The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 28

  “Stop here,” Cardigan said.

  His cab stopped. A block and a half farther on, the other cab pulled into the curb. Demayo jumped out and stretched his legs in a fast walk across the sidewalk.

  “Now go past the place,” Cardigan said.

  His cab rolled past as the other cab was getting under way. Cardigan spotted the house and got off at the next block, paid the driver and began walking back. It was a fine stone house, three-storied with an ornate entrance one step up from the sidewalk. He saw large windows and the drapes behind them looked pretentious. It was, he decided, a private residence.

  Chapter Three

  Alias Mr. Armstrong

  THE house next to it—flush with it, for there was no alley-way between—was vacant. Cardigan saw a small, neat sign in one of the windows and went up close in order to read it. The place was for rent or sale. The agency which handled it was Colin Avery’s. Cardigan walked three blocks before he came upon a cruising cab. He rode to the Hotel Citadel, in Polk Street. In the telephone directory in the booth off the lobby he found Avery’s business phone number and his home phone number. He rang the latter and a servant answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Avery, if he’s in and if he hasn’t gone to bed…. This is Mr. Armstrong.” A moment later he had Avery on the wire and he said: “I hate to trouble you at this hour but I’m leaving town early in the morning and I want to ask about a rental. I expect to return in a week with my family…. I’m referring to a house in Buchanan Street.” He gave the number and received some details; and then he asked: “How about the neighbors? My wife’s an invalid and we need quiet.”

  Avery assured him of quiet neighbors. On the left, he said, lived Nicholas Burford, the architect. On the right lived Braddock Young, the airplane manufacturer. Cardigan hung up. Braddock Young! His eyes narrowed, flashed, and one side of his mouth tightened. He chopped off a short, harsh laugh, banged out of the booth and took an elevator to the eighth floor. His knuckles rapped on the door of 808.

  Almost instantly it was opened by Pat Seaward and he saw that her face was flushed, her eyes warm with anger. And he saw why. Beyond, in the small living room, stood McGovern and Hunerkopf. Instantly Pat tried to cover up. She knew how Cardigan and McGovern went for each other on the slightest provocation.

  McGovern barked: “Oh, there you are! We been wondering where you were. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Cardigan was blunt. “What do you apes want here?”

  “It is like this, Mr. Cardigan,” Hunerkopf said. “We been looking for you. I ate my braunschweiger and I ate your ham-on-rye too, account of, shucks, I had to pay for both. Also the beers. That was a good one on me. I ate some stewed prunes too. Nothing like stewed prunes to make you feel fit like a fiddle and ready to go—”

  “August,” growled McGovern, “please shut up now. Please, for crying out loud, shut up!” He swiveled, drilled Cardigan with a hard, bold look. “What about that shooting in Market Street?”

  “What about it?” Cardigan whipped back at him.

  “Cardigan, like I said at the Viking, you ain’t telling the truth. You knew who that jane was. You knew what she was there about. Because after you leave there, what happens? Some guys unhook their guns and go to town on you.”

  “You’ve a screw loose, Mac. Who said they went to town on me? I heard shooting and I ducked. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you the truth at the Viking. You can like that or lump it. But when you come around here and start putting the screws to Pat, you step on my toes. The more I see of your ugly puss, the less I like it—and I didn’t like it when I first saw it, several years ago. You’re the kind of thing guys see in nightmares and—”

  “Please, chief,” Pat pleaded. “It’s all right. Don’t—”

  McGovern was not easily abashed. “So you’re not going to tell me about that shooting, huh, Cardigan?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I was an innocent bystander.”

  “You’re lying, fella.”

  “There’s no use trying to convince you, so let it go at that. I’m lying. O.K., I’m lying. That settles that. So now get wise to yourself and blow. I get sick at my stomach looking at you.”

  McGOVERN strode hard-heeled to the door, gripped the knob, turned, said grimly in his foghorn voice: “O.K., baby. Some day—”

  “I know. Some day you’re going to land on me like a ton of brick. Skip it. You’re only a lightweight.”

  “Nuts!” snapped McGovern, whipping open the door. “Come on, August.”

  Hunerkopf, on his way to the door, said to Cardigan: “Yes, sir, that was a good one on me, Mr. Cardigan. That was sure a good one. I say like this. Victory to the swift. Them prunes—”

  “August!” barked McGovern from the corridor.

  Hunerkopf backed out, bowing politely to Pat.

  Cardigan closed the door, led her to the other side of the room and began telling her what had happened, bringing the events up to his telephone call in the booth below. She was speechless with interest.

  “And this Braddock Young,” Cardigan hammered on. “He bought out Lotker Motors and merged it with Zeluff Planes, Incorporated. Zeluff Planes was originally subsidized by Shapiro-Bierck Chemical, manufacturers of munitions. Young was on the Shapiro-Bierck board of directors. It begins to hook up. Demayo I can’t figure out. Nor the girl with him. Nor the girl who was killed at the Viking. But there’s a hook-up. That sandy-haired fellow Jonsson told me about, is in it too. Where, I don’t know.”

  “Oh, chief, I’m afraid it’s getting very dangerous. People who would kill that girl—”

  “Calm, Pats. You’ve got to do something now.”

  “Oh, I want to,” she said earnestly.

  “Girls as a rule don’t carry other girls’ pictures with them when they’re traveling, do they?”

  “I’d say not as a rule.”

  “O.K., Pasty. But if a girl had a sister she might carry her sister’s picture. That right?”

  “It’s very logical.”

  “All right. Now call up the Norman Hotel. This girl must be registered there as Mrs. Demayo. Ask for her. When she gets on the wire, say, ‘I’ve got something very important to tell you in regard to your sister.’ If she has a sister, she’ll show interest. Then ask if you can come over to her hotel right away.”

  Pat spent a matter of three minutes on the phone. As she hung up, she nodded.

  “Oh, chief, I just can’t tell her her sister’s dead!”

  “You don’t have to. Tell her you’re a woman doctor and that her sister phoned you and asked you to come over. Say you went over and she wasn’t in. Tell the girl you’re worried and ask her if she’s seen her sister. Ask her to go with you to her sister’s place. That way, you’ll find out where the sister lived. The key will probably be in the door of the Demayo apartment. As you and the sister leave, you take the key out, say you’ll lock the door—but don’t lock it; just pretend to. I’ll be watching for you in the lobby of the Norman. Now I’ll go out first. Ten to one McGovern and Hunerkopf’ll be watching for me. I’ll lead ’em astray while you go to the Norman. I’ll lose ’em and get over there in a hurry. As soon as you get to the dead girl’s apartment, phone the Norman and leave a message for me at the desk—address and so forth. Got it?”

  “O.K., chief.”

  Cardigan went downstairs, walked away and found out he was being tailed. It took him fifteen minutes to shake off McGovern and Hunerkopf.

  THE supper crowd at the swank Norman was pretty lively. The music was hotter, the voices louder, the laughter at a higher, more spontaneous pitch. Men and women in evening clothes looked swank, smart. Cardigan, in his lop-eared hat, his shabby old ulster, bulked at one end of the lobby like a sore but rugged thumb.

  It was half past twelve when Pat and the blonde got out of the elevator and headed for the doorway. The blonde stopped a moment at the desk, to leave her key and say something to the clerk. Then she left with Pat.

 
Cardigan popped a cigarette into a tray, strode to a waiting elevator and was lifted to the sixth floor. He swung his feet down the corridor to 611, opened the door and entered a small, square foyer. There was an archway at the left of the foyer leading into a spacious, well-appointed living room. Beyond was a bedroom and off the bedroom a tiled bath. In the lower drawer of the lowboy he found the portfolio. It was still locked, but he had come here with a purpose. From his pocket he took a jack-knife and pried the catch open.

  There were half a dozen briefs, each typewritten, each stapled. There were several blueprints—of airplanes, Cardigan decided, after a moment’s study. On one of the briefs, dated only a week before, was a list of rifles, side-arms, machine-guns. Below was a note: Delivery can be made immediately. Other notes referred to field guns, ammunition, steel helmets. Twenty-five ordinary tractors can be shipped as such and completely armed at point of concentration.

  Then he came upon this: Former liaison emissary has become difficult and bearer replaces her with full authority. Recommend you destroy all evidence, especially her code. He looked up, remembering the bronze-haired girl at the Viking. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. And then he read: Bee Wuy assures complete backing. At first Cardigan thought he was running into something Chinese. And then the truth snapped in his brain like an electric spark. Bee Wuy meant B. Y.—Braddock Young!

  He spent half an hour over the briefs, then rolled them up and thrust them into his overcoat pocket. He stuck a newspaper in the portfolio, slammed shut the catch, found it held, and then replaced it in the lowboy.

  Downstairs at the desk, he found a message from Pat: Hotel Wendover. Room 512. She fainted.

  The Wendover was up on the top of Powell Street. It afforded a splendid view; a slim, smart hotel of tan brick, with a small, oval-shaped lobby and a black marble desk. Cardigan, banging in through a side entrance, did not stop at the desk. He went up in an elevator to the fifth floor, got out, headed in the wrong direction at first and then retraced his steps and found 512. He had raised his knuckles to knock when he heard a loud thump on the door, a low, rasping snarl. The hair on his nape stiffened. He wrapped his left hand around the knob, turned it slowly, found that the door was not locked. His right hand went in beneath his left armpit, came out with his .38 revolver.

  He went in fast. He saw Demayo, black with rage, whirling Pat around the room by her arms. Her hat was off and her hair was flying and she looked only half conscious.

  “Cut it, Tarzan,” Cardigan grunted, an ugly look on his face.

  Demayo let Pat go. She stumbled rubber-kneed to a divan and fell down upon it, choking. Demayo’s hand started for his hip.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Cardigan in a sad, terrible voice.

  Demayo spat: “Who—what—who are you? What are you doing here? What—who—I—”

  “Marbles in your mouth, Demayo?”

  “Get out—get out! I’ll call—”

  Cardigan bared his teeth and his left fist crashed against Demayo’s jaw. Demayo landed in a wing-chair.

  “I feel a little better already,” Cardigan growled in a low, vindictive voice.

  Demayo was panting. “I—I—”

  “Get your breath. You’ll need it.” And over his shoulder: “How are you, Patsy?”

  SHE was sitting up now, getting the ends of her hair together. She was breathless and shocked but getting control of herself quickly. “I’m all—right,” she gasped.

  The little blonde lay on another divan, stirring now, making small whimpering sounds.

  Cardigan muttered: “Get her sister’s name, Pat?”

  “Norma Driscoll.”

  Cardigan looked dully at Demayo. “You married to the blonde?”

  “Yes—of course.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “A quickie, huh?”

  Pat said: “On their way to the train. Nancy told me. That’s Nancy.”

  Cardigan muttered: “What a hangover he’s going to have. Where’s the guy that killed Norma Driscoll, Demayo? You know, the tall lad with the sandy mustache?”

  Demayo’s mouth tightened and his black eyes shimmered. “I don’t know—what you’re talking—about!” he rasped in a high, strained voice.

  Cardigan said: “How’d you like to get your teeth kicked out on account of not knowing what I’m talking about?” He paused, regarding Demayo levelly. Then he asked Pat: “How’d he happen to get in here?”

  “He said the man at the Norman desk told him Nancy had left word she was going here. She stopped at the desk on our way—”

  “I get it,” Cardigan nodded. He addressed Demayo: “Norma Driscoll I’m talking about. And the young lad with the sandy mustache. Who’s Baum?”

  At mention of the name which Cardigan had seen attached to the telegram, Demayo sprang from the chair, stood drawn up to his lean, wiry height, his whole body vibrating tensely, the blood dark beneath his dark skin.

  “Why,” Cardigan went on levelly, watchfully, “was the former liaison emissary getting troublesome? Did she botch the Portero business in South China?”

  The veins that stood out on Demayo’s forehead seemed on the point of bursting. Cords in his swart neck stood out like swollen rubber cables. He was alert to act—should Cardigan relax.

  Cardigan said: “Twenty-five ordinary tractors that can be shipped as such and—”

  Demayo fairly screamed: “She told—” and then gagged on the words.

  Cardigan shook his head. “No. Your briefs, Demayo. I cased your hotel apartment.”

  Demayo caught a glimpse of the papers protruding from Cardigan’s pocket. With a strangled cry he flung himself on the Cosmos op, his eyes burning on the pocketed papers. Cardigan blocked him, used his left hand to grab Demayo’s throat, clamped it between his big, powerful fingers.

  He snarled: “The girl was knocked off like this, Demayo! Like this! Like it? Like hell you do! Now who was that guy? Who was the sandy-haired bum that did it? You thought it was swell playing Tarzan with my pal over there—now I’ll play Tarzan with you!”

  THE blonde came to and screeched as she saw Cardigan going to work on Demayo. She jumped up, flung herself across the room, jumped on Cardigan and sank her teeth in his neck. He yelped, “Ouch!” and then Pat got hold of the blonde as Demayo drove a hard fist against Cardigan’s Adam’s apple. Cardigan gasped, his eyes bulged, his tongue shot out. Pat saw in a flash the jam he was in. She saw Demayo go for his gun. With all her small strength she threw the blonde in Demayo’s way and Demayo slammed to the floor while the blonde shot head-first onto the divan, her legs flying.

  Cardigan got his wind. Demayo, thinking his wife had deliberately jumped on him, got to his feet and as she sprang up from the divan he clipped her on the jaw and put her out like a light. Cardigan caught him from behind, locked his arms behind his back.

  “Take his gun, Pat,” he said. “The guy’s going modernistic on us.”

  She took away Demayo’s gun.

  Cardigan swung him into the bathroom and handcuffed him to a vertical steam pipe. The expression on Demayo’s face was dark and bestial. His lips sputtered wetly but he could not get any words out.

  Cardigan went back into the living room saying: “Patsy, you stay here. Tarzan’s fixed and you look after the bride. I’ve got my bearings now and I’ll be a horse’s neck if I don’t know where this sandy-haired guy is. No, that’s not steam escaping. It’s Demayo whistling The Peanut Vendor through his teeth. I’ll be seeing you, angel. And I’ll leave these briefs with you.”

  “But, chief—I know you’ll get hurt!” she cried. “Don’t go! Get McGovern here—”

  “That bunch of sour grapes? Nix. He gets in my hair—”

  “Oh, chief!”

  “Pats, you’re a nice girl. Nice eyes, nice hair—and you’re worth your weight in any pinch. Now look after the little blonde. She’ll need comforting when she comes to. I’m going out and collect some marbles.”

  “Ch
ief—”

  “Goom-by, angel!”

  Chapter Four

  Leave it to Cardigan

  RIDING in the cab, the cold night air felt good. He had worked up quite a sweat in the apartment. His hat had become crushed in during the work out but he did not bother to straighten it out. The knot of his tie was way over to one side. A bunch of hair sprouted alongside one ear. He looked like a wreck but he felt fine; he felt like an express engine under a full head of steam.

  When he got out of the cab, the wind was driving up the dark, deserted street. He gave the driver a large tip—not deliberately, but absent-mindedly.

  “Geeze, t’anks, mister.”

  “Send the kids to college on it.”

  “I ain’t got no kids—”

  “Well, when you get ’em.”

  “Ah, I ain’t never gonna git married, mister,” the driver sighed. “Not since I lorst me gal, Gwendolyn.”

  “Sorry to bring it up, pal.”

  “’S O.K., mister. I still got me mudder.”

  Cardigan strode off and the taxi swung about and disappeared. The Cosmos op came up to the house that had the vacancy sign in the window and he saw that in the house beyond there were still lights. Besides the ornate main doorway, there was a smaller doorway sunk in a shallow areaway and this doubtless was the service entrance. Cardigan tried this and found that it was locked. He then went to the main door, plunked the bell-button and whistled a popular tune. The door was opened by a short, chubby-faced butler.

  “I went to see Mr. Young,” Cardigan said.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “You can say it’s a messenger from Mr. Demayo.”

  Little eyes squinted between thick folds of flesh. The butler nodded watchfully, said: “Step in.”

  Cardigan entered a large entrance hall from which rose a wide staircase. The butler went up this staircase, followed its turn midway, disappeared. Cardigan thrust his hat into his left overcoat pocket. In a minute a large, powerful man came down the staircase. His hair was steel gray, wiry, his face broad, his neck short and thick. He carried himself erect, limber on his feet for all his hard weight.