“How was he blown up?”
She grimaced. “Burt went there, knocked out the watchman. He went to the office, got in with a key I had had made. He locked the windows, unscrewed all the light bulbs. He carried a grip. The grip was so constructed as to be airtight. In the grip he carried an odorless, highly inflammable gas. He let the gas out in the room, closed and locked the door and went away. He knew Bennett was a heavy smoker and would carry matches. He knew that when Bennett opened the door and turned on the switch and the lights wouldn’t light—he knew—you’d know—that Bennett would strike a match. The gas would be flowing naturally toward the open door—”
Josephine said: “Bernard thought I loved him. That’s why he didn’t say I had ever been in Bennett’s office. I asked him not to. I said I’d run away from my husband because he beat me and that if my name were printed in the papers he’d see—and come after me again.”
Bernard’s voice was hoarse: “I believed you.”
“Now—now, Cardigan,” she cried. “I’ve told you all. Take me to him. I love him and I planned murder for him and I’d do it again—again! But take me to him!”
Cardigan’s voice was low: “No use. He’s dead. He died as I got him there.”
She screamed: “You lie!” Wild-eyed, she fled to the door.
“Stop!” Cardigan barked, leveling his gun.
Pat fell on his gun.
Josephine had the door open. But Bernard leaped across the room, grabbed her, dragged her back into the room and held her while she kicked violently.
Cardigan was saying half to himself: “I see now. Bennett had finished the exposé. We were to come here and take the finished script to a New York publisher. Pat was to disguise herself and carry it and I was to cover her….”
Pat had dropped to a chair. She was sobbing now. Cardigan went over, bent down, pulled up her chin. “Chin up, kid. I know you’ve been through a lot, but— Come on, snap out of it. You were swell. I’m glad you stopped me.” He turned and looked at Josephine, at somber-faced Bernard, who held her.
Bernard was saying in a dull voice: “She tricked me. She made a fool of me. But that doesn’t matter, Cardigan. She murdered Senator Bennett. That matters. He was a grand old man. I thought the world of him. He got me my job. And she—she—” He stopped, then said: “Put the cuffs on her.”
Cardigan jangled manacles and went toward them, saying: “Bernard, one thing about your game and mine—you get to learn about women.” And over his shoulder: “No cracks against you, Pat chicken.”
Heir to Murder
Chapter One
Shadow Man
CARDIGAN looked at the card in his hand, looked up at the number painted on the glass transom of the vestibule. The house was built of brownstone, narrow, neat, and rose four stories. An old house, but polished window panes, polished brass-work on the door, gave to it an air of solid respectability. A stone’s throw west, Lexington Avenue traffic hummed and rumbled.
Cardigan climbed six stone steps, entered the vestibule, bent to peer at the brass name-plates. He pressed a small brass button and in a moment the door clicked open. He entered a high, dim hallway, closed the door. A rug was soft and resilient beneath his feet. A massive banister shone darkly. He stood for a moment looking, listening—a big man in a bulky ulster and a battered, lop-eared fedora.
Presently a door opened and he went toward it. A man stood there, waiting; an expectant and curiously troubled look on his face. He was tall, straight, in his forties, and had a finely chiseled face, crisp hair, graying.
“I’m from the Cosmos Agency,” Cardigan said. “My name’s Cardigan.”
The man beckoned with a slight motion of his chin. “Yes. Come in, come in.”
“You’re Mr. Wayne.”
“Wayne—of course.” His voice was hushed, repressed.
CARDIGAN pulled off his hat, entered a large living room whose two windows looked onto the street. It was an amiable, comfortable room furnished mostly in leather—big chairs, a wide divan, many ash receptacles strewn about.
The door clicked shut. Wayne went past Cardigan quickly but silently, and stopped beside one of the curtained windows, pressing his body against the wall, drawing the curtain cautiously aside, peering slyly into the street. His head turned and his eyes beckoned, cautioned.
Cardigan moved his big feet across the carpet, stood behind Wayne.
“The one on the corner,” Wayne said, “in front of that cigar store. See him?”
“The man in the derby?”
Wayne whispered: “Yes.” And nodded.
Cardigan muttered: “Got a pair of binoculars?”
Wayne turned. “Yes.” His feet, moving swiftly, whispered on the carpet, and in a moment he returned with a pair of glasses. He held the curtain slightly away from the wall while Cardigan raised them, adjusted the lenses.
Cardigan peered for a long moment, then lowered the binoculars. He mused aloud: “A well-dressed man of about thirty—dark, not bad-looking.” He turned. “So what?”
Wayne gestured. “Take a seat.”
Cardigan dropped to the divan.
Wayne sighed. It was a lusty, noisy sigh indicative of exasperation. And he said sharply: “You know, I feel foolish about it. If I didn’t, I should have called in the police. I feel foolish and—” he dropped a frank glance on Cardigan—“a little nervous.” He pointed toward the window. “I’ve stood it as long as I can. That man has been shadowing me for three days. I’m sure he has.”
“What makes you sure?”
“I’ve seen him on various street corners. I’ve not seen him actually walking behind me, but no matter where I’ve been, he’s been somewhere near.”
“Ever see him before?”
“Never. I came home from Europe—from France—four days ago, and since then—”
“What’s your business, Mr. Wayne?”
“Buyer for Valentine’s.”
“Travel a lot, huh?”
“Practically all the time. My brother and I share this apartment. He’s up-country but I’m expecting him back today.”
“You any enemies?”
“I can’t recall one. I know I’ve never seen that man—”
“Wouldn’t have to be him. He could be working for someone else. You travel. You scout around, all over, and pick up rare objects.” He paused, eyed Wayne steadily. “Did you ever pick up any object you weren’t supposed to?”
“Robbery, you mean?”
“Not quite. But you fellows get all hopped up over some antique and if you can’t buy it—if the owner refuses to sell—you get it anyhow. Or you frisk a temple or something. It’s a kind of sport. But sometimes the owner takes it hard.”
Wayne moved toward the window again, drew aside the curtain, peered out intently. He said: “He’s still there.” And then he turned smartly, made a brusk gesture, frowned. “I know what you mean. No, nothing like that. You see, I’m not an amateur. I work for Valentine’s. I root out old buhl cabinets, early Dresden work—or Ming objects. I can’t afford to purloin. If I can’t buy, that’s the end. This—” he indicated the window—“this has no connection with my work. Of that I’m positive. I can’t recall anything I might have done that would cause me to be shadowed as soon as I move out of this house. It’s so silly, so absurd that—well, that I was reluctant to report it to the police.”
CARDIGAN was unmoved, wary. “If you expect me to help you,” he said, “why you’ve got to be frank.”
“I am frank. I tell you, Cardigan, I’m on edge. First I thought it was my imagination. But it’s not. And the thing that irritates me more than anything else is that nothing happens. I go out. I’m shadowed. Yesterday I carried a gun and deliberately chose a deserted street. I walked down it. But nothing happened. Yet later, ten minutes later, I saw that man watching me from a corner at Sheridan Square.”
“Were you annoyed—shadowed—on the boat coming over?”
“No.”
“When were you first
shadowed?”
“The morning after I arrived. I was sick all the way over. Didn’t leave my stateroom once. Met no one. What I want you to do—I want you to shadow that man, see where he lives, what he does. I’ve a strong suspicion my life’s in danger. Why it is, God knows—I don’t. But there you have it. I particularly request you not to use violence. I want you to find out who this man is—make certain I am shadowed.”
Cardigan stood up, his dark eyes still bent on Wayne. “Business aside—how about your personal life? Anything in it—on the shady side—that might cause this?”
Wayne spread his hands. “I hate to brag, Cardigan, but I think I’ve led a pretty orderly life.”
“No scorned woman?”
“No. My wife died ten years ago. Since then I’ve been a confirmed bachelor. If there was anything, Cardigan, I’d tell you. Believe me. If I could offer you some clue, no matter how small, I’d do it. Why shouldn’t I? But there’s nothing. It’s just too ridiculous—too utterly ridiculous. And yet—” he half chuckled—“here I’ve engaged a private detective.”
Cardigan was blunt but cordial. “We’ll get to work on it. Meantime there’ll be a bodyguard with you at all times. I’ll—” He stopped, picked up the binoculars again and went to the window.
The man was still on the corner. Black overcoat, blue suit, gray spats, black shoes. He was smoking a cigar which he held in a gloveless hand. A lean, hatchet face—a distinctive air to the way he wore his clothes.
Cardigan turned from the window. “Can I use a phone?”
“The desk—in my bedroom.”
Cardigan swung his feet across the room, disappeared into the adjoining room. Wayne stepped to the window, used the binoculars. His lips pursed, formed a soundless oath. Then he turned, looked toward the bedroom, nibbling on his lower lip. He went halfway across the room, raised and turned his ear toward the bedroom door… listening.
Presently Cardigan returned to the living room and said: “O.K. A man named Casey will be here. Meantime I’ll stay with you. I’ve also got a woman on the case.”
“A woman!”
Cardigan, lighting a cigarette, was offhand: “Yes… a woman. One of our prize operatives.” He nodded casually toward the window. “I may be able to find out who that bird is without his knowing anything about it.”
Half an hour later there was a tapping somewhere in the rear. Wayne started.
Cardigan said: “That’ll be Casey. I told him to come the back way.”
They found Casey waiting outside the court door in the rear, and Cardigan let him in, introduced him to Wayne.
Cardigan said: “Pat on the way?”
“Any minute.”
Cardigan strode long-legged to the front window, picked up the binoculars and spotted the man on the corner. A taxi had stopped and a young woman was alighting.
Cardigan passed the binoculars to Wayne. “Take a look.”
Wayne peered through the glasses and Cardigan stood behind him, staring keenly past his shoulder. The young woman paid her fare, turned toward the drugstore and dropped a large purse without apparently noticing it. The man bent down, picked it up. The young woman received it, smiled—and entered the drugstore. In a few minutes she reappeared, crossed the street and vanished.
“O.K.,” Cardigan said, and went across the room to get his hat.
“What did she do?” Wayne asked.
Cardigan jerked a thumb. “Got that bird’s fingerprints—on that patent-leather purse.”
Chapter Two
Hackett Butts In
DOHENY, the fingerprint man at headquarters, was hunched over a desk and peering one-eyed through a microscope; at the same time he was saying to Hackett, the newshawk: “The guy was goofy—ga-ga. Out of his nut. He tried to commit suicide by shooting at his image in a looking-glass.”
“So what?”
“So the hotel management charged him six bucks for a new mirror.”
Cardigan came towering across the room and Hackett, sitting on the small of his back, with his feet perched on the edge of the desk, said: “Ah, the old maestro!”
Cardigan came up to the desk, ignored Hackett completely. Doheny looked up. “Oh, hello, Cardigan.”
“Hello, Doheny. I just photographed a print down at our office and I’d like you to look it up.”
“Glad to.”
Doheny stood up, wiggled his eyebrows and dropped his glasses neatly to his nose. He took the photograph that Cardigan had tossed to the desk. “In a hurry?”
“I’ll wait.”
Doheny left the desk and Cardigan tossed one leg over a corner of it and snapped a match to a cigarette.
Hackett’s voice had a mocking slur. “How’s every little these, those and them, brain child?”
Cardigan left the desk, roamed around, finally stopped to watch a suspect in the act of having his picture taken. The suspect sat on a small stool-like chair. A rod rose in back of him and attached to the top of it was a set of pincers that held his head erect. The floodlights gave his face a ghastly pallor. Another suspect was standing erect against a vertical measuring rule alongside the fingerprint board. Facing this, farther back, was a row of theater-like chairs in which a few other suspects lounged.
Hackett came up, sauntering. He was a tall man, tall as Cardigan, a little younger. He wore a fancy camel’s-hair coat, spats, a snap-brim tan hat, and his trousers had two trick plaits at the waist. He was swart, handsome in a sly, wise-eyed way, infinitely satisfied with himself, hard on the surface as a coat of spar varnish.
He was casual, saying: “What’s up, Cardigan?”
“The president of Chile is looking for his long-lost step-son.”
Hackett teetered on his heels, made a laughing face but did not laugh. “I like you, Cardigan.”
“I’m crazy about you, too. How’s to mind your own business?”
“My business is minding the public’s business.”
“Did you ever suddenly get a bust in the puss?”
Hackett laughed lightly. “Nuts to you, sweetheart.”
“And to you—assorted.”
Doheny reappeared on the double and said: “I’ll say! I’ll say! This is a cinch! The guy’s Don Cordova. He beat a rap for counterfeiting five years ago but three years ago he did a year in stir for fraudulent stock selling. There’s his mug.”
Cardigan glanced at the photograph, said: “Thanks, Doheny. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Hackett was grinning. “So it’s Don Cordova again! My, my!”
Hackett swung after him, grabbed his arm. “Listen, Cardigan. This is news. What about Cordova?”
“Good-by, Hackett.”
“Hey, what about it?”
Cardigan stopped, swivelled. “Go sell your groceries.”
“Oh,” Hackett said, lifting his chin, dropping his eyelids. “Strong, silent man, huh?”
Cardigan made no reply. He went on his way, scowling.
Hackett called after him: “You’re a nice sweet so-and-so, you Irish bum.”
Cardigan’s scowl darkened. But he did not look around. He went on—upstairs—out into the street. He put his head into a stiff cold wind, and after a while the wind cooled him.
DON CORDOVA was a name he knew. No fifty-dollars-a-head gunman; no back-alley punk. He had beaten a counterfeiting rap. He had taken a stock-swindle rap. This much the police had down in black and white. There were other things….
Cardigan, entering the agency office, said: “That guy Don Cordova is on deck again.”
Hammerhorn was fighting an incipient cold with hot Tom-and-Jerrys poured from a huge thermos bottle. “Does my memory fail me, Jack?”
“Listen. He worked a swell game on the Coast and though everybody knew it was crooked they couldn’t pin anything on him. Until finally a guy from San Luis Obispo got hopped up one swell night and went to work on Cordova with a birdgun. That scared the living hell out of him. His game was this: he and a couple of other grifters set up a short-term loan com
pany. Loans up to five hundred bucks. But there was a catch. Before a guy could borrow, he had to have his security assessed by a man from the company. The charge for this was twenty bucks. A week later the guy would receive a letter saying that the assessor’s report was unsatisfactory, the money couldn’t be loaned. But the company had the twenty bucks. They examined the security of as many as twenty clients a day.”
Hammerhorn made complacent sounds over the hot Tom-and-Jerry. Then he said: “So now maybe you can tell me why he’s shadowing Norman Wayne. There’s something screwy about this, Jack. Is Wayne on the up-and-up? Has he told all?”
Cardigan was looking out the window. He said without turning: “You couldn’t want a guy with a sweller reputation. Fifteen years with Valentine’s.”
Hammerhorn leaned back, stared into space. “A man whose business it is to travel around the world. His deals run into real money. If we could only go back over his trail, tabulate each incident of his life, we’d find the answer. I don’t like the looks of this, Jack; it’s too smooth. I don’t think we’re dealing with common heels—”
“I know we’re not.” Cardigan turned around. “Don Cordova’s no common heel.” He pointed, dropped his voice. “And I think Wayne’s on the dead level. The poor guy’s got the jitters. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t I? Probably I’d have taken a swing at the guy long before this.”
“Any chance of getting a pinch on Cordova?”
“Ixnay. There’s nothing against him on the books right now. What could we pinch him for? Can Wayne prove he’s been shadowed? No. It’s hard to prove you’ve been shadowed.”
“Tell you what. Valentine’s has got lots of dough. Wayne’s been with them for fifteen years. Maybe Cordova is getting ready for a snatch. Kidnap Wayne and make Valentine’s pay—for old times’ sake.”
Hammerhorn poured another drink. “Well, let it slide, Jack. Something will happen.”
“That’s just it. There’s a great big chance that Wayne may be knocked off. Don’t ask me why. But there’s a chance. It would be simple as hell to wait till he’s knocked off and then start from there. Besides, he hired us to get the lowdown on this guy. Well, I’m blowing.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 11
