The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Page 12

  He drew away from the pursuing car. He knew now that it was not Bush. Bush was a cad and a petty nuisance but he wouldn’t go in for murder. Cardigan did not look back. He blasted through a small settlement, screeched around a curve. He roared past a truck. The heat of the motor came up into his face. Filling stations flashed by. Houses grew. The open country was behind.

  At three o’clock Cardigan braked his steaming car in a wide avenue, turned off the ignition. He strode quickly from the car a matter of twenty yards, then turned into a flag walk and entered a small apartment house. In the deserted lobby he paused to look in a notebook, then took a stairway up. On the fifth floor he began looking for door numbers. He stopped in front of 509, put his head close to the door.

  “Pat!” he whispered. He listened a moment. “Pat, this is Cardigan!” he whispered again.

  The door whipped open and a gun steadied on him.

  “I just wanted to make sure,” Pat said.

  “Good girl,” he said, and pushed in. “Lock it.”

  They were in the dark.

  “Find anything?” he said.

  “No. Isn’t that jane ever coming home?”

  “It’s my hunch she’ll be here soon—with White. Turn the lights on so I can get the lay here.”

  Pat switched them on and remained standing by the switch. Cardigan went to the bedroom, came out, looked in the bathroom, the closets.

  “All right, kid, turn ’em off.” Darkness engulfed the room. “Don’t hide behind any chairs,” Cardigan said. “Stand right here in the center of the room.”

  “I’ll lock the door first.”

  “You take care of the jane.”

  “Oh, I’ll take care of the jane.”

  TEN minutes later a key grated in the lock. The door swung open. The man and the woman were in dim silhouette against the glow in the corridor.

  The woman sauntered in. The man, directly behind her, turned the light switch and kicked the door shut with his heel.

  “Reach,” said Cardigan.

  “Oh!” cried Nita Monteclara; and to Pat, “Why, you’re—you are the—Oh!” Definite recognition added to her shock.

  White kept his elbows at his sides, raising his forearms. His black felt hat was rakish over one eyebrow. He was quite a big man, with a hard pallor, colorless eyes. The scar glinted like a strip of metal on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow.

  “Pinch, huh?”

  “Raise ’em higher.”

  “This is an outrage!” cried Nita. “I weel not permeet—”

  “You pipe down,” Pat said quietly. “Cut out stamping the hoof and in general shut up. Sit down there.”

  White said, “Well, well?” to Cardigan.

  Cardigan went close to him, pressed his gun firmly against White’s stomach, removed White’s gun and took a few steps backward. White never budged. His eyes shone like glass that has been slightly smoked.

  “Well, well,” said Cardigan. “I want those diamonds.”

  “What diamonds?”

  “The Hotel Midlands job the cops failed to hang on you three years ago. Six diamonds.”

  “Aren’t you funny?”

  “Am I?” Cardigan took one step and laid the flat of his left hand across White’s face.

  “Oh, dear!” wailed Nita.

  White stopped against the wall, lowering one hand to feel his face. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered.

  “Cardigan, private snoop for the insurance company that was fall-guy over that theft. I want that ice, White. I want it and I’m going to get it. I haven’t any time to spare. I’m going to get it if I have to break every bone in your body.”

  Nita snapped. “This is my home! You have no right—”

  “You,” said Pat, “had better act indifferent.”

  “But this is the outrage! I weel—”

  “You hear me, White!” Cardigan was growling.

  Cardigan’s slap had left red marks on White’s face. White remained standing with his back against the wall. “I don’t know what the cripes you’re talking about. Can’t a guy come out of stir and go straight?”

  “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for two weeks, White. I know that you’ve been spending jack like some big bomb and machine-gun man. You came out of the hoosegow stony. How come?”

  White snapped, “You got nothing on me! I did my stretch for packing ’at pop-gun. I did it and now what’s the big idea of you making cracks?”

  “Where’d you get the dough to throw a party at Filone’s? The dough to bust out like a rash in a new Chrysler? Where’d you get the dough to stake the dame here for whirls at the games at Phil Gould’s casino? Go on—go on and tell me that your maiden aunt died.”

  “I got friends. I c’n borrow.”

  Cardigan wore a frigid smile empty of humor. “Only on good security, White. Got a job? No. Any money in the bank? No.”

  White’s temper was rising slowly. “To hell with you! You’ve got no right to quiz me. You’ve got no right a-tall to bust in here and hold my girl and me like this—”

  “You tell them, honey,” Nita said, forgetting her accent.

  “I’ll tell ’em!” White blurted, his neck muscles bulging, his eyes striving to stare down Cardigan. He pushed his hat back. Sweat was on his forehead. Sweat made his white scar gleam. His initial coolness was ebbing fast.

  “You’ll tell me where that ice is, White; that’s what you’ll tell me,” Cardigan said dully. “You dirty half-wit, I’ve pieced the whole puzzle together. Helen Carmory got the ice when you dropped it from your hotel window to Bennington Court. Five hours ago you bumped her off because this new heart of yours—”

  “You liar!”

  “Am I? Maybe you’ve got an alibi where you were.”

  “At Phil Gould’s. He’ll tell you.”

  “Will he? He’ll tell me the truth because I’ve got enough on Gould and his bunch to send them up. He’ll have to squawk to save himself. I’ve got him and Ackerman and the whole shebang tied in a knot. Gould can’t afford to fake your alibi. I’ll leave the murder pinch to the cops. I’m not after you for the murder of your former flame. I’m after the ice you chucked to her from that hotel window. You’ll tip me off or you and this jane go in for the rap together.”

  Nita cried, “Not me!”

  “Yes, you will,” said Cardigan. “You’ll take it right on the nose with your boy friend. Sergeant Bush has a hunch. He followed the hunch out to the casino. Gould can’t stand by you because Ackerman won’t let him, can’t afford to. They’ll chuck you to the wolves to save your hides.”

  White gritted, “They can’t. I know too much about them.”

  “That’s too bad. Then they’ll put the cross on both of you. I’ll take you out there—both of you. Come on.”

  “No,” cried Nita in a frightened voice. “No—no!”

  “I want those diamonds,” Cardigan said doggedly.

  WHITE moistened his lips. His breath came unsteadily. “I can’t! I’m in the hole for twenty-two thousand. If I don’t meet the debt—”

  “I want those diamonds.”

  Perspiration dripped from White’s chin. “How do I know you won’t squawk?”

  “I’m making no bargain with a killer, White. My job is to get the diamonds first. When they’re in my hands I’ll give you a ten-hour start, then I’ll have to drop a hint to the cops.”

  White mopped his face. “It’s no go. I’ll take a chance. Gould will have to stick by us.”

  Nita cried, “But you heard this man say Gould—”

  “Shut up, Nita,” White snapped.

  “I won’t! You’ve got to keep me out of this, Burt! I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You tramp, you knew what was coming off. You stayed in that room at the casino so you could swear I was with you. I gave you five-thousand bucks to do it. We got to take the chance. I don’t believe this guy.”

  “I do!” cried Nita. “Anyhow, I will not take the chance. You’ve got to protect me
, Burt. You’ve got to!”

  “Shut up, damn you!”

  Nita stamped her foot. “I won’t! You have the diamonds. You were waiting for Max Bloomberg to come back from New York so he could buy them—”

  “Why, you dirty—”

  Cardigan gripped him by the throat, kept his gun pressed against White’s stomach. “You’re getting just what you deserve, White. Helen Carmory’s death was a mistake. She looked swell to me. Are you going to fork over or are you going into a sure pinch with this jane turning color on you?”

  “To hell with you!”

  Nita cried, “He wears a money belt. They’re in—”

  “You two-timing—”

  But Cardigan dropped him with a blow to the chin. White slumped to the floor and Cardigan bent down, ripped open vest and shirt, found the money belt, extracted a chamois pouch containing six diamonds.

  White got to his feet, his face flushed and sullen. He rubbed his chin. His eyes were glassy. He thrust his hands into hip pockets. His face looked murderous.

  “Beat it,” said Cardigan, opening the door.

  White moved to the threshold. He straightened up, turned and regarded Nita. His face softened. A strange smile came to his lips.

  “Good luck, Nita,” he said. “You were right. I was a louse. Forgive me, baby.”

  “Oh, Burt, I’m glad you understand.”

  She stumbled to the door, gripped his shoulders. “I’m only a woman, Burt. I’m not as strong as you. I couldn’t stand it. Kiss me, Burt.”

  His hands came out of his hip pockets. There was a quick movement. Then White spun and darted away. Nita mumbled something while she swayed in the doorway. Her swaying body blocked Cardigan. He grabbed her and turned her around. Her eyes were wide. There was a jack-knife sticking in her breast. White’s hands had been in his hip pockets—

  “Oh—” Nita’s whimper was very weak.

  Cardigan felt her body relax, saw a queer fixed look in her eyes that only the near-dead wear. He let her down to the carpet, threw a look at Pat, said nothing. He lunged through the door, down the steps. He heard the front door bang.

  White’s car was parked in the driveway alongside the house. White must have known it would be futile to try using it. He ran up the street. He saw Cardigan’s roadster and leaped for it. The key was in it, the motor was warm and started easily. He did not know it was Cardigan’s car, did not know who owned it. But he meshed gears savagely and got away.

  Cardigan went no farther than the lobby. From the closed vestibule he could see White getting away. And then he heard the roar of another motor. A black touring car swept by.

  A minute later the sound of guns hammered in the street. Cardigan sprang to the terrace. He saw his roadster leap across the curb, across the sidewalk; heard the crash of metal as the car slammed into a stone wall; saw the car leap into the air flinging aside torn metal; saw it burst into flames—while the touring car sped on.

  When Cardigan returned to the apartment five minutes later Pat said, “I phoned a doctor, but it’s no use. What was all that racket?”

  Cardigan stared at the dead woman. “One of fate’s little jokes. A mob that thinks I know too much tried to get me on the road in from the casino. They didn’t have luck. So they just tried again. Only White was in the car. They got him.”

  Pat spread her hands. “What a mess, chief!”

  “The double cross all around. White was in deep. He could never have got out. And Gould’s heels got him instead of me.”

  “But what a mess, chief—for us!”

  Cardigan pressed her arm, then patted it. “Don’t you believe it, Pat. This is easy. We didn’t fire a shot. Just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. We had a job to do. We did it.”

  He crossed the room heavily, picked up the phone, said, “Police headquarters.”

  Waiting, he smiled at Pat. He didn’t look worried.

  “What a man!” she said. “What a man!”

  And There Was Murder

  Chapter One

  Four Beers and a Body

  HIS hair looked shaggier: his meditative frown was deeper. His burry gray topcoat bulked at the shoulders and his shoulders were close up to his ears, his chin down and crushing his collar. Elbows leaned on the bar and a big-fingered hand moved a glass round and round and made beer sudsy, and white foam stuck to the sides. He slid the glass spinning across the wet bar.

  “Roll you, Toddy.”

  The bartender took poker dice from the cash-register, warmed them in a black box, smacked the box down. Cardigan rolled out and the bartender rolled and beat him.

  “I’ll take rye,” the bartender said.

  The only other man in the bar drained his glass of beer. “Let me buy this round.”

  Cardigan didn’t look up. He put seventy-five cents on the bar and caught his glass of beer as Toddy sent it skidding toward him. The man at the other end of the bar blinked uncertainly behind spectacles.

  “Thanks, Akeley,” Cardigan said, “but this is my last. And I never go back on the dice.”

  The bartender raised his rye. “Well, mud in your eye.”

  “Skoal,” Cardigan said, and drained half of the glass.

  Akeley looked at his fingers and found that he had plucked a cigarette to shreds. He brushed the bits off. He had a thin face with fragile cheekbones and a timid mouth. He needed a haircut. There were stains on his tie. He went down along the bar rubbing his hand on the wooden rail and stopped at Cardigan’s elbow.

  “Beer again, Toddy,” he said. He jerked a furtive sidelong look at Cardigan, edged an inch nearer Cardigan’s elbow.

  Cardigan looked at him—bluntly—from beneath shaggy eyebrows.

  Akeley took his fresh beer, threw back his shoulders, took a big swallow, put the glass down with assumed nonchalance.

  “How about it, Cardigan?”

  “Been working up to it, huh, Akeley?”

  “The boss—”

  “You tell your boss for me to take a nose dive.”

  Akeley’s chest shrank and his eyes blinked. He scratched at his neck. “Aw, Cardigan, there’s dough in it for you and me—”

  “I don’t squawk!” Cardigan growled with sudden heat; then addressed his glass in a low throaty rumble. “I take care of myself. To hell with your boss. To hell with you, Akeley. You’re a nice enough guy—but to hell with you.”

  Akeley wore a pale, self-pitying look. “It’d mean a lot to me,” he murmured. “I got a wife and a couple of kids and the paper’s cut me ten bucks a week and times are hard and if I got a story like that I’d be on Easy Street—”

  “What a swell son-of-a-so-and-so you are,” Cardigan muttered. “Pulling the old hearts-and-flowers on me because I’m Irish. Dragging in the frau and the kids to make me feel like a cheap punk if I don’t spring.”

  “Look at me—from worry. Look at my clothes.” Akeley made his face look woebegone. “It means a lot to me, Cardigan. It really does!”

  The phone behind the bar rang. Toddy left a toothpick sticking in his teeth and took down the receiver. “Yeah?… Yeah, he’s here.” He lifted the instrument across the bar, said: “For you, Cardigan.”

  Cardigan took it. “Hello…. Hello—hello!” He listened. He threw at Toddy, “Who was it?”

  “Dunno. Jane.”

  “Hello—hello!” Cardigan snapped into the mouthpiece. “Hey, operator. I’m not calling any number. I’ve been cut off. Someone called me…. No, and I don’t know the number.”

  He hung up.

  “It was a jane all right,” Toddy said.

  Cardigan put his hat on. “I’m blowing, kid. If she calls again I’ll be at my apartment.”

  “I’ve got to go too,” Akeley said.

  “I’ll drop you at your paper,” Cardigan said.

  Cardigan pushed open a swing door; tramped down a dimly lighted corridor toward a heavier door beyond. Akeley half skipped to keep up with him. Cardigan stopped to light a cigarette and Akeley opened the h
eavier door and leaned against it while Cardigan rolled past him into the dark street.

  The door swung too hard, jolting Akeley in the back and staggering him past Cardigan.

  A brittle clatter of shots rang in the dark. A weak, pitiful “Oh God!” ached up out of the reporter’s throat. Blood was suddenly on his face. He stood erect as if held up magically by an unseen hand, his arms rigid and his fingers splayed; almost on his toes he stood, with his mouth gaping. But only for a split instant. Life blew out of him abruptly like air from a burst balloon. His body wheeled toward Cardigan; stopped with a jolt against Cardigan’s rooted bulk.

  Shadows made a drumming sound of heels down the street. While Akeley’s body slid down past Cardigan’s stomach Cardigan held a gun at arm’s length. Its muzzle spewed flame and echoes banged violently against the house walls. The narrow street shook under the hammerlike blow of another shot. But the shadows were far away. The drum of heels petered out in the wake of the last gun-shot echoes.

  Akeley lay at Cardigan’s feet.

  The heavy door made a sound. A section of Toddy’s face appeared there. “Cur-ripes!” he hissed.

  “Yeah,” muttered Cardigan.

  His big brown chin was way down, his neck was a rigid column, the skin tight on the back. There was a bitter, hateful look in his eyes. Vagrant gusts of wind plucked at his burry topcoat, but Cardigan remained rooted, feet planted wide.

  “Cur-ripes!” hissed Toddy again. “What in hell—is—is that Akeley?”

  “Yeah.”

  Heavy footfalls came on the run. Cardigan looked over his shoulder, up the street. He slid his gun into his overcoat pocket and made a half turn. The houses made a ragged skyline up and down the narrow street. A few windows grated open and the blur of faces appeared and remained silent.

  A cop came dodging from pole to pole.

  “O.K.,” Cardigan called dully. “It’s all over.”

  The cop came out into the open and slapped his heels smartly on the pavement. “What the hell happened? Who are you?”