“If I’m not Shane!” Cardigan broke in darkly. “I tell you I’m not Shane! Call my New York office!”
“How could they identify your mug over the wire?”
“They can’t. But they’ll tell you I was sent here from the office to—”
“Sure, sure. I’ll admit that maybe a man named Cardigan was sent out from that office but that don’t mean he arrived here. There’s half an hour lay-over in Cleveland. Folks sometimes get off for breakfast there. Cardigan got off and your pals crowded him and ditched him and you got on with his identification.”
Cardigan scoffed. “I can prove you’re wrong on that. Ask the Pullman porter on the train if I didn’t get on in New York.”
“Sure, sure,” nodded Noonan. “That train’ll be back through here eastbound in a couple of days and we’ll ask him.”
Cardigan bellowed: “But I can’t wait a couple of days!”
Britten made a mock-sympathetic face. “Now ain’t that just too inconvenient. He can’t wait a couple of days.”
CARDIGAN’S face was dark, lined, serious. “Will you fellows for God’s sake listen to reason? I’ve been with this agency for ten years. I was sent here on a job that calls for speed. I have to be back”— he pounded his knee—“in New York before nine tomorrow morning!”
Noonan’s gaunt, bony face chided him. “And what did you come here for?”
“Our client told me to tell no one. It’s his business and ours and nobody else’s. Listen, call the New York office, will you? I’ll pay for it. Ask them—”
“Uh-uh. Why waste your dough? They couldn’t swear up and down you’re Cardigan.”
Cardigan put his head between his hands and made a face. “If this isn’t a honey!” he groaned.
Noonan said: “We’ll wire the Utica police. Meantime, we got a nice cell downstairs and the food ain’t bad.”
“Now wait,” Cardigan said. “Just wait a minute. Listen now. Do you know a lawyer named Bradford Shell?”
“Sure, but he ain’t no criminal lawyer. There’s no use getting him. He’s a corporation counsel. Things like that.”
“I’m not looking for a criminal lawyer. Just phone him and ask him to come over here. He’s the man I came here to see.”
Noonan frowned. He looked a little disappointed. But he picked up the phone, told the switchboard to get Shell, and hung up. In a minute the phone rang and he picked it up.
“Mr. Shell, this is Lieutenant Noonan, headquarters. Can you come right down for a minute?… Thanks, Mr. Shell.”
Shell appeared in fifteen minutes. He came briskly into the office, a man of about forty, tall, well-groomed, with a military bearing, frosty eyebrows and a wide, firm mouth.
“Mr. Shell,” said Noonan. “Were you expecting a man named Cardigan from New York?”
“Yes, of course.”
Cardigan stood up. “Mr. Shell, I’m Cardigan. Mr. Sondergaard sent me on.”
Shell smiled briskly, thrust out his hand. “I’m very glad to know you. I thought you’d come direct to the office.”
Noonan said: “We kind of stopped that, Mr. Shell. We had a tip from the Cleveland bureau a mug named Shane might be on Number Twelve posing as a private dick named Cardigan. This is the citizen we picked up.”
Shell looked confused. “Posing as—”
“Yeah, Cardigan. We have an idea there was a switch made somewhere along the line and that this potato is really Shane.”
“Not—what’s his name—Homer Shane, the gangster?”
Noonan nodded. “We figure yes.”
“But I have a wire from my client Mr. Sondergaard—”
“Suppose you have. There still could have been a switch. What was this Cardigan coming here for?”
“Well, really—” the lawyer hesitated.
“It might help make things clearer,” Noonan said passively.
Shell bit his lip, then said: “All right. Mr. Sondergaard put practically all his business, personal and otherwise, in my hands, several years ago. I have a key to his safety-deposit box—or rather, we use the box jointly. Mr. Sondergaard owns a very valuable diamond necklace valued at about eighty or ninety thousand dollars. He wired me that he was sending a Mr. Cardigan on for it.”
“My God!” exploded Noonan, striking the desk. “That’s it! The necklace!” He leveled an arm at Shell. “Take my advice, Mr. Shell, and don’t give up that necklace until we can prove this man ain’t Cardigan!”
Shell looked startled. “Could it be possible—?”
“You’re damn right it could!” Noonan barked hoarsely. “I’m going to toss this baby in the can!”
Shell looked confused for a moment, then he said briskly, “Well, I’m certainly grateful. I—I don’t know quite what to say. I have the necklace all packed, all ready. I’ll get in touch with Mr. Sondergaard.” He bowed smartly. “Keep me informed, Lieutenant. Good day.” He went out.
Noonan said dourly: “Now maybe you can think up some more ideas, Shane. You just take it easy. Rest in the can for a couple of days.”
CARDIGAN sat down wearily, put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The whole thing to him was so ridiculous that it enervated him. He could not prove, now, on the spot, that he was Cardigan. In a couple of days the Utica police might show up along with the bank teller and the bank teller would prove that he was not Shane. Cardigan thought of getting someone out from New York to prove his identity, but that too would take time and the necklace would not be in New York by the appointed time. He was angry and surly and he was desperate also.
The door opened. A civil clerk poked his head in to say, “How about the press, Lieutenant?”
“O.K.,” Noonan said.
Three men came in and one of them, a redhead, said: “Well well, so you collared Shane, Lieutenant!”
Noonan hooked his thumbs complacently in his vest. “In the flesh, boys. Me and Behmeister and Britten.”
The redhead grinned. “It’s sure pleasant to make your acquaintance, Homer Shane.”
Cardigan looked up, scowled. “What the hell’s pleasant about it?”
The redhead skipped that. “We’re eager to hear about that last Utica bank stick-up. How the devil did you pull that off single-handed—or was that single-handed business just a gag? Or did you—ah—gag the guard?”
Cardigan looked at him sourly. “Do you by any chance think you’re funny, monkey?”
“No offense, no offense, Shane. Did you really say, ‘Well, folks, pardon my murder,’ after you gave the guard the heat. That’s getting to be a by-line of yours. But I don’t think you’re really as tough as they say. I think it’s just a lot of hoop-la.”
Cardigan was staring at the floor, his forehead wrinkled. After a minute he looked up slowly at the redhead and said, “So you think I’m a lot of noise, eh? Well, I think you’re a fresh young brat and I think the coppers in this town are a lot of ten-year-olds. These three dummies you see here were scared out of their pants when they took me.”
He stood up, glowered menacingly. “And you don’t think I did the Utica job single-handed, eh? Would you bright babies like to know how I did it?”
The redhead nodded. “Ye-yes.”
“O.K.,” Cardigan said, pointing to the door. “Well, there’s the door. Just imagine that’s the door of the bank. I walk in that door at about ten to three. You, Behmeister, stand behind that roll-top desk. Lieutenant, you stand behind the other desk. Now you two guys are the bank tellers in their cages. You three news guys are customers in the bank. You,” he said to the redhead, “go stand in front of the lieutenant, just as if you were standing at a teller’s window. You other two birds stand in front of Behmeister. That’s swell.
“At the right of the bank is a window with a deep sill. The bank guard is looking out the window, with his elbows on the sill. You, Britten, play the bank guard. That mantelpiece over the fireplace is about where the window was. You lean on that with your elbows. That’s jake.
“O.K., now.
There’s the door. I came in strolling like this and I see the two tellers and the three customers, and over on the right I see the bank guard looking out the window. I stroll up to him, drawing my gun”—he cocked his forefinger—“and press it soft against his right side—like this. I say, ‘Easy, mister,’ very quiet like and then I—”
Cardigan drew Britten’s automatic from his hip holster, leaped back and snarled: “Reach!” And then: “All of you—against the wall!”
Noonan croaked: “Good grief!” as they all went to the wall.
“Grief if you start something!” Cardigan got his wallet.
THE reporters began shaking. Both Noonan and Behmeister looked ill. Britten’s face was red with chagrin. Cardigan backed to the door, reached behind toward a chair, picked up his hat and put it on; then he gathered his overcoat in the crook of his left arm. He removed the key from the inside of the door, opened the door, put the key in the outside. He backed out, closed the door, locked it and left the key in the lock.
There was a roar of rage inside the office and the door rattled. Cardigan ran down the corridor as two shots, muffled, sounded in his ears. There was a stairway ahead of him and he went down fast and into a gloomy corridor below. Ahead, the central room yawned before him and he saw two cops. At his left was a door and he opened it, found himself in a vacant office. He shot the bolt, ran across to an open window, dropped six feet to a driveway leading up sharply from the basement garage. Bells were ringing in the building.
Instead of running up the driveway to the street, he dived down grade into the garage. The garage was dim and he saw a patrol wagon, several flivvers and a long black squad car. The hood of this car was up and a cop in uniform was bent over the engine, racing it, jiggling the accelerator rod. Cardigan knocked him out with a blow behind the ear. As the man fell, Cardigan picked up his uniform cap. He threw his own hat and overcoat into the car, put on the uniform cap, closed the engine hood and climbed in behind the wheel. He gunned the car out of the garage, climbed the grade in second and slipped into high as he reached the street. Turning left, he slapped his foot down hard on the throttle and cut the siren wide open.
Two blocks beyond was a main intersection with a traffic officer on duty. At sound of the wailing siren the officer blew his whistle, held up crosstown traffic. Cardigan passed him doing fifty-five. Violently he sirened traffic out of the way, made his breakneck way through a maze of city streets. In a ragtag neighborhood near the railroad yards he braked the car to a stop. He tossed aside the uniform cap, put on his ancient fedora and his shabby ulster.
“Make a monkey out of me, will they!” he growled angrily.
He stood for a moment, lighting a cigarette, figuring that in all the uproar he had created Noonan would neglect to phone Shell.
Chapter Three
Shell Game
THE lawyer had a nice suite of offices.
There were a reception room, a record room and Shell’s own private office, spacious, luxuriantly carpeted, with two exposures and a massive, intricately carved desk. It was twenty to one and his secretary and clerk were out to lunch. Shell was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading correspondence when Cardigan breezed in and called out:
“Greetings, Mr. Shell. The law accidentally ran into a chap who knew me. A newspaper reporter. He used to work in New York until he got drunk one night and felt the urge to go west. Was Noonan’s face red!”
Shell took his cigar out of his mouth and said frankly: “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Cardigan. I had a feeling Lieutenant Noonan was wrong but at the time his facts seemed so concrete and—well, I felt he might be right.”
Cardigan chuckled, shrugged, then looked at his watch. “I’d like to make that afternoon plane for the east, Mr. Shell.”
“Yes, of course,” Shell nodded. “I put the necklace back in the safe deposit box after that talk with Lieutenant Noonan.” He put his cigar back between his teeth, stood up and buttoned his double-breasted jacket “D’ you mind watching my office while I step around to the bank? My force is out to luncheon. Cigars in that humidor. Help yourself. If anyone phones, tell ’em I’ll be back directly.”
“I’ll just take care of everything,” Cardigan said expansively.
Shell picked up his hat and put it on as he strode militantly from his office.
Cardigan watched the outer door close. He was not so sure that he had deceived Shell. It was possible that behind Shell’s suave acceptance of the fact lay an ulterior motive. Noonan might have phoned Shell. Shell, having acted a part well, might now be on his way to phone Noonan.
Cardigan could not risk remaining in this office. He went into the reception room, listened; heard an elevator door open, bang shut. He stepped out, saw the corridor was empty. This was the fifth floor. He found a stairway and ran down; came out at the rear of the lobby and looked toward the front swing doors. The elevator would have beaten him down. He strode toward the swing doors, pushed one open against the cold wind and stepped into the street.
Shell was half a block away. At the corner was a string of cabs and into one of these Shell climbed. Cardigan stepped into the street and flagged down a slow-moving cab, opened its door before it quite stopped and swung in.
“Follow that green cab pulling away from the curb.”
If Shell should enter a bank, Cardigan would know that he was in the clear and it would be a simple matter for him to drive back to Shell’s address and beat Shell to the office.
A cop on a motorcycle whanged by with a burst of his siren. The taxi driver said over his shoulder:
“I guess they’re all looking for that guy Shane.”
“Who?”
“A red-hot. I was parked up the line and I hear tell the cops collared this guy Shane and he give them the slip at headquarters. Ain’t that rich?”
“It sure is.”
“Yeah. He even swiped one a’ their squad cars, b’ Geez!”
Cardigan peered ahead. The green cab was hitting a lively pace down the city’s wide, main drag. A little farther on, it made a right turn, snaked slowly through a welter of traffic in a noisy, crowded street. It made a left turn into a wider street and picked up speed again. The street went up over the railroad tracks and beyond there was a lane of trees in the middle of it and apartment houses began to appear. The street was now a boulevard.
Where a tall, gray apartment house reared on the right, the green cab pulled up and Cardigan said: “Go past.”
He saw Shell get out, pay off the driver, and enter the apartment house.
“Pull up,” Cardigan said.
HE handed the driver a bill, climbed out and strolled back toward the apartment house. It certainly was not a bank. He drifted past the doorway, turned, came back and entered a large, airy lobby. Divans and high-backed chairs stood around and there were oil paintings on the walls. At the deep end of the lobby was a small hardwood desk with a clerk behind it. He was reading a book.
“Does Mr. Bradford Shell live here?”
“Shell? No, he doesn’t.”
“Did he live here recently?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been here three years. The name’s not familiar.”
Cardigan said: “Thanks,” and strolled away. He stood for a moment frowning, gnawing on his lip. He took off his hat and scratched his head and put his hat back on again. Then he made his way slowly out to the street, stood tapping his foot on the curb. Presently he signaled a cab, got in and drove back to Shell’s office address.
When he entered the reception room a tall, dark-haired girl was sitting back of the desk there.
Cardigan said: “Mr. Shell get in yet?”
“No. I just got back from lunch. He must have stepped out.”
“Yes, I know he did. I was here with him. I waited a while and then I went around the corner for a drink. I’ll wait in his office.”
“Yes, do, please.”
Cardigan strolled into the private office, leaned against the wall, thought hard. He heard
a police siren and went to the window. A couple of cops had stopped a car down in the street below and were ordering a man out. The man was big, heavy. They frisked him, then shrugged and waved him back into the car.
Cardigan grinned and searched his pockets for a cigarette. He had none. There were only cigars in the humidor on the desk. He saw Shell’s overcoat hanging on a clothes-tree and crossing to it, shoved his hand into one of the pockets, drew out a package of cigarettes. He lit one, tossed the package to the desk and sat down. He smoked it well down, tossed it into a tray and was about to get up when Shell came in.
The lawyer strode smartly, briskly. His cheeks were reddened by the cold out of doors, his step was firm, certain.
He said: “I was longer than I had intended, Mr. Cardigan. We had a little difficulty with the safety-deposit box.”
“But you got the necklace, huh?”
“Necklace? Of course.” He drew a long leather box from his inside pocket, snapped it open and laid it on the desk.
In the box lay a diamond necklace.
Shell stared at it wistfully, saying: “I’m sorry to see Mr. Sondergaard let it go. His wife—she died three years ago—used to wear it on all formal occasions. But I daresay Mr. Sondergaard is quite hard up. Aren’t we all?”
Cardigan picked up the case, stared at the necklace gravely. He wasn’t really grave; he merely looked that way because he was puzzled. His lips tightened. He snapped shut the case, thrust it into his pocket.
“I’ll make that afternoon plane,” he said.
“Yes. By the way, I’ll drive you out to the airport. It’s a matter of five miles. Tell Mr. Sondergaard to look after himself. The old chap’s apt to hit the pace too hard—for a man of his years.”
Cardigan said in an absent-minded, moody way: “I’ll tell him.” And then, with a blank look at Shell: “O.K. I’ll appreciate the lift to the airport.”
BEYOND the outskirts of the city the road became a ribbon of pale cement across the windy flatlands. Shell’s car was a roadster, long, swift. The side-curtains had not been attached. The canvas top drummed and rattled in the wind and it whistled past the windshield frame. There was hardly any traffic. The fields were bare, brown and the trees were leafless skeletons.
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 24
