by Otto Penzler
“Something’s gone wrong,” he muttered. He cracked fist into palm, cursed under his breath, bitterly.
Dawn came, and then the sun. And still no word from Pete Fink.
Cardigan put on his overcoat and went out. He bought a paper, thinking he might find some clue there, but he reasoned that if anything had happened in the early hours, the morning papers wouldn’t have it yet. The next edition might. He ate breakfast in a dairy restaurant. Then, reasoning that he ought to be at his room in case Fink might call, he hurried back.
At nine Fink called. He said two words. “My room.”
“Right,” said Cardigan.
VII
Twenty minutes later he was striding down Jockey Street. The negro let him in and he climbed the rickety staircase. He knocked at Fink’s door. There was a slow movement.
Then, “You, Jack?”
“Yes, Pete.”
The door opened. Cardigan went in.
Fink was dropping back into a chair.
“Lock it,” he muttered.
His face was haggard. His left arm was in a sling, and blotches of dry blood showed on the bandage.
“I thought so,” said Cardigan.
“Yeah,” nodded Fink, and forced a grin. “They got Bat.”
Cardigan sat down. “Go on.”
“They got Bat. It was all a accident. We delivered the booze and was on the way back. We took Prairie Boulevard. Bat wanted to bring back the truck. The tourin’ car got a flat and we stopped to make a change. Bat went ahead slow all by his merry lonesome. We got the spare on, all right, and whooped it up to catch him. You know where Prairie Boulevard goes through them deep woods. It’s pretty lonely there.
“Well, our headlights pick up Bat and he’s stalled. But we see another car stopped in front of him, facing him. It looks phony, and we take it easy. We see some guys standin’ around on the road, but they duck for the car. We stop our car and wait. We think maybe they’re dicks, see. Then their car starts and roars towards us. It looks like they’re goin’ to crash us, but they cut around and slam by, scrapin’ our mudguard. A lot of guns bust loose and I’m socked in the arm. Chip gets his cheek opened. Nobody else is hurt. Gats turns around and empties his rod at the back of it. I don’t know who he hit, but the car kept goin’.
“I get out, holdin’ my arm and Bennie tears off some of his shirt and sops up the blood. Chip is holdin’ his cheek and cursin’ a blue streak. Gats runs up to the truck and we go after him. Bat is layin’ on the road, pretty still. Him and Gats were buddies, you know. You should hear Gats curse!
“Bat is dyin’. They’d busted his knob with a blackjack. He says he was ridin’ along when this car stopped him. See, just by accident. Monkey Burns and Bert Geer and two others. They smell there was booze in the truck, and ask him what’s he been doin’. He tells them where they can go. They wanter know who he’s been runnin’ booze for. He ain’t talkin’. They sock him, but he don’t chirp. That’s Bat all over. More you sock him the worse stubborn he gets. Gawd, they batted hell outta him! Ugh! Then they see us. Bat croaks after he spiels us his story. Poor Bat. He was a good shuffer.”
Cardigan stared at the floor for a long minute, his hands clenched.
Fink was saying, “I took the plates off the truck and disfiggered the engine number and the serial number with a couple o’ shots. Then we drove to the farmhouse. The boys are there now. I got here alone, quick as I could. I could ha’ sent one o’ the boys to call you up, but I didn’t want any o’ ‘em to know where you was.”
“You’re aces up in a pinch, Pete,” said Cardigan, and he meant it.
“I did the best I could.”
“I’ll say you did. Did Monkey and his gang see you boys?”
“No. And Bat didn’t tell ‘em. But they know, like everybody else, that Bat was buddies with Gats, and they’ll be huntin’ Gats. And Gats has gone wild. He wants to go out gunnin’ for them guys. He swears he’ll do it. And Gats is the best damn gunman I know about.”
“You’ve got to keep him under cover.”
“Yeah. I got to get back to the farmhouse. Bandage this arm tight so I can put it in a sleeve. I can’t go walkin’ around too much with a sling. It’ll hurt without it, but what the hell.”
“Good man, Pete. Get out there, see how things are. I’ll hang around the corner drugstore between two and three. Call me there from a booth and give me a line.”
When he had bandaged Fink’s arm, he patted the big man on the back and left him. Below, in the street, he ran into Kennedy, of the Free Press, leaning indolently against a lamp-post. He brought up short, his breath almost taken away.
“Hello, Cardigan,” said the reporter in his tired way. “What’s the attraction?”
“You trying to crack wise, Kennedy?”
“Who, me? No-o, not me, Cardigan. See this yet?” He handed Cardigan the latest edition of the Free Press.
RIVAL BOOTLEG GANGS CLASH
That was the headline. Something about an abandoned truck, empty, with license plates gone and engine number disfigured. Blood on the road. Empty cartridges. Nearby trees showing bullet marks. A farmer beyond the woods had heard the shooting about half-past one a.m. No cops on the job. The farmer himself had come out to investigate and reported the abandoned truck. It looked like the beginning of a gang feud.
Cardigan looked up. “Well that’s news, Kennedy.”
“Is it?” Kennedy had a tantalizing way of smiling.
“I’m in a hurry,” said Cardigan, and started off.
Kennedy fell into step beside him. “I’m not green, Cardigan. You ought to know that by this time. And I know that one of the gangs was Ca-vallo’s. Now the other gang … Cardigan, be a sport.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’re all wet, Kennedy.”
“Oh, no I’m not. Listen, Cardigan. You’re not pulling the wool over this baby’s eyes. The Department knows who the guy was that was bumped off and then carried away by his buddies. They got the dope from Cavallo’s friends—maybe Diorio to Pozzo to Mulroy. Then they tell the Department to get busy— just like that, and they’re spreading for somebody. That riot squad’s on pins and needles, waiting for another break. Now, it would take guts to head a gang to buck that outfit—you tell me, Cardigan.”
Cardigan laughed. “Kennedy, you’re funny. So long.” He crossed the street and left Kennedy in perplexed indecision.
But he realized that Kennedy was one man he’d have to look out for. That news hound, in other words, knew his onions. He was nobody’s fool.
After luncheon Cardigan went out to the suburban post office, opened his box and took out a solitary package. He thrust it into his pocket and returned to his hotel. There he opened it, and found thirteen thousand, two hundred dollars. Twelve hundred he put in a plain envelope and addressed it to Maloney. In each of five plain envelopes he placed a thousand dollars, for Pete Fink’s boys. For Pete he placed aside two thousand He lost no time in mailing Maloney’s letter.
Later, he was at the booth in the corner drugstore to get Fink’s prearranged call. Fink mentioned his room, but Cardigan objected, remembering Kennedy, and told Fink to pick him up at a street corner well out of the city. Then he hung up and took a bus out, got off at the street he had named, and waited for Fink. He did not have to wait long. The touring car came up, and Fink was driving with his one good arm. Cardigan got in and they rolled off.
“Gats,” said Fink. “He slipped out on the boys. He’s out gunnin’ for the guys who got Bat Johnson.”
“What!”
“Yup.”
Cardigan saw his nicely made plans toppling to ruin. This was one of those things the best of tacticians cannot foresee. An accident. A bad break. Gats gone gun-mad because his buddy ‘d been killed by the wops.
“We’ve got to get him,” he said.
“Yeah, but where?”
Cardigan cursed the luck. Then he said, “Well, I’ve got the money
. It’s all here. A thousand each for the boys. Two thousand for you. Twelve hundred went to the go-between for the booze.” He passed over the envelopes. “That’ll make the boys feel better.” After a moment he said, “The riot squad’s ready for action.”
“It won’t take long, if we don’t get Gats. He’ll start the fireworks sure as hell.”
“Drop me off when the next bus comes along. Look for Gats. Go to all the places you think he’d be. Ring me at the hotel and say ‘Jake’ if you get him. Then stay out at the farm—all of you— until this blows over.”
A few minutes later he got out of the car, boarded a bus and went back to his hotel. He was very much on edge, and he mused that no matter how perfectly you lay a plan, something is liable to happen that will bring down the whole framework.
At four o’clock the telephone rang, and Fink said, “Jake.”
“Jake,” said Cardigan.
A great burden was automatically lifted from his mind. He even whistled as he got into his bath. He hummed while he shaved. Then he dressed, spent half an hour with a cigar and the evening paper, and at five-thirty put on his overcoat and went out. As he swung out of the hotel, he heard the scream of a siren. He looked up the street.
Three police cars were roaring down Main Street. Traffic scattered. People gathered on the curb. The three cars shot by the hotel doing fifty miles an hour. They were packed with policemen, and automatic rifles were clamped on the sides. The sirens snarled madly.
Cardigan’s breath stuck in his throat. A chill danced up and down his spine. Then his jaw set and he crossed to a taxicab.
“Hit Farmingville Turnpike,” he clipped, and jumped in.
He started to close the door, but something held it. He turned around. Kennedy was climbing in after him.
“Mind if I go?”
Cardigan sank into his seat, his fists clenched. But he managed to grin. “Sure. The old gumshoe instinct in me always follows a riot call. I’m anxious to see what this is all about.”
“Yeah?” smiled Kennedy.
“Yeah. I’m in the dark, just like you.”
Kennedy frowned after the manner of a man who wondered if after all he isn’t wrong in what he’d been supposing.
VIII
Cardigan had a hard time masking his inner emotions. He said to the chauffeur, “Follow those police cars. It’s all right. We’re reporters.”
Kennedy lit a cigarette. “You’ve got me guessing, Cardigan.”
“Me? Same here, Kennedy. You’ve got me guessing, too.”
“Have a butt.”
“Thanks.” It was casual, everything he said, but inside of him there was turmoil. What was going on? What had happened to Fink and the boys? He’d formed a strange liking for Pete Fink. In his own way Pete had proved his fidelity, his worth.
The sirens went on screaming. People were still looking out of windows when the taxi shot past in the wake of the police cars. Pedestrians had gathered on street corners and were speculating. Some were talking to traffic cops, asking questions. The cops only grinned and shrugged and waved them away. Other cars were joining in the impromptu parade, breaking all speed laws. The people had been reading of a fresh outbreak in gangdom, of a bitter gang feud. They were obsessed now, rushing to get a bird’s-eye view, for human nature is fundamentally melodramatic and its curiosity very close to the morbid.
It was already dark, in the early winter gloom. The taxi struck Farmingville Turnpike, fell into the stream of vehicles that pounded along. Horns tooted, and big, high-powered cars shot by so fast that the taxi seemed to be standing still. Mob curiosity was at its peak. Anything draws it—a fire, an accident, a soap-box orator, a brawl between school-boys, a man painting a flag-pole.
Then suddenly the cars began parking. In the gleam of the headlights two policemen with drawn nightsticks were shouting hoarsely, waving the people away.
“I guess we get out here,” said Kennedy.
“Looks that way.”
“Come on.”
Cardigan paid the fare and they walked ahead. Kennedy showed his card and Cardigan went through with him. They strode briskly along the edge of the woods.
“Hear it?” asked Kennedy.
Cardigan heard it—the rattle of gun fire. Yes, the farmhouse. Alternate waves of heat and cold passed over him. The shadows in the woods were pitch black. Soon they could see the flash of guns, hear the brittle hammering of a machine-gun, firing in spasmodic bursts.
A figure in plainclothes loomed before them.
“Hello, Mac,” said Kennedy.
“Who’s your friend?” muttered the captain.
“Cardigan.”
“Oh-o!”
Kennedy pushed on. Cardigan stopped and MacBride came closer.
“Well, Jack, you see?”
Cardigan bit his lip. “What are you doing, blowing the place up?”
“Yes. Captain McGurk in charge.”
“How’d it start?”
“Headquarters got a phone call about a lot of shooting going on out here.”
Cardigan growled. “Can’t you get ‘em to offer a truce? God, Steve, it’s pure slaughter!”
He was thinking of Pete Fink and the other boys, trapped in the house.
“There’s no use. We came up in the bushes and let go with a machine-gun as a warning. A lot of rifle fire was our answer. This looks like the end.”
“Cripes, Steve, stop it—stop it!” He lunged ahead.
MacBride grabbed him, held him in a grip of steel.
“Easy, Jack. You can’t do a thing. Don’t be a fool. You took the chance and this is the result.”
“Let me go, Steve—let go!”
“No, dammit—no! By God, if you make a move I’ll crack you over the head!”
“You will, will you?”
“So help me!”
Cardigan swore and heaved in MacBride’s grasp. They struggled, weaving about, silent and grim. They crashed deeper into the bushes. Then MacBride struck, and Cardigan groaned and slumped down.
MacBride knelt beside him, white-faced and panting. “Jack, old boy, you hurt much? I didn’t mean to hit so hard … Jack, but you can’t do a thing. It’s the breaks of the racket. God! …” He was rubbing Cardigan’s head.
The battle was still on. Daggers of flame slashed through the dark. Lead drummed against the walls of the house, shattered the windows, pumped into the rooms. Spurts of flame darted from the house. A policeman crumpled. Another heaved up, clutching at his chest, and screamed.
“Oh, God!” groaned MacBride.
Captain McGurk, in charge, swore bitterly. He looked around. “That’s three they got. We’ll have to give ‘em the works. Charlie, you got the grenades?”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“Go to it.”
A machine-gun, silent for a moment, cut loose with a stuttering fusillade that raked every window in sight. Intermittent flashes came from the windows. Lead slugs rattled through the branches and thickets. The breeze of evening carried acrid powder smoke. The men in the bushes moved about warily.
Cardigan lay in a daze, conscious of the shots and the din, but in a vague, dreamy way. He wanted to yell out, and he imagined he was yelling, at the top of his lungs, but actually his lips moved only in a soundless whisper. His head throbbed with pain. MacBride had clipped him not too gently. And the captain was now bent over him, with one arm beneath him, rocking him.
The man called Charlie had worked his way closer, crawling on hands and knees, from tree to tree. Finally he stood up, and his arm swung. A small object wheeled through the dark, smacked on the roof of the house. There was a terrific explosion, and a sheet of ghastly flame billowed outward. Stones and bits of timber sang through space, clattered in the woods. The roof caved in, parts of the walls toppled in a smother of smoke and dust.
Out of the chaos groped a man, with hands upraised. He stumbled, sprawled and hit the earth like a log. He never moved once after that. Another crawled out of the ruins, turned over
on his back and lay as still as the first. The policemen advanced out of the woods. Nothing stopped them now. They closed in around the house, entered here and there through torn gaps.
MacBride hauled Cardigan to his feet, put on his hat. “You’ve got to get out of this, Jack,” he muttered.
Cardigan was able to stumble.
“It’s all over,” said MacBride.
He half-dragged him back through the woods to the road, walked him along it.
“Brace up!” he ground out. “I’ll put you in a taxi. Look natural. Keep your hat down, your collar up. Get back to your hotel. Stay there, for God’s sake. It’s all over, you hear? There is no use making a fool of yourself.”
They found a taxi and Cardigan got in. MacBride gripped his hand.
“Good luck, Jack!”
“Thanks, Steve.”
Cardigan rode to his hotel in a sunken mood. He got out, paid his fare, and sagged up to his room. He locked the door and slumped into a chair. He groped for a cigarette and lit it, and stared gloomily into space. He muttered something old—something about plans of mice and men …
“Hell!” he mumbled, and sank lower.
Ten minutes later the telephone rang. He looked at it darkly. He didn’t know whether he should answer it. But he got up, laid his hand on it, then took off the receiver.
“Hello,” he muttered.
“Jack—my room,” said Fink, and that was all.
Cardigan snapped out of his mood, sucked in a hot breath. He slammed down the receiver and dived for his overcoat.
IX
He climbed the rickety stairs in the ancient house in Jockey Street. He did not know what to expect. He paused a whole minute before the door until he knocked. Then he rapped. There was the sound of quick steps. Then the door swung open and Fink loomed there, grinning. He pulled Cardigan in, closed the door and locked it.
“Park your hips, Jack,” he rumbled. “Have a drink.”
Cardigan crossed the room, dropped to a chair and slopped liquor into a glass. He held it up. “I need this.” He downed it neat. “Well?”
Fink rubbed his big hand along his thigh vigorously. “Well, Cavallo and his gang oughta be done for. Cripes, it was a great break for us! Well, I picked up Gats all right, and we drove back to the farmhouse. Then I figured maybe one o’ Cavallo’s guns was trailin’ us. I seen a closed coupe follerin’ all the way out, but I didn’t let on. I swung in by the farm and I saw this coupe slow down and then shoot ahead.
