by Otto Penzler
“M-m-m. I know.”
Kennedy knocked the ash from his cigarette. “Of course, it’s tough on you.” He smiled, shrugged. “I know your hands are tied.”
“Eh?” MacBride’s eyes steadied.
“You heard me, Mac. This little boy knows a lot. Y’ know, you don’t run the Department.”
MacBride’s lips tightened over his pipe.
“ You,” went on Kennedy, “would like to put the clamps on this dirty greaseball, Cavallo. Now wouldn’t you?”
MacBride’s eyes narrowed, and he took his pipe from his mouth. “Would I?” His hand knotted over the hot bowl of the pipe.
“Sure you would. But—” Kennedy shrugged— ”you can’t.”
“Listen, Kennedy. What did you come here for, to razz me?”
“I don’t know why I came here. It was cold out, and I know you keep it warm here. And— well, I just thought I’d drop in for a chat.”
“You thought you’d get some inside dope. Go ahead, come out with it. Well, Kennedy, I’ve got nothing to say. News is as tight here as a drum-head. What a bunch of wise-cracking eggs you’ve got down in your dump. Gink Cavallo’ll laugh himself into a bellyache when he reads it. The lousy bum!”
“Something’s got to break, Mac. When a bootlegging greaseball starts to run a town, starts to run the Department, something’s got to break.”
“He’s not running me!” barked MacBride.
“The hell he isn’t! Don’t tell me. I’m no greenhorn, Mac. Maybe not you personally. But your hands are tied. He’s running somebody else, and somebody else is running somebody else, and the last somebody else is running you.”
“You’re talking through your hat, Kennedy.”
“Oh, am I? No, I can’t lay my hands on it all, but I can use my head. I know a few things. I know that Gink Cavallo is one of the wisest wops that ever packed a rod. He’s a brother-in-law to Tony Diorio, and Diorio is president of the Hard Club, and the Hard Club swings two thousand sure votes and a thousand possible votes. And, you know, Mac, that these wops stick together. Most of the bohunks in the mills are wops, and they’ve sworn by the Hard Club, and—get this, Mac—it was the Hard Club that put Pozzo in for alderman and Mulroy for state’s attorney. And it’s the state’s attorney’s office that’s running the Department—the rottenest administration in the history of Richmond City. It’s just putting two and two together.
“You can’t move, Mac. You’ve got your orders—hands off. What can you do? You’re a captain. You’ve been with the Department for eighteen years. You’ve got a wife and a kid, and if you were kicked out of the Department you’d be on the rocks. I know you hate Cavallo like poison, and I know you’re just aching to take a crack at him. It sure is a tough break for you, Mac.”
MacBride had not batted an eye-lash, had not shone by the slightest flicker of eyes or expression, how he took Kennedy’s speech. He drew on his pipe meditatively, looking down along his beak of a nose. It was in the heart of MacBride that seas of anger were crashing and tumbling. Because Kennedy was right; he had hit the nail on the head with every charge. But MacBride was not the man to whimper or to go back on the Department. Loyalty had been ground into him long years ago—loyalty to his badge.
His voice was casual, “Finished, Kennedy? Then run along. I’m busy.”
“I know, Mac. Kind of touched you on the quick, eh? It’s all right, old-timer. Your jaw’s sealed, too. You’d be one hell of a fool to tell Steve Kennedy how right he is. Well.” Kennedy got up and lit a fresh butt. “It’s all right by me, Cap. But when the big noise breaks, don’t forget yours truly. It can’t go on, Mac. Somebody’ll slip. Some guy’ll yap for more than his share. I’ve seen these rotten conditions before—’Frisco, Chicago, New Orleans. I’m hard-boiled as hell, Mac, and there’s no one pulling any wool over my eyes. I’m just standing by and laughing up my sleeve.” He took a pull on his cigarette. “There’s one wild Mick in your outfit who’s very liable to spill the beans, get himself shoved out to the sticks and maybe poked in the ribs with a bullet, besides.”
“You mean—?”
“Sure. Jack Cardigan. S’ long, Mac.”
“Good bye, Kennedy.”
When the door closed, MacBride let go of himself. He heaved to his feet, spread-legged, his fists clenched, his eyes narrowed and burning intensely.
“God, Kennedy, if you only knew how right you are!” he muttered. “If I was only single—if I hadn’t Anna and Judith. I’m tied all around, dammit! Home—and here!” He sank back into his chair, his head drooping, age creeping upon him visibly.
II
He was sitting there, in precisely the same position, fifteen minutes later. And fifteen minutes later the door swung open swiftly, silently, and Jack Cardigan came in. A tall, lean, dark-eyed man, this Cardigan, rounding thirty years. Men said he was reckless, case-hardened, and a flash with the gun. He was.
“You look down at the mouth, Steve,” he said, offhand.
“I am, Jack. Kennedy—”
“Oh, that guy!”
“Kennedy dropped in to pay me a call. Sharp, that bird. Pulls ideas out of the air, and every idea hits you like a sock on the jaw.”
“Been razzing you?”
“Has he! Jack, he’s got the whole thing worked out to a T. He’d just need my O.K. to spill the whole beans to the public, and likely Police Headquarters ‘d be mobbed. He’s right. He’s got the right slant on the whole dirty business. Jack, if I was ten years younger, I’d tell the Big Boss to go to hell and take my chances. That lousy wop is sitting on top of the world, and his gang’s got Richmond City tied by the heels.”
Cardigan sat down on the edge of a chair. There was something on his mind. You could see that much. He tapped with his fingers on the desk, his lips were a little set, the muscle lumps at either side of his jaw quivered, his dark eyes were close-lidded, active, flashing back and forth across MacBride’s face.
“Brace up, Steve,” he clipped. “I’ve got some news that might knock you for a row of pins.”
“Eh?” MacBride straightened in his chair.
Cardigan’s lips curled. “I came up alone. The sergeant said Kennedy’d gone up to see you. Didn’t notice if he’d left. So I came up beforehand—to see.”
“Kennedy left fifteen minutes ago. What’s up?”
“Enough!” Cardigan took a vicious crack at the desk with his doubled fist. “The dirty pups got Hanley!”
“What!” MacBride’s chair creaked violently. He leaned forward, laid his hand on Cardigan’s knee, his breath sucked in and held.
“Two shots—through the lung and the heart! Somebody’s going to pay for this, Steve! Joe Hanley was my partner—my sister’s husband! There’s nobody’ll stop me—nobody! I’ll—”
“Just a minute, Jack,” cut in MacBride gently. “How ‘d it happen?”
Cardigan got a grip on his temper, bit his lip. “I was out at Joe’s place for dinner tonight, on Webster Road. Marion was a little upset. Kid had a bad cold, and she had a streak of worrying on, just like her. I mind five years ago, how she used to say she’d never marry a cop. She used to worry about me all the time. Not that a cop wasn’t good enough—hell no. But she used to say if she married a cop she’d be laying awake all night worrying. So, like a woman, she married Joe, and Joe’s been a buddy of mine since we were kids. Well, you know that. Then she had two to worry over—Joe and me.
“And she was worrying tonight. Joe laughed. So did I. She got me alone in the hall and told me to watch out for Joe. She’d always been doing this. I kidded her. She said she meant it, and that she felt something was going to happen. I remember how she hung on to him when we breezed. God!”
“Steady, Jack!”
“I know. Well, Joe and I hoofed it to the park, to get a bus into the city. There was none in sight, so we began hiking down Webster Road till one ‘d come. Pretty lonesome there. A car came weaving down behind us, and we heard a girl scream. We turned around and held up our hands for
it to stop. The driver swerved to one side, intending to duck us. He slid into a ditch, roared his motor trying to get out. The girl was yelling hysterically. We saw her pitch out of the car. Then it heaved out of the ditch and was getting under way when Joe hopped it, pulling his rod. Two shots slammed out, and Joe keeled. I had my hands full with the girl. The car skidded and crashed into the bushes.
“I had my rod out then and ran up. Two guys in the back had jumped out and ducked into the bushes. I nailed the chauffeur. He wasn’t heeled, but he was trying to get away, too. He started giving me a line and I socked him on the head so he’d stay put till I looked after Joe. Well, there wasn’t much to look after. Joe was dead. The girl—she was only a flapper—was bawling and shaking in the knees. She’d been pretty well mauled. A machine came along and I stopped it.”
“Wait. You say you got the chauffeur?”
“Sure. He says his name’s Clark, and he’s downstairs, barking for a lawyer.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Pearl Carr’s her name. Just a wise little flapper who thought she was smart by taking a ride. She was waiting for a bus—she told me this— when this big touring car stopped and one of the guys offered her a lift. Sure, she got in, the little fool, and these guys started playing around.”
“Know the guys?”
Cardigan growled. “Two of Cavallo’s guns or I don’t know anything. Her description of one tallies with Bert Geer, that walking fashion-plate. You remember two years ago they nabbed Geer on suspicion for that girl out in St. Louis they found strangled near Grand Gardens. But he got out of it. The other guy sounds like that rat ‘Monkey’ Burns. I took the number of the touring car. I looked up the records downstairs and found the plates had been stolen from a sedan two weeks ago. If they’re Geer and Burns, it means that Cavallo’s in the pot, too, because they’re the wop’s right-hand guns. If we make them take the rap, they’ll draw in Ca-vallo, and just as sure as you’re born Diorio and Pozzo and our estimable State’s Attorney Mul-roy’ll get in the tangle, and there’ll be hell to pay all around. But I’m going through with this, Steve, and the state’s attorney’s office be damned! Joe was my buddy, closer to me than a brother—my sister’s husband! God—can you picture Marion!”
MacBride was tight-lipped, a little pale, terribly grim. The ultimate had come. Would they tie the Department’s hands now?
“Did you let Clark get a lawyer?” he asked.
“No—cripes, no!”
“Then get him up here. Where’s the girl?”
“Downstairs, still bawling. I sent a cop out to get her a dress or something. I phoned her old man and he’s driving in to get her.”
“All right. Leave her there. But get Clark.”
Cardigan went out and MacBride settled back, heaved a vast sigh, crammed fresh tobacco into his pipe. When, a few moments later, the door opened, he was puffing serenely, though deep in his heart there was a great numbness.
Clark came in, aided by a shove in the rear from Cardigan. The detective closed the door, grabbed Clark by the shoulder and slammed him not too gently into a chair.
“Say, go easy there, guy!” whined Clark, a charred clinker of a runt, with a face of seeming innocence, like a mongrel dog.
“Close your jaw!” snapped Cardigan.
Clark spread his hands toward MacBride. “Tell this guy to leave me alone, Captain. He’s been treatin’ me hard. First off he beans me with his gat and since then he’s been chuckin’ me around like I was a rag. I got my rights. I’m a citizen. You can’t go cloutin’ citizens. I got my—”
“Soft pedal,” said MacBride heavily. “So your name’s Clark, eh? How’d you come to be driving that car?”
“I was drivin’ it, that’s all. I’m all right. I don’t know nothin’. I was just drivin’ it. You can’t make a slop-rag outta me.”
“Shut up,” cut in MacBride.
“All right, I’ll shut up. That’s what I’m gonna do. You gotta let me get a lawyer. I got rights. Them’s a citizen’s rights.”
“Listen to the bum!” chuckled Cardigan.
“There, see!” chirped Clark. “He’s still insultin’ me. He’s just a big wise guy, he is. I got my rights. I’ll see you get yours, fella. I was drivin’ a car. All right, I was drivin’ it. I know you guys. I ain’t gotta talk.”
“You’re going to talk, Clark,” said MacBride ominously. “And none of this cheap chatter, either. Talk that counts—see?”
“I ain’t. No, I ain’t. I want a lawyer. Gimme that phone.”
He scrambled out of the chair, clawed for the telephone. Cardigan grabbed him by the nape of the neck, hurled him back so hard that Clark hit the chair aslant and, knocking it over, sprawled with it to the floor. He crouched, cringing, blubbering.
“You leave me alone, you! What the hell you think you’re do in’? You leave me—”
“Get up—get up,” gritted Cardigan. “That’s only a smell compared with what’s coming if you don’t come clean. Get up, you dirty little rat!” He reached down, caught Clark, heaved him up and banged him down into another chair.
Clark’s teeth chattered. His hands fidgeted, one with the other. His mouth worked, gasping for breath. His eyes almost popped from his head.
“Now,” came MacBride’s low voice, “who were the two guys that got away?”
“You can’t make me talk now. You can’t!” Clark gripped the sides of his chair, the stringy cords on his neck bulged. “I ain’t talkin’—not me. I want a lawyer—that’s what. Them’s my rights, gettin’ a lawyer. There!” He stuck out his chin defiantly.
MacBride turned in his chair and looked at Cardigan. Cardigan nodded, his fingers opening and closing.
“Take him into the sweat room, Jack,” said MacBride. “Sweat him.”
Clark stiffened in his chair, and sucked in his nether lip with a sharp intake of breath. He writhed.
“You can’t do that, you can’t!” he screamed. “I got my rights. You can’t beat up a citizen.”
“Citizen, are you?” chuckled Cardigan. “You’re a bum, Clark. You were driving a car with somebody else’s plates. You tried to get away with the other two birds but you weren’t fast enough. My buddy was killed, see? Now you’ll talk. I’ll sweat it out of you, Clark, so help me!”
“You won’t! I ain’t gonna talk. Gawd almighty, I want a lawyer! You can’t stop me from gettin’ one!”
“You’re stopped, Clark,” bit off Cardigan. “Get up and come on along with me.”
Cardigan reached for him. Clark squirmed in his chair, lashed out with his feet. One foot caught Cardigan in the stomach and he doubled momentarily, grimacing but silent. MacBride was out of his seat in a flash, and Clark was jerked to his feet so fast that he lost his breath. He was wild-eyed, straining at the arms that held him, his lips quivering, groans and grunts issuing from his throat.
“You ain’t gonna beat me—you ain’t! You’ll see! I won’t talk! I got my rights. I—I—”
“I’ll take him, Steve,” said Cardigan.
MacBride stepped back and Clark struggled frantically in Cardigan’s grasp as the latter worked him toward the door.
The telephone bell jangled.
“Wait,” said MacBride.
Cardigan paused at the door.
MacBride picked up the phone, muttered something, listened. Then, “What’s that?” His hands knotted around the instrument, his eyes narrowed, his mouth hardened. “Are you sure of that?” He groaned deep in his throat, rocked on his feet. Then, bitterly, “All right!”
He slammed the receiver into the hook and banged the instrument down upon the desk violently. He turned to face Cardigan.
“It’s no use, Jack. A runner for that lousy firm of Cohen, Fraser and Cohen, is downstairs, which means this bum slides out of our hands.”
Cardigan’s face darkened. “How’d they know we had this bird so soon?”
“That’s their business. They work on a big retainer from the head of the gang Clark belongs
to.”
There was a knock at the door, and a sergeant and a patrolman came in. The sergeant showed MacBride a writ, and the patrolman marched Clark out of the office. Then the sergeant left, and MacBride and Cardigan were alone.
“Wires being pulled again,” muttered Cardigan. “This guy will never come to trial.”
“Of course not,” nodded MacBride grimly.
“What a fine state of affairs! We nab a guy, and have every chance to make him come across, and then he’s taken out of our hands. What’s the use of a Police Department, anyhow?”
“Clark is one of Cavallo’s boys. No doubt about it. And we can’t do a thing—just sit and curse the whole thing. It’s tough to be on the Force eighteen years—and have to stand for it.”
“I know, Steve, you can’t move. Your wife and kid to think of. But there’s one way to get back at these wops, and the only way. They killed Joe, and they’ve got to pay for it! I’m going to make ‘em pay—pound for pound! By God, I am, and the Department and the State’s Attorney and everybody else be damned!”
“Jack, you can’t—alone. You’re a dick and—”
“I’m no longer a dick. I’m single and free and my resignation goes in now! I’m going to fight Cavallo, Steve, at his own game!”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I’m resigning from the Department. I’m going on my own and wipe out Cavallo and every one of his dirty gunmen! Richmond City is going to see one of the biggest gang wars in its history! When they killed Joe Hanley, they killed the wrong man, for my part! I’m going to fall on ‘em like a ton of brick!”
“Jack, you can’t do it!”
“Watch me!” chuckled Cardigan, his eyes glittering.
III
Men said Jack Cardigan was reckless and case-hardened—men meaning cops and reporters and Richmond City’s generous sprinkling of gunmen. Something might be added; he was ruthless. As a detective, he’d been hated and feared by more crooks than perhaps any other man in the Department—inspectors, captain, lieutenants and all the rest included. Because he was hard— tough—rough on rats; rats being one of his favorite nicknames applied to a species of human being that shoots in the dark and aims for the back.
