The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Read online

  She nodded, but was still grave. “But, chief, I’ve an idea you’ve taken on more—”

  He laughed, scoffed. “I like it, chicken.”

  THE rain had become a fog. The lights of Grant Avenue made misty halos, and men were blurs in swift passage. The fog smeared the windows of the curio shops. Taxis went past with a swishing and sucking of tires. Young Chinese, dressed in snappy overcoats and yanked-down fedoras, stood on street corners, tossed slang at one another. A piano was banging out a jazz tune.

  Cardigan was a big man in the fog. His hat, limp and drooping from the wet, hid the upper half of his face. His damp coat, wrinkled, had its shapeless collar up around his neck. When he reached the corner of Pacific and Grant he stopped, snapped a match against his thumbnail, lit a cigarette.

  He left Grant, went down Pacific; and by that move he left behind the gaudy lights, the Chinese architecture. He crossed from the right side of the street to the left, went past darkened, dingy houses—a dead, forsaken neighborhood. He passed the old Hippodrome, dark, its front peeling. He saw a blur moving toward him and shifted to the curb. A cop strolled past, his red face wet in the fog, his lips pursed and a whistled tune coming out absently.

  Cardigan went on, reached Battery and paused opposite the dilapidated Old Ship Hotel. He crossed Pacific and went up the opposite sidewalk. He paused in a shadow, leaned against a wet wall. The sound of footsteps came to him, and he waited, the red end of his cigarette cupped in his hand behind his back. He heard the footsteps stop, and keened his eyes. Presently they moved again, uncertainly, and he saw the form of a man pass beneath a street light across the way. The shape and the walk of the man were familiar. McCoy, bitter over the death of his partner, was not to be shaken.

  But Cardigan was certain that the shadow hid him from McCoy. He wished that he could let McCoy in on it, but he knew he could not. This was an undercover job. Myrna Telfair had to be found, taken away—and without a breath of publicity. Telfair was paying well for this.

  The tall, straight shape of McCoy moved on, passed beyond the misty radiance of the street light. He was confused; Cardigan could tell that by the lingering footsteps, the frequent change of pace. In a moment Cardigan moved, hugging the housefronts, reading the door numbers by putting his nose almost against each door.

  He found the door he was looking for. It was not unlike many other doors in that neighborhood, and the house was squat, dark; not a sliver of light escaped. There was no traffic in the street. Cardigan listened for the sound of footsteps, heard none. He drew a ring of keys from his pocket, crowded against the door, worked with care and in silence. And continually he paused to listen for the sound of footsteps. In three minutes the lock gave, the key moved all the way around. Cardigan palmed the doorknob, turned it.

  He eased the door open and found the hall lighted. Looking at the door, he saw that it had been weather-stripped so completely that no bit of light could have escaped into the street. The lock was a snaplock, and when he had stepped in, he removed his key, closed the door and shot the catch so that it would hold the lock open. He dropped the keys into his pocket, left his hand in the pocket but closed it on the butt of his gun.

  The hall was moderately clean and, in comparison with the outside of the house, in good repair. An old Brussels carpet was on the floor. It muffled in some measure Cardigan’s footfalls. He stopped short at the sound of a doorknob clicking. A door at his right opened and a woman came out. She headed for the staircase and had taken six steps before she saw Cardigan. Then she stopped.

  “What do you want?” she snapped.

  SHE was old, he saw, and tall and bony. He had never seen a thinner, bonier woman. Atop a long, thin neck her small, bony face rode with a kind of haughty arrogance. She wore a black dress with a long skirt; there was a bit of old lace about her throat and wrists. Her parchment-like face was made pale by powder. Her hair was twisted upward to a knot on top, and black, long earrings hung from her ears.

  “Well, what do you want? How did you get in?”

  “Walked. The door was open.” He moved toward her. “Maybe I’m in the wrong house.”

  “Then it might be a good idea to turn around and walk out.” She tossed her chin. “Well, why don’t you walk out?” She screwed up her face, adjusted gold-rimmed, old-fashioned spectacles on her nose, peered hard. “Do you walk in any door you find open? Go on, get out of here!”

  He walked past her, smiling at her, and passed on into the room from which she had just come. It was a large room, with a fireplace in which red coals glowed warmly. It was cluttered with furniture, with tapestries, with bric-a-brac on the shelves of an old bamboo whatnot. He went to the fireplace, rubbed his hands, turned and then put his hands back into his overcoat pockets.

  The old woman had come to the doorway. Her eyes popped with indignation and for a moment she was quite speechless. Then she flounced in, banged the door shut, came across the room with a long-legged stride like a man’s, her bony, narrow jaw thrust forward.

  “Well!” It was a demand, rasped out, while she jammed her arms akimbo. Light danced on and off the gold rims of her ancient spectacles, and her thin nostrils twitched. “It seems to me, mister, you’ve got one hell of a nerve.”

  He shrugged, took a couple of paces and dropped into an old leather armchair. He took off his hat and laid it on a table at his elbow.

  “You’d like to run into a little dough, wouldn’t you?” he said offhand, not looking at her.

  Her face tightened, the eyelids shot down shrewdly; she made a catlike movement and sat down on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

  She said: “You didn’t just walk in, did you? You master-keyed your way in!”

  He put a heavy, lazy stare on her. “I’m looking for Gink Padden. He’s been traveling under the name of Tod Lester or maybe something else—but his name’s Gink Padden. He’s got a dame with him.” Cardigan leaned forward. “I’m looking for the dame.” He spoke very quietly, in a low, unhurried voice, and with his eyes resting steadily on the woman.

  Her own eyes, narrowed to withered slits, bit sharply back and forth across his face. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but you’ve got one nerve crashing in my place and pestering me, a helpless old woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you ever hear of a cop named Reilly?”

  The eyelids shut down, obscured the eyes. “I don’t read the papers.”

  “This wouldn’t be in the paper yet.”

  “What wouldn’t?”

  “How Reilly was bombed to death in a Griggs Hotel room.”

  She shook her head. “All these things—I don’t know what you’re talking about. What number Pacific were you looking for?”

  “I’ve got the number,” he said quietly, deeply.

  SHE jumped to her feet, making her long skirt swirl about her legs. Her chin and nose shot upward and her eyes popped open.

  “You’re crazy!” she cried. “By God, if you don’t get out I’ll call the police!”

  “My grandmother, you’d call the police!” he shot back at her. He stood up, towering, a shadow creeping downward across his face. “I’m looking for Gink Padden, old lady. He flew here with the dame from Reno. He sent a bag to this address.”

  “I never heard of him!” she snapped. “I tell you—”

  Breathless, she stopped, turned her head and looked toward the door. Both heard a door close in the corridor, heard heavy, careless footfalls. Hard knuckles rapped on the room door. The woman started toward the door but Cardigan stopped her, said in a whisper: “Say, ‘Come in.’”

  “Come in,” she said.

  Instantly her features tightened, her mouth closed. Cardigan drew back into the shadows, waited with his hands in his pockets as the door opened. A short, burly man came in. He wore a blue turtleneck sweater, a coat over it, and a shapeless cap. He had a swart, coarse face, heavy at the jaw.

  He said: “I come up for the bags—” Then he stopped short. The loo
k on the woman’s face stopped him and he said: “What’s up, Aunt Mag, huh?”

  Cardigan’s blunt voice broke in: “What’s your name, you?”

  The man started.

  Cardigan came out of the shadows. “Stay where you are and keep your paws where I can see them. What’d you come here for?”

  The man’s jaw fell slack and he looked at the woman, then at Cardigan, then back at the woman. “Whu-whu-whu—”

  “Stop muttering! What’d you come here for?”

  The man gulped. “I—I just come along to see Aunt Mag.”

  “Oh, you did. And what bags did you come for?”

  The man got very red, pulled at the collar of his sweater with a grimy finger. Cardigan yanked out his gun, strode swiftly across the room and slammed the muzzle against the man’s belly. “Spit it out!” he snapped.

  The man fell back toward the doorway. Cardigan reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of his coat, straightened him, clouted him on the head with the barrel of his gun.

  “You dummy,” he rasped, “spit it out!”

  “O-o-o, Geeze, don’t do that!”

  “I’ll do more, baby. I’ll—”

  His knees buckled as the big vase crashed down over the back of his head. His eyes turned black and he fell backward, stopped against a table, turned and tried to brace himself.

  He heard Aunt Mag’s crackling voice. “Get his gun!”

  He felt the man lunge against him, heard the hoarse breathing. He threw himself across the table. He could see a bit, but all things spun, gyrated, and were intershot with stabs and needles of light. He carried the table over and down to the floor and felt the heavy body of the man on his back. He didn’t want any shots fired. With both hands on his gun, he broke it, felt the action eject five shells. The shells fell noiselessly, and he snapped the gun shut, heaved and rolled away, turned over, let the man rip the gun from his hand.

  Now he lay on his back. He lay very quietly, making an effort to lie quiet, so that his head would clear. Above him, the thick features of the heavy man seemed to jounce up and down. And he saw his own gun bouncing up and down in the other man’s hand.

  “Get up!” the man muttered. “And put your hands up!”

  Cardigan made several efforts, finally got to his feet. The woman steered him into a chair and he flopped there, his arms dangling. Presently things began to clear; they no longer spun with such dizzy violence. The room cleared. The heavy man stood in front of him, steady, with the gun steady in his hand. To one side, the woman stood, her mouth hard and tight and a glitter in her old eyes. But Cardigan did not move. He was still shaky, and he waited.

  He said drily: “Thanks for the bump, old lady.”

  It was obvious that the heavy man was uncertain; he looked to the old woman for instructions. They came.

  “You keep him here, Sam. Keep the gun on him. I’ll go around and get Charley and Mose. And if he moves, let him have it.” She swung her long legs across the room, picked up a black shawl and threw it over her head and shoulders. “Remember, Sam, don’t let him out of that chair.”

  “He won’t move,” Sam said.

  The woman went to the door, opened it, disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  Murder’s Out

  CARDIGAN lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, let the smoke dribble from his nostrils. It curled and twisted about his shaggy mop of hair. He looked steadily at Sam for a long moment, then stood up.

  Sam took a step backward. “Sit down you.”

  “Sam,” said Cardigan, “you’re going to get a punch in the kisser.”

  He took one step, one swing. The hammer of the gun clicked twice as Sam hurtled backward across the room, crashed into the whatnot, brought down bric-a-brac on his head. His mouth fell open and he lay there, goggle-eyed, the whites showing. Cardigan reached down, took the gun away from him, stood spread-legged and calmly loaded the chambers.

  “Get up, Sam,” he said.

  Sam stumbled to his feet, his heels crunching bric-a-brac, his long arms dangling and his head rolling.

  “We’re going places, Sam.”

  “Geeze, listen—”

  “You come for Gink Padden’s bags, didn’t you?”

  “Looka now—Me? N-No—”

  “Sam—” Cardigan came very close to him with the gun. “We’re going to Gink Padden.” Then he snapped: “Come on—get going!” He grabbed Sam and shoved him toward the door. He opened the door and shoved Sam into the hall, and then manhandled him to the hall door. “Out, Sam!” he muttered.

  The fog was rolling in the street. It was thick and wet, heavy and cool in the nostrils. Sam stumbled down the street, his heavy shoes ringing on the pavement. Cardigan walked close beside him, with his gun in his pocket and his hand on the gun.

  Sam blubbered: “I—I ain’t done nothin’, I ain’t!”

  “Keep your trap shut. All you have to do is take me to Gink Padden.”

  “B-but—”

  “Stow it!”

  Lights bulged up out of the fog. The fog dripped from the light shades, and the poles were dark and wet with fog. They reached Battery and stopped to let a big produce truck rumble past. Cardigan turned at the sound of a footfall, and saw McCoy come solemnly out of the fog.

  “Walking for your health, Cardigan?”

  “You stick, don’t you?”

  “Like glue. I lost you for a while, but it was around here, so I waited. Who’s the boy friend?”

  “An old friend of mine I ran into in a speakeasy. I used to know him years ago. Imagine my surprise when I ran into him!”

  Drops dripped from McCoy’s wet hat. Moisture glistened on his black raincoat. There was no humor in his face, only a solemn bitterness. And his eyes glowed like coals, steady, unwavering.

  He said: “I won’t lose you again, Cardigan.” His voice was dull and dismal and carried a solemn threat. “I’ll get the babies that done in my partner if it’s over your dead body.”

  “You’re riding me, McCoy.”

  “I know it. There’s no law against me following you. You pulled a fast one by springing Manx on me, but I’ve got broad shoulders, baby.”

  Cardigan said, “I could like you, McCoy, if you weren’t such a pig-headed Mick.”

  “When it begins to hurt, tell me.”

  “It’s beginning to hurt right now and I—”

  Two shots rang out. The three men tensed. The shots were near, no more than a couple of blocks away. McCoy was dragging at his gun when a third shot banged, its echoes biting sharply through the fog. McCoy had his gun out. He swiveled, went off like a stalking lion, swiftly.

  “Geeze—”

  Cardigan shoved Sam. “Step on it!”

  BY main force he made Sam break into a run. They reached Washington, turned left and then walked swiftly past the produce markets toward the Embarcadero. Sam was shaking.

  Cardigan said: “You’d have done more than shake if I’d let McCoy grab you.”

  “Who fired them shots?”

  “How the hell do I know? And I care less.”

  They reached the end of the street. The fog rolled in from the bay. Fog horns brayed. They stood in the shadow of the old Colchester, Sam shaking, muttering.

  “Get going,” Cardigan muttered.

  Sam made a little wounded cry and stumbled up the Embarcadero. The street was wide here, and the fog billowed sluggishly, brought with it the smell of the bay. Auto lights moved like roving eyes, swollen, yellow.

  Finally Sam dragged his feet to a standstill. He was out of breath and his voice croaked: “S’listen. I ain’t going any further. I’ll git killed.” He lifted an arm, pointed. “You see them two lights across there, the one lower than the other?” He gasped. “It’s there. You go right between them lights and there’s a wharf. There’s a launch underneath—the Marianne. Take her and go straight out from the wharf and you’ll come to a ship anchored in the stream—the Lolita. You’ll see her lights and hear her bell soon as you l
eave the wharf. Uh—they’re on board.”

  “They are, eh? O.K.—you come along.”

  Sam shrank. “N-no—”

  Cardigan shoved him, drew his gun and showed Sam steel. “Get over to that wharf!”

  Sam stumbled toward the two lights, and Cardigan hounded him on. They reached the wharf, and below, Cardigan saw an open motor boat riding at a painter’s end. By listening intently, he could hear the tolling of a fog bell across the shrouded water. Handcuffs clicked.

  “O.K., Sam,” he said. “I’ll keep you honest. Kneel down.”

  Sam knelt and Cardigan manacled him to a ringbolt on the wharf.

  “Geeze, boss—”

  “I’ll just keep you on ice.”

  “Oh, Gawd.”

  Cardigan dropped down into the motor boat. He turned on the switch, primed the motor, gripped the flywheel and spun it. He had to spin it five times before it kicked over. He waited two minutes for the engine to warm up. Then he cast loose the painter, dropped down in the stern sheets and gripped the tiller. Water gurgled and slapped against the boat’s sides, churned away behind.

  The wind blew cold fog against his face. He cocked his head, listening to the mournful tolling of the bell. Then he saw riding lights, steered toward them, and presently the hulk of a ship began to loom. He came up under her bows—she was riding low in the water—and peered hard to make out her name. It was the Lolita. Then he steered the motor boat close to the rusty plates of the ship, came suddenly upon a dangling rope ladder. He went past it, swung the motor boat about, shut the ignition off and went up into the bows as the small boat floated toward the ladder. The dim shape of a head peered over the rail, a voice said: “I’ll drop a line for the bags.”

  Cardigan made fast to the rope ladder, gripped it and started up. He reached the rail, swung a leg over and landed on the deck of a small, rakish tramp steamer. A man in a visored cap and heavy pea-jacket said: “Say, I thought—”

  “Never mind. Where’s your skipper?”