The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 2

  “Hello, chief.”

  “Hello, Bogart. What the hell happened here?”

  Hagin drawled: “Got eyes, ain’t you?”

  “You’re just full of bright sayings, aren’t you?”

  Hagin stepped forward, snapped: “Don’t get snotty, Cardigan!”

  Cardigan looked past him. “What happened, Charley?”

  Bogart said: “The place was bombed. I was sitting here with Judge Barron. It was about nine-ten when he knocked over a bottle of ink. He hunted around but couldn’t find any more. He said he had to get some papers written and asked me to go down to a corner drugstore and get him a bottle. I did. That is, I went downstairs, and I was about halfway down the block when I heard the crash.”

  “That’s as good a story as any,” Hagin said sarcastically. “Stick to it.”

  “I intend to,” Bogart said. “I can’t improve on the truth.”

  Cardigan walked around the room, his shoes sucking at the wet carpet. He kicked at odds and ends of debris, paused to stare down grimly at the silent shape on the floor.

  He said: “See anybody in the halls, Charley?”

  “No. Matter of fact, I told the judge to lock the door when I went out.”

  “Was it locked?”

  The fire lieutenant said: “We had to break it down. The elevator boy turned in the alarm. The super has a pass key, but he wasn’t in. We had to carry it in with us.”

  Cardigan spoke to Bogart. “How about that guy at the book downstairs? Did he see anybody come in after you went out?”

  Hagin said: “Of course he didn’t!” irritably.

  “How about the elevator boy?”

  “Nobody came in or went out, master mind,” Hagin drawled.

  “I’m glad there’s at least one mind around here anyhow.”

  Hagin’s companion said: “Ain’t this guy angling for a bust in the puss?”

  “We’ll take care of him, Stoper. And his pal—little innocent here.” Hagin dipped his head toward Bogart. “You, I mean.”

  Bogart smiled calmly. “I get you, sarge.”

  “Well,” the fire lieutenant said, “I guess we’re through. I’ll leave a man on the job all night, though; the house’ll want that, I guess, account of the insurance.”

  He detailed one man to remain, waved the others out and followed. Hagin took out his shield, tossed it in the air, caught it again and tucked it away. A smile of dry irony played lazily about his mouth, his slitted eyes twinkled with malicious inference.

  “Think you two guys can talk yourself out of this jam?” he said to Cardigan.

  Cardigan looked up. “Jam?” He laughed harshly, walked around the room. “That’s a fast one, Hagin. You wouldn’t song-and-dance us like that, would you?”

  Hagin was tranquil. “This pal of yours—Bogart here—comes in the building a little before nine. His name’s in the book downstairs. At nine-fifteen he goes out. That’s in the book too. He goes out to buy a bottle of ink.” Hagin chuckled. “That’s what he says. Of course, there’s no proof. There’s no proof that Judge Barron sent him for a bottle. He goes out at nine-fifteen and at nine-twenty—whango!—the fireworks go off. Nobody else is seen in the building, either going in or out. Maybe this bomb had legs. Maybe it walked up to the door, knocked, and Judge Barron let it in. Maybe cows fly, huh?”

  “This line of crap,” Cardigan said, “is so damned nonsensical that I’m beginning to wonder if maybe you’re drunk. Bogart’s been with our agency for ten years. He came here to bodyguard Barron. He and I came to this heel’s town to bodyguard Barron because the cops here are so crummy he couldn’t depend on them.”

  Hagin’s companion said, tight-lipped: “I’d like to sock this guy, sarge.”

  CARDIGAN pulled out Barron’s check, held it before Hagin’s face. “Barron paid us for a week in advance. I don’t expect you to be bright, Hagin, but you ought to use your head.”

  Hagin barely looked at the check. “I’m using my head.”

  Cardigan turned away, sent his keen glance around the room. “What did you find?”

  “The bomb blew itself to pieces. We didn’t find anything.”

  Cardigan looked at Bogart. “Did you notice any package on the desk, Charley?”

  “I didn’t notice. There was a lot of stuff on the desk—papers and books and all that. I didn’t notice any box. Only box there was a cigar box, but the judge and I took the last cigars out of it, so it couldn’t have been that.”

  “Were there any windows open?”

  “No.”

  Hagin droned: “Now you’re not going to suggest that some guy tossed a bomb up six stories from the street!”

  Cardigan went to the window, looked out, then turned back into the room. “No. I guess you’re right there, Hagin.”

  “I guess I am. There’s only one way that bomb could have come in this office.” He paused, let his eyes rove toward Bogart.

  Bogart said: “Hell, chief, this guy is trying to hang something on me.”

  Cardigan strode across the office, his shoes sopping on the wet carpet. “Now listen, Hagin. There’s no use landing on Bogart. I know I gave you guys the runaround the last time I was here, and I know you’ve got a right to hold a grudge against the agency. But I know where to stop, Hagin. I don’t blame you for being sore. I talk my head off sometimes, and maybe I shouldn’t. I apologize for anything I’ve said you didn’t like. But for crying out loud don’t try to run this job around Bogart’s neck.”

  Hagin grinned. “Oh, so you apologize now?”

  Stoper, his companion, laughed.

  Hagin joined him and then said: “You don’t have to apologize, Cardigan. Your agency has tried to pull the wool over our eyes before. You don’t have to be nice to me, Cardigan. I’ve got as good a pinch as any here, and things figure out. I’m pinching Bogart.”

  Bogart came forward. “O.K., copper.”

  “Stay back, Charley!” Cardigan rapped out. He spun on Hagin and gripped his lapels. “You go through with this, Hagin, and you’ll eat mud! I warn you! So help me, if you slap Bogart in jail you’ll eat mud!”

  Hagin’s lips thinned. “Take your hands off me, Irish.”

  “You hear what I said!” Cardigan yelled, shaking him.

  Stoper took a step and laid a fist against Cardigan’s jaw. Bogart grabbed Stoper from behind.

  “Easy now,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  Hagin stepped back, drew his gun. “This might get rough,” he told Cardigan somberly.

  Bogart let Stoper go and Stoper turned on him with the handcuffs. Bogart grinned at him, held out his hands.

  He said: “If this gives you a thrill, buddy, put ’em on.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Charley,” Cardigan said thickly.

  “It’s O.K., chief. I’m clean as a whistle.”

  Hagin put away his gun. “Take him away, Stoper. I’ll wait for the coroner.”

  Stoper marched Bogart out of the office and Hagin stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit up. His movements were lazy, self-assured, and his low ironic half-smile persisted.

  “Kind of a sock in the jaw, eh, Cardigan?” he drawled.

  Cardigan said: “Jaw, hell! I know a blow below the belt when I see it, Hagin.”

  “You know a lot, don’t you?”

  Cardigan was lighting a cigarette. “About rats especially,” he said, and blew smoke into Hagin’s face.

  BRIGHT and early the next morning Cardigan made a long distance telephone call to the home office, spent ten minutes talking with George Hammerhorn. He hung up, put on hat and overcoat and went downstairs, grabbed a quick breakfast at the coffee-shop lunchbar and left the hotel.

  Giles Harrigan had a suite of offices in the Metals Building. It said “Attorney at Law” on the ground-glass panel. A girl ushered Cardigan into an inner office and Giles Harrigan, looking up from a morning paper, said: “Doings in town last night, eh? Doings!”

  “You know my agency, don’t you?” Cardigan said.

/>   Harrigan leaned back. “Ever since that kidnap job you solved, Cardigan, the police in this fair city have had itching fingers.”

  “To get around my neck. I know that, counsellor.” He sat down, leaned on one knee. “You read about Bogart. He’s an A-One operative these cheap cops are trying to frame. The agency’s got dough, and we hate to be framed. Think you can get Bogart out on a quick writ?”

  Harrigan said: “Want me to be frank?”

  “I guess I can take it.”

  “Good. It’s this: I don’t think I can. This may be a good-sized city, but the law has small-town ideas. The powers that be don’t like to have outsiders crashing around town. I happen to know, Cardigan, that they hate your agency—ever since you shellacked that dick Michaels in that kidnap case.

  “It’s open and shut—hell, man, this isn’t news—it’s open and shut that Barron was tearing things up by the roots. He had them all scared, the cops and politicians as well as the gunmen. Once in a while a pioneer like Barron blazes up. He was honest, sincere—but he tried to beat a system. I’m not saying a political clique murdered him—but deep in their hearts I’ll bet they’re thankful he’s gone. If there’s dirt beneath it, this crowd isn’t going to have your agency shoveling it up. Give it up, Cardigan. They’ve got you by the heels.”

  “You don’t want to take this job, huh?”

  Harrigan leaned forward. “To be frank, Cardigan, I don’t want to take your money. I couldn’t do anything for you. You want me to get a writ for Bogart. I can’t do it. They’ve got the whole town sewed up. I could go through a lot of wasted motion and take your money, but I don’t do business that way. I can take your case and fight it in the courts, but I’m sure I can’t get Bogart out of jail.”

  Cardigan stood up. “This case will never get into court, counsellor.”

  He went downstairs, out of the building, and walked to the Central Products Building. Men were already at work removing the debris. The building superintendent was talking with insurance adjusters, and Barron’s estate lawyer, an old white-haired man, was tapping a stick against one shoe.

  Cardigan said: “Where is Judge Barron’s secretary?”

  “She was here,” the superintendent said. “She went home.”

  “Know her address?”

  “I have it here. Number Two Twenty-five Hebron Street—that’s on the north side of town. Her name is Beth Tindale.”

  The estate lawyer said: “You’re the—ah—private detective—”

  “Cardigan’s my name. Yours?”

  “Jerris.”

  Cardigan said: “Judge Barron gave me his check for three hundred dollars and I’m working on the case.”

  “I dare say that under the circumstances I cannot honor that check, Mr. Cardigan. Reports of the police rather put your agency in a peculiar light. I’m afraid I shall have to order the check stopped.”

  “Don’t bother.” Cardigan held the check out. “I intended giving it back. The agency doesn’t take dead men’s checks.”

  Chapter Three

  When a Judge Smokes

  DOWN in Produce Street Cardigan climbed into a cab, gave Beth Tindale’s address and settled back. The rain had stopped and a wan sun was trying to peer through a haze of coal smoke that hung above the hilly city. Judge Barron was dead and Bogart was in jail. It angered Cardigan that Bogart’s innocence, so obvious to himself, should be doubted elsewhere.

  Hebron Street, on the north side of town, was in a fairly good neighborhood. Number 225 was a four-story brick building with a high stoop out in front, a broad vestibule, polished glass doors. There were eight name plates in the vestibule, and the inner door was open. Cardigan climbed two broad flights of stairs, found a door with Beth Tindale’s name beside it, pressed an electric button.

  She opened the door and looked at him with her tired brown eyes and he saw immediately that she had been crying.

  “You probably remember me,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “Well—come in.”

  It was a three-room apartment modestly furnished, and as they entered the living room a girl of about fourteen or fifteen rose from a sofa.

  Beth Tindale said: “My daughter.”

  “Well—I didn’t think a young lady like you—”

  “Young? I’m thirty-two.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She said: “Ann, leave the room please.”

  The young girl went into another room, closed the door. Beth Tindale sat down on the sofa and looked at her hands thoughtfully.

  Cardigan dropped to a straight-backed chair, hung his hat on his knee, regarded the woman from beneath dark wiry eyebrows.

  “See the cops yet?” he asked.

  “At the office—this morning.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  She shrugged hopelessly. “What could I have told them?”

  “Nothing, huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  He flexed his lips. “This is a pretty rotten case, Miss Tindale. They’ve got an innocent man in jail. It seems to me you ought to know something about this?”

  “About what?”

  “The bomb.”

  She raised her wide candid eyes. “How should I know?”

  “I don’t know. The bomb either got in that office before my associate arrived there, or afterwards. I’m inclined to believe it was before. I’m inclined to believe it came by mail. There was no mail delivery after you left the office last night. It had to be before that. Was it?”

  She put her palms together, rubbed them slowly together, looked at the carpet. “The police asked me that. I don’t remember any package. The judge warned me against opening any packages. The first one—he must have told you about that—I didn’t open. Neither did he.”

  “But didn’t you receive a package sometime yesterday and take it in to him?”

  She shook her head. “No. If I had, he would have turned it over to the police— Please, Mr. Cardigan, I’ve answered all these questions. Two detectives questioned me this morning. I’m tired. I’ve been working late for days—and now this. I—I’m afraid I’m upset.” She ran a hand over her hair. She was worn and a little haggard, he saw. Suddenly she stood up, shaking. “Can’t you understand?”

  HE rose. “Naturally, I can.” He paused for a moment, eyeing her keenly. “When I came into the office last night, Miss Tindale, you weren’t particularly happy to see me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ll change that. You were a little frightened. I could tell by the way you kept looking at me.”

  She stared hard at the floor. “I—I was just tired. Maybe I was a little afraid. That was natural. I didn’t recognize you. You were a strange man, and being wet the way you were—well, for a moment you did frighten me.”

  “Why?”

  “I—I lived in constant fear that someone would come in and kill the judge—and perhaps me.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Her face was very white.

  “How long have you been with the judge?”

  “Ten years.”

  He put his hand slowly into the inside pocket of his overcoat. She looked up sharply. He did not remove his hand.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  Eyeing her steadily, he drew a folded wad of brown paper from his pocket. “Last night,” he said, “after almost everybody had gone, I picked this out of the waste basket. I found out that at five P.M. a man came through the offices collecting refuse from waste baskets. So this must have been thrown in after five o’clock.”

  She made no reply. She stood very straight, white-faced, her arms close to her sides, her gaze riveted on his hands.

  He unfolded the paper, said: “A package must have come into the office while you were there. This piece of paper at one time contained something. It was opened and this paper was thrown in the basket after five o’clock.”

 
“I don’t remember any package. Judge Barron may have brought something in with him.”

  Cardigan shook his head. “No, Miss Tindale. This package came through parcel post. It was addressed to Judge Barron at his office address.”

  She clasped her hands together and her lips shook. “I don’t remember receiving any package.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes—I—I’m sure.”

  He folded the paper, said levelly: “Remember, Miss Tindale—or should it be Mrs. Tindale?”

  “I’ve used the ‘Miss’ for business purposes.”

  “Remember,” he went on, “that a friend of mine is in jail for the bombing to death of Judge Barron.”

  “I—I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  He said no more. He thrust the wad of paper into his pocket, went to the door, turned to look at her white, harried face and then left the apartment. He walked slowly down the staircase, his face a mask of thought. Reaching the street, he crossed to the opposite sidewalk. Looking up, he saw the woman’s white face pressed to the window. But in an instant it was gone.

  He walked on. At the next corner he flagged a taxi, climbed in and gave a south-side address.

  The woman’s white face stayed before his mind’s eye.

  THE Elmo Cigar Factory was a three-storied building with a lot of large plate-glass windows. Cardigan went in by way of the broad main entrance, spoke with a clerk behind a wooden railing. In a minute he was led past a row of desks and into a private office.

  A man of middle years stood behind a desk. “I’m the manager here, sir. Did I get the name right—Cardigan?”

  “That’s right.” He flipped open a wallet. “My credentials.”

  “Ah, yes. I read in the paper—”

  “I know. You read a lot of somebody’s ideas. I hope you’ll pardon me if I say you would have found more sense in the comic strip. —By the way, was Judge Barron a client of yours?”

  “Indeed he was! For years. Years, sir! Our Elmo Perfecto has been his favorite for years. He was a great cigar smoker.”

  “What did you do, send him a box regularly?”