Mafey looked at him. “You smell strictly copper to me.”
“I had a talk with one a little while ago, that’s why. I’m a private dick. I’ve got to get hold of Genevieve. It’s like this. Her old man is dying; he’s got about three or four days left. He wants to see his daughter. He kicked her out of the house three years ago. She had man trouble at the time. He gave her the boot—cut her off completely. Now he wants to see her, before he dies. He’s gone soft. There’s a couple of hundred grand waiting for her if she turns up.” He paused, said in lower voice, “And some guys don’t want her to turn up. As the old man’s will stands now, his dough goes to his half-brother. If Genevieve turns up… catch on?”
Mafey’s fat lids drooped over his fat grave eyes. “That sounds like a nice story, guy.”
“It’s on the level. You stalled me about her, so I saw you liked her. Well, do something for her. Give her a break. Come on, Mafey, where can I find her?”
Mafey turned to the barman and said, “Give me a beer.” He kept his profile toward Cardigan, an unlovely profile, very melancholy. He finished the beer, and after a little while he turned again to Cardigan and eyed him gravely, almost somberly. Then he jerked his head. “This way.”
They went into a sitting room beyond the bar. It was a small, a warm room, with a couple of old Morris chairs and a Franklin stove. Mafey closed the door and, with his eyes still gravely on Cardigan, said slowly, in a hoarse whisper:
“See, Genevieve means nothing to me except I liked her like she was my own kid. She ain’t here. She ain’t been here in months. Too many guys tried to make her, and she couldn’t be made. But shadow boxing ’em all the time, it kind of shot her nerves to hell. Me, I don’t know anything about her except she was on the deep end. When she first came here, she used to hit the bottle a lot, but I got her off that.”
“You act like a white guy, Mafey. With you it should be sentiment; with me, it’s a job of work. Where is she?”
Mafey said, “I’ll see her first. I’ll talk to her first. Come around tomorrow morning about eleven.”
“But look,” Cardigan argued. “We’ll be losing time—”
“Take it, or leave it,” Mafey said.
Cardigan spread his palms. “What else can I do in a spot like this?”
Mafey gripped his arm. “And listen, fella—if you’re cutting corners on me—”
“I’m on the level like a dance floor, Mafey.”
IT was going on ten when Cardigan strode from the snowy dark into the lobby of the Maxwell. Here it was warm, cheerful. It was cheerful, Cardigan saw, until Pinkler rose from the depths of a leather chair and called out: “Hi, Cardigan!”
Cardigan did not slow down. He merely changed his course and bore down ominously on Pinkler. Coming face to face with him, he ripped out in a very low voice: “If you don’t stop yelling my name, Pinkler, by God I’ll rearrange that sappy pan of yours!”
Instantly Pinkler wore an abused expression. “Gosh, Cardigan, you don’t have to get sore thataway.”
“Oh, so I don’t have to get sore, don’t I?” He began drumming with his index finger on one of Pinkler’s lapels. “Just get this, sailor, and get it straight. Leave me alone. Lay off me. You’re like flies in August, only worse. And the next time you yell my name out loud you’ll be saying ‘Uncle’ from a position flat on your back. That’s all.”
He spun on his heel and headed for the elevator bank. Pinkler skipped along at his elbow.
“But listen, Cardigan—”
“Fade, sweetheart—fade.”
“But wait. I want—”
Cardigan strode into the elevator and Pinkler hopped in after him, gesticulating. Cardigan spun him about, picked him up by the armpits and bounced him back into the lobby. The door started closing, but Pinkler stopped it and said:
“What I’ve been trying to say is Scanlon came over and took that dame of yours to headquarters.”
“What!”
“Yowssuh and verily.”
Cardigan’s lip curled as he stepped back to the lobby. “When?” he clipped.
“About an hour ago. There was a shooting over in—”
“Out of my way. If that tramp Scanlon thinks he can wisecrack around with me—”
“Now what was the shooting about?”
Cardigan said, “Come here and I’ll tell you.” He led Pinkler down a side corridor, suddenly took hold of him and thrust him violently into a telephone booth. Unpronging the receiver, he wrapped its cord around Pinkler’s neck, knotted it. Then he took out a pair of manacles and locked Pinkler’s hands behind his back.
He said, “You may mean well, Pinkler, but you’re dumb and you’ve caused me enough headache already. You’ll have to put a nickel in the slot to get the operator. You can’t reach the slot. In order to open these doors, after I close them, you’d have to reach chest high and pull ’em in toward you. You can’t do that. Maybe this’ll keep you on ice a while. Good-by and good luck.”
He stepped out, closed the doors and went on his way, cursing under his breath. Wind and snow hit him in the street; he strode into the wind, up Locust. At Twelfth he turned left, stretching his long legs, crunching snow beneath his big feet. Every now and then he cut loose with a short, violent oath. Presently he crossed the wide street and entered headquarters. To the man at the central room desk he barked:
“Where’s Scanlon?”
“So who wants to see him?”
“I want to see him. Ain’t I asking?”
A cop stepped up, said, “Button that trap, wise guy!”
“Stooge, huh?… Lay off, copper. Where’s Scanlon? I’m Cardigan.”
“So you’re Cardigan!”
“Don’t let the fact get you down.”
The man at the desk said, “Show him up, Mike.”
WHEN Cardigan walked into Scanlon’s office Pat jumped up with a little glad outcry, a vast expression of relief which she could not have equaled in words. She had not time to say anything, for Cardigan, kicking the door shut, said:
“What kind of a rat have you turned out to be, Scanlon?”
Scanlon grinned wickedly from his swivel chair. His long, narrow face cracked into many wrinkles, and raising both hands, he brought them down on his head, drew them downward on his hair as far as the temples and then clapped them lazily together.
“Kind of get sore, don’t you, Cardigan, when you meet a guy a little tougher than you are?”
“Tough?” Cardigan laughed caustically. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re not tough, Scanlon. You’re just a sheep trying to wear wolf’s clothing…. Pat, did this egg get rough with you?”
“No! Oh, no,” she assured him. “He just dragged me over here and asked a lot of questions—”
Scanlon pointed to a battered, sodden hat that lay on the desk. “There was shooting down off Sixth Street and we picked your hat up in an alley. Kelton of the bureau heard the shots and went through that alley and he said some guy hit him with a club. We found Kelton and found your hat in the same place.”
“O.K. I was taking the air and suddenly some guy began shooting. I ducked in the alley and halfway down some guy stops me. How the hell should I know who he is? It’s dark, I’ve been shot at, and—well, what can you expect?”
Scanlon leaned forward. “Who fired the shots, Cardigan?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Scanlon scowled. “Cut out horsing.”
“I tell you I don’t know. I didn’t stop to ask.”
“You’ve got an idea, though.”
“I haven’t even got an idea.”
Scanlon stood up, jamming his hands against his hips. His brows came together unpleasantly. “When guys begin cutting loose with guns, I want to know.” He tapped his chest, said sententiously, “It happens to be my business.”
“Yeah?” Cardigan pointed. “When I begin taking pot shots at somebody, that’s your business maybe. When somebody takes pot shots at me, that’s mine if I want to make it mine. You
thought by snatching Pat Seaward down here you’d be pulling a fast one on me. It didn’t get you anywhere. So now what? Do I have to stand here all night and listen to these lousy bromides you get off?”
Pat looked apprehensive. “Chief,” she began, making an importunate gesture.
He silenced her with a gesture of his hand, waist high; and he said to Scanlon:
“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine. I hate chislers, Scanlon; I hate ’em like hell. By God Almighty, I can’t stick my nose in this town without some crack-pot doesn’t turn up to stooge on my act!”
“Soft pedal, Cardigan. You’re not in a hired hall.”
“I know where I am. I could tell blindfolded, by the smell of guys that work here.”
Scanlon’s nostrils twitched. He came around the desk, made a stab at Cardigan’s arm, gripped the arm hard. His face looked very gray, very narrow. “You go to your head sometimes, don’t you? Another crack like that and you’ll walk into something.”
Pat, behind Scanlon’s back, was begging Cardigan to ease up. Her hands, her lips urged, pleaded.
Scanlon said bitterly, “I want to know what happened. I want to know why you came here and why you were shot at.”
“Nix, Scanlon. It’s on the up and up; it’s legit; I can’t tell you.”
“I can be nasty, Cardigan.”
“You’re telling me?”
Scanlon jerked his arm. “Spring it or take what I can give.”
Cardigan shook his head. “You know me, Scanlon.”
Scanlon tossed Cardigan’s arm free, strode back to his desk and leaned on it with straightened arms. For a long moment he regarded Cardigan with a hard, mutinous stare. Then he rapped his desk curtly.
“O.K., big boy,” he said. “I’m tossing you in the can.”
“Listen, you!” Cardigan exploded. He strode to the desk, took a crack at it with his fist. “You can’t toss me in the can!”
“Can’t I?”
“No!”
Scanlon lit a cigarette. “Sure I can. Attacking an officer. Kelton of the bureau—the guy you socked in that alley.”
“That was an accident! I didn’t know who he was! How could I, when I didn’t even see his face?”
“That’s what you say,” Scanlon droned. “It’s the can for you, Cardigan—with my compliments.”
Cardigan’s face became red, dull red, and a humid look took possession of his eyes. He clamped his lips shut tightly. He put his fists into his pockets, jamming them way in, to keep them from suddenly going astray. Then he nodded slowly.
And he said in a low-throttled voice, “Your face is going to be redder than mine someday, Scanlon.”
“Look how scared I am,” Scanlon mocked.
Pat was saying, “Gosh, chief, gosh,” in a small, weak voice.
“Forget it, chicken,” Cardigan said. “Scanlon thinks he’s hit a home run but it’s only a foul ball… and plenty foul.”
Chapter Three
Simple As Cake
LOCKED behind bars, Cardigan was having a few words with Pat before she should leave for the night. He spoke quietly, hardly above a whisper: “You know what to do, Pat. See Aaronson right away. Track him down tonight, no matter where he is. Make him get things fixed so I can get out of here by nine tomorrow morning. Get me, chicken, I’ve got to get out of here by nine.”
“Oh, chief, why don’t you tell Scanlon? If you told him, he’d let you go. He’d see there’s nothing crooked. After all—”
“After all, we took this job on one condition: there must be no notoriety. That’s why old Stoddard’s paying us ten times what we’re worth. Get it? No publicity. The cops can’t know because if they do know the papers grab it.”
She was grave, thoughtful. “Who tried to shoot you?”
“I wish I knew. He either came on from New York by plane ahead of us, or he’s working under orders from New York.”
“Do you think he knows where Genevieve is?”
“I doubt it. It figures that he’s afraid I do. If he does know, then Genevieve’s not in such a swell spot either…. And listen. Go find Aaronson now. If you can’t, get him early in the morning. If all this flops, you’ll have to see this guy Mafey yourself.”
“Mafey?”
“He’s the key to Genevieve. Here’s his address.”
“Oh, chief, I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
“Hey, forget it, Patsy. The only thing I’m sore about is that I’ve got to pay for a night at a hotel without sleeping there. Scatter. Here comes a guy with his ears hanging out.”
She put a warm pressure on his hand, then turned on her heel and clicked off. Cardigan undressed down to his pants and socks and went to sleep.
He was up at seven and had breakfast sent in to his cell. Nothing ever spoiled his appetite, and he ate four eggs, wheat cakes, three rolls, and drank two mugs of coffee. From time to time he asked the keeper if any word had arrived for him. The keeper was on in years, a good-natured fat man, and he told Cardigan he’d keep his ears peeled for any news. By eight there was no word; nor was there any word by eight-thirty. Nine o’clock came and passed and at nine-fifteen Scanlon wandered in and said:
“Thought it over?”
“Thought what over?”
“About springing a little news.”
Cardigan looked instantly disgusted. “I don’t have to think it over, Scanlon. You heard me last night.” He gripped the bars. “For crying out loud, fella, why be a heel? You know damned well you canned me here just to be nasty. Look—I apologize for anything I might have said.”
Scanlon grinned. “You’d like to get out, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Ain’t that just too bad.”
“Listen—”
“I’ll listen when you talk my language. Three or four years ago, when you were out here, you used to like to razz hell out of me. I never liked it.”
“Can’t you forget and forgive?”
“To hell with your soft soap, Cardigan. You’re in here for taking a sock at a cop. I can’t do anything about it. Sorry. Oh, so, so sorry.”
Cardigan snarled, “For two cents I’d reach through these bars and flatten your nose, you bum!”
Scanlon waved with an affected delicacy, saying, “Toodle-oo. And who’s the horse on now?” He began drifting away, whistling cheerfully to himself.
At ten o’clock there was some activity in the cell block. The keeper came down, unlocked Cardigan’s cell and said:
“O.K.”
Cardigan barged into the corridor, strode up it to a hollow square where Pat, Attorney Aaronson and a lieutenant were standing. Aaronson was a small, frail, tired-looking man.
“Where the hell have you been?” Cardigan demanded.
“On a bender. Been out all night. Everything’s O.K., kid.”
“I can go out?”
“You can go out. Why don’t you let me know when you blow in town, so I can get set?”
“How the hell did I know the cops were going to play kick-the-wicket with me?… Come on; let’s go.”
“See you later,” Aaronson said. “I have to see so-and-so here on a little business.”
Cardigan took Pat by the arm and they went upstairs and Cardigan said, “Just wait out front, will you?”
“But why? Aren’t you going?”
“I want to find Scanlon and give him a Bronx cheer.”
She held on to his arm, said definitely, “Chief, nossir! You darned well know you’ve got to get Genevieve— Oh, why be a kid all the time. Come on, come on, chief!”
Cardigan looked disappointed, but he said. “O.K., pal,” and they went out into Twelfth Boulevard.
THE place near Commercial Alley looked down-at-the-heel by daylight. It had not now the darkness to flavor it with mystery, to dab it with a sense of dubious romance. A low, peeling brick building, it stood unadorned by anything but drabness. The snow that was banked against its walls was already sprinkled with soot. The smoke pall hung in the sky, obscuri
ng the winter sun. It was a cold, windless day. Nearby, the river rolled, and a Wabash train thundered.
“That is it,” Cardigan said to Pat.
The front door was open and a Negro was sweeping out. Buckets of refuse stood stacked outside. When Cardigan and Pat came into the doorway, the Negro said: “Ain’t open till four.”
“That’s all right,” Cardigan said. “Come on, Pat.”
Mafey was expecting him. Mafey stood in the center of the barroom, a fat, quaint figure with his fat, wet eyes watching Cardigan gravely as the big dick entered the room.
“This,” said Cardigan, indicating Pat, “is my assistant Miss Seaward. I brought her along to chaperon Genevieve. Pat, this is Mr. Mafey.”
Mafey said “Hello” to Pat while keeping his grave eyes fixed on Cardigan. It was plain the man was still doubtful, still a bit suspicious.
Cardigan was saying, “Well, where’s Genevieve?”
Mafey moistened his lips, shifted from one foot to the other. Finally, drawing in a great breath, holding it, he said, “Come on.” He led them to the rear of the bar, took out a key, unlocked the door and swung it open. He entered the room beyond first, stood aside, his big fat hands clenched and a worried shadow on his forehead.
The girl was sitting in one of the Morris chairs. She was tall, with a fine head of russet hair, a poised neck, dark slumbrous eyes that regarded Cardigan quizzically and a little hostilely.
Cardigan, removing his hat, scaling it casually onto the table, said with a grin, “Hello, Genevieve.”
“Hello,” she said, not smiling.
Mafey closed the door.
Cardigan scooped up a chair, carried it across the room and planked it down facing Genevieve. Seating himself, he said:
“Did Mafey tell you everything?”
“Pops said my father sent you for me.” Her voice was low, restrained, not especially cordial. Her dark pool-like eyes fixed Cardigan with a constant scrutiny.
“That’s it,” Cardigan nodded. “He sent me and”—nodding toward Pat—“Miss Seaward.”
“Who is Miss Seaward?”
“One of our Agency. Some call her the love interest, but that’s just a crack. She’s usually on jobs with me where there’s a girl concerned. It sometimes simplifies matters.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 2
