The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35

by Frederick Nebel

  The lumpy man recovered his hat, went over to bow before the aged gentleman and spout apologies; then, red-faced, harried, he looked about. His face fell back into place as his eyes narrowed in a squint. He had a streamlined face, his nose being most prominent, like that of a rat’s, his chin and forehead the least prominent features of his clay-colored face. Recognition then sprouted in his small knot-hole eyes. He went toward Cardigan breaking his pulpy lips in a buck-toothed grin.

  “I thought, yes, I thought I recognized you, Cardigan!”

  Cardigan said simply: “Hello, Hubbel. Still at the old post, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir!” Hubbel beamed, thrusting out a hand.

  Cardigan pressed it, dropped it.

  Hubbel’s eyes glittered with an insensitive quality which his voice aptly matched when he said: “Well, well, well! So here you are in Stanfort, and at the Blackman! Well, now, isn’t that interesting!” He revolved one of his hands round the other, daylight gleaming on his buck teeth. “I know the town, Cardigan. The town knows me. The right people know me. So”—he dropped one muddy-colored eyelid—“if you need a hand—”

  Cardigan’s rough voice said good-naturedly: “Thanks, Hubbel, I just came up for a little sun on the beach. A man needs a vacation once in a while.”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” grinned Hubbel, but his small eyes danced with wicked, unbelieving mirth. “Only, just in case….” He laughed, shook Cardigan’s arm, winked, and walked off: a chubby knock-kneed man with fat narrow shoulders and a bulging neck.

  CARDIGAN went up to his room. Directly he closed the door he stopped, his wiry brows coming together. He remembered that when he had left the room his Gladstone lay on its side, with an express label on top. It was not on top now. He turned the bag over, saw it on the underside, and opened the bag. He hadn’t locked it, there was nothing in it of any importance. He observed that its contents had been disturbed.

  He went down to Pat’s room, at the end of the hall, and she let him in. She had bathed and was wrapped in a lemon-colored silk dressing gown.

  Cardigan said: “Do you know Hubbel the house dick by sight?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s a dumpy little guy with a balloon-tire neck, pipe-organ teeth and an airflow nose. He’s twice as nosey as he looks. If he pumps you—waltz. The cluck just tried to put on that he was surprised to see me. I go in my room and find somebody’s been through my bag.”

  “Hubbel?”

  “You don’t have to guess. He offers me a hand downstairs but what he means is he’s looking for a hand-out. The guy’s a grifter and a two-timer, a stool for the cops. Stay out of his way as much as possible.”

  She nodded. “What did you find out at the bank?”

  “One thing, anyhow. I had half an idea, Pats, that this guy Drew was just tangled up with some gorgeous gold-digger who was taking him over the money hurdles.” He shook his head. “But no. There’s a kind of mean-looking angle to it. The dame that deposited those checks is in her forties; she’s short, fat, and hell to look at, according to the bank…. I’ll see you for dinner. Wear the green dress they forgot to put the back in, and give the local boys a break.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To see an address about a dame.”

  Chapter Two

  Beach Party

  ELLINGSTON STREET began five blocks west of Penfield Square and made a beeline south. It began in a cluster of provision markets, radio stores, second-hand stores, with a sprinkling of dingy flats. Farther south, there were garages, frame dwellings, many of them rooming houses. Beyond that, a lumber yard, an ice plant, a tool factory, empty lots.

  The taxi-driver said over his shoulder: “You say Fourteen Hundred, South Ellingston?”

  “That’s right.”

  The driver nodded to an auto-repair factory. “Well, that’s Thirteen Twenty.”

  They drove on past a storage warehouse. “That’s Thirteen Sixty-four,” the driver said.

  Now there were fields again, with a river beyond. Then a wood-and-coal yard with a battered frame building in front. The driver pulled up and peered for a number. Finding none, he got out and entered the office at the right side of the building. He reappeared, coming back toward the taxi and shaking his head.

  “That’s Fourteen Twenty-six. There ain’t no Fourteen Hundred along here.” He waved a hand. “Them empty lots is where it’d be, if it was there, which it ain’t. Maybe you got the wrong number.”

  Cardigan, frowning, made no reply. He looked toward the empty lots, dropped his eyes to the slip of paper in his hand. His lips pursed, then tightened. He leaned back in the cab.

  “Drive me back to the Blackman,” he said.

  He went up to his room, skated his hat across the bed and sat down at the telephone. The bank’s doors would be closed but he reasoned that someone would still be in the office. There was. Mr. Floom was there.

  Cardigan said: “I’d like to check up on that address.” He waited, and in a few minutes Floom’s voice returned to the wire, saying: “It is Fourteen Hundred, South Ellingston Street.”

  “An empty lot,” said Cardigan, “with a river view.”

  “But how strange! What do you suppose you will do?”

  “Oh, I’ll find her,” said Cardigan, “but it’ll take time.”

  He hung up, took the telephone directory from beneath the table and turned to the classified section, to the hotel section. There were eight hotels listed. He began at the beginning, phoned the Hotel Ardmore and asked: “Is a Mr. Kenneth Drew registered there?”

  There was not a Mr. Kenneth Drew registered there.

  Cardigan went through the list, unsuccessfully.

  He took time out for a drink and a smoke, sitting with the chair tipped back, his feet on the edge of the bed. Then, suddenly, he swung his feet off the bed, set down his drink and picked up the telephone directory, this time turning to Garages in the classified section. He checked those nearest the center of town, especially those which specialized in twenty-four-hour parking service.

  Drew was a gay blade; doubtless he would have chosen a garage that never closed its doors. Cardigan whittled the list down to nine garages and phoned the first. He gave the make of the car, the license number, and asked: “Is it parked there now, or has it been parked there within the past twelve days?” He asked this of five garages. The fifth came through.

  CARDIGAN hung up, punched a hole in the air, downed his drink and whipped out of his shirt. He kicked off his pants and took a shower. Shaved. Dressed. He ran a comb through his hair, which was a waste of effort, for his hair looked just the same: partless and bushy and thick around his ears, on his nape. The bath, however, had refreshed him immensely. He took a particularly long drink and went down the hall to see Pat, the flask on his hip.

  “I thought you might like a drink,” he said.

  “It’s much too warm for liquor,” she told him.

  “You’ll be sorry someday, always drinking water.”

  She was doing something to her eyebrow. “What about that address?”

  “A gag. There’s no such address. But I had some luck, kid. When I couldn’t find Drew registered at any of the hotels, I began calling garages. He drove into the Central Garage twelve days ago. The guy there knows him, because Drew used to drive up quite frequently and he always parked his car there. He stopped at the Athletic Club for the night and left next morning at about ten, with the car, of course. Now get this, Pats. The man at the garage told me that when Drew left he told this guy he was going down to the beach for a swim and then he was driving on up the coast that afternoon, for Boston.”

  Pat had finished with her eyebrows. “Of course, he never got to Boston.”

  “He never got out of this vicinity. The checks prove that. He went down to the beach for a swim…. You’ve got a swell back, Patsy. Let’s go down and grab some dinner.”

  They spent an hour over dinner. As they left the dining room and headed into the lobby, Pat
giving the local boys a break, Hubbel appeared from behind a pillar, pretending it was accidental.

  “Oh. Oh, Cardigan!” He bowed toward Pat. “And Miss Seaward, I believe.” His unwholesome smile crawled all over his face. Then suddenly he was grave, saying: “Cardigan, could I have about a minute of your time?”

  Cardigan dropped his eyes shrewdly across Hubbel’s face, said to Pat: “Wait here, Patsy, will you?”

  Hubbel again bowed to Pat, turned to Cardigan, said: “I got a little office back here.” He led the way, his fat knees swishing against each other, his fat hands held lightly against his thighs. His office was a cubbyhole next to the checkroom. He indicated the only chair. “Sit down, Cardigan.”

  “You take it,” Cardigan said.

  Both remained standing, Hubbel revolving one hand round the other and smiling reflectively, almost absent-mindedly. He said: “This Kenneth Drew….” He pursed his lips and grinned up at Cardigan. He pawed his receding chin. His long heavy nose cast a shadow across his mouth. “Vanished, eh, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan’s face was stony. He said, slowly: “So you listened in on the switchboard, huh?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Cardigan.”

  “I would.”

  Hubbel shrugged. “Have it your own way. I just asked you a question and—”

  “Go ahead; ask me some more.”

  Hubbel looked pained. “Now don’t act that way, Jack, old kid. It’s just that I like to lend a friend a hand. I knew you were kidding me when you said you were up here just for a vacation. So I thought it’d be a joke to listen in and—”

  “You slice it thick, Hubbel, and you spread it on thicker. What’s on your mind? Nuts with the bushwha. What’s on your mind?”

  Hubbel grinned jerkily and looked pained at the same time. “Now please, Jack, old pal—”

  “You heard me.”

  Hubbel got very red. His tongue flicked at his upper lip. “Honest. You know I know the town up, down and across. I’m on the inside track here, I know the cops, they know me. I know my way around. I thought I’d be doing the right thing by offering you a hand.”

  Cardigan said: “Thanks, Hubbel. Thanks a lot. But I don’t need any help.” He turned toward the door.

  HUBBEL took hold of his arm. “This Drew comes of a very wealthy family, Cardigan. I can put two and two together. He vanished and you’re looking for him.” He had dropped his smiling mask now and his eyes were very small. “There’s no law against me looking for Drew, is there?”

  Cardigan regarded him somberly. “What are you doing, Hubbel, rehearsing for an accident?”

  “No. I’m cutting in.”

  “The rat after the cheese, huh?”

  Hubbel’s pulpy lips broke over his buck teeth. “Calling me names ain’t going to get you anywhere, Cardigan.”

  “Who wants to get anywhere with you, Hubbel? Listen, you tramp!” he snarled suddenly, grabbing Hubbel by the throat and slamming him back against the wall, holding him there. “The last time I was in this burg, two years ago, you pulled a fast one on me. You didn’t know I knew that, did you? I was smack on the heels of Danny McHugh, the bank robber, the last of the Patch Gang, that stuck up that armored truck in the Bronx and got away with two hundred grand. All but Danny were killed during the next two weeks. Danny was the last, the only guy that knew where the money was hidden. I was out to get him alive and I was all set, I’d waited two weeks, day and night, to get him right. Then the cops sailed in with half a dozen machine guns, shot the building to hell and Danny with it. Nobody ever found the money. I found out later from one of the cops—I met him in a New York bar one night—that you’d tipped them off. So now you think I want to get somewhere with you!”

  “Leggo! You’re—choking—me—”

  Cardigan slapped his face three times, hard. Hubbel’s lips jigged, he pressed his eyelids shut.

  “Smart, you are,” Cardigan growled. He tossed him to the floor and said: “I recognize you now. You were the backward boy at the Century of Progress.”

  Hubbel was panting, holding his hand against his cheek.

  Cardigan went to the door, turned to level a finger and to say: “Get underfoot again, you crackpot, and I’ll take you apart and see what was left out when you were born.” He went out, slamming the door.

  “Oh-oh,” said Pat, seeing Cardigan’s dark scowl as he rejoined her. “So what?”

  “That was Hubbel.”

  “So I judged,” she nodded.

  “He’s the kind of a guy you can’t forget—like a bad dream. Some day I’m going to step on that baby and leave only a wet spot.”

  “If I were you, chief—”

  “Sh!”

  She looked curiously at him.

  He turned suddenly away from her and strode long-legged to the door, disappeared. In a few minutes he reappeared, unhurried this time, and Pat, wide-eyed, said: “What happened to you that time?”

  “Do you see that window over there?”

  “That one? Yes, of course.”

  “There was a guy looking at me. I saw just his eyes and his hat and there was something funny in his eyes. The minute our looks met, he ducked.”

  “I wonder who it could be,” she whispered, breathless.

  “I’ve seen those eyes before, somewhere, but I can’t place them.” He went over to the checkroom and got his hat, returned to Pat and said: “Now you stay here. No, sit over there by those phone booths. They’re on outside wires.” He entered one of the booths, jotted down the number. Coming out, he said: “If I need you, I’ll ring this booth. If I rang your room, Hubbel’d listen in.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The beach.”

  SEAFRONT PARK covered about a square mile. It was two miles by bus from Stanfort. It was noted for its fine bathing facilities, its roller coaster, nine-tenths of which ran over water, and its tremendous Ferris wheel. The park was a complete unit and employed its own police.

  Cardigan arrived as the sun smashed into the sea and spread red color over the water and the sky. The bus terminal was hard by the boardwalk. Cardigan stood upon the boardwalk and shuttered his eyes against the red fire of the sun. It was a warm evening and quite a few bathers were still on the beach. Many strollers followed the route of the boardwalk. Cardigan heard the tin-pan sound of the merry-go-round, the echoless racket of .22s in the shooting gallery, the clang of a gong as a man swung a sledgehammer and sent an iron weight upward, the screech of the roller coaster plunging down a grade, the various whistles and bells and horns of the venders and the shouting of the hawkers.

  Cardigan headed for the huge parking lot, following the signs. He turned into an alleyway that ran between two large frame buildings and was hardly wider than the spread of his shoulders. Before he quite reached the end a man entered, dawdling along toward him.

  He was a very tall, gangling, thin man, with a straw hat set ridiculously upon the top of a backwoods haircut; a suit of brown-and-reddish plaid, too short of arm and leg; white socks and yellow shoes. As he drew near, he raised large melancholy eyes and turned sidewise in order to squeeze past. But then he stopped, his eyes grew wider, his mouth opened.

  “Sam the Mope,” chuckled Cardigan.

  “Geez, if it ain’t Jack Cardigan—now if it ain’t Jack Cardigan! Palm me hand, palm me hand!”

  They shook hands and Cardigan said: “When’d you get east?”

  “Just about a mont’ ago. Dem guys at de state fairs was gettin’ hep to me an’, t’ tell you de trut’, Jack, me life was not me own. One o’ dem foxy johndarms out in Ioway got de line on me an’ it was on’y by me superior intelligence dat I hooked a milk train out one mornin’, de local bastille bein’, as you might say, too confinin’ for a citizen burnin’ wit’ a love for de wide, open spaces. Lemme see. I ain’t saw you since dat time in St. Louis when I got meself crocked on bourbon an’ accidental pulled dem loaded dice on you in dat bar in Sixt’ Street. Dat was a mistake, Jack. So help me, I was mindin’ d
em dice for a friend. I never blamed you for gettin’ mad, Jack. I knew you was goin’ to slap me down but I always appreciate de way you did it. ’Member? When I seen it comin’, I says, ‘Jack, don’t hit me in de teeth. I just bought dem.’ So when you hit me between de eyes, as I’m passin’ out I says to meself, ‘Sam, dere’s a gentleman.’” He took hold of Cardigan’s arm. “Let’s I an’ you go around to a bar an’ froth at de mouth over a beer.”

  “Can’t, Sam.”

  “Busy, hahn?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, look pal. Dese private park cops around here are de muck.”

  “Thanks. You still rolling the bones?”

  “Nope. It’s poker now, Jack. I pertend I’m a yokel, see? Dere’s a couple guys been tryin’ to egg me into a game for de past t’ree days. I pertend I’m cautious an’ hold off. I t’ink dat tonight I’m gonna let dese babes take me in.” He winked. “If you get what I mean, pal.”

  “I catch on. Good luck, bozo.”

  “Maybe I’ll be seein’ you.”

  CARDIGAN went on his way; left the wooden walk and headed across sand toward the parking lot. He slowed down, drifted through the gate and began meandering up and down the rows of parked autos. Quite a few persons were preparing to leave and the attendants were kept busy and Cardigan found himself unmolested. He took his time, going up one aisle, down another. It took time, for there were many cars parked there. There was a small, white-stucco building, of one room, with two gas pumps out front. Cardigan passed this twice. Suddenly he came upon a Packard phaeton bearing the license plate he sought. The car was covered with a film of dust. He ran his finger over the leather of the front seat, found it too was covered with dust. Obviously the car had not been used in many days.

  “Looking for something?” a voice said behind him.

  Cardigan turned around. “Yeah. This buggy.”

  The man was dressed in brown khaki coveralls which had the words, Beach Parking, sewn across the chest. He was an angular man with a hooked nose bent over a heavy mouth and a jaw like a doorknob.

  The man said: “O.K. Let’s have your ticket.” He pulled a ticket from the windshield wiper.