America?”
Nielsen cleared his throat.
Karnehan growled, “O.K., Cardigan, get going, will you?”
Cardigan shrugged. “Nice inscription. ‘To Ed with all my love. Valerie.’ Nice name, too.”
“Blow, blow,” sighed Karnehan. “You’re a funny guy. I hate funny guys.”
Cardigan went out, and Nielsen followed him. On the way down the stairs Cardigan said, “No kidding, who’s the good-looking dame?”
“Ed Karnehan’s wife, dummy.”
Chapter Three
Too Much Dirty Laundry
THE press broke it bright and early next morning and gave it a big suicide play, with quotations by Collianti. There was a picture of Jerry Treadwell. There was the letter—what remained of it. A picture of the facade of the Gold Club also appeared and expressions of regret and sympathy by Karnehan and others whom Jerry Treadwell had known. His landlady said what a fine young man he was, and she told about the telephone incident in the lower hall.
Patricia Seaward said, “Chief, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Making fifty bucks a day.”
She laughed quietly. “Getting even with Collianti, you mean.”
“Mind your own business.”
“Really, the way it reads here, Collianti’s right. Don’t make a fool of yourself just for the sake of a grudge.”
Cardigan was trying, again, to put the cigarette lighter together. “Sugar, it’s more than the grudge. Something smells somewhere. Maybe I’m wrong. But Jerry Treadwell had his hat and overcoat on. The overcoat was buttoned. His door-key was clasped in his dead hand.”
She thought for a moment. “It could have been an accident. No one seems to have thought of that. He might have opened the door, lit a cigarette—”
“That much gas, enough to blow a place up—you’d smell it. Still, Patsy-watsy, you give me an idea.”
“Why don’t you buy a new lighter? You’ve been trying to put that together since yesterday. It cost only a dollar.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.” He got up, put on his hat and overcoat and said, “Goom-by till sometime, precious.”
Down the street, he pulled open a taxicab door and the driver said: “Good morning, sir. My brother is still ill, and I am—”
“Driving his cab for him. O.K., drive it. Two-twelve Ellington and don’t ask me where it is. You’re in the marble business. Not tombstones. Marbles kids play with. Now, shoot.”
The driver tipped his hat. “I am happy you remember me, sir.”
The wind was rolling great white clouds across the sky, and one minute the streets were bright with sunlight, the next bathed in shadow. The street in front of 212 Ellington had been cleared of the debris and, up above, rough boards and a tarpaulin covered the hole in the wall. Cardigan, aided by Pagliacci, had succeeded in having police stationed at the house, with strict orders to admit no one but Cardigan, Amos Treadwell
, and members of the department or the district attorney’s office.
Cardigan showed his card to the cop stationed on the top floor. The cop saluted, offhand. “O.K., I reco’nize you, Mr. Cardigan. I’m Herman Sitzanger, from the local precinct. Maybe you remember me from that bombing in Clemente Street last November, when that guy—”
“Why, I knew you the minute I lamped you, officer. I said to myself, ‘Well, if it isn’t Herman Sitzanger.’”
Sitzangers moon-face beamed. “Didja, now!”
Cardigan dropped his voice. “Collianti been around?”
“In and out, in and out, yeah. He told me to slip downstairs and phone him when you showed up. Funny, it’s a coin phone and I can’t phone him on account of I ain’t got no coin. He will prob’ly be very mad indeed, on account of.”
INSIDE the apartment, small streaks of daylight gloomed. The electricity had been cut off, and Cardigan used a pocket flash. Sitzanger came in and used one, too. The Cosmos op searched through the debris on the floor; he used up an hour and found nothing worth while. He sat down on a chair and examined the damp contents of a battered, broken desk, and then he looked in the closets and in a wardrobe trunk—and found nothing.
He stood in the center of the living-room and swung his flashlight’s beam up and down and around. At times, it flashed across the fat red face of Sitzanger. It wheeled upward and settled on the three-bulbed chandelier in the center of the ceiling. The bulbs were broken but their stumps still showed. Cardigan regarded the chandelier for a long minute. Then he swung the beam down and played it on the light switch just inside the door. He crossed the room and put his finger out, hesitated—dropped his hand back to his side.
Then he stepped back and looked at the door and at the casing. The door was open, flat back against the wall, its wood pitted. Voices on the stairway drew his attention and he went out into the corridor and looked down. The landlady was saying to a gray-uniformed man who carried a cardboard box: “It’s no use. Didn’t you read the papers?”
Cardigan called down, “What’s the matter?”
The man looked up. “Well, I was just deliverin’ Mr. Treadwell’s laundry.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37 Page 39
