The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 13

  Myron was making his way on tiptoes toward the door, but Cardigan yelled, “No you don’t!”

  Myron turned and smiled faintly and his eyes no longer bubbled, his cheeks no longer glowed. He looked very white and sick. Cyril was on the floor again, cursing in broken whispers. Clancy McCoy turned round and said to Cardigan: “Well, what’s it all about?”

  “How’d you get here, Clance?”

  “I followed you from your house. I was on my way out to ask for a little help. I just followed you for fun.”

  “You call this fun, huh?”

  Clancy McCoy shot his eyes about the room. “Where’s that bird I chased in here?”

  Cardigan said: “I saw somebody duck down behind the table.”

  The man stood up. It was Crippen, the man who had had the jitters in Cardigan’s office that day. He said to McCoy: “I didn’t know you were an officer. I didn’t mean to hit you—but it was dark—”

  Cardigan said to the girl: “Know him?”

  “Yes—yes!” she cried, as if eager to vouch for Crippen.

  McCoy insisted: “But what is this—what is this?”

  “A snatch,” Cardigan told him. “See the guy on the rags over there. He was snatched. That’s his wife. These three guys did the snatching.”

  “Nuts,” said Clancy McCoy. “I sure thought maybe you were working on the Claybolt kill.”

  “This is it too,” Cardigan said.

  “What!”

  “Somebody in this room killed Claybolt.”

  “Yeah?” Clancy McCoy dipped his eyes about the room. “O.K., kid,” he said. “We picked up plenty fingerprints in Claybolt’s office. Especially on the brass brick-shaped paperweight Claybolt was brained with.”

  Cardigan grinned for the first time that evening. “Swell, Clance…. What about Crippen over there?”

  Crippen himself said nervously: “I was shadowing Mrs. Waycross, trying to protect her. I did not know the officer was an officer. In the dark and all—”

  “Why were you so interested?”

  “He had a right to be,” Mrs. Waycross cried out. “He loaned me the fifty thousand to save my husband. He even got the yellow overnight bag, filled it—”

  “With what, madam?” Myron cut in.

  “With money!” the girl cried.

  “Yeah?” groaned Cyril. “Maybe that’s what you say—what he says. But Cardigan says he didn’t open the bag. We opened it. There was no money in it. We figured after that that Stroud’d pulled a fast one. But I guess he told the truth. He never showed up to collect the money this morning because he’d been in a taxi smash on his way there….”

  Cardigan turned on Mrs. Waycross. “Did you actually see the money in the bag?”

  “Why, I most certainly—” She stopped short, began shaking. “No,” she said. “Mr. Crippen brought the bag—he said it contained the amount—”

  Crippen snarled, “Out of my way!” as a gun jumped from his pocket. He made a bee-line for the door and his gun blazed. Clancy McCoy slipped down to one knee. Myron dived into a corner. Cardigan felt himself turned half around by a slug from Crippen’s gun, and another wild bullet from the same source plowed through Stroud’s neck. Crippen’s gun was empty by the time he reached the door.

  “Stop!” barked Cardigan sitting sour-faced on the floor, his gun raised.

  Crippen did not stop and Cardigan said, “You asked for this,” and shot him twice in the legs.

  PAT SEAWARD went around to the hospital next day and found Cardigan propped up in bed. He said: “The new hat looks swell, chicken.”

  “Really. It’s a month old.”

  “Hell, is it!… Did you bring those butts?”

  “Yes. And the bottle of rye.”

  “Swell! I might get to like this chateau yet.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, stuck out his chin while Pat held a light. He said: “Sergeant Brophy was in. It’s a dirty story, Patsy. The Waycross woman thought all along Crippen’d loaned her the dough and what was she dragging around but—newspapers! He himself got the bag, took it—loaded, so she thought—to her apartment. She didn’t even stop to look. Grabbed and scrammed.

  “Crippen had been trying to make her for years. He figured the guys would knock her husband over when they found newspapers instead of dough. After the scene at my office she went back home. He was there. She was scared to tell him what had happened; she hoped to get the money back herself somehow. She had a nervous faint. He must have had a hunch, for he frisked her handbag. Found my green memo slip with Claybolt’s name and address. He shot down there and tried to get Claybolt to say he’d made some arrangement with the woman. He was scared stiff and made noise and Claybolt got up to toss him out and Crippen socked him with that weight and beat it. When he got back to her apartment he heard her trying to phone me. I wasn’t in. When he hit my place he had the jitters all over. He told Brophy he was out to bump me but that when I told him Claybolt was dead—well, it rattled him and he ran out. He hadn’t known Claybolt was dead. Me, hell, I thought he was worried about the girl!” He leaned back, inhaled deeply. “The new suit’s a knock-out, kid.”

  “It’s six weeks old, damn you kindly, sir!”

  Red Hot

  Chapter One

  Hard-Boiled Heir

  THE Hotel Citadel was small, decent, with a quiet gray front and no doorman. It had a long, narrow lobby hung with pictures of Yosemite, the redwood forests and Half Moon Bay, and it rose narrowly in a quiet street near the St. Francis and Union Square. The man at the desk was old, neat, with a polished bald head, oval-shaped spectacles and a sweeping gray mustache, not a hair of which was out of place. The hotel was not stuffy. It was merely quiet, proper and successful, catering more to the residential trade than to the transient.

  Cardigan punched open the single swing-door and came in with a blast of chill, damp wind. His big feet smacked the lozenge-shaped tiles as he headed for the desk singing, “Ta-ra-da-boom-de-ay, ta-ra-da-boom-de-ay,” in a low, good-humored voice. He bore down on the desk, a large, bulky man in a battered old fedora; a shaggy ulster with one lapel turned up and the other turned down.

  Reaching the desk, he scooped up one of the two house phones and said expansively to the aged clerk: “Good evening, Mr. Birdsong. Think it’ll stop raining?”

  MR. BIRDSONG didn’t like noisy people, he said fretfully, “It always has stopped, Mr. Cardigan,” and petulantly turned a ledger page.

  Cardigan laughed, said: “I guess that puts me in my place. Well, sir—” He broke off to say into the transmitter, “Miss Seaward, please.” Waiting, he tapped his foot; then, “Pat?… This is your favorite detective…. I want you to come down…. Why? A little job on which your sweetness and light are needed, sugar. Right away…. Of course I’m downstairs.”

  He hung up, planked down the instrument and rolled off to the corner of the lobby, where he flopped into a large leather chair and shot his legs out straight. He lit a long, black cigar and was just getting into it when Pat came out of the elevator. She carried a small umbrella and looked very smart in black hat, a three-quarter-length, black lapin coat and black patent-leather pumps. Cardigan rose out of the chair, pushing with his hands.

  “I was just about to jump into the tub,” Pat said.

  “Every time I call up, you’re either jumping in a tub or out of one. Don’t you ever just sit—and maybe knit?”

  “I can’t knit.”

  “You’d be a swell one to live with, either jumping in a tub or jumping out of one. Learn knitting.”

  “Thank God I only work for you; that’s enough.”

  They were on their way to the door and he said: “There’s not much to this job, Patsy I just need you to put on a sob act.” He held open the swing-door and followed her out into the street. “Hey, taxi,” he yelled.

  They climbed in and he gave an address and sat back with his cigar, as the cab headed off through the afternoon drizzle.

  “Sob act?” Pat said.

  “Sort of. Th
is afternoon a man by the name of Martin Strang walks into the office. He’s from Denver and he’s worth dough. Well, he’s looking for a young fellow by the name of Husted Hull, who happens to be his nephew. Martin Strang’s sister married Burton Hull and old Burton Hull died two months ago in Colorado Springs. Hull’s wife died four years ago.

  “They’ve been trying for two months to get Husted Hull to come back to Denver for the reading of his old man’s will. But the lad won’t come back. It seems he’s been knocking around the West ever since his mother died. She left him a thousand bucks a month and he had a falling out with his old man. When the old man died he stipulated that his son Husted must be present at the reading of the will. Well, they wrote and wrote and Martin Strang wrote, but the only reply they got was a telegram that said, ‘Go stand on your head.’

  “So Strang came out. He has no idea where Husted Hull lives. The lawyers who send the thousand a month regularly said he’s been in San Francisco for three months but the only address is ‘General Delivery.’ He’s lived in Seattle, San Diego, Los Angeles, and so on, but he’s always had his mail sent care of General Delivery. Strang said he married about three years ago, about a year after he left home. He said then, I’m told, that he’d never have anything to do with his old man or any other member of the family. Strang came to me and asked me to locate him and make an appointment for them at my office.”

  “And you located him?”

  Cardigan slapped his knee. “I located him. Did you expect the old master wouldn’t? First I called up all the hotels. No luck. Then I tried the telephone company—information. No luck. Then I tried the banks. One bank has a depositor named Husted Hull. I went down and spoke with the manager, laid my cards on the table, and got Hull’s address. We’re going there now.”

  “It seems rather futile, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe not. This Strang looks to me like a decent old bird. He doesn’t care about what he’ll get out of it. He’s got plenty himself. Soon as he left I called our Denver office on long-distance and they shot back an A-one report on him. He’s sore—sore because his nephew’s taking this attitude. I guess young Hull was the black sheep, though his mother loved him and left him that thousand a month. If we can get him and Strang together, it may be different. Do you get the set-up now?”

  THE cab drew to the curb and Cardigan, saying, “Guess this is it,” climbed out into the cold, San Francisco rain. Pat followed and looked up at a four-story building while Cardigan paid the driver. They walked into a glass vestibule, on one wall of which was a series of brass buttons with names beneath. Cardigan pressed one of these and listened. The inner door clicked open and he grabbed Pat’s arm and walked her into the hallway. They climbed a narrow stairway to the first landing, which had a door on either side. There were no name plates, but in a moment they heard the click of heels upstairs and they climbed the second staircase. Now they heard laughter, voices, a radio playing. A girl was standing on the second landing.

  “Mrs. Hull?” Cardigan asked.

  “Yes?” she said politely, with an inquisitive twist of her pretty head.

  “Is Mr. Hull in?”

  “Yes—yes, of course. Won’t you…?” She motioned to the open door.

  The apartment foyer was small, with two high-backed chairs standing against the wall. The radio and the voices were beyond.

  Cardigan was saying: “This is Miss Seaward, Mrs. Hull. My name’s Cardigan. I guess you’re busy, but if your husband’d just step out here.”

  She smiled. “I’ll get him.”

  As she said this, a tall, yellow-haired young man came into the foyer from the inner corridor. A slab of hair lay down over one eyebrow and he held a highball in his hand.

  Mrs. Hull took hold of his arm. “Dear, these people—Mr. Cardigan—”

  Hull cut in with, “What do you want?” He was looking at Cardigan with pale eyes that suddenly burned with anger, and his hand shook, spilling some of the highball.

  “Hughie,” his wife said in a plaintive little voice. “Please, Hughie.”

  “Leggo,” he snapped, ripped free of her hand. And again to Cardigan, “Well, what do you want?”

  Cardigan stood on wide-planted feet. “Mr. Hull, take it easy.”

  The anger paused for a moment in Hull’s eyes, then receded gradually. He dropped his gaze, jerked it around the small room, shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Cardigan said: “Your uncle’s in town.”

  Hull looked up, scowling. “What does he want?”

  Pat stepped forward. “Mr. Hull, he wants you to go back to Denver with him. You must know all the details. He came all the way to San Francisco, just to talk with you, face to face. Why don’t you see him? Why don’t you?”

  Hull looked at her vaguely. “See him?”

  “Yes—please.”

  “No!” Hull snapped, his cheeks reddening. “They’ve written and written and written and they can all go hang on a limb. I want nothing to do with them. To hell with them. They all panned me when I was a kid. I was the black sheep—to all but my mother; and when she died, I skinned out.”

  Pat said: “But I understand the will can’t be read until you’re present. Your father made that stipulation.”

  “I know, I know!” Hull cried. “He wanted to leave me ten cents or something. He wanted me to sit there while my cousins and uncle and aunts and whatnot got big money and I got—ten cents. Do you think I’ll give them that satisfaction? No!”

  Cardigan said, “Suppose you’re right,” in a blunt, man-to-man voice. “Suppose you’re right, Mr. Hull. Suppose you are the black sheep. What of it? I was one myself. But why not show them you’ve got the guts to go back there and take it on the button?”

  Hull was pretty drunk. He laughed. “Nothing doing. I’m getting a thousand a month from my mother’s estate. That made them sore. Why, do you know what?” he demanded, his hand shaking, spilling some more of the drink. “Even if that old man of mine left me all he had, I wouldn’t take it. Do you call that guts, Mr. Cardigan?”

  His wife took hold of his arm again. “Hughie, dear, why don’t you go back? It won’t take long and then they won’t bother you any more?”

  He set his thin, pale jaw. “No, Bernice—no!”

  “Hughie, please!”

  “No, I tell you!” he cried, pulling free. He leveled an arm at Cardigan. “You go back to my uncle and tell him that if he puts his face inside my door I’ll punch it off. Tell him that!” He swung around on his heel and plunged out of sight.

  Cardigan went after him, saw his heels going in through a doorway, followed him into a large living room noisy with talk and radio music. Two girls and two men were in the room. All were pretty high. A little brunette yelped: “O-o-o-o, look at the great big nice man!”

  A fat youth stumbled toward Cardigan with a glass and a bottle. “Have a drink, podner.”

  “Excuse me—”

  “Come on, have a drink t’ the last round-up or something.”

  Cardigan brushed him aside, bent on cornering Hull, who was at the other side of the room mixing another highball. Hull turned as Cardigan came up.

  “Listen, Mr. Hull,” Cardigan said. “Let’s talk sense—”

  Hull’s eyes seemed to bloat with fresh anger. “I told you, didn’t I? Will you please get the hell out of here!”

  The little brunette got between them and raised her arms. “Dance with me, big man?” she cooed to Cardigan.

  Cardigan picked her up and stood her aside, then took hold of Hull’s lapel. “It’s only reasonable, Mr. Hull—”

  Hull flung his hand away. “You could talk all night and you’d still get the same answer. I’ll not give those people the satisfaction of razzing me when the will is read. Now please beat it out of here!”

  A big young fellow spun Cardigan around, looked at him and punched him on the jaw. Cardigan wound up on a divan. Bernice Hull ran in and cried: “Stop!”

  The big young fellow said: “He insulted
Josephine.”

  The little brunette was crying in a corner.

  Cardigan got up and said: “I’d better go, Mrs. Hull.”

  She seemed to be the only one who was sober. She looked red and embarrassed.

  As Cardigan started off, the big young fellow gripped him by the wrist, twisted his arm behind his back. “Say, ‘Uncle,’” he said.

  “Ralph, stop!” Bernice Hull pleaded.

  Cardigan corkscrewed out of the grip, wrenched clear and left the big young fellow standing stupidly alone. “It’s all right, Mrs. Hull,” he said. “Boys will be boys.”

  He ducked into the corridor, reached the foyer and found Pat waiting patiently.

  Bernice Hull came running after him, saying: “I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “I’ve begged him to go back, but Husted’s so stubborn when he wants to be.” Tears were almost in her eyes. “Please forgive us.”

  Pat said graciously: “Oh, there’s nothing to forgive, Mrs. Hull.”

  Cardigan said: “If your husband changes his mind, I’m at the Cosmos Detective Agency, on Market Street. Or he can call his uncle, Mr. Strang, at the Hotel Farago.”

  They went downstairs and stood on the sidewalk, looking for a cab. The late afternoon was gray, drab, wet. Fog seemed to smoke sluggishly through the drizzle, and the tops of the taller buildings appeared to be afloat in the thick pall.

  Cardigan held Pat’s umbrella, a small thing with a short handle, but presently she grabbed it from him, saying: “If you don’t mind, I’ll hold it myself, because when you hold it, it does neither of us any good. A person would think you were waving a flag. Mrs. Hull’s nice, isn’t she?”