The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 28

  “Chief….”

  Pat was standing beside the bed now.

  “I knew you’d get in trouble, chief.”

  His voice was thick: “I lost the girl.”

  “Sh!”

  “Sh! Hell! I tell you I lost her!”

  He felt a soft hand patting his own. “It’s all right, chief. Don’t worry.”

  He muttered: “Those bums wouldn’t let me go after her!”

  “Chief… she’s safe.”

  He turned his head. “Huh?”

  “I didn’t stay in the hotel when you told me. I covered you all the time. And I saw McCoy tailing you. I knew it was McCoy because I heard him talk with a cop in Pacific Avenue. The cop called him McCoy…. At the corner, when McCoy stopped you I fired those shots, to draw him off. I thought—”

  “The girl, the girl—”

  “I saw McCoy find that manacled man on the wharf. I saw McCoy go off in the boat. And I was standing on the wharf when the girl swam in and climbed up the ladder. She was a wreck. I grabbed her and took her to the hotel. I—I put her to bed. She’s there now. The police haven’t even heard of her. They don’t know there was a girl—”

  He gripped her hand. “Enough, chicken. Everything is hunkydory.”

  She said. “Oh, chief, you’re so all smashed up!”

  “I asked for it—and I got it. Light me a butt, will you, honeybunch?”

  Death After Murder

  Chapter One

  Right Overcoat—Wrong Corpse

  PAT SEAWARD opened the connecting door leading to the inner sanctum of the Cosmos Agency. She looked cool, chic, in a black-and-white silk blouse, a trim black skirt. Closing the door, she left her hands behind her back and on the knob, and she said quietly: “The mountain’s come to Mohammed.”

  Cardigan looked up over the rim of a newspaper. “So it’s Egyptology you’re going in for now.”

  She said: “Phooey on you,” with a wry half-smile; and then matter-of-factly: “Kincaid’s outside.”

  “Case Kincaid?”

  “Marvelous!”

  He was laconic. “You riding me?”

  “Should I send him in? He wants to see George, but I thought the help might do.”

  He folded the paper and laid it down while keeping a sardonic eye on Pat Seaward. “O.K., smarty: send him in.”

  She made a mock curtsy, opened the door, left it open and disappeared into the outer office.

  CASE KINCAID carried his six feet smartly into the inner sanctum, walked directly to the desk, laid hat, stick and gloves upon it.

  “I understand Hammerhorn’s in the mountains.”

  Cardigan nodded, made an idle gesture with his forefinger. “Sit down, Kincaid.”

  Kincaid was a tall, narrow man, well-groomed, with a taste in linen and neckwear. He was past fifty, but only bright sunlight or the harsh glare of an incandescent gave him away. Streaks of gray ran through his hair. He sat down. Wrinkles creased his forehead, worry clouded his direct blue eyes.

  “Durango,” he said, “comes out of stir today.” He followed this statement with a steady blue look, and two fingers of his right hand began drumming on the desk.

  Cardigan lounged in his swivel chair, unmoved, his shaggy mop of hair bunched thickly over his forehead. “You helped send him up, didn’t you?”

  Still drumming with his fingers, Kincaid said: “And that’s why I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  Kincaid moved, edged nearer the desk. His voice was tight, serious in tone. “Durango made me a promise when he went up.” He paused, moistened his lips. “You know the kind of promise Durango would make.”

  “Since you helped send him up, I’ve got an idea.”

  Kincaid nodded. “So that’s why I’m here.”

  Cardigan gave him a brief, sharp look; rose, went to the iced cooler and drew a glass of water. He drank, still eyeing Kincaid, and then came back to the desk, sat down.

  “Try a heel,” he said.

  Kincaid shook his head. “You don’t get me. I don’t want Durango out of the way. And I don’t want to meet him. I want you to go to him, talk to him, and make him an offer.”

  “What kind of an offer?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Cardigan leaned on his elbows. “You’re sure chucking dough away, in these times.”

  “There’s a catch. If he refuses the offer—”

  “I’m to field the lead for you.”

  Kincaid nodded. “That’s the general idea.”

  “I catch on,” Cardigan said, and looked at the ceiling.

  Kincaid leaned forward eagerly. “Is it a go?”

  Cardigan brought his eyes down on Kincaid. “For five hundred?” He chuckled roughly, good-humoredly. “In advance, of course.”

  Kincaid thrust a hand in his inside coat pocket, withdrew a wallet, peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Life’s a precious thing, Cardigan, when you come to think of it.”

  “I suppose that’s what Durango thinks… with three years of his checked up in the debit column.”

  Kincaid looked up sharply, then looked away.

  Cardigan, counting the bills, was casual. “Why’d you send him up, Kincaid?”

  Kincaid was cold. “He didn’t know enough to stay on his own side of the fence.”

  “You gamblers,” said Cardigan waggishly, “are touchy as ham actors—only ham actors take it out in tears.”

  Kincaid stood up, very tall, very elegant, but aged about the eyes. “When will you see him?”

  “Sometime tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Kincaid said, and walked to the door, turned with his hand on the knob. “Urge him to take it.”

  “By the way,” Cardigan said, smiling drily, “who’s the blonde little armful I saw you with at Romanov’s?”

  Kincaid smiled, but not drily. “You’ve always had a weakness for blondes, haven’t you?”

  “Blondes, brunettes, red-heads—anything with an ankle and a face and a sense of humor.”

  Kincaid shrugged, went out, closed the connecting door quietly. It opened a moment later and Pat Seaward leaned there.

  She said: “So the mountain brought forth—what?”

  He held up the five bills. “We pay our rent this month, chicken, and if there’s enough left over, you get your salary.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she said, “taking on that notorious card sharp!”

  “It’s legal, flower, it’s legal.”

  THE night was cool, crisp. The tall man in the belted yellow coat turned off Lexington Avenue, walked down Thirty-seventh Street. He wore a tan fedora with the brim yanked down all around. One hand was in his pocket, the other slapped gloves against the pocket of his coat. The street was dark here, and long stone stoops rose to darkened or dimly lit vestibules. The man did not hurry, but he had a long, ground-covering stride. Presently the hand came out of his pocket, keys jangled. He turned left and climbed a stone stoop, opened the vestibule door, and was for a moment in sharp silhouette against the light inside.

  The two shots barked in rapid succession, their echoes snapped and banged up and down the dark street. The man in the belted yellow coat arched his back, gripped the vestibule door with one hand, held on and began turning around. A third shot exploded and caught him as he was half turned; it caught him in the left side, high, and he stooped turning. His grip on the door slipped. His legs gave way at the knees and he fell outward. He flip-flopped down the stone steps, stopped on the lowest step, with one leg on the step, the other on the sidewalk. His hat was crushed down half over his face, and he lay on his back, quite still now, with no sound issuing from his lips.

  Up on Lexington Avenue, a taxicab’s brakes squealed. Here in the dark street, a window grated open and a head popped out. A door banged. An elevated train whanged down Third Avenue. Hard heels drummed on the pavement and a cop came running down from Lexington. He had his nigh
tstick in his hand and his head darted from side to side, he yelled a question toward a head craning from a window. He stopped and started again, and walked fast and then broke into a run, and by this time several persons had come into the street and a second cop was on his way up from Third Avenue.

  From the areaway of the house in front of which the man lay, a shape appeared—a man in a blue shirt and low-hanging trousers came up the areaway steps, stood on the sidewalk. His eyes widened, and someone from a raised window in the same house shouted down: “What’s the matter?”

  The cop from Lexington stopped running, grabbed the blue-shirted man roughly by the arm and snapped: “What d’you know about this?”

  “I—ah—uh—”

  “Oh, so you won’t talk, eh!”

  “I’m the janitor. I just heard—came up—”

  The second cop arrived. “Hello, Pete—what happened?”

  “You’re asking me?” the first cop said; he added: “Take a look at him, Hen.”

  Hen bent down over the man on the sidewalk, said without looking up: “Hit plenty.”

  “Dead?”

  “Offhand, I’d say yes.”

  “Ring in.”

  Brakes of a long black sedan squealed gently. The sedan edged up to the curb; it was on the wrong side of the street, but it was a police car. The tonneau door opened and a bony man in a gray suit and a gray slouch hat stepped to the sidewalk, put his hands on his hips, looked up and down the street. He stood easily back on his heels and said in an unhurried baritone: “Fireworks, huh?”

  The two cops were standing now, and Hen, the fatter, nodded and said: “It sounded like—and it was.”

  The man in the wrinkled gray suit said: “On his own doorstep, huh? That’s thoughtful. Know him?”

  “Nah?”

  “’D you ring in?”

  “No.”

  “Better…. Hello, Pete,” he said to the other cop. “See they dumped you back in harness.”

  “For pinchin’ a magistrate’s dame for rollin’ dice in Times Square on a Sunday.”

  The man in gray turned to the crowd that had gathered. “Anybody see this show?”

  Nobody had seen the show.

  He knelt down beside the body, took his time about opening the coat, the vest, shirt. “Ring around the rosy,” he commented. “Back, side, front.” He stood up, nodded to the man in the blue shirt, said to Pete: “Who’s he?”

  “Janitor?”

  The man in gray said: “Know him, janitor?”

  “He—he’s Mr. Kincaid’s chauffeur.”

  “Kincaid’s chauf— Kincaid!” he said in a quiet exclamatory voice. He sighed. “Ah, well.” He seemed a lazy, unhurried, laconic man. “So Kincaid lives here.”

  “F-first,” stammered the janitor, “I thought it was Mr. Kincaid. Account of,” he added, pointing, “the yellow coat.”

  “M-m-m,” mused the man in gray, “so Kincaid got another break. Is Mr. Kincaid home?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “This chauffeur lived here, huh?”

  “He had a room in back, first floor—on the floor Mr. Kincaid has an apartment.”

  “Open the doors and we’ll take him in.”

  The man in gray turned, made his way across the street. He found an alleyway directly opposite the vestibule in which the man had met his death. He took a small flashlight from his pocket, sprayed its light on the ground. The alleyway, like the sidewalk, was paved. He followed the alley between two buildings, came to the street beyond. Bending, he picked up something. He grunted to himself, retraced his steps, elbowed his way patiently through the crowd.

  “O.K., Pete,” he said to the cop. “We’ll lug the stiff in.”

  HIS name was Arnold Snowdon. He lay on a divan in Case Kincaid’s large and sumptuous living room. He looked young, handsome even in death, with curly brown hair, clipped short, and a fine set of features. His torso was bared, the chest marred by wounds. Riley the assistant medical examiner, shrugged and rose and put things back into his little black bag.

  “Instantly,” he said, “or within a few seconds—a very few.”

  “What I thought,” the man in gray said.

  Cardigan appeared in the doorway, his battered fedora in his hand, his dark eyes taking in the room and its occupants in one quick glance. He entered, sailing his hat into a large leather armchair.

  “Hello, McCabe,” he said.

  The man in gray put a slab of gum between his teeth and said: “Hello, Cardigan. See what I see?”

  “Sure.”

  Kincaid patted his lips with a square of linen, patted his forehead. He had not removed his overcoat; he still held his hat in his hand. Cardigan met his troubled glance, made a slight shrug of the shoulders, crossed the room and stood for a moment looking down at the man on the divan.

  “Who is he?”

  McCabe told him.

  Cardigan turned and looked at Kincaid, and Kincaid said: “You see?…” and patted his forehead again.

  Cardigan’s dark, searching stare moved to McCabe. “Where’d he get it?”

  McCabe jerked his jaw. “Outside, on the steps. Three times. From across the street, I guess. There’s an alley across the street. I guess it was from the alley. I guess,” he added, taking a few slow chews on his gum, “the heel thought it was Kincaid?”

  “Why?”

  “Chauffeur was wearing Kincaid’s overcoat.”

  Kincaid said: “I let him have it a couple of months ago. I’ve got another just like it. If I’d come in half an hour before I did, I would have been—” He paused, nodded to the corpse. “I guess I would be lying there now instead of Arnold.”

  McCabe wagged his head. “You guys and your fancy coats!” He drew his hand from his pocket, opened a handkerchief and revealed a small automatic. “I got the gun, Cardigan. In the alley.”

  “What I want to know is, why am I here?”

  “Oh, Kincaid said he hired you.”

  “Sure. So what?”

  “He said he hired you to make peace between him and Joe Durango.”

  “So then what?”

  McCabe was unhurried. “Oh, I thought maybe you might know where Durango is.”

  “Not the slightest idea.”

  McCabe warped his mouth, stared at the floor. “Pretty bad, Cardigan, you acting as go-between for two well-known gamblers.”

  “It’s on the up-and-up, isn’t it?”

  “You going to bodyguard Kincaid now?”

  “Sure. If Durango was steamed up enough to go after him on his first day out of stir, Kincaid needs protection.”

  “You stick by your clients, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, listen, Cardigan. I don’t want you to high-tail off after Durango with a hot gun. Protect Kincaid if you want, but watch your rod. Remember,” he added, “it’s just a guess that Durango pulled this job and before you—” He paused, looked toward the doorway.

  The girl who stood there wore an evening wrap, no hat. Her hair was blonde, almost gold, and fitted her head in tight, burnished waves. She was tall, slender, with a good chin, large eyes.

  “Claire,” said Kincaid’s low, quiet voice, “you’d better not come in.”

  “Why, what—” she began, then stopped, looking around at the uniformed cops, at Cardigan, McCabe.

  It seemed that Kincaid had decency enough to move and put himself in front of the dead man on the divan, so that the girl, standing in the doorway, could not see the red and mutilated chest.

  McCabe was laconic. “Who’s this?”

  “Miss Derwent,” Kincaid said, his breath held back; and to the girl: “Claire, you’d better go. Go to your apartment. I’ll see you later.”

  Her lips closed, tightened, and her chin shook a bit; blue clouds came into her wide, lovely eyes. She took a step backward, and her voice was scarce above a whisper when she said: “All right… I’ll wait for you.”

  She turned and went away, and Kincaid relaxe
d, patted his forehead, sighed. He said: “It wouldn’t be pleasant—for the girl—to see this.” The color had left his face, and he looked peculiarly old, worn, but elegant still.

  Cardigan was eyeing him sharply.

  Chapter Two

  Prints Don’t Lie

  IT WAS a walk-up in Waverly Place, near Sheridan Square. Outside, the four-storied house looked drab, dingy; but the lower hall was clean, if a bit shabby, and the walls were newly papered; there was a new, dark red runner on the narrow stairway.

  Cardigan climbed the stairway at ten past ten that night. He reached the first landing, walked to the front of the corridor, bent to read the name on a white card tacked to the door, and knocked. He heard quick footsteps, the snap of a lock. The door opened swiftly, and a dark-haired girl, smiling with a bright light in her eyes, appeared before him. But instantly the smile, the light, faded, vanished.

  “Oh…” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Rose Cardoni?”

  “Yes, b-but—”

  He pushed into the room, past her. His hands were idle in his pockets. One button, the lowest, of his top-coat was fastened, and his tie hung outside its lapels. He walked through the small sitting room, walked into a bedroom, looked in the bathroom, came back into the sitting room and stood in the center of it on wide-spread legs.

  Rose Cardoni had closed the door silently, and now she stood with her back against it, her dark eyes wide, a little terrified, and her lips parted in an unworded exclamation.

  Cardigan looked at her from beneath the battered brim of his lop-eared fedora. “Where’s Tony Durango?”

  She gulped: “Tony Dur—” Her lips closed, warped; and then suddenly her face was grave, the features taut. “He’s not here.”

  Cardigan muttered “Oh” half under his breath, looked at the small table, set for two, at the neat white kitchenette. He took off his hat, twirled it on a forefinger.

  “Where’s he, Rose?”

  “He hasn’t come home yet.”

  “All ready for him, huh?”

  She came toward him suddenly, stopped, her eyes staring. “Who are you?”