Cardigan was beginning to perspire. He looked at the woman, at the bald-headed man. O’Mara had been idly tapping with a pencil on the white tablecloth. Now Cardigan felt his leg being nudged. He looked down his nose. O’Mara had written on the tablecloth—Left gun not loaded.
And McQueene was snarling: “Well, Cardigan can you take it?”
CARDIGAN had about ten feet to cover in order to reach McQueene. He looked at McQueene and said, “Maybe,” and strolled closer, the gun pointing at a spot high on his chest. He reached out his hand. “Give it to me, McQueene.” McQueene pulled the trigger of the left-hand gun as Cardigan made a stab at the right. McQueene’s mouth flew open. Cardigan whipped McQueene’s right hand down, then way up. McQueene jammed the gun in his left hand against Cardigan’s ribs and pulled twice more, but there were only hammer clicks. Cardigan came up with a short vicious blow to McQueene’s chin. The one good gun, held high, went off and drilled a hole in the ceiling. McQueene went flabby against the wall and Cardigan ripped both guns from McQueene’s hands, tossed the empty one aside, reached into McQueene’s pocket and got McQueene’s own gun as the fat man slid down the wall to the floor.
“Duck, Cardigan!” O’Mara yelled.
Cardigan did not look around. He ducked—instant reflex to the warning. An iron skillet dug into the wall in front of him, fell, gonged against McQueene’s head. Cardigan jumped far to the right before he swiveled; swiveling, he saw an iron pot leaving the bald-headed man’s hand. The pot hit the wall spewing scalding water.
The woman put her hands over her eyes.
The bald-headed man looked at Cardigan and backed up, his jaw loose, his breath gagging him, his eyes bulging.
Cardigan said with a shrug: “Don’t look so scared, funny face. What a mug I’d be to shoot the guy that killed Trent. Miles, how’s to grab a phone and call the cops?”
O’Mara was mopping his face. He went toward the swing-door saying in a jittery voice, but with a smile: “If you hear a knocking sound, don’t worry; it’s my knees.”
He went into the living room and Cardigan heard him telephoning headquarters. When he returned, Cardigan said: “I had you all fitted into this puzzle, Miles. But McQueene took your place. What’s the answer?”
“I got Belle her job at Beckels’ because I thought she was going straight. As a matter of fact, I vouched for her. I used to know her mother and the old lady when she died asked me to keep an eye on Belle once in a while. But I guess both the girl and her brother had a bum streak. I called her up this afternoon and said I’d like to drop around for a late snack after hours. I’d hoped there wasn’t a tie-up with the Trent job, but I meant to find out. I met her at a street corner after I closed shop.”
“How’d you know the gun McQueene took from her brother wasn’t loaded?”
“It was on the mantelpiece in the living room when I came in. Kabe didn’t look pleased at sight of me and he and the girl went in the back—in here—for a minute. I unloaded the gun—just in case. When Kabe came back he picked up the gun and put it in his pocket.”
“How about that phone call that mysterious guy made from your phone booth?”
“No connection at all, Jack. He was around again tonight and I got talking to him. On a bender. His mother-in-law came to visit him and his wife and he keeps floating around and calling up to see if his mother-in-law’s left yet.”
A siren screamed through the dark outside. The bald-headed man sucked in his breath, clutched at his chest. The woman began crying.
O’Mara went over and put an arm around her. “It’s tough, Belle, but you ratted on me,” he said.
Cardigan said in a low, dropped voice: “If you want, Miles, let her scram out of this—the back way.”
“There’s no use,” O’Mara said. “D’you suppose McQueene would keep his mouth shut?” He laughed. “Not if I know McQueene.”
There was hammering on the front door. The bald-headed man groaned, clutched at his throat.
Cardigan jerked his chin. “The cops, Miles. Let ’em in.”
Pardon My Murder
Chapter One
Cardigan for Shane
CARDIGAN was jiggling a glass swizzle-stick in a rye highball in a bar in East Fifty-fifth Street when Lew James, the owner, came up alongside his elbow and said: “There’s a party on the wire in the booth wants you, Jack.”
“He or she?”
“A he.”
“Not interested, Lew. Please be a pal and tell him I’m not here.”
“Well, hell, I just said you were.”
“O.K. Now tell him I just left a minute ago. Tell him I was thrown out drunk.”
“What! And give my place a bad reputation!” Lew pointed toward the rear of the bar. “In the booth, Jack.”
Cardigan sighed, muttered: “Woe is me,” and strolled back to the booth, carrying his highball with him.
“Hello,” he said into the transmitter.
“Jack, this is George. Come down to the office.”
“In about an hour, George. I like this place.”
George Hammerhorn said: “An hour your eye! On your way down, kid, you may as well stop off at your penthouse and pack your overnight bag.”
“Why? I’m not going any place.”
“That’s what you think. It’s five thirty now. You’re going to make a train westbound at seven o’clock. Show some life.”
There was a significant click: George Hammerhorn had hung up. Cardigan hung up also, took a drink, looked at the telephone and said: “George, you’re a nasty man.”
HIS penthouse was a one-room apartment on the eighth floor of a midtown hotel. He packed a Gladstone bag, not forgetting to include a quart of four-year-old rye, and lugged it down to the lobby. The collar of his shabby, misshapen ulster flapped alongside his ears as he made for the door. His battered fedora was crowded low on his head. His thick shaggy hair bunched at his temples.
He rode a cab over to the Sign building on Madison Avenue, got out and took an elevator up to the tenth floor. Down at the end of the tenth-floor corridor was a ground-glass panel lettered, Cosmos Agency. He opened the door, plunked his bag down in the outer office and headed for the partly open door leading to the inner sanctum. He could see blond, stout Hammerhorn seated at the desk and he called out: “You and your ideas!”
Hammerhorn rose, ignoring the remark, and bowed toward a man Cardigan did not see until he pushed the door all the way open.
“Mr. Sondergaard,” Hammerhorn was saying, “this is Mr. Cardigan, our number-one operative. Jack, Mr. Sondergaard.”
Cardigan nodded to a man of middle years who stood with his back to the west office window. He was a compact little man dressed in dark brown and he wore a gray Van Dyke. As if about to say something, he cleared his throat, but merely nodded politely instead.
Hammerhorn sat down, said: “Jack, you’ll make that seven P.M. train for Midwesterly. You’ll arrive there at ten fifty tomorrow morning and go to the office of Mr. Bradford Shell, who is Mr. Sondergaard’s attorney and close friend. Mr. Shell will give you a diamond necklace. It’s a rare old piece and it’s worth about eighty thousand dollars. Mr. Sondergaard has an opportunity to sell it here in New York and wishes to do so. He doesn’t feel up to the train trip himself and he doesn’t want to draw his attorney away from business. I’d tell you to fly out but there’s no plane connections for Midwesterly that would save you any time. However, you can catch an eastbound plane out of there at three P.M. tomorrow. Catch it. The necklace has to be here by the morning after tomorrow at nine. The buyer’s leaving then for South America. Is that clear?”
Cardigan nodded.
Sondergaard cleared his throat. “We had better get off a wire to Shell now.”
“Yes,” said the businesslike George Hammerhorn. “You sign the wire, Mr. Sondergaard. Tell your Mr. Shell that our Mr. Cardigan will arrive on the ten fifty tomorrow morning and for him to have the necklace ready.”
“Remember,” Sondergaard said to Car
digan, “today is Tuesday. The necklace must imperatively be here before nine, Thursday morning.”
Cardigan said: “It’ll be here.”
“Here’s a hundred, Jack,” Hammerhorn said. He grinned. “And don’t keep the change. There’s some swell fights at the Garden tonight, Jack. I have a couple of extra tickets. Sorry you’ll be out of town.”
Cardigan scooped up the money. “Rub it in, rub it in. I hope the guy you bet on takes a dive in the first.”
“And by the way, Mr. Cardigan,” said Sondergaard, clearing his throat, “it wouldn’t be wise to reveal your mission to anyone. I hope you understand that; I hope you catch up with me.”
Cardigan was pivoting toward the door and he said, chuckling: “I’m miles ahead, Mr. Sondergaard.” He caught up his worn Gladstone and walked to Grand Central.
A BLEAK sun, quite rayless, stood in the chill winter sky as the train slapped lazily over switches in the outer yards of Midwesterly. The city was a railroad division point. Coaches and Pullmans looked hard and shiny and cold. The city lay beyond, plumed with smoke. A man in overalls flagged the train to a stop near the yard office and three men climbed aboard. The train began moving again, slowly.
In the third Pullman from the rear, Cardigan took his feet down from the seat, stretched, yawned boisterously and stood up. His suit was wrinkled from lounging, the vest hitched up, his shirt showing. The knot of his tie was way over to one side. His hair was a bird’s nest.
He rolled down the aisle and pushed into the smoking compartment, getting off another violent yawn, and ran water into one of the basins. Squirting liquid soap into his hands, he lathered, rinsed, and grabbed a couple of towels from the rack overhead. When he had dried, he lit a cigarette, picked up a discarded Cleveland newspaper and stood spread-legged, with his back to the door. Homer Shane, the notorious unphotographed gangster, was clowning around again. Snow was predicted.
A man parted the door curtains cautiously and peered in. His face was gaunt, with high shiny cheekbones, and big ears that stood out from his head. He wore a loose gray suit and a black slouch hat with the crown flattened. Close behind him was a moon-faced fat man in a hard black overcoat and a derby cocked on one ear. A third man, slender, dapper, stood on his toes in the rear. The gaunt man looked around. The other two nodded. The gaunt man swallowed hard, set his jaw.
He had a gun in his hand, a big double-action .44. He took a long stride and jammed its muzzle against Cardigan’s back. The fat man was equally quick; he was also a little pop-eyed and there was pallor mixed with the ruddy color of his cheeks. Two guns pressed against Cardigan’s back. He dropped the newspaper and stared out the window, watching the first posts of the station platform float past.
The gaunt man said in a hoarse nervous voice: “Easy now, Shane! Go easy now! We got you covered!”
“Yes, we got you d-dead to rights!” stammered the fat man, his tone jumpy.
“Dust him, Ned,” the gaunt man croaked, licking dry lips.
The dapper young man got in front of Cardigan, pushed an automatic against his stomach, whipped Cardigan’s gun free from its shoulder holster.
“Dust him good, Ned,” the gaunt man recommended.
Ned slapped Cardigan’s pockets one after another, knelt and felt the legs of Cardigan’s trousers. Rising, he nodded, said: “He’s clean now, Lieutenant.”
“Turn around,” the gaunt man said.
Cardigan swiveled fast. The gaunt man jumped back, his hand clamping hard on his big revolver. Ned’s gun dug savagely into Cardigan’s back. The plump man stood to one side, his gun hand shaking, his plump lips pressed tightly together.
The locomotive bell was bonging slowly, the train was coming to a stop.
“All right now, Shane,” the gaunt man said. “This here is Detective Behmeister and behind you’s Detective Ned Britten,” he scowled, adding seriously, “No monkeyshines—I warn you. My name’s Noonan.”
Cardigan was lounging on his heels. “So you guys think I’m Homer Shane!”
Noonan chuckled hoarsely. “He says we think he’s Homer Shane!”
“Ha!” squeaked the fat man, Behmeister.
“Ned,” said Noonan, “go get his bag and things.”
“O.K., Lieutenant.”
BRITTEN went into the corridor, spoke with the conductor. The train had stopped. Redcaps were running along the platform. There were half-a-dozen uniformed cops and a sergeant standing in line and looking up at the train windows. One of the cops carried an automatic rifle and another carried a sawed-off shotgun.
Cardigan said drily: “Where’s the band, Lieutenant?”
“Don’t be funny now, Shane!”
“What—no band!”
“Sam,” Noonan said to Behmeister, “put the cuffs on him.”
Behmeister took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and stepped forward and Cardigan casually slapped the cuffs out of Behmeister’s hand and growled:
“You monkeys get tiresome after a while. Go roll a hoop. I’m not Shane.”
Terror and anger welled in Behmeister’s eyes as he squatted, his gun shaking in his hand. Noonan set his jaw and cracked Cardigan on the head with the long heavy barrel of his revolver. Cardigan’s knees broke and he raised his hands to his eyes, staggered around heavily, his feet scuffling. Noonan nodded to Behmeister and then Behmeister got the cuffs on. Noonan drew a glass of water and pitched it at Cardigan’s face.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing Cardigan’s arm.
When they reached the vestibule Ned Britten was there with Cardigan’s Gladstone, coat and hat. The uniformed sergeant was standing below.
“Got him, Sam?”
“We got him,” Lieutenant Noonan nodded.
Cardigan felt his way down the steps. The uniformed cops stood three on either side of him. A couple of news cameras were getting shots. There were some reporters on hand.
“Scram,” said Noonan to the news-hawks. “No clowning.”
“Did he resist?” one of the reporters yelled.
“Yeah,” nodded Noonan. “He resisted.”
Redcaps gaped. Passengers who had got off the train fell back.
“Shane!” someone said in a stage whisper. “They say it’s that killer—Shane.”
“Oh my God!” a woman gasped.
The uniformed sergeant led the way up the platform. Behmeister walked on one side of Cardigan, Noonan on the other. The six cops flanked them, three on a side. Ned Britten brought up the rear, carrying Cardigan’s things.
There was a patrol wagon parked at the curb outside the waiting room, and Noonan croaked: “In you go.”
Cardigan was quite groggy and he muttered, “Now listen—”
Behmeister gripped Cardigan’s other arm. “Come on, fella—upsydaisy.”
Chapter Two
Death Rehearsal
THE headquarters building was old, built of brick that factory smoke had darkened. It was really an old dwelling, three-storied; in its prime it had been a large, fine home. The room into which they took Cardigan was large, square, on the second floor. It contained a couple of desks, one flat-topped, the other roll-topped, and against one wall was an old fireplace containing a gas log that glowed warmly. A few blocks away was the muted sound of street cars. Behmeister uncuffed Cardigan and Lieutenant Noonan sighed in a hoarse voice: “Well, I’m glad that’s over.”
Ned Britten dropped the suitcase.
“Open it,” Noonan said.
“It’s locked,” Britten replied.
“Got keys?” Noonan asked Cardigan, biting off the dry end of a Wheeling stogie.
Cardigan flopped heavily to a chair. “A joke’s a joke,” he growled resentfully.
“But after all—”
“Bust it, Ned,” Noonan said offhand.
“Bust it and I’ll bust your face,” Cardigan said.
They ganged around him. “You’ll bust who’s face?” Britten asked.
Behmeister locked Cardigan’s arms behind the chair. Noonan wen
t through his pockets, took out keys, cigarettes, wallet, a penknife. He gave the keys to Britten and carried the other articles to the desk, where he sat down.
Britten opened the Gladstone and spilled its contents on the floor.
“Hey,” growled Cardigan, “why dirty my shirts?”
“Ain’t that just too bad,” chuckled Britten. He ran through the clothing and then set the bottle of rye on the desk. It was half empty. Noonan looked at it, uncapped it and took a swig. Then Britten took a swig. Then Behmeister.
“Ah,” said Behmeister, “real stuff.” He took another swig.
“Just as I expected,” said Noonan, nodding to the contents of Cardigan’s wallet. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a telegram, looked across at Cardigan. “You see, mister, we got a hot tip from Cleveland. From the bureau there. Listen to this: ‘Informer telephoned that Homer Shane is on Number Twelve westbound ticketed to your city. Intimated he may be traveling as Carnegan or Corrigan and impersonating private detective.’” He tossed the message aside. “They weren’t sure about the name but they were close. Cardigan, huh? He says he’s Cardigan, boys!”
Cardigan rose, towering, his fists clenching. “What the hell kind of a runaround are you trying to hand me?”
“Sit down,” said Britten.
“Go to—”
“Sit down before I knock you down.” Britten hefted a blackjack.
Cardigan sat down, blurted out: “Now look here. You birds have got me wrong. My name’s Cardigan. I’m here on business.”
“Monkey business, huh?” Noonan smiled.
“I can prove I’m Cardigan!”
“We’d like to have you prove it,” Noonan said. “We’d just love to have you prove it. There’s no picture of you, Shane, and no fingerprint record. All the cops anywhere know is that you’re a big guy. There’s one guy who can say if you’re Shane. You know of him, I guess. The teller in that bank in Utica where you knocked off a guard a couple of weeks ago. The Utica police want you, Shane. They’ll bring the teller out with them. There’s no use getting steamed up. They’ll get here in a couple of days and if you’re not Shane—”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 23
