The manager nodded. “He’s had a standing order for years for two boxes a month, one at the middle of the month, the other at the end. He always preferred them straight from our factory.”
“How did you send them?”
“Parcel post.”
Cardigan withdrew the folded sheet of brown paper from his pocket, spread it on the desk, said: “Is that yours?”
“Why—er—yes.” The manager pointed. “Our address label—”
The address label had been pasted in the center of the sheet of brown paper. The label was pale blue, the firm’s name lettered in black boldface. The address of Judge Barron was typewritten.
The manager said: “Decidedly our label!”
“When was the last box of cigars sent?”
The manager looked at a calendar. “Today is the sixteenth. Of course—it was sent on the fifteenth—yesterday. I can find out exactly.” He used a phone, and when he had finished talking with the stockroom, said: “Yes. At three yesterday afternoon. But what, sir—what is the matter?”
Cardigan was biting his lip. “I’m damned if I know. Show me the man who sent the box out.”
He was taken back to the stockroom, and the manager said: “Old Franz Muller has been packing and shipping the judge’s cigars for years—Franz, come here!”
A little old man in steel-rimmed spectacles said frankly that he had packed and shipped a box of cigars to Judge Barron on the day before. Cardigan wrote down his name and address, eyed him sharply.
The manager said: “You might have seen an article in the Sunday Standard a few weeks ago. It was all about the judge, and about his habits. His cigar habit was mentioned also. How twice a month, regularly on the fifteenth and the last day, he had our cigars mailed to him.”
“No, I didn’t see it— You’ve noticed, haven’t you, that quite often on parcel-post packages the post office doesn’t stamp the date?”
“I believe I have.”
Cardigan folded the sheet of brown paper and pocketed it. He said to Franz: “Have you ever met or seen the judge?”
“No. Only in the papers I see him.”
Cardigan, puzzled, let his eyes wander around the stockroom, then said abruptly to the manager: “Thank you very much for the way you’ve helped me. Now something else. I wish you’d give me a list of local addresses to which you’ve sent single boxes of cigars during the past month.”
“It will take some time. Could I send the list to your hotel?”
“O.K. Do that, will you?”
The taxi had waited for him. He climbed in, lit a cigarette, thought for a moment and then said: “Drive to the Central Products Building.”
The late judge’s office was pretty thoroughly cleared out by the time Cardigan arrived. The estate lawyer was about to leave.
Cardigan said: “Who took care of mail that arrived this morning for the judge?”
“Why, I dare say his secretary took care of it. Naturally she handed it over to me, since by law I am entitled—”
“Any parcel post?”
“There were only letters.”
“Thank you.”
HE went downstairs, passed through the lobby and stood for a few minutes outside, tapping his foot against the curb. Then he began walking downhill. He turned left at Center Street, went past the entrance to the vehicular bridge, made another left turn into a narrow street and entered Police Headquarters.
“Well, I’m glad to see you, Cardigan,” the man at the desk said.
“Where’s Bogart?”
“Downstairs, I guess.”
He found Bogart in a dim, narrow cell.
“How they treating you, Charley?”
“Outside of a couple of socks in the jaw and a swift kick in the pants, I guess I can’t complain.”
“They’ve been tough, eh?”
“Kind of. Chicago could take lessons from this town.”
“Hagin mostly?”
“Yeah.”
Cardigan’s eyes glittered but his voice was low. “Sit tight, Charley. I’m either on a hot trail or I’m goofy. I tried to get you out on a writ, pal, but they spell law backwards here; they say, ‘wal—’ and give it up. They’re framing you.”
“Don’t tell the wife, will you? She’ll get scared.”
“You’re not afraid of these mutts, are you?”
“I can take it, I guess.”
“That’s the kid. If they lay on to you too hard kick ’em in the belly. I’ll get you out of this or pile in here with you trying.”
Cardigan went upstairs to the central room and found Hagin and Stoper leaning against the desk. He went straight toward them wearing an ugly brown look.
He said quietly: “You two baboons lay your dirty paws on my pal again and I’ll break your lousy necks.” He remained in front of them, jabbing his hard malignant gaze from one to the other.
Hagin drawled: “You’re in headquarters, baby.”
“I can tell by the stink.”
A tall bald man walked into the central room and said: “Is that Cardigan?”
Cardigan turned. “You want me?”
“I’d like to talk with you—in my office.”
Cardigan followed the bald man into a shabby office and the latter said: “Kone’s my name.” He flopped down. “Inspector Kone. Take the load off your feet.”
“Thanks.”
“Smoke?”
“I’m smoking.”
Kone leaned back, pawed a few times at his jaw, squinted a hard blue eye across the desk. “You’re inclined to be nasty, Cardigan, aren’t you?”
“I hate a double cross.”
“Words, words man! Nobody’s double-crossing you.”
“O.K. I’m wrong. Now what?”
“This, Cardigan. I’d like to give you a break and I think I can swing it. If we tried hard enough around here, we might be able to spring your friend.”
“What’s the swap?”
“Well—look here, Cardigan. You’re supposed to be a fancy cop, a go-getter, a hellion. Back east, maybe. Not here. We work different out here. A guy like you can create a lot of trouble just by walking down the street. It’s in your blood. We don’t like trouble makers. I’d like to see you pack up and go home.”
“With Bogart?”
Kone patted his bald head. “Um—I think we could arrange that.”
Cardigan stood up, said: “Will you wait a minute?”
He left the office and went downstairs to Bogart’s cell. “Inspector Kone wants to swap, Charley. It’s up to you. We bail out of here with our eyes shut—hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. It’s O.K. by me if it’s O.K. by you.”
“What do you think your chances are of getting this thing in the bag?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then suppose you tell the inspector to go spit up a rope.”
Chapter Four
A Rod and a Red-Head
A SPECIAL messenger was sent by the Elmo Cigar Factory.
“Wait a minute, boy,” Cardigan said.
He tore open the envelope, scanned a list of names and addresses. Beside each name was the date on which a single box of cigars had been shipped to the consignee.
“Catch,” Cardigan said.
A half dollar slapped into the Negro’s pale palm. “Yassuh, boss!” He bowed out.
The list contained twenty-five names. Cardigan found nineteen of the names listed in the telephone directory; he jotted down the telephone numbers, but had no real intention of putting through any calls. In another section of the book he found listed a business rating bureau. He put on hat and coat, carried the list with him, and found the bureau located six blocks to the north. He showed his credentials, turned on the Irish personality—the person in charge was a woman—and was permitted access to the bureau’s files.
Most of the nineteen were old residents; twelve were past sixty years of age and seven of these were retired from active life—landed gentlemen of the outlying districts. Three were clergymen
, one a hospital superintendent, four were doctors. By a process of elimination he cut down his list to six. He did not entirely discard the nineteen, but pigeon-holed them as second, third and fourth possibilities. He thanked the manageress, said: “That’s a swell head of hair you have.” And departed.
He bargained with a cab driver for an hourly rate and set out to investigate the six addresses. At the first stop, he found that the addressee had died a week before—aged ninety-one. “Pop died of smoking,” his seventy-year-old daughter said.
Cardigan went on. The next address was a small grocery store in a thrifty neighborhood. The cigar-smoker was a blind man with one leg—a relic of the Civil War. Cardigan crossed off his name, drove to the north side of town and found the third addressee to be a high-school teacher; and after a five minutes’ talk he crossed off that name.
The next address took him closer to the heart of the city. He entered a five-story frame building and spoke with the janitor. The man whom Cardigan sought was not in. It took Cardigan five minutes and cost him five dollars to wangle a pass key. He climbed to the top floor, found a door numbered “4” at the front of the hall and keyed his way into a bed-sitting-room that was large, old-fashioned, shabby.
The bureau drawers were empty. A single tie hung on the harp-shaped frame of the bureau mirror. He swiveled and crossed to a closet, found inside a single suit of clothes, a suitcase on the floor. The suitcase was open and contained linen, socks, collars, ties, a pair of shoes. No garment contained a label. There were no papers, no letters.
Cardigan sighed and returned to the room. There was a heavy square of glass on the bureau that presumably was intended for a paper weight. Cardigan picked it up carefully between thumb and forefinger and carried it to the window. He studied it for a long moment.
He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, held it up and let it burn slowly until a quarter inch of white ash formed. He sprinkled the ash on the square of glass, used a little finger to wipe carefully grains of it away. He set the glass down. From his wallet he took a piece of tape an inch long and half an inch wide and a strip of isinglass of equal dimensions. He placed the strip of tape on the ashed part of the glass, pressed it down firmly. When he removed it, a fingerprint, made legible by the white ash, had been transferred from the glass to the strip of black tape. He replaced the isinglass on the tape, over the print.
He went downstairs, said to the janitor: “You’re sure this man has red hair and a red mustache?”
“Yes.”
“And his name’s George Rawson.”
“Yes.”
“O.K. Here’s your key. Now keep your mouth shut. Forget I was here.”
HE made a trip to police headquarters and managed to reach the identification bureau without running into Hagin or Stoper. A half-asleep attendant waved him through to the files, and Cardigan spent twenty minutes thumbing card indexes. He wound up by stealing a record card and a picture, and then took a rear exit out to avoid the possibility of meeting Hagin and getting into another argument.
Feeling the need of a walk, he struck out over the hill, and by this route it took him half an hour to reach the frame house. He found the janitor at the rear of the lower hall and was about to engage him in a conversation when he heard footfalls coming down the staircase. He bided his time.
A man came down and went out the front door and the janitor whispered: “That’s him!”
“O.K.”
When Cardigan reached the front door and looked out, the man was halfway down the street. Cardigan let him get a block ahead, then swung out and followed, but on the opposite side of the street. The man walked rapidly, purposefully. He was tall, well-built, a little round-shouldered. Two blocks farther on, he turned left. Fifteen minutes later he turned right into an alley. Cardigan lengthened his stride, slowed down as he neared the mouth of the alley, peered cautiously around the corner of the building. He saw the man passing into a door midway down the alley.
In a minute Cardigan moved, went into the alley, reached the door. Laying his hand on the knob, he listened, then turned the knob and entered a dim hallway. He made his way slowly to the front of the hall, listened, looked up the staircase. There was something vaguely familiar about his surroundings. He went out into the vestibule and looked at the house number. It was number 225 Hebron Street. “I’ll be damned!” he muttered.
ENTERING, he went swiftly, silently, up the stairs, paused awhile on the first landing and then took the second staircase up. He bore down on Beth Tindale’s door with a hawklike expression, used his right hand to draw his gun, laid his left cautiously on the knob. It turned. He could feel the door give.
The man with the red hair and the red mustache turned as Cardigan entered with his gun held level. Beth Tindale let out a choked little cry.
“Watch those hands, Red!” Cardigan clipped.
He kicked shut the door, went slowly across the living room, stopped, studied the man’s face for a long moment.
“George Rawson,” he said thoughtfully.
“Of course—”
“I mean—Edgar Fitch alias George Rawson.”
The woman drew her lips tightly together.
The man’s blue eyes shimmered.
“Despite the red hair,” Cardigan said, and added: “It’s a nice dye job, Fitch.”
“My name’s not Fitch.”
“No? I happen to know it is. I clouted through your room this afternoon and picked up a fingerprint on a chance. I took the print down to headquarters and the print says it belongs to a man named Edgar Fitch. This Edgar Fitch was once sentenced by Judge Barron for manslaughter.”
The man snapped: “That’s a lie!”
“A week ago you had a box of cigars sent to your address. The box came from the Elmo cigar factory. The Elmo Cigar Company sent out a box of cigars to Judge Barron yesterday afternoon. I found out that these cigars would not have been delivered until this morning. You received the judge’s mail this morning, Mrs. Tindale. What did you do with the box of cigars?”
Her voice was choked: “I didn’t—”
Cardigan snapped: “Cut it out! I’m damned sick and tired of this lying!”
“I turned the mail over to the judge’s estate lawyer.”
“Sure—all except the box of cigars. How come this former convict is paying you a call?”
“My name’s George Rawson,” the man ground out.
Cardigan moved his eyes from the man to the woman. “O.K., George. Put your hat on. You, Mrs. Tindale, put your hat and coat on and we’ll all go down to police headquarters. Where’s your daughter?”
“I sent her away.”
“Where?”
“To—friends in Ohio.”
“O.K. Get your clothes on and we’ll go.”
She did not move. Her eyes stared very hard at the floor and her hands were clenched at her sides. “No,” she breathed hoarsely. “I won’t go.”
“I hate like hell to get rough,” Cardigan said. “But you’ll have to go. You’ve waltzed me around enough and after a time I get sore—Come on, Fitch, get her hat and coat. No—you’d better stay where you are. You, lady, snap on it. This boy friend of yours is heeled and aching to go into action and if you don’t start quick there’s liable to be trouble.”
She breathed deeply. “I am not going.”
“Fitch—stick up your hands.”
The man backed away. “I tell you my name’s not Fitch.”
“If it isn’t, what’s the idea of getting scared? Come on, up with those hands!”
The man raised his hands and backed up until his back was against the wall. His blue eyes glinted and his lips were taut, his face pale and dry.
“Where’s the rod, Fitch?”
“I tell you—”
“Under your arm, huh? Up, boy!”
He shot his left hand beneath the man’s lapel and drew out a black automatic.
“Now—you!” breathed the woman.
Cardigan felt something hard against th
e small of his back. He tensed and his eyes drooped.
“Put up your hands!” the woman whispered.
“It’s always a dame,” Cardigan said. “Always a dame.”
“If you move I’ll kill you!” she said in a low passionate whisper. “I had nothing to do with the murder of Judge Barron. God, I’m innocent! Believe me, Cardigan. I was devoted to the judge. But I had to protect my daughter—my poor daughter. I couldn’t let it be known that—”
“I’m blowing,” the man with the red hair said.
Cardigan muttered: “You stay here!”
“Nuts! I’m blowing. And you’re blowing with me. You know just too much—too much!”
The woman shook. “No—no! Let me explain! Ed—”
Cardigan spun. “So it is Ed!”
She had her gun trained on him. “I warn you—stay back!”
The red-head snatched his gun from Cardigan’s hand, snapped: “I’ll take care of him. Get moving, Cardigan—and watch your step.” He said to the woman: “You stay here and forget you ever saw this.” He jammed his gun against Cardigan’s back, took away Cardigan’s gun.
The woman choked: “Please, Ed—”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up!” He jabbed Cardigan hard. “Move, you!”
“No! No, Ed!” the woman panted.
Fitch glared at her. “Get back!” he rasped.
Cardigan walked to the door, his hands up.
“Open it,” Fitch said.
Cardigan opened it and Fitch shoved him into the hall, said, “Get going and watch yourself!”
They went down to the hall door, into the street. Fitch, by this time, had shoved his gun into his pocket, but his hand remained on the butt.
“Walk naturally, Cardigan—and get funny and I’ll let you have it. Turn left here. We’ll take the back alleys.”
“You got nice ideas in stir, didn’t you?”
“I said I’d get that lousy judge. And it seems I have to polish you off to keep the silence.”
“Look out for the woman. She may frame you some day the way she framed the judge.”
FITCH chuckled drily. “She can’t frame me. She used to be my wife. Turn right here. The kid’s our kid. She’s nuts on the kid.”
“I don’t believe it.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 3
