The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Page 11

  “White, huh?”

  “Says the hunch. Bush hasn’t got an idea in the world that White’s mixed up in it. But he may find out. There’s no telling what Helen Carmory left behind. We’ve got to work fast. Seventy thousand in diamonds is in or has passed through White’s hands. It’s one of the biggest jobs I’ve ever had. There’s ten thousand in it for the agency. It’s my job to get that ice and I’ll beg, bribe and coerce to get it! If Bush gets a lead, finds out White is mixed up in the murder—and gets him—we’re going to be left holding the bag. With a murder rap hanging on White he’ll never spring about the loot.”

  Under the skin Pat was all woman. “You’re playing a dangerous game, chief. You’ve got a big political clique wondering about you. Is it worth it?”

  “Sister, I like my job. The head office sent me out here because ‘Boss’ Hammerhorn thinks I’m a swell, elegant guy. He wired me to hang onto this job till my guts hurt. I liked the way he put it. And I’m in it—this job. Up to my neck. I’m holding good cards and—” he took a slow swing and buried fist into palm—“I don’t like Bush.” His teeth set and he flexed his lips over them. “That’s that, sister.”

  Pat sighed, shrugged. “O.K.”

  “Now look. I rang Nita Monteclara’s apartment. No answer. You run over there—take those master keys out of that drawer—you run over there, crash the place and turn it inside out. Letters. Photographs. Addresses. If you don’t find anything hot wait there—hide somewhere—and if the worse goes to the worst get rough with the jane. Get Tom McWaye on the wire. His house—Jefferson 0024.”

  Pat telephoned and handed the instrument to Cardigan. “Hello,” Cardigan said. “You, Tom? Hello, you legal lion. I might bust into trouble in the next twenty-four hours. Me or my assistant Pat Seaward. I want you to be ready to pull your legal tricks if the works get gummed…. Thanks, kid…. Goom-by.”

  He hung up and said, “All right, Pat, on your way.”

  She went to the door, turned, said, “Don’t run too high a temperature, chief.”

  He grinned, said nothing. Pat went out.

  Cardigan rolled the roadster through the night on Broadway, hummed through the South Side, crossed the River Des Peres and hit the open highway. The night wind was damp, sometimes the windshield became clouded. The road rolled up and down gently. The stars were small and far away and the countryside was empty, black, with the moon gone. Occasionally headlights burst over a rise in the road, a car went past with a vicious swish. The roadster’s top clapped, hooted; the grass by the roadside looked pale in the glare of the headlights.

  At a lonely crossroads Cardigan turned left and struck a dirt highway. A little farther on he veered left at a fork and followed a narrower, rougher road that went up over short, choppy hills, fell away in short, steep grades and tortuous curves, leveled off and meandered through sparse timber and broken fields.

  Two stone gate-posts supported small globes of light. Beyond, in a grove of trees, loomed a large, rambling stone building with many windows lighted. Cardigan pulled up in a parking space and a uniformed attendant opened the roadster’s door. About fifty cars were parked there and the muffled beat of a jazz band came from the building.

  CARDIGAN walked to a white porte-cochère where half a dozen uniformed men stood around. He climbed broad stone steps, entered a large vestibule and showed a card of introduction. He was passed into the sumptuous foyer, and the louder beat of the jazz band throbbed in his ears; lovely women drifted past in alluring décolleté and the perfume of them hung pendant in the air.

  He stood there and lit a cigarette. He was keyed up. He was anything but an iceberg and he could feel the blood warm and quick in his veins. One thing he had—presence, and it did not pass unnoticed by the women. He dwarfed the average man.

  In a minute he moved, passed through the archway into the Louis lounge. A man sitting and a man standing by the mirrored door looked at him. The man in the chair stirred, crossed one leg over the other. The man at the door shifted his feet. Behind Cardigan was the restaurant, the throbbing jazz band, the laughter of women commingled with the tinkle of glass, the shush-shush of dancing feet.

  Cardigan entered the gambling rooms. They were more crowded than on the night before. Smoke hung like a fog about the crystal chandeliers. The little white ball bobbed in the spinning roulette wheel. Cardigan’s eyes roved. He passed on into another room.

  White teeth were laughing behind carmine lips. Nita Monteclara threw dice with wild abandon. Burt White stood at her shoulder. A cigarette drooped from his thin-smiling mouth. From time to time he looked up, jerked his almost colorless eyes over the crowd.

  Cardigan moved away, looked at his watch. It was half past one. Phil Gould came toward him. Gould’s thin white hands were at his sides. His face was white and narrow with nervous muscles twitching near his lips. His voice was a low whisper.

  “You!”

  “Now, now.”

  “I want a word with you.”

  “Sure.”

  They went out into the lounge and Gould jerked his head, muttered, “My office.”

  It was the famous “armored” room: walls, floor and ceiling of reinforced concrete; the main entrance door of heavy steel, with double locks; slanted steel blinds over the windows; a small steel door that led to a passageway into the gambling rooms. Through this door money was brought, deposited in the vault against the back wall of the office. It was no great secret. Once a scribe had written it up in the Sunday magazine supplement of a newspaper.

  A pale-faced youth worked over a ledger; another worked at an adding machine. There was a loud-speaker through which warning could be yelled from any part of the building.

  “You’ve got to clear out of here tonight, Cardigan,” Gould said in his quick, brittle voice. “You’ve got to. This is one night when you’ve got to get out.”

  The clerks were trained. They did not look up. They kept on working with smart precision.

  “I’m sorry,” Cardigan said. His voice was slower than usual.

  Gould scratched his jaw irritably. “You’ve got to! Listen, this is straight: you’re going out of here or you’re going to get put out.”

  Cardigan darkened. “I’m here on a job, Gould.”

  “As if that’s news! Maybe you thought I thought you came here to play marbles or something.”

  “I’m on a job. A big one.”

  “So then you think you’re going to play cops and robbers in my place, huh? Nuts you are, Cardigan, and that’s that.”

  “I’m not going to do a thing here. That’s God’s honest. What I’m going to do I’m going to do somewhere else. But the tail starts here. It’s my job, Gould. It’s a red-hot and you’re not in any way connected with it. I know I’ve got a reputation as a wise-guy, but this time I’m on the level. I’m telling you the truth. I’m swearing to you that I’ll pull no monkeyshines here.”

  “What I said stands,” Gould bit off.

  “I’ll meet you halfway. I’m heeled. I’ll leave my gun with you till I’m ready to leave. That’s fair, Gould.”

  “There’s no chance at all of meeting me halfway, Cardigan. Are you going to walk out of here like a nice guy or are you going to be taken out?”

  “So you’re sold on your own ideas, eh?” Cardigan’s mouth tightened. “I’ll tip you, Gould, that you’re stepping on your own toes. I can hurt you if I want to. I’ve got enough stored away in my noodle to hurt you and some guys bigger than you are. You can throw me out. Of course you can, with the army of heels you’ve got around here, but you do it and you’ll sing your swan-song.”

  Gould shook his head bitterly. “Tonight—you’ve got to clear out—that’s all.” Gould turned on his heel, walked to a desk, picked up some papers and studied them carefully.

  CARDIGAN moved to the door. Gould dropped the papers and joined him, opening the door and eyeing Cardigan coolly. Cardigan went into the corridor and Gould followed closely and Cardigan walked slowly with his brows bent and
a hint of malevolence in his eyes. He reached the foyer and the chatter of women standing in little groups. He looked distinctly unpleasant and there was a glimpse of wind rising and falling in his eyes.

  “Thay, Phil—”

  Cardigan stopped, turned around and saw a wavy-haired blonde youth accosting Gould. Gould muttered something and the youth shrugged and stepped back, looking at Cardigan. Cardigan suddenly went toward him.

  “Did you say something?” he growled.

  “I didn’t thay a thing.”

  “Oh, you didn’t thay a thing. You—”

  Gould touched Cardigan. “He spoke to me, dope.”

  “Yeah. And he busted into my office at noon and took a look over my files!”

  “Sh!” Gould muttered. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Who thaid I buthted—”

  Gould hissed, “Ned, scram!” Suppressed anger bit into his words. No one ever fought in the open at the casino. No one ever argued out loud. It was that kind of place.

  Cardigan rasped under his breath, “And I’m damned if I’m going to leave here till I’m good and ready!”

  He pivoted and strode away from Gould. Gould did not rush him. Three hard-eyed men looked to Gould for a signal but he did not give it. Each of the three men had a hand in his pocket. But Gould was afraid—afraid of something. He was reluctant, apparently, to stage a fight in the sumptuous foyer of his elaborate casino. His face reddened and his thin fingers moved nervously in his palms. A dozen women, half a dozen men, were unaware of this taut, bitter drama.

  Cardigan walked right into the lounge, turned and looked back through the archway. He could see Gould rooted to the floor. It was no effort to pick out Gould’s men. He knew that at another time, in a place less public—Gould’s office, for instance—he would have been jumped, manhandled, chucked out a side entrance.

  The front door swung open and Detective Sergeant Bush came in. Bush did not see Cardigan. Bush’s face was worried and he went directly to Gould. Cardigan stepped away from the arch. Explosive thoughts began crackling in his brain: Bush must have gone to Helen Carmory’s apartment, found something there—perhaps a picture of White, or a letter, or some clue that was hot when he found it and that led him here to the casino.

  Cardigan had not expected this. He hoped for at least a six-hour jump on Bush. It was open and shut that if Bush collared White for the murder the whereabouts of the diamonds would not be divulged—with any benefit to Cardigan, anyhow. White was a murderer, if Cardigan’s hunch held water, and Cardigan had no intention of letting White get away with it. But on the other hand he had a job to complete, a robbery to solve, loot to regain.

  A couple came out of the gambling rooms. The mirrored door swung shut. Cardigan strode toward it. The stony-faced attendant opened it and Cardigan entered the feverish gaiety. He was jostled right and left. The hour was late and many of the guests were drunk, but there was rarely any disorder at the casino.

  Cardigan did not see White. He covered the three gaming rooms slowly but purposefully. Nor did he see Nita Monteclara. He returned to the lounge, walked the length of it and lingered in the entrance to the dining room. The pair weren’t there. He turned and went up the staircase and stood at the top looking the length of the corridor toward the open porch doors.

  He walked to the doors and looked out. The veranda appeared to be deserted. He went out and strolled along the broad rail. It was dark here. Farther on the veranda turned around the side of the building. Cardigan followed the rail around, then stopped.

  Ten feet away a man and a woman were embracing. They broke, and Cardigan knew they were White and Nita Monteclara. He said nothing. He pretended he had not seen them. Turning away, he scowled into the darkness. Far down the bluff the river rolled by. His right hand rose and crossed his chest and he felt the bulge of the gun in his spring holster.

  Voices and footsteps came out on to the veranda and Bush and Gould walked toward Cardigan. He took a few lazy steps toward them. They recognized him.

  “What are you doing out here?” Bush growled.

  “What are you?”

  “I can go where I damned well please.”

  “So can I.”

  “Oh, can you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Cardigan said, “I’ve got more of a right to be out here than you have. You’re a metropolitan cop and your business ends there. You haven’t an excuse in the world to be out here in the county.”

  HE walked away from them, drawing them after him, and entered the corridor. A door opened almost abreast of Cardigan and a head thrust out. The head bobbed back, its owner bumped against someone behind, there was swift confusion and the door swung open.

  Cardigan got an eyeful. He saw Ullrich, the man who had bumped the other. He saw tall, lantern-jawed Senator Ackerman, a few other men. He saw half a dozen girls—young, heavily rouged. And there was a long banquet table, many bottles, many buckets of ice.

  Behind Cardigan Phil Gould sucked in a breath.

  No one made an attempt to close the door. Ullrich’s face was a round blank moon. Ackerman was frowning. The other men quieted down. One of the girls was doing a clog to radio music.

  Gould gripped Cardigan’s arm. “Come on, Cardigan.”

  “Shut up,” Cardigan grumbled.

  Then Ullrich’s face brightened, became wreathed in smiles. “Well, well, well, sir!”

  Cardigan shrugged free of Gould, stalked into the room.

  A girl cried, “O-o-o, what a big meany you look like.”

  Another said, “Any minute now, Gertrude, I expect to hear him growl and then see him start biting.”

  Ackerman half turned, muttered, “Be quiet. Go into the other room.”

  The girls entered an adjoining room, some of them giggling.

  Cardigan leaned back against the open door. His stare was baleful. Gould came in rubbing his hands together nervously. Bush remained standing in the corridor, a fretful, bewildered look on his face.

  Ackerman said, “Come in, sergeant.”

  Bush came in and assumed an angelic expression.

  “Close that door,” Ackerman said.

  “I’m not staying that long,” Cardigan said.

  “Close it.”

  Cardigan moved and Ullrich closed the door.

  Ackerman, a tall, bony man, crossed the room, closed the connecting door and came back to face Cardigan.

  “How much do you want?” he said.

  “What makes you think I want anything?”

  Ackerman was blunt. “Don’t beat about the bush. How much do you want for your silence?”

  “If my silence were at stake, neither you nor anybody else could buy it. What the hell gave you the idea I was after a shakedown?”

  “I’m not mincing words, Cardigan.”

  “So you think I am? Dammit, I told Ullrich today that your business didn’t interest me. He didn’t believe it. Two guys crashed my office and bound my stenog and looked through my files. One of them’s downstairs now. Man alive, if I wanted to spring it I have enough on you to get you slammed out of the State Senate overnight. And I’m not keeping it under my hat because I like you, which I don’t, but it wouldn’t get me anywhere. But I’ll tell you this: if there’s any more hocus-pocus pulled off around me I’ll get mean and low-down and land on you and your whole scatter like a ton of brick.”

  He whirled and reached for the doorknob. Gould blocked him and looked at Ackerman for some signal.

  Ackerman droned, “Don’t get hot-headed, Cardigan. Let’s talk this over sensibly.”

  Cardigan was biting Gould with somber eyes. “Get away from that door, Gould.”

  “Now please, Cardigan,” Ackerman said.

  Cardigan grabbed Gould by the throat, flung him sidewise with terrific violence. Two men grabbed Cardigan from behind, held on grimly. Gould lay on the floor panting.

  Ackerman bit off the end of a cigar. “Let him go,” he said.

  Chapter Five

  The Cros
sed Spot

  WHEN Cardigan reached the lounge below he looked through the archway and saw White and Nita Monteclara leaving. He got his hat and when he passed out through the door he saw a black sedan swing around the pebbled drive. He took his time on the way to the parking space. He drove slowly through the gates and laid his gun on the seat beside him.

  He doused his lights after a minute and picked his way carefully along the dirt road. From time to time he spotted the tail-light of White’s sedan. When the sedan turned right on the paved road Cardigan slowed down, rolled along leisurely and then put his lights on just before he made the turn. He picked up speed gradually, saw the tail-light on a rise beyond.

  In a few minutes he was aware of lights shining in his rear-view mirror. He paid no attention until he noticed that the car maintained an even pace behind. Cardigan speeded up, and as he did so the car behind followed. When Cardigan eased up on the throttle the car behind dropped back. Several times Cardigan did this and on each occasion the result was the same. It occurred to him that Bush was still watching his every move.

  White’s car maintained a steady speed of about forty-five. Cardigan crept up on it and the car behind crept up on Cardigan. The road made a wide turn. Cardigan looked back, cursed, and came to a decision. He stepped on the throttle and shot away. When he passed White’s sedan the roadster was doing sixty. He looked back and saw the third car cutting out to pass White. He pressed harder on the throttle and the clock-like speedometer went to sixty-five, on to seventy. The wind hammered the top.

  The other car was after him. When Cardigan turned, the dashlight off the needle was quivering at seventy-five. He dared not look back. He had to keep his eyes on the road. He took chances and cut corners, turned on the spotlight to see better. The roar of wind and motor was deafening; the frenzied clapping of the canvas top was enough to rattle a man’s nerves. Ultimately the car’s speed was eighty, but settlements a mile beyond would cut that.

  Suddenly he heard a crash. Saw his spotlight go out, saw the rear of it torn open. His mouth flew open. There was a sharp ping of a sound. He saw a hole in his non-shatterable windshield. An oath ripped from his lips and he jammed himself far down into the seat. Lead snarled against metal somewhere behind. Cardigan flattened the accelerator against the floorboards and hung onto the wheel.