The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 29

  “Private dick.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to see Tony.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell that to Tony.”

  She gripped Cardigan’s arm. “My God, what’s the matter?”

  She was shaking. He could feel her hand shaking on his arm, and looking down into her face, he saw her lips quivering. Her dark eyes searched his face hungrily.

  “You’re not going to bother Tony—just now when—when he’s coming back to me. He’s been—for three years he’s been—”

  “I know, sister. Has he been in at all?”

  She shook her head. “No—no.”

  “Phoned you?”

  “No. I—I was expecting him for a late supper. Look—look, I’ve got everything ready. I’ve been worried—but he must have got tied up somewhere. He’s— Listen, what’s the matter? Tell me what’s the matter!”

  “How long ago was he to be here?”

  “At eight, but—”

  “It’s after ten now, sister.”

  SHE gulped, closed her mouth. She turned away and went slowly across the room, sat down on a chair with her back to Cardigan. He looked at her back and saw that it was motionless, rigid. He crossed to her, laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “Know him a long time, don’t you?”

  “Since two years before he went up.”

  “Kind of like him, huh?”

  “I love him.”

  “Three years in stir often changes a guy.”

  “It wouldn’t change Tony!”

  He looked up, asked the wall: “How do these guys rate these one-man women anyhow?”

  She turned and gripped his hand. “Please tell me why you want him! You can’t want him for anything! He’s done his time. He’s a free man now. My God, you can’t persecute him now!”

  He patted her hand absently. “You’re a swell girl, Rose. But it looks as if Tony gave you the go-by. Did you ever hear him say anything about back-firing on a guy named Case Kincaid?”

  “Case—” She stopped short, her eyes round and shining into space. She grimaced, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and gripped both of Cardigan’s arms. “He didn’t kill Kincaid! Do you mean he killed Kincaid?”

  “He meant to, Rose. Maybe he got the wrong guy.”

  She dropped back to the chair with a short, choking sob. Her shoulders fell, her head dropped and her arms hung limply toward the floor.

  Cardigan gave her a little pat, turned and ran his eyes over the set table, the clean linen, the white plates, the shining silver. He made a hardly perceptible movement of his shoulders, ran his hand through his tangled mop of hair and went slowly to the door. Opening it, he stepped into the hallway, closed the door quietly. Listening, he heard Rose Cardoni sobbing bitterly.

  He went down the stairway—slowly, drawing in his lower lip and popping it out; he did this several times, his footfalls heavy and a surly, ruminative look beneath his bent, shaggy brows. The room, the set table, the air of waiting, the bright and shining look with which Rose Cardoni had opened the door—these stuck in his mind like a driven wedge. He reached the lower hall, lit a cigarette, pumped smoke through his nostrils and let it slither out of one corner of his mouth.

  Stepping into the street, he almost collided with a man. The light was good—a street lamp dangled in front of the house—and in an instant he recognized Tony Durango. But Tony went past him, hardly noticing him, and had one foot on the doorstep when Cardigan made an easy pass at his arm, stopped him.

  “Wait a minute, Durango.”

  Durango stopped, on his toes instantly. His head turned sharply, dark leaped into his eyes and his mouth tightened in his swart, handsome face. His clothes were new, brand-new—his collar crisp and neat, his face smoothly shaven; and he carried a dark blue overcoat over his arm.

  His voice was low, clipped. “What’s the occasion—and why the strong arm?”

  “Don’t know me, huh?”

  “You smell copper, but I don’t know.”

  “Cardigan, the maestro from the old Cosmos Agency; it came over in the Mayflower, or maybe it was ferryboat Bronx.”

  “Thanks. Come around sometime when I’m not home.”

  “I think McCabe’s looking in the social register for you.”

  Durango’s lip curled: “Tell McCabe to hold his hand on his neck—and you let go the arm.”

  “I wouldn’t try to compete in the wisecracks, Durango. You’re not bad for a Dago, but I’m trying to tell you that you’re wanted at H.Q. Be wise and a good guy and save me the trouble of messing up the nice store clothes—”

  He heard a bit of a muffled cry. He ducked, but not soon enough. The flower pot, dropping from the second-floor window, grazed his head, broke against his shoulder. He went down like a felled tree, stunned, darkness rushing over him; but he retained a picture of Rose Cardoni leaning out of the window, until complete darkness engulfed him.

  HALF an hour later he walked into a speakeasy in Grove Street and said: “Double Scotch, straight.” He walked on into the dressing room, took off his hat and looked at his head. There was a lump there, but no blood, and his shoulder ached a bit. He soaked a paper towel in cold water, padded it and held it against the bump. The cold water felt very good, and he wet several more paper towels. Then he put on his hat without bothering to comb his hair, and returned to the bar.

  “Nice night out,” said the barman. “I see the Phillies won. I see we’re gonna get a raise in taxes. I see they had a earthquake in China. I see—”

  “Did you ever have flowers tossed at you, Mickey?”

  “Only once. When I was a kid I was King of the May, and the old ladies tossed flowers at me. It was nice, now I think of it.”

  “You should have them tossed at you in flower pots once.”

  “Well, to be frank now, I don’t think I’d like that, account of the flower pots. I see there was a pen break out in—”

  “Do the Scotch again, so I can fly.”

  He downed the second Scotch, paid up and went out into Grove Street. He walked to Sheridan Square, climbed into a taxicab and said: “Police headquarters.” Sitting back, he took off his hat, felt tenderly of the bump on his head. It hurt and he cursed and put the hat back on again.

  McCabe was in an office upstairs at police headquarters. He was sitting on a desk, slipping a bar of gum between his teeth, when Cardigan walked in.

  Cardigan said: “Durango’s in town all right.”

  “Yeah. Where?”

  “Try a Ouija board. I was talking to him outside a house in Waverly Place when a flower pot fell down and conked me.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Not when you consider that a dame tossed it. I had Durango by the arm when it happened. He was coming home to his girl. I’d been up to see her and he hadn’t turned up yet. Then I met him outside the casa.” He took off his hat. “Look at it.”

  “That?”

  “Ouch, you dumb ape!”

  “So then what did you do?”

  “It seems I fell down the areaway, so nobody came along to give me succor. When I came to, I was sore. I went back up to the flat, but it was empty. Flown. Vamoosed. Bureau drawers emptied in a hurry and only a few rags left.”

  McCabe chuckled, reached across the desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Well, I’ve got a squad out looking for Durango.”

  “You’re that sure, huh?”

  “Why not? His fingerprints are on the rod I picked up in the alley.”

  “Hot stuff!”

  “Red-hot, baby!”

  “Listen, McCabe—no crap now—were his prints really on the gun?”

  “Lousy with prints. He wiped off the butt and the trigger but overlooked the front of the gun.” He got up, stretched, said through a yawn: “Well, take a guy spends three years in stir, he has a lot of spare time to work up a grudge. He comes out hot, primed, and—bingo!” And then under his breath, familiarly, “You were dumb, fella, dumb as hell
to tie up with Kincaid.”

  “Why? His nose is clean.”

  “It’s clean enough—but the guys that don’t like him are legion or something, and their noses aren’t, and I notice that Kincaid never gets hit. The guy’s charmed. And a charmed guy is no guy for a big mutt like you to go around bodyguarding. You naturally draw lead like a wet tree draws lightning.”

  “Oh, so I should leave Kincaid in the lurch, huh?”

  “We’ll get this Durango, Cardigan.”

  “Like you got ninety-eight other guys during the past five years…. Listen, flatfoot! Kincaid walked in my office, planked down five hundred bucks and said, ‘Here, Cardigan; look after me.’ Durango faded out. O.K. He missed Kincaid and got this poor guy Arnold Snowdon. You’re looking for Durango, and he probably figures you’ll get him. So what? So he may as well burn for two killings as well as one. So the naturally simple thing is—bump off Kincaid and call it a day. I’m not nuts about Kincaid, but five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks, his nose is clean, and it’s legal.”

  McCabe was laconic. “Have it your way, know-it-all.”

  Cardigan shrugged. “Hell, Mac, I know you’re a good guy, but I hate to be wet-nursed.”

  “I like you, Cardigan—and I’m damned if I know why.”

  Chapter Three

  Cardigan Prowls

  KINCAID opened the door of his apartment in Thirty-seventh Street, and Cardigan walked in past him, took off his hat and bowed his head, but not his body, toward Claire Derwent. Kincaid closed the door, rubbed hands together and said in a constrained voice: “Have a drink, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan made a slight, negative movement of his head. “I’ve been guzzling all day. I never get anywhere.” His tie-knot was a little awry, the knot not quite meeting the inverted V of his wrinkled white collar. His shaggy hair crowded his ears.

  He said: “I’ve just been over to H.Q. They found Durango’s prints on the rod McCabe picked up in the alley.”

  “Have they got Durango?”

  “No.”

  Talking to Kincaid, he kept looking at the girl. She sat on a low settee, straight, her arms straight against her sides with the hands resting on the settee. Her dress was ivory-white, tight, and she had, Cardigan saw, an exquisite neck, a way of holding her head. But her face was very white, drained-looking, and her eyes were red-rimmed, wide and staring at him.

  Kincaid’s voice came— “Hope you don’t mind if I have one myself.” He crossed the room to a console, poured himself an amber drink from a decanter, downed it and polished it off with a small glass of Perrier. Half in the shadows, he looked very tall, very elegant; but when he walked into the light, bent to lift a cigarette from a humidor, age was revealed sharply in his face.

  Suddenly the girl rose. “I’m going home….”

  “I’ll take you,” Kincaid said gently, affectionately.

  Cardigan said “Uh-uh,” and shook his head. “Durango’s on the loose tonight. You stay in. Keep the shades drawn and the doors locked.” He added, after a moment: “I’ll take her home.”

  She was on her way to another room, and half turned to say: “I’ll go alone.”

  “I’ll take you,” Cardigan said simply, flatly.

  She reappeared with a wrap thrown about her shoulders. Kincaid stood like a man in the grip of indecision. Coming into Cardigan’s office, he had been brisk and matter-of-fact. Now he seemed a little vague, a little uncertain. But gentle with her, saying: “Mr. Cardigan will see you home.”

  On her way to the door, she laid a hand on Kincaid’s arm, said quietly, soberly: “Be careful.”

  He pressed her hand. “I’ll be careful, Claire.”

  In the street, Cardigan took her arm and walked her to Lexington Avenue. He liked the feel of her slim arm beneath his hand. A cab came along, stopped at his signal, and he handed her in, dropped down heavily beside her and said: “What’s the casa?”

  She gave a number in the East Seventies and he passed it on to the driver. The cab crossed to Park Avenue, went over the ramp past Grand Central. He tossed a coin in the dark, caught it.

  “What are you all broken up about? Kincaid came off lucky.”

  She turned her white face to him, said nothing, and then turned it away again. He got a glimpse of her profile against the lights they passed, and liked it.

  He said: “A guy would think you’d lost your best pal.”

  She made no comment, and lapsed into silence. The cab stopped before a narrow apartment house in a quiet side street, and Cardigan got out, caught hold of the girl’s hand and held it while she stepped to the sidewalk. He noticed the hand shook.

  “Thanks,” she said in a quick, breathless voice. “Thanks very much for seeing me home.”

  He thought he saw a startled look in her eyes. Absent-mindedly, he held on to her hand.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Listen. Why are you scared of me? Hell, I wouldn’t harm a mouse.”

  “Please!” she cried in a husky whisper.

  He held on, and his voice got a little hard. “I want to talk to you—in your apartment.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to create a scene?”

  He said: “It wouldn’t hurt my reputation. Think fast.” Over his shoulder he said to the cab driver: “Hang around.”

  “I’ve thought,” the girl said. “If you care to start a scene, start it.”

  Still holding her arm, he looked down into her eyes. They regarded him levelly, though curious lights moved in their depths, and he thought he saw growing moisture. But her chin was up, quietly determined. He judged she could be not more than twenty-two or -three; a roughneck himself, he still could see that breeding gave her the poise of a woman of thirty.

  “O.K.,” he said huskily, “you win—this time.”

  He turned toward the cab, found the driver grinning. He snapped: “What are you laughing at?” and climbed in, banged the door.

  THE office was crowded now. With uniformed cops, detectives, among them McCabe; and there were two newspapermen. And there was Tony Durango, lean and swart and handsome—and sullen, defiant. His tie was yanked around to one side of his collar and a slab of hair lopped down over one eyebrow. Rose Cardoni, small and frightened, biting her lip, sat apart. A handkerchief she held was torn to shreds. Durango’s dark, rapier-like eyes shot upward and nailed Cardigan in the doorway.

  McCabe said laconically: “Told you we’d get him, Cardigan.”

  “Better engrave it in bronze, Mac. It’s unique.”

  “Just a pal!”

  Cardigan said toward Rose Cardoni: “Thanks for the flowers, Rose. I always did like geraniums…. So what, Mac?”

  “So Tony says he was in eight other places when the killing of Arnold Snowdon took place.”

  Durango snarled: “Funny! All you guys! Like a crutch!”

  Bockman, the strong-arm man, picked Durango up by the back of the neck and slammed him down again. “Gotta teach you, I guess.”

  “Oh… don’t,” moaned Rose.

  Bockman spun on her. “Keep your trap shut, tramp, or I’ll shut it for you!”

  “Don’t be so comical, Bockman,” Cardigan said.

  “Who asked you for any—”

  “Cut it,” McCabe chimed in. He dragged a chair from the wall, set it down in front of Durango, planted one foot on it and leaned with both elbows on his knee. “Come on, Tony—why give us the run around? Everybody knows you swore to get Kincaid when you came out. This guy Snowdon is Kincaid’s size and he was wearing a coat like you was used to see Kincaid wearing. We find a rod with the number filed off and it’s lousy with your prints. You can’t name one guy you were with at the time of the shooting. Still you act like we’re stepping on your toes for fun. It ain’t fun, Dago. Fingerprints can’t be manufactured.”

  “You heard me, McCabe. I told you where I was at the time of the shooting. I went uptown to get some dough my lawyer Tom Cardiff was holding for me. He wasn�
�t home. I rang the bell and waited, and then I walked up and down the street for an hour, waiting for him to come home. Finally he come home. I got the dough, bought me some glad rags and went right down to Rose’s.”

  “That’s a nice, simple story, Tony, but it don’t hold water. It don’t get by.”

  Rose jumped up. “He told me he didn’t do it! He didn’t do it, Mr. McCabe!”

  “Then why’d you toss a flower pot at Cardigan here?”

  She grimaced. “I didn’t mean to! I was—just crazy kind of! I didn’t mean to!”

  “And why’d you and Tony scram?”

  “It was my fault! I was afraid! I made him! Please believe me, Mr. McCabe—it was my fault!”

  McCabe laughed softly.

  “It’s true!” Rose Cardoni cried.

  “Save your breath, angel,” Durango said. “These mugs want to hang something on me and they’re going to hang it. It’s over my head, high over. But I didn’t knock off that guy,” he said to McCabe. “I did three years on a fluke. I had the guts to muscle in on Kincaid’s games and he didn’t like it. I knocked out a magistrate’s teeth because he made a pass at my playing I didn’t like. Kincaid said I hit him uncalled-for. O.K. I got three years for what somebody called felonious assault, but it wasn’t—but what chance has a cheap Dago got against a magistrate?”

  “Quit yammering,” Bockman droned.

  “Dry up, fat boy,” Durango said.

  Bockman hit him on the side of the face. Rose jumped across the room and fell on Bockman’s arm, and Bockman heaved and flung her back across the room. Durango struck Bockman and Bockman drew a blackjack. But McCabe caught his arm.

  “Quit it, Gus,” he said.

  Rose Cardoni was sitting on the floor, crying. Durango, held by two cops, looked murderous. Cardigan went across the room, leaned down and lifted up Rose Cardoni.

  “Say,” demanded Bockman of McCabe, “whose side is this guy Cardigan on?”

  “My own,” said Cardigan.

  McCabe sighed. “We’ll book Tony. Take him downstairs.” He said to Rose: “You can go home, but we’ll be seeing you.”

  She choked: “Please—he didn’t do it—he didn’t!”