The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Page 26

  He turned Pat around and marched her off. Michaels looked after them. He started to say something several times. His face reddened. Then he turned to Cardigan.

  “All right. Beat it. Take this guy home.”

  The storekeeper cried: “But what about my window?”

  Cardigan thrust an agency card into his hand. “Send your bill there, mister.”

  He wheeled Stope across the street, and when he looked around he saw Michaels stretching his legs up the street. Cardigan stopped, watched him for a split-minute, then shook Stope violently.

  “Listen, you. Go back to the hotel—” It was useless. Stope couldn’t stand up. Cardigan walked him to a taxicab, opened the door and pushed him in. He gave the driver a dollar. “Take this stew to The Wheelburgh and drop him in the lobby.”

  “O.K.”

  Cardigan stepped back, turned, and went sloping up the street. He saw Michaels climb into a taxi beneath a corner street light a block beyond. He ran a hundred yards, caught another taxi making the turn. He flagged it and climbed in.

  “Follow that white cab.”

  Chapter Five

  Blonde Piccaninny

  THE white cab jounced over broken pavement. Sparks showered from Steinfarb’s cigar to the floor. He stamped them out.

  “That chump Michaels,” he said, irritably.

  Pat said: “Stope, you mean!”

  “You used your head, little girl.” He reached over and patted her hand. “I could go for you in a big way.”

  “Pul-lease.”

  “Honest, I could—”

  “Stop that!” She bit off and threw his hand back across his lap. “Keep your mind on your business, Mr. Steinfarb.”

  He chuckled and leaned back in his corner, drew reflectively on his big cigar. The cab struck smoother pavement and rushed on through the dark streets. Presently Steinfarb leaned forward and tapped the connecting window, pointed ahead. The cab stopped at the next corner. Steinfarb got out, paid up, took Pat’s arm and walked her down a narrow, deserted street.

  They walked two blocks, turned into a main drag. It was a narrow, noisy street, lined with cheap novelty shops, cheap burlesque houses, open-faced soda-pop stands, sidewalk shooting galleries alive with the flat metallic rattle of .22 caliber rifles and revolvers. High-yellow girls sauntered with strutting black sheiks. Cheap perfume clogged the soggy air. Tough whites stood on street corners and cops traveled in pairs.

  Steinfarb stopped Pat before the Old West Shooting Gallery. Twelve rifles and six revolvers lay on the platform. Behind it stood a mulatto in a ten-gallon hat and a lavender bandana. He looked at Steinfarb. Steinfarb nodded, then the mulatto nodded and went to the rear, disappearing behind a curtain.

  “How’s your eye, Miss Seaward?” Steinfarb smiled.

  She picked up a nine-shot .22 revolver and knocked down eight moving ducks.

  “Whew!” whistled Steinfarb.

  “It’s a cheap gun,” she commented.

  “As if you needed an alibi!”

  The mulatto reappeared and jerked his thumb. Steinfarb took Pat’s arm and guided her into a hallway. They climbed a narrow wooden staircase in which yellow gas light wavered. A man opened a door and looked at them with eyes that were yellow in the yellow gas light. They entered a drab sitting room and a second man stood leaning against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. He had some nervous affliction and his lips, his nose, his brows kept twitching.

  He said: “Happy to thee you. Thit down.”

  The man who had opened the door now closed it and shot a bolt home. His yellow hair was fine and shiny like corn silk, his neck rugged.

  He said: “You got it?”

  “I’ve got it,” Pat said. She held up the brown paper package.

  “Open it.”

  She opened it and thumbed the thick sheaf of bills. The yellow-haired man came toward her. She stepped back.

  “C.O.D.,” she said.

  The man scowled.

  Steinfarb said: “Don’t get fresh now. Everything is on the up-and-up. Get the kid.”

  The lisper did not move from the wall. The yellow-haired man turned on his heel and went into another room, closing the door. When the door reopened a large black woman came out carrying a black child.

  Pat frowned. “What’s that?”

  The black woman grinned. She drew down one of the child’s stockings, showing white flesh. Only the arms and the face had been stained and there was a black knitted cap drawn tightly over the head. She lifted this, showing golden curls.

  THE yellow-haired man came in and said: “There she is. We had a hell of a time getting that stain off to get those pictures. It was easier getting it back again.” His eyes were hard as they moved from Steinfarb to Pat. “The nigger’ll take the baby out. She’ll walk two blocks down to Ennis Street with the kid. You watch her from the front window. You’ll give us the dough and you’ll stay in here till we go out. We’ll go up the street. You can watch us. When you see us turn a corner you come out. Not before. If you run out right after us, the kid gets it. Right now we’ve got two guys stationed down the street. If something starts, these guys let the kid and the nigger have it.”

  Pat started.

  The yellow-haired man said: “The nigger’s deaf.”

  The negress kept grinning like a fool.

  Pat threw the money on the table and the yellow-haired man scooped it up, counted it. He peeled off several bills and gave them to Steinfarb. Steinfarb pocketed them. Pat went into the darkened front room. The bay-windows were large. She had a full view of the street, both ways. She came back into the lighted room.

  The yellow-haired man was telling the negress things with his fingers. She nodded and went over to the door. The yellow-haired man opened it and the negress went out. They all moved into the front room and stood by the windows.

  They could not see Michaels. He was down leaning against the counter of the shooting gallery.

  “A little guy,” he was saying, “and a neat-looking jane. They came down this street and I lost track of ’em. Did you see ’em? Come on. I’m asking you!”

  The mulatto looked innocent. “No, boss, I ain’t seen ’em.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Me lie? Shucks, I wouldn’t lie!”

  Michaels gnawed his lip. “They came down on this side of the street. You—”

  He stopped and turned. A man had cursed out loud. Stope had reeled into the man. The man had shoved him and Stope had fallen down. Now he rose.

  “Ah!” he said, spotting Michaels.

  He started forward and began losing his balance. He came fast. Michaels, scowling, stepped aside and Stope hit the counter, bounced off, reeled on and collided with the negress as she came out of the door. Both went down. The negress yelped, clutching the child tightly as she rolled over. The black knitted cap fell off and gold curls burst into view.

  “M’ Gawd!” exclaimed Stope. “A blonde piccaninny!”

  Michaels’ teeth clamped shut and he leaped forward.

  Upstairs, Pat was the first to sense things. Her gun was in her hand and she whirled on the lisper and the yellow-haired man. “Beat it!” she said. “Get out the back way and run. The woman fell and there’s a drunk and a cop down there!”

  The yellow-haired man snarled: “A frame!”

  “Get,” Pat said. “I could hold you boys, but get while you’ve got time. We’ve been double-crossed! Go on, fools!”

  Steinfarb said: “You heard her. Do you think I’d risk getting in a jam like this? It’s a tough break. You dopes, scram!”

  The two men turned. Pat was at their heels with her gun. She saw them through a rear window and watched them scamper down a fire-escape. She spun and Steinfarb was glowering.

  He snapped: “That drunk didn’t go home!”

  “You’re telling me!”

  SHE flew across the room, out into the hall, down the stairway. She reached the sidewalk to find Michaels trying to tear the child from the negre
ss’s arms. Michaels struck with his gun and the black woman tottered, her arms loosened. Pat leaped and the force of her body staggered Michaels. She caught the child as it fell, as the negress went down.

  Cardigan came bounding across the street, caught Michaels’ arm as Michaels swung on Pat. He twisted Michaels all the way around.

  “Michaels, beat it!” he rasped. “This is a hot spot!”

  Pedestrians, loungers, began running away.

  “Leggo!” Michaels roared.

  The roar of a car gathering speed rose above the tumult in the street. Pat clasped the child and ran toward the open hall door. The black woman was up, wild-eyed, reeling about. Stope was up, teetering.

  Pat flung a terrified look over her shoulder as she saw the car swing in toward the curb, speeding. She fell over the threshold, into the hallway. Guns banged and a bullet splintered wood near her head. She crowded her small body against the baby, protecting it. The guns banged again. Stope, staggering around, suddenly stiffened. He was directly in front of the door, in front of Pat and the child. His body stopped four bullets and then he turned around twice, sat down, coughed, and straightened out.

  Pat couldn’t seem to get up. Cardigan flung away from Michaels, leaped to the door, laid his big hands on Pat’s shoulder.

  “I’m all feet,” she panted.

  “Shot?”

  “No—no.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The gunflame was red, spurting from the darkened tonneau of the car as it whipped past. One shot broke a window, one chipped pavement, the third hit Cardigan somewhere above the waist, behind, and he cursed and fell down. But he was up in a second, wheeling around, drawing his own gun.

  “Put ’em up, you!” Michaels screamed, his gun leveled.

  “Me? You fool, why don’t you get that car?”

  “Put ’em up or I’ll— Put ’em up, Cardigan!” yelled Michaels. He was red-faced. In his voice, in the blaze of his eyes, was madness.

  The negress lolled against the counter, her eyes rolling. She looked mad, too, but in a dazed, dumb way. Her big black hands fell on two revolvers. She gripped them. They were .22s, nine shots each. She swiveled hugely and began pumping.

  Michaels turned on her, his eyes widening as the small slugs drove into him. He fired. His gun shook in his hand and the negress went down to her knees; and while she knelt she kept on pulling both triggers. She cut Michaels down. They were all hits. His gun fell before he did. Then he fell on top of it. And then the negress fell, for Michaels’ one shot had been well aimed.

  The street was suddenly quiet. There was no one nearby. For two blocks, either way, the street was empty. Until a squad of cops came running on the double.

  Cardigan ran a hand across his eyes, grunted and sat down in the doorway. Pat was sitting beside him. She held the child in her arms, rocking it gently saying, “Sh—sh; don’t cry, don’t cry, honey.”

  Then she put one arm around Cardigan’s neck. “Steady, chief. Steady!”

  “I’ll be all right, little wonderful.”

  He woke up in a hospital several hours later.

  Pat was sitting beside the bed.

  He said: “I’d climb the highest mountain—”

  “Please,” she said, half smiling, and patted his hand. “Please, chief, don’t yodel.”

  Lead Pearls

  Chapter One

  “—as a Hounds Tooth”

  LILY KEMMERICH moved onto the tiled terrace twenty stories above the East River. The drone of voices was behind her, in the big living room. She was in evening clothes—pale ice-blue against the creamy whiteness of her skin. Her hair was blonde, parted in the middle and drawn tight to a doughnut over each ear. She leaned over the railing and looked down. She shuddered, turned away and pressed hot, moist palms together. A pulse in her throat throbbed.

  The butler lay face upward on the living-room carpet. He had lain face downward until the arrival of Sayer, the medical-office man. The carpet was mouse-colored, and there was a large blotch of darker color near the butler’s head.

  A couple of uniformed cops stood near the corridor entry. Detective Dirago stood with hands on hips trying to make sense out of a futuristic water color on the wall. Lieutenant McCartney came down the short corridor from the bedrooms. Behind him came fat Leopold Kemmerich.

  “This is a lulu,” said McCartney, irritably.

  Dirago turned a swart, handsome face. “Hahn?”

  “Nix,” McCartney growled. “The place is all busted up and nothing’s been h’isted. This guy’s been beaned to death and there ain’t even a penny missing. Tie that!”

  Kemmerich sat down heavily and said, “Ach, du lieber,” wearily.

  Sayer, the medical-office man, looked at his hat. “Well, I’m all set, lieutenant. I’ll breeze. Got a date. This is murder.”

  “You’re telling me?” McCartney said.

  He looked at his watch. “Ain’t that guy come yet?”

  He was an angular man, with one shoulder higher than the other and a warped, sour face.

  Sayer went to the door and had his hand on the knob when a knock sounded. He opened the door and Cardigan stood there hat in hand, his shaggy mop of hair shadowing his forehead. He nodded to Sayer and came in.

  Sayer said: “Well, be seeing you,” to McCartney, and went out, closing the door softly.

  “Hello, Cardigan,” McCartney said.

  Cardigan stared at the body on the floor. “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Cardigan tossed his hat to a divan, crossed to the body, stood over it and after a moment lifted his eyes to McCartney. “Brained, huh?”

  His eyes left McCartney and settled on Lily Kemmerich who stood now in the terrace entry, one hand held against her throat. She dropped her glance sidewise, entered quietly and took a chair in the shadows. He swung his eyes back to McCartney.

  “Where do I come in?”

  McCartney raked a short laugh between his teeth. “I understand your agency’s working for the indemnity company that handled Mrs. Kemmerich’s necklace—the one that was stolen a week ago.”

  “Sure.”

  McCartney poked a finger toward the body. “I just thought you might be interested in this. Mr. and Mrs. Kemmerich came in here half an hour ago and found the butler conked out. He was socked on the dome with a blunt instrument and rubbed out. Sayer said about two hours ago. Find any dope about that necklace yet?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance ever take it into your nut to crash this apartment to see if the necklace was really stolen, would you?”

  Cardigan narrowed one eye. “Clear that up, Mac.”

  “I mean, suppose you figgered that the necklace might still be here.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Leopold Kemmerich.

  McCartney raised a hand toward him, said to Cardigan: “How about it?”

  Cardigan sighed. “I thought it’d be something screwy like this. I was in bed, Mac. Where’d you birth that idea, anyhow?”

  “Nothing’s been taken,” McCartney said. “Mrs. Kemmerich’s bedroom was turned upside down but there wasn’t a thing h’isted. Not a thing. Jewels are layin’ around, dough, lots of things. It wasn’t an ordinary house break. There’s a fluke somewhere. That room was dressed down by a guy who knew his groceries, but there wasn’t a thing—not a thing—lifted. I ask you, now.”

  Cardigan was looking at the shadowed Lily Kemmerich. “You’re sure of that, Mrs. Kemmerich?”

  “I’m sure,” she said in a throaty whisper.

  Fat Leopold Kemmerich was annoyed. “My wife has said she is sure. I am sure. That is finished. Find the killer, lieutenant!”

  SITTING in the shadows, Lily Kemmerich kept her hands pressed tightly together, her chin up, her breath bated. She moved her eyes from one to another of the men in the room; she did not drop them to the dead man on the floor.

  Irritable, whiny-voiced, McCartney came up close to Cardigan. “I’m trying to think that this he
re murder’s got something to do with that stolen necklace. That necklace was worth thirty thousand bucks. It was stolen from Mrs. Kemmerich last Wednesday night in the theatre crowd in front of the Dorado on Forty-fourth Street. That’s her story. It’s possible, ain’t it, that you might have doubted it was stolen?”

  “Don’t be an egg, Mac.”

  Kemmerich was on his feet. “You’re calling my wife a liar?”

  “Now, now,” McCartney whined, shaking his hands, “don’t get me wrong, Mr. Kemmerich. I’ve got a job to do. I’m just wondering about Cardigan here.”

  Lily got up and left the room, swiftly, quietly.

  Cardigan was glowering at McCartney. “You don’t have to wonder about me, Mac. I’d sure be a sap to crash this apartment. Give me a little credit, anyhow.”

  “All right, then. What ideas have you got on the stolen necklace?”

  “Just that—it was stolen, fat-head. We’re working on it and we’ve got a good chance of getting it back.”

  McCartney’s eyes widened. “Oh, you have! Good! Been getting some good leads, eh? Well, I’m glad to hear that!”

  “Yes, you are!”

  Cardigan turned on his heel, crossed the room and scooped his hat up from the divan.

  McCartney looked worried. He flopped his arms up and down in a nettled, jointless fashion and yammered: “Don’t get all steamed up now, Cardigan. You don’t have to get all steamed up now, do you?”

  Cardigan turned on him. “Oh, I don’t, don’t I? I should maybe thank you for getting me out of bed and over here on some half-baked idea! Goom-by, sweetheart!”

  He yanked open the door. Looking beyond McCartney, he saw that Lily had returned to the living-room entry. She was tall and beautiful against the low light of the inner corridor and her hand was against her throat again; her face was unnaturally white.

  Kemmerich began complaining gutturally: “All these stupid questions about the necklace, when what you police should be doing is sending out alarms for the murderer!”

  “On what?” moaned McCartney, shaking his arms. “On what? When nobody saw the guy. When not even the elevator boy saw the guy. On what, I ask you?”

  Cardigan was saying to one of the cops: “If you think hard, it might occur to you that I want to get through this door.”