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

  There was a long pause and after a while the girl said, “I don’t believe my father would send for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He threw me out pretty definitely.”

  Cardigan dropped his voice: “You see, he’s dying.”

  Her lips quivered, but she tightened them.

  “Why,” Cardigan said, “do you doubt me? For what other reason do you think I’d be wanting to take you?”

  A LOW fire began burning in the girl’s eyes. She looked away, her breast rising, falling; and then she looked back at Cardigan again. She said:

  “I haven’t had an easy time since I was thrown out. I—well, I drifted here and there, got in with the wrong people. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything about life. Some chaps I knew, they were later involved with the law. I fled from place to place. I haven’t done anything, but, you see, I knew these fellows, some women too. You get to, drifting the way I did. Pops was the only one on the level completely.” She smiled at Mafey.

  Mafey said in a clogged voice, “That’s O.K., Genevieve.”

  “Genevieve,” Pat said, “you must believe us. Cardigan took his life in his hands the minute he arrived here. He’s been shot at, threatened.”

  “Why?”

  Cardigan’s husky voice said, “You see, it looks as if somebody doesn’t want the old man to see you. If you turn up before he dies, you get his dough. But he’s got to be certain you’re alive. If you don’t turn up, the dough goes to his half brother.”

  “Uncle Lafe,” she muttered, staring at the floor, coloring. Then she jumped up, clapping her knuckles to her mouth. “Uncle Lafe again!” she cried bitterly.

  Pat was at her side, murmuring softly, “Genevieve—”

  “That sounds,” growled Mafey, “like the guy caused her to be booted out. She never squealed on his name. Only she said it was someone in the family always filling her old man’s head—”

  “Pops—don’t!” Genevieve pleaded.

  Now Cardigan took hold of her arm. “Your father’s repented. I guess it’s kind of getting him, that he chucked you out. He wants to see you. That’s on the level. It’s God’s honest truth, Genevieve—”

  “Oh, the money, the money! I don’t care about it!”

  “O.K. Forget about it. But the old man’s cashing in. Give him a break.”

  “Yes, Genevieve,” Pat urged. “Do come with us and—”

  Mafey spun at the sound of voices in the bar.

  Cardigan muttered, “Scanlon’s voice!” Then to those in the room: “Everybody—say nothing. Let me talk.” He took hold of Genevieve, said, “Sit down here. Mind, say nothing. If this breaks, they’ll smear your name all over the papers.” He spun. “Get me, Mafey? Let me talk!”

  Mafey muttered, “What the hell is this?”

  “Sh!” Cardigan warned.

  The door whipped open and Pinkler, grinning idiotically, said, “Hi, Cardigan! Tag, you’re it!”

  Scanlon thrust Pinkler aside and snapped darkly at Cardigan, “So you pulled a fast one, huh?”

  “Fast one? I just took advantage of a point in law.”

  Scanlon came into the room, jabbed his windy eyes from one occupant to another. Pinkler leaned in the doorway popping mints into his mouth, grinning; he said:

  “I just thought I’d keep a tail on you, Jack. The telephone booth idea was a good trick. Gee, it certainly was! I never laughed so much at myself in all my life, no kidding!”

  Cardigan, twisting his lip, started for the reporter, but Scanlon got in his way, and rasped:

  “You’re dealing with a guy your size, Cardigan. Leave Pinkler alone or I’ll smash you.” He poked Cardigan in the chest, snapped on, “Get this, smart boy. You’ve done a hell of a lot of waltzing in this town since you hit it, and I’ve been on the outside. There’s something crooked here. I know it. I’m going to find out if it’s the last thing I do.” He whirled. “Mafey, how the hell do you figure in this?”

  “I don’t,” Mafey said.

  Cardigan said, “Look here, Scanlon, why pick on Mafey? Pick on me. Pick on a guy your size.”

  Scanlon spun back on him, snarled, “Getting even, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please, please!” Pat implored.

  Scanlon whipped at her, “Keep your damned mouth shut!”

  Cardigan grabbed his arm, jolted him. “You’re talking to a lady, Scanlon. Talk to her right or I’ll wrap a chair around your neck.” He thumped his own chest. “Pick on me—me!”

  Both red-faced, they glared hotly at each other.

  “Gee,” piped Pinkler, “I like to see Cardigan get mad! Whoops, dearie!”

  Cardigan took one step, laid the hard flat of his hand across Pinkler’s cheek.

  “Chief!” Pat cried.

  Pinkler slammed to the floor and Cardigan was spun about roughly by Scanlon, who said, “Now cut that out! Leave him alone!” He shook Cardigan. “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  CARDIGAN took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, nodding violently. He strode across the room, clapped his hands together, ground palm against palm, turned and said: “It just happens, fat-head, that I’m looking for a guy.” He took another breath. He was thinking fast, knowing now that Scanlon, chagrined because he had been tricked, was definitely on the war path. And Cardigan knew that Scanlon was a hard man to shake.

  “Get on, get on,” Scanlon said angrily.

  “This guy,” Cardigan proceeded, crossing the room and coming face to face with Scanlon, “has been pulling a lot of stunts that our Agency don’t like. He’s been impersonating a Cosmos man. We didn’t mind it until the Agency began to get into a lot of jams. He faked our identification, and since we’re known at a flock of hotels in the East and Middle West, he ran up a lot of bills and charged them to the Agency. He also got good jobs on the strength of his bogus identification; he gypped his clients, and of course the come-back came to the Agency. The boss began sending out trailers and we finally got a hot tip that this potato was circulating in this burg. We’d never seen him, but from here and there, from gypped clients, we got a good composite picture of him.

  “He’s about as tall as I am, maybe fatter—yes, he would be fatter, and apparently in his forties. Red-cheeked—you know, kind of plump red cheeks. We don’t know his real name, but he has used names like Phil Taylor, Samuel Gade, and so on. In Buffalo, I ran into a pool hall owner I used to know when I worked in Scranton, and I got to talking about this thing, and he said a guy like that used to hang around his pool hall. The guy said he was heading for St. Louis, and this pal of mine said he gave him the address of a good speak in St. Louis. This is the address he gave. So I lined out, figuring to come right here to Mafey’s and see if I could get a line. Then when I arrived at the station, Pinkler began yelling my name. This guy must have been on hand. Everybody in the business knows my name, and this guy must have put two and two together.

  “Later, I’m walking down Sixth, when a voice says behind, ‘Keep walking, Cardigan, and don’t look around. You’re covered.’ I say, ‘Why?’ and he says, ‘We’re going someplace and have a talk.’ Well, when I came to that alley I took a chance. I figured this guy was on a big job here and that he figured I would ball up the works. I figured he might give me the works. So I ducked in the alley. He fired, things happened, and there you are. Simple as cake.”

  Pat Seaward seemed to have a hard time swallowing. She looked stunned.

  Scanlon said, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “How could I?” Cardigan said reasonably. “We wanted to keep it under the Agency’s hat. We wanted to snag this guy, drag him to the smallest, most out of the way town where he’d ever pulled a job, try him and have him convicted there, with a minimum of publicity. In a big city like this, hell, the world would know it, and the Agency doesn’t want that. You got me on a spot, Scanlon, where I had to tell you. Ten to one, both Pat and me, even if we catch this bird, will lose our jobs. That righ
t, Pat?”

  Pat grimaced. “You’re right, chief.”

  “Gee,” said Pinkler. “Gosh. Gee, that’s too bad. Gosh, I didn’t even have an idea—”

  “Our jobs are at stake,” Cardigan said. “I don’t care about myself, but Miss Seaward here has a mother to support.”

  Pat hung her head.

  Scanlon sighed, made a face, looked at his palms, then at his knuckles. Embarrassed, he growled. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I would have—”

  “I didn’t dare,” Cardigan said. “Hell, Scanlon, I always thought you hated me and—well—with the misunderstanding and all—”

  Scanlon went to the door, stood there, his back to the room. After a moment he muttered “O.K.” and walked out, and Pinkler followed.

  Cardigan dragged out a handkerchief, mopped his face. “Do I deserve a membership in the tall story club!”

  “Whew!” blew out Pat, fanning herself. “Please, sir, the smelling salts!”

  Chapter Four

  It’s Life

  CARDIGAN shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket and, spreading his arms, his hands, said to Genevieve:

  “You see, Genevieve, I had to keep you out of the papers.”

  Rising, she said to him, a lump in her throat, a glow of thanksgiving on her face. She laid a long, white hand on Cardigan’s arm. “Cardigan, I believe you and”—she turned, smiled at Pat—“Miss Seaward…. Pops,” she said, revolving, “you won’t mind, will you?”

  Mafey reddened. “Genevieve, if it’s good for you, it’s”—he made an awkward gesture—“good for me. I’m just an old guy that had a daughter once and lost her and—ah, well, I mean—” He paused, shrugged, drew a fat hand across his face. “It was like I did everything for my own daughter, only it was you.”

  She crossed to him, took one of his ungainly hands in her own soft, white hands. “I must hurry then, Pops. Good-by, good-luck, Pops.”

  A tear came ridiculously to the old man’s eye. Pat saw it and her own lip quivered and she turned away.

  Cardigan held out his hand. “O.K., then, Genevieve.”

  She went past him saying, “Poor old Pops!”

  Cardigan rubbed his hand on Mafey’s shoulder. “So long, Pops. With a name like that, a guy’s got to be jake.” Then, quickly: “Come on, let’s scram.”

  He turned and opened the door and stepped into the barroom and the first thing he saw was the Negro lying on the floor. And then he saw a man standing with his back to the bar. The man was holding a gun. Genevieve hurried past Cardigan, but he reached out, stopped her. Then she saw the man with the gun.

  “You’re not taking her back, Cardigan,” the man said.

  He was, of course, the same man who had shot at Cardigan in Sixth Street. Tall, stout, well-dressed, with fat red cheeks and small, beady eyes.

  Back of Cardigan, Pat gasped.

  Cardigan snarled, “Punk, you’re out of your class!”

  “Am I?” The man stepped forward to the center of the floor, planting himself firmly there, his gun level. He went on: “You’re not taking her back and you know why. I’ve heard a lot about you, Cardigan, but that doesn’t faze me. Leggo the dame. She’s coming with me.”

  Unafraid, Genevieve said over her shoulder to Cardigan: “Who is he?”

  “Ask me, he represents your Uncle Lafe. But don’t worry, Genevieve, this palooka’s not going to take you anywhere.”

  The man addressed Genevieve: “It’s up to you. If you don’t want me to cut loose with this rod, walk toward the front door. I mean it. I’d hate like hell to start any fireworks, but the cards read that way. It’s up to you. You’re staying hidden till the old man dies.”

  She cried, “Uncle Lafe hired you!”

  “There’s nothing anyone can prove. Stop spouting and get started.”

  Cardigan chopped off, “No. Don’t.”

  “I must,” she said, and walked slowly toward the door. As she walked, the stout man backed up, keeping pace with her, still holding his gun trained on Cardigan. As they neared the door, the stout man maneuvered so that he was partially protected by the girl, though he would be able still to fire past her side. He backed into the doorway leading to the anteroom. And suddenly, behind him, Mafey appeared. Obviously Mafey had gone around the back of the building, come in another door.

  Mafey struck with a quart bottle. He was enraged perhaps, for his aim was not true; the blow grazed the tall, stout man’s head, the bottle shattered on his shoulder. The tall, stout man spun violently about, his elbow catching Mafey beneath the chin, sending him wildly to the floor.

  CARDIGAN, his gun drawn, came hurtling across the room, smashed into the big man, clubbed the gun on his head and crashed with him to the floor. Genevieve gave a little outcry. Pat ran to her, took hold of her arm, said “Quiet, Genevieve!” in a quick, breathless whisper, and rushed her behind the bar, out of the way.

  Mafey was unconscious.

  Cardigan and the stout man tumbled into the anteroom. Their bodies—big, heavy—thumped loudly on the floor. Thrashing about, each in the other’s grip, they brought down a table; tussled on and fell into the dim dining room, now deserted, chairs stacked on the tables. Here their heels beat a wild tattoo on the floor. Grunting, straining, both powerful men, they heaved violently into another table, toppled it and four chairs, bringing the lot down with a resounding smash.

  The stout man buried his teeth in Cardigan’s gun hand, and with an agonized groan Cardigan let his gun drop, heaved, twisted and sank his teeth into the stout man’s hand. The stout man howled, kicked; his gun flew away in a low arc, skidded up the floor, spinning round and round.

  Fighting each other all the while, they got to their feet. They broke away. Cardigan, seeing his gun, dived for it, and the stout man lashed out with his foot, caught Cardigan on the side of the head and sent him careening into another table. Cardigan held his balance while the stout man dived head-first for his own gun. Before he reached it, Cardigan was on him, chopping his fist against the man’s ear.

  “O-o-o!” the man grunted. “O-o-o!”

  They rolled over and over, stopped against the wall. They rose, breaking, and Cardigan drove his fist into the man’s face, twisting the fist on contact.

  “Ow-w-w!” the man yelled.

  “Shut up. You make me sick. You—”

  He received a smash in the mouth that uprooted him, but the big dick caught his balance, shifted and stuck out his foot as the other made another dive for his gun. The stout man did not quite fall. He kept tumbling all the way across the room, but on the way he made a desperate try for the gun, snatched it up, tripped over the one step leading to the anteroom and slammed down.

  Cardigan kicked aside a chair, grabbed his own gun and was raising it when he saw, in the dim light, Pat standing beyond the man. Raising, the man struck at her; hit her a glancing blow. She went down.

  Cardigan fired high—he was afraid of hitting Pat—and so he missed the stout man. But the explosion sent the stout man bolting for the front door, and as he whipped it open Scanlon started in.

  The stout man slashed with his gun and opened Scanlon’s cheek. Scanlon fell to the sidewalk and the stout man hurtled over him and broke into a heavy, bounding run. With his face spouting blood, Scanlon staggered to his feet, lurched about.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, you, stop! It’s the law! Stop!”

  The stout man did not stop.

  Scanlon snarled, lifted his gun and fired. The shot sent the stout man glancing off a house wall but did not stop him. He lunged on, clots of snow flying upward and backward from his heels. Scanlon, pressing a hand to his torn face, ran after him, shouting again—“Stop or you’ll get it!”

  The stout man looked back, slowed down for a corner and went reeling and skidding around the corner as Scanlon fired. The slug caught the stout man while he was teetering on one foot. It straightened him, turned him half around. He crashed into a pole, rebounded, spun half around again and fired wildly. Scanl
on fired a third time, hitting the man squarely, sending him bobbing backward and finally dropping him into a mound of dirty snow where he let his gun fall.

  COMING up to him, Scanlon stopped and kept pointing his gun at him. Rage and pain contorted the sergeant’s face, but after a moment he realized that the man was dead, there was no longer any need to grip his gun so hard, hold it so level. He let it droop, leaned against the pole, wiping the blood from his torn face.

  He heard running footsteps and turned about and saw Cardigan coming toward him.

  “What the hell, Scanlon!”

  “What the hell yourself!”

  Cardigan said, pointing, “Just after you left—well, I was about to leave, and I walk smack into this guy. I don’t know who he is and right off the bat he takes a crack at me and then I know—I remember the description—and we go to it…. Where’d you come from?”

  “Nuts. I was coming back to have a drink and talk things over with you. I was—well, what the hell, I figured we might as well be friends—and so— Aw, nuts!” He turned, reached down and probed the body on the snow. “Dead as a guy can be.” He then began going through the man’s pockets. “Not a thing,” he said. “One of those guys that carries no identification. Oh-oh, here’s something.” He rose, looking at a small black card case. He opened it. “Cripes,” he said. “It’s your own Agency card—your own name on it!”

  Cardigan pointed. “See. What did I tell you? Let’s see it. Yup—my own name and everything. It’s just as if it was my own.” He thrust it casually into his pocket, said “Better get the morgue bus, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’d better. I’ll stay here. Ring in from Mafey’s, will you?”

  Cardigan said, “O.K., kid.”

  Scanlon grinned through his torn face. “O.K., kid.”

  “How’s for getting back my old hat?” Cardigan added.

  “That’s O.K. too.”

  Cardigan strode back to Mafey’s. Pat was standing in the doorway and he grinned, said, “Everything’s hunkydory, chicken,” and passed on into the anteroom. Mafey was standing on his feet and Genevieve was holding a wet towel to his jaw. Cardigan went into the barroom, entered the telephone booth and put in Scanlon’s call.