The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 27

  “Let’s see it.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” McGovern growled rebelliously.

  “What’s the sense in acting like a kid with a hunk of candy?”

  Hunerkopf said: “I would say like this, Mac. Let Cardigan look at it. A head in the hand is worth two in the bush, or something like that. No, I mean two heads—”

  McGovern tossed a small, circular bag on the table. There were no initials on the clasp. Inside, Cardigan found a few one-dollar bills, a five, a ten, and some silver. A vanity compact. A small comb. A lipstick in a metal tube. A slip of paper, small, as though it had been torn from a larger piece. On this was scrawled, in pencil:

  11-10

  A

  26

  He made a mental note of this without in any way attempting to decipher what the letter and the numbers signified. Then he shrugged and shoved everything into the bag, snapped shut the clip and tossed the bag back on the table.

  He said to Jonsson: “When you saw this man, do you remember if he was wearing gloves?”

  “Yes, he was. Because he started to take one off and the girl told him to never mind. You know, like you’d take a glove off to shake hands.”

  Cardigan turned to McGovern. “Did you take a tour down the fire escape?”

  “Me and Joraleman,” he said, nodding to the uniformed cop.

  “Find anything?”

  Hunerkopf put in helpfully: “He only found a collar button and give it to me, account of I wear stiff collars. Here’s the button. There ain’t no connection, I don’t think. It was back in the alleyway.”

  Cardigan took out his penknife, drew the blade across the button. “Real gold,” he said, tossing it back to Hunerkopf. And to Jonsson: “What did the guy look like, George?”

  “Tall, thin but fairly strong looking. Young. Well, say about thirty. Sandy hair and a neat-clipped sandy mustache. Derby. One of those blue overcoats, double-breasted, and he was wearing a gray silk scarf.”

  Up through the building came the faint tremor and pulse of the jazz band playing a tango.

  Then McGovern’s hard, suspicious voice. “Cardigan, you sure you’re telling me the truth about this woman? You sure you don’t know who she is?”

  “So help me, Mac.”

  “And you got no idea what information she was going to give.”

  Cardigan spread his palms. “I wish I did. I’d be sitting pretty.”

  McGOVERN drilled him with a hard look. “If you’re lying to me, Cardigan, I’ll—”

  “I know. Land on me like a ton of brick.” His eyes flashed and he whipped out: “You make me sick, Mac! I’ll bet every time you shave you’re so damned suspicious that you think the face in the mirror is somebody else’s!” He headed for the door. “Though if anybody else had a mug like yours, ten to one they’d do something about it. Maybe trade it in for some head cheese.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” guffawed Hunerkopf, shaking all over. “I say like this. That is a good one! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “August!” boomed McGovern, whirling and going purple. “You’re a disgrace to the department, the way you encourage this palooka by laughing that way! Shut up!” He whirled toward the door. “And as for you, Cardigan—”

  But Cardigan was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Demayo

  THE Cosmos Agency, of which Cardigan was the San Francisco head, was on the second floor of an unpretentious building in Market Street. It contained a reception room, a private office, and a record room.

  It was almost nine at night. Patricia Seaward was working late, bringing the quarterly reports up to date preparatory to sending them to the head office in New York. She was at work at Cardigan’s desk, in the private office. A green-shaded desk light was the only illumination in the room and it isolated Pat and the desk in a pool of light.

  When Cardigan came in, his battered hat riding low on his forehead and the shapeless collar of his overcoat turned up to his ears, she said: “Oh, back already from your mysterious date!”

  “I was stood up,” he said, and went on into the record room.

  She called after him: “I thought there was something untoward about that.”

  His heavy voice rolled back: “I like the polite word you use.” Then he reappeared carrying two file boxes which he set down on top of the radiator. He turned on the ceiling lights, said with a muttered bitterness: “She was there all right, but she was deader than a doornail, Patsy.”

  “What!”

  He carried a chair over to the radiator, sat down and opened one of the file boxes. “It was like this,” he said, and told her the whole story, at the same time thumbing and perusing the papers in the file box.

  “Oh, dear—oh, dear!” she said when he had finished talking, her palms pressed to her cheeks. “Oh, the poor girl, chief!”

  He nodded. “The guy that could put his paws around a throat like that and give her the works—”

  Pat shuddered, then cried: “But it’s wonderful of you, chief, to go to work on it for the girl’s sake, even though—”

  “Pass up the bouquets, Patsy,” he cut in. “It did give me a jolt to see a good-looker like her that way, but you ought to know better than chuck that ‘wonderful’ stuff at me. I’m in this now because George Jonsson hired me. McGovern was making some pretty tall passes at George and George got back at him by hiring me to clear up the case and so give him and his place a clean bill.”

  “But don’t you think this case might be in connection with one we have on deck?”

  He said: “That’s why I’m looking in the hot files. The chances are that the dead girl was a stranger here. I had to give her the address of the Viking. Nobody at the Viking had ever seen the sandy-haired guy before. The girl had class, good clothes.”

  He worked in silence now. Out of twelve hot cases he drew, in the end, three briefs and studied them carefully, one by one. Finally he sat back, lit a cigarette.

  “There’s three here that are possible. There’s one that’s highly possible. Brief 184. We worked hard on it here and in the east six months ago and never turned a stone. Congressman Luke Buford got an appropriation and hired us. It was about who was responsible for the uprising in southern China led by Sam Portero. Sam Portero was born in Spain but he came to America when he was a kid and was naturalized here.

  “Oil concessions were involved. The rumor got around that a combine in the states financed that uprising. It was an oil combine supposedly hooked up with a munitions and arms combine. The munitions and arms were supposed to have been shipped to Canton and billed as general cargo machinery, hardware. We were to root out information as to what hulls carried the cargo, who the shippers were, who the stuff was shipped to. Well, all that evidence vanished. The uprising failed—but several thousand people were killed, among them some American engineers, tourists, a teacher—and all of these last three groups were innocent bystanders. The rumor was that the hub of the combine was here on the west coast.

  “O.K. In this brief, 184, is the following note: ‘It is believed that a woman was involved in these unlawful transactions. It is believed that this woman was an American, that she acted as messenger between the heads in America and those in China and that she was highly instrumental in bringing the uprising to life. It is believed that this uprising was instigated solely for the acquisition of valuable oil properties and it is our desire to punish by due process of law those responsible for the wanton killing of American citizens.’ In later notes it refers to her as the ‘mystery woman.’”

  CARDIGAN stood up, went to the desk, took a slip of paper and on it wrote, from memory:

  11-10

  A

  26

  “That, Patsy,” he explained, “was on a slip of paper in her bag. The paper looked fresh. Likely the notation was made a short time before—today, anyhow. What do you think it means?”

  “Well maybe the eleven-and-ten’s a street address, the way you’d take it over a phone. The A may be an apartment. Maybe the twe
nty-six is a date.”

  He stared at the slip of paper for a long minute, his shaggy brows bent. Then he said: “No, I don’t think so. Get me the railway station on the wire. Pullman ticket office.”

  A moment later she handed the phone across to him. He said into the transmitter: “Is there a train leaving there at ten past eleven tonight?… There is. Now can you tell me if there’s a Pullman Number Twenty-six?… Thanks a million,” he finished, and hung up.

  Pat was looking up at him eagerly.

  He said: “There’s a southbound train out at ten past eleven. In the make-up is a Pullman sleeper Number Twenty-six. The A—well, that stands for Drawing Room A or I’m a monkey’s uncle. O.K., Patsy. You look tired around the eyes. Powder your nose and go home to bed.”

  “But really, I’m not a bit tired.”

  “You heard me, didn’t you? Clear out. You’re dead tired.”

  “But—you’re not going to get in trouble?”

  He chuckled under his breath. “Scram, Pats. There’s no trouble to get into.”

  When she had gone he took a long drink of rye straight, lit a cigarette and went over Brief 184. Time and time again the picture of the lovely girl, dead on the floor, drifted across his mind’s eye. He was roused by the ringing of the telephone bell.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “This Cardigan?”

  “Yup.”

  There was a crackling on the phone, then silence. He jiggled the hook. He told the operator he had been cut off. She said his party had hung up. He popped the receiver into the cradle, stared at the instrument, then shrugged and took another drink. At twenty past ten he put on his hat and overcoat, turned out the lights, stepped into the hallway and locked the door.

  He walked down the stairs, through the dim lobby and out to the street. As he was walking away a voice called:

  “Hey, Cardigan!”

  He half turned, saying, “Yeah?”

  AND there he caught a glimpse of metal in the open window of a sedan parked at the curb. He whirled and at the same time threw himself violently into the recess leading to a shop door. A gun boomed twice, thundering. Glass sprang apart with a snarling, ripping sound. Glass splinters showered against his face. He had thrown himself so hard out of the way that his head had struck the doorway frame and for an instant he was stunned. He heard the roar of an accelerated motor, the clash of gears. His hand went in beneath his coat, got hold of the gun beneath his left arm. Crouching, he swiveled on both feet—saw the sedan a block away, speeding. No use. There was no cab near.

  Shaking and with cold sweat standing out on his face, he got quickly away from the store—crossed the street and walked on, his coat collar turned up, his hat yanked down. Once he glanced back and saw a couple of cops standing before the store. He kept on. He figured out the fluky telephone call: they had merely phoned to see if he was at the office. Like a dummy he had looked around when that fellow called out his name.

  He muttered: “Some nervous citizens think I know more than I do.” Now the sweat on his face was hot and the wind that blew against his face was bitter cold. He was hurrying, and then he realized he was going in the wrong direction. As he turned about, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure trying to duck out of sight. Cardigan grunted. As he came up to Hunerkopf, the rolypoly detective was bent over and looking mysteriously about on the sidewalk. He pretended surprise at seeing Cardigan.

  “Oh, Mr. Cardigan! Well, well. Gosh, I almost slipped and broke my neck. I think I slipped on a banana peel but bless me if I can see anything! Do you see anything, Mr. Cardigan?”

  Cardigan’s big face looked very sour.

  “All I see, Augie, is one fat detective trying to be funny.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Hunerkopf innocently, still looking around for the mythical banana peel. “Well, maybe I just—well, just slipped.”

  Cardigan was dead certain that McGovern had sent Hunerkopf to tail him. Hunerkopf must have seen the shooting, but he was afoot and he had not taken off after the sedan; his job, of course, was to tail Cardigan. This angered the big Cosmos op, but instantly he realized that getting angry would not shake off Hunerkopf.

  So he said: “Let’s go across the street and have a beer and a ham-on-rye.”

  “Me, Mr. Cardigan, I like braunschweiger on rye. I say like this. It is very kind of you.”

  They crossed the street, entered the small anteroom of the Fox Tavern; left their hats and coats there with the checkroom girl and went into the main room, into a paneled booth. They ordered and then Cardigan, looking at his hands, said: “I’d like to wash up, Augie.”

  He went to the rear, through a doorway that led into a small corridor. Here a narrow staircase led upward and Cardigan took it to the floor above, followed a corridor to the front and took another stairway down to the anteroom. He got his hat and overcoat, pushed out into the street, ducked into a taxi and thumbed his nose at the tavern as the cab shot away.

  IT was five to eleven when Cardigan entered the railway station. He found out on what track the 11:10 train was to leave. He wangled his way through the gate to the platform, tramped along past the long line of semi-darkened Pullmans.

  A number of persons, apparently passengers, were idling up and down beside the train. Porters were arriving with baggage and swinging into various vestibules. Cardigan came up to Number 26 Pullman; the number was on a white card in one of the windows.

  He pushed into the Pullman vestibule, taking his time, and entered the corridor, passed the dressing room. He paused outside drawing room A. The long aisle before him was walled in by green berth curtains, some of them drawn, some still open. He knocked on the drawing room door. No one answered. In a moment he opened the door, stepped in.

  The berth was made up. There were some bags on the floor. There was a portfolio lying on the berth; beside the portfolio, a man’s brown fedora. Cardigan picked up the hat, looked at the sweatband. The initials R.D. were perforated in the leather. These initials were also stamped on the portfolio. Then Cardigan saw a woman’s fur coat draped on a hanger.

  He was startled by a knock on the door. For an instant he did not know what to do. The knock sounded again and then without pause he opened the door. A messenger handed him a telegram addressed to Ramos Demayo, Drawing Room A, Car 26, 11:10 P.M. train. He signed for it, closed the door. The envelope flap was only partially sealed. He worked it open without tearing it. The message read—

  CANCEL TRIP AND SEE US IMMEDIATELY. BAUM.

  Cardigan thrust the message back into the envelope, sealed the flap. He spun, tried the lock on the portfolio. It was secure. He whirled away from it, bent over and tried the lock on the nearest piece of baggage. It snapped open; but when he opened the bag he saw that it contained a woman’s garments. An article fell out. Picking it up, he saw that it was a leather traveling clock. It sprang open, like the covers of a book. On the inside of one cover was the clock’s face. On the inside of the other, a woman’s picture. He felt a rush of blood in his body. It was the picture of the girl he had found dead at the Viking!

  Quickly he snapped shut the leather case, returned it to the bag. Closed the bag. He opened the door, stepped into the passageway, saw no one. He bent and slipped the telegram beneath the door. People were coming into the Pullman. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was five past eleven. He made his way to the opposite end of the car, stepped to the station platform and strode long-legged to the gate, through it and to a nearby point of vantage.

  AT eight minutes past eleven he saw a porter come out through the gate lugging hand baggage. A man and a girl followed him. The man was tall, slim. He wore a brown fedora and a brown overcoat. His face was lean, dark, and worried now—the brows bent and the mouth tight. He looked to be in his late thirties. The girl was small, blonde, with beautifully clear skin, a young red mouth, large dark eyes, disturbed now and incredulous. Her tiny feet moved rapidly in order to keep up with the long, lithe strides of the dark man.

  Outsi
de, there was a string of cabs, people hurrying. Into one of these cabs the porter was piling the couple’s baggage. Cardigan heard the dark man snap: “Hotel Norman!”

  Cardigan went down the line, swung into a cab and said: “Go to the Hotel Norman.”

  He noticed that his cab got away ahead of the other one.

  “Step on it,” he said to the driver.

  The Hotel Norman was in Bush Street, near Taylor. Cardigan entered the severe, modernistic lobby. He could hear, faintly, the sound of supper music coming from the Redwood Room. The lobby was alive with the movement of people, their talk, their sporadic laughter.

  He saw the dark man and the girl enter a few minutes later, followed by a bellhop carrying their bags. The dark man registered, and as he did so Cardigan walked across to the elevator bank. When he saw the couple and the bellhop coming toward the bank, Cardigan stepped into an open car. About six other persons were already in it. Then the dark man and the girl entered, followed by the boy with the bags. Cardigan stayed in the rear of the car. He heard the boy say: “Six out.”

  There was a stop at four, then at six. The boy stepped aside for the couple to go out and said: “To the left, sir.”

  They went out and Cardigan went out and without pausing he turned to the left and strode past them, making his way down the corridor. He was near the end of it when he heard a key grating in a lock somewhere behind. He kept on a little, then turned and saw the boy carrying the bags out of sight. The couple had already gone in. He retraced his steps, spotted the door and went on to the elevator. Room 611, he memorized. Thoughts were wheeling and banging around in his head.

  Down in the lobby, he stood smoking a cigarette. He saw the boy who had taken up the bags come out of the elevator. Five minutes later he saw the dark man come out and stride purposefully toward the doorway. The doorman saluted and said: “How do you do, Mr. Demayo.” The dark man muttered something, strode out. A block away he caught a taxi and Cardigan nailed one in front of the hotel.

  The trail led out Bush. Demayo evidently was in a hurry, for his cab was speeding. Cardigan sat forward on the edge of his seat, taking drags at a cigarette, spurting out jets of smoke from one corner of his mouth. Demayo’s cab made a right turn into Gough, went out past Lafayette Park, made a left, sped on and made a right. Now it went slower.