The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Read online

“Sister,” said McCabe, putting a slab of gum between his teeth, “you can’t argue with fingerprints.”

  She put a hand to her forehead, broke into fresh sobs.

  Durango said: “Don’t cry, baby. I’ll get out of this.”

  “I’m afraid,” said McCabe, “you won’t, Tony.”

  CARDIGAN carried her bags back into the flat in Waverly Place, went through the rooms turning on lights. She sat down on a straight-backed chair, let her hands lie limply in her lap. Her hat was a little crooked, strands of hair escaped from beneath. There was a dead, hopeless look in her eyes.

  “Three years I waited,” she said dully. “Three years—they seemed like centuries. And I was so happy when the day came. I had plans. Tony had plans. He had a thousand dollars saved and we were going west and start a filling-station and hot-dog stand—or something like that. I spoke to Father Bombroso only the other day. Tony wrote me to. About getting married right away. Father Bombroso was so glad, too. And now it’s all over—everything’s dead, done. Just because Kincaid hated Tony—just because Kincaid has big politicians on his side. Oh, Mr. Cardigan, what’ll I do?”

  He looked down at his shoes, bending way over. “I was hired to act as go-between for Kincaid and Tony. If Tony’d held his head, he would have been ten thousand to the good. Kincaid was offering that, to square things.”

  She was grim, her voice shaking. “Tony never killed that man. He never killed that man.”

  “Sure, you love him. It’s easy for you to believe that. I’ve been around, sister. You can fix anything but a fingerprint.”

  She stood up wearily. “Will you go now?”

  “Sure.” He moved and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Rose, you’re a swell kid.”

  “Please go.”

  He walked down to Sheridan Square, stood on the curb tapping his foot, ruminating. Then he went down into the subway, caught a northbound train and got off at Times Square. He made a telephone call to Claire Derwent, but received no answer. Leaving the subway station, he walked east to Park Avenue, boarded a taxi and drove north.

  He entered the building where Claire Derwent had an apartment. An elevator lifted him upward noiselessly, and he said to the operator: “Miss Derwent.”

  “Ten.”

  The car stopped at the tenth floor, and as he got out Cardigan said: “Which way?”

  “Left—around the corner. Ten-fifteen.”

  He walked down the corridor, turned left and came to a door marked 1015. He used a bronze knocker several times, listened, and when no reply came, he drew a small ring of keys from his pocket. It took him three minutes to get the door open. Only one light, a bridge lamp, was burning in the living room. He locked the door from the inside.

  Moving swiftly, silently, he crossed the living room to a secretary, sat down before it. He emptied drawers and pigeonholes, found nothing, and replaced everything as he had found it. Going into the bedroom, he turned on the lights there. His eyes jumped, darted about the room. He crossed to a dressing table, sat down, opened the drawers, rifled them. In one of the drawers he found a flat paper box. Opening it, he discovered several letters held together by an elastic band. He took off the band, read the letters. His face fell into hard lines. He put the letters together again, replaced them in the box, replaced the box in the drawer.

  Going to the door, he listened for a moment, then opened it and stepped into the corridor. He locked the door from the outside and walked toward the elevator. The car took him down to the lobby, and he walked on into the street, made his way to Park Avenue. Walking south, he had his hands jammed deep in his pockets. Finally a cab came along and he hailed it. He rode as far as Lexington Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street; got out and made his way down Thirty-seventh.

  When he knocked on Kincaid’s door, it was a moment before Kincaid answered, saying: “Who’s there?”

  “Cardigan.”

  A key grated. The door opened and Kincaid stood there, still dressed. “You’ll wear yourself out, Cardigan, running around this way, all night.”

  “Yeah,” said Cardigan absently, and entered.

  Chapter Three

  Say It With Flowers

  KINCAID closed and locked the door, crossed the room and took a cigarette from a humidor. Lighting up, he looked through the smoke and flame at Cardigan. Cardigan was eyeing him steadily from beneath bent, shaggy brows.

  Kincaid lowered the match and cigarette, keened his eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  Cardigan said: “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  Kincaid, seated, inhaled slowly.

  Cardigan said: “It’s about that woman—Claire Derwent.”

  Kincaid’s “Yes?” sounded faint and far away.

  Cardigan rubbed thumb against forefinger slowly, kept his dark eyes fastened on Kincaid’s narrow, pale face. “She’s broken up. She looked a ghost tonight, Kincaid, and I thought maybe the fact that you’d missed being knocked off—just the fact that you might have been knocked off, frightened her. I thought of that, and it sounded reasonable, but still I wasn’t satisfied. I’ve been thinking a lot, Kincaid—especially since the cops nailed Durango and tossed him in the jug. And I’ve come to a decision. I know why Claire Derwent is all busted up. Do you want me to tell you?”

  Kincaid raised his cigarette to his lips, but did not puff; he lowered the cigarette and carefully rubbed off half an inch of white ash into a brass tray. “Naturally—I thought she felt that way because of me.”

  Cardigan shook his head slowly. “You’re screwy. She loved your chauffeur.”

  Kincaid rose, crossed the room and rearranged a few books on a table, turned and leaned against the table.

  Cardigan was saying: “He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and from what I learned he came of a pretty decent family; he went to college, had a hard time getting a job, and took a job as chauffeur to make both ends meet. The family is poor-rich.”

  Kincaid said quietly: “This is interesting. Naturally I don’t feel flattered.” He made a weak attempt at a laugh. “Of course, you may be wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong. I crashed her apartment and found some letters he’d written her. The letters showed it wasn’t all on his side.”

  Kincaid snapped: “You had your nerve, crashing her apartment!”

  “I live on nerve, sweetheart. She wasn’t in, so I crashed it.”

  Kincaid started. “She wasn’t in!”

  “I said she wasn’t.”

  Kincaid tossed his cigarette into the brass tray, poured himself a tot of brandy. Raising the glass, his hand shook. But he shrugged, set the empty glass down, frowned.

  His voice shook. “It’s not pleasant news, Cardigan. I always thought—I thought Claire was— Well, I’d hoped to make her my wife. I—I still do.” He raised his chin. He looked very handsome, though aged and drawn; his voice came hardly above a whisper. “It—it wasn’t exactly the sporting thing—you springing this on me. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t think you would…. Kincaid, there’s something nutty somewhere. I don’t know where it is. I got an idea—”

  The phone rang. Kincaid started, then crossed the room, picked up the instrument. “Hello,” he said. “Yes. Just a moment.” He turned, said to Cardigan: “For you.”

  Cardigan took the telephone. “Yeah. Oh, hello, McCabe…. When?… Where?… O.K., I’ll be right over.” He hung up, his dark eyes fixed on space. He set the telephone down slowly. “That was McCabe,” he said.

  “What’s wrong? You look as if—”

  “Put your hat on.”

  “But what’s the matter?”

  Cardigan said dully: “Put your hat on.”

  “Is this something—”

  “Your hat,” Cardigan chopped in. “Get it!”

  Kincaid went to a closet, returned with his hat on, his overcoat slung over his arm. Cardigan was waiting at the door. He opened it and stepped into the corridor, and Kincaid, following, locked the door. His eyes were narrowed, curious, an
d there was a gray pallor in his cheeks. But he kept his chin up.

  He sighed: “If you must be mysterious…” and then shrugged.

  THEY sat in a taxicab. The cab sped through a wide, deserted canyon of a street. Its meter made a continuous clicking sound and a little red wedge went round and round in the illuminated dial. A uniformed policeman stood in an oasis of light, looking upward, his hands on his hips and his nightstick hanging from one wrist.

  The cab turned right, slipped down a narrower street; crossed a square past lighted stores; turned left, then right. A large building loomed on the right-hand side of the street; on either side of its front door was a frosted white bulb of light. The cab stopped on the corner, and Cardigan knocked open the door, swung out.

  Kincaid followed, looked the building over. “Has the air of a hospital.”

  “It is. Come on.”

  Kincaid stopped, looked wide-eyed at Cardigan.

  Cardigan grabbed his arm. “Come on.”

  He walked Kincaid up the broad cement steps, pushed open a swing door and entered a large, circular room. At the far end was a desk at which sat a woman in white. A uniformed policeman stood beside the desk.

  Cardigan said: “I’m Cardigan. McCabe phoned me.”

  “Upstairs,” the cop said. “Three.”

  Kincaid walked dumbly into an open elevator, and Cardigan followed. The elevator rose to the third floor, stopped. The door opened and Cardigan motioned Kincaid out. McCabe was in the hallway, near the floor desk. A uniformed sergeant and two cops were there.

  “I came right over,” Cardigan said.

  “So I see,” McCabe said. “I thought you’d be at Kincaid’s. Brought Kincaid with you, eh?”

  Cardigan nodded. He was very grim and lowering. “Well?” he said, his hands folded in his palms.

  “Well, a guy saw her jump. He couldn’t swim, but he yelled for help, but it was almost five minutes before help came. A cop showed up, kicked off his pants and dived in. It wasn’t very deep right there, about ten feet maybe, and he got hold of her and brought her up. He swam to a dock and there was a float there and he got her on that, and then he carried her up the ladder. He worked on her while the guy that’d yelled scooted off for an ambulance. The ambulance came and the doctors worked on her while they brought her here. I think she’s done for. We’ll know pretty soon.”

  “You’re sure she jumped.”

  “Oh, she jumped all right. Usually they write notes. This one didn’t.”

  Kincaid whispered breathlessly. “Who—who—”

  “That girl was at your place,” McCabe said, slipping a bar of gum between his teeth. “Claire Derwent.”

  Kincaid’s lips closed, his eyes opened wide and a look of horror spread over his face. He swayed backward as though a blow had been struck, and his hands clenched. McCabe chewed on his gum, looked at his hands. Cardigan had a violent dark look fixed on Kincaid.

  Down the hall, a door opened, there were voices. Nurses and a couple of men came out. McCabe and the cops went toward them.

  “How goes it?” McCabe said.

  “It don’t,” said one of the men. “Too late. We got her too late.”

  “Dead, huh?” McCabe said laconically.

  “Dead and done for.”

  Kincaid spun, dived for the stairway. Cardigan heard the sound of his feet, spun too—sprang after him and collided with a nurse carrying a tray. Nurse, tray and Cardigan slammed to the floor. But Cardigan was up in an instant, and he leaped for the stairway, lunged down.

  HE could hear the sound of Kincaid’s feet pounding down below, and as he reached the basement floor, he saw Kincaid going out a side entrance. He yelled, but Kincaid did not stop. He reached the alley driveway, saw Kincaid heading for the street behind, and broke into a long-legged run.

  The street that ran back of the hospital was dark, deserted, and though Cardigan heard the sound of running feet, he did not instantly catch sight of Kincaid. But a street light, east, showed Kincaid momentarily; he was in swift flight, fast for a man who was not young. He let go of his overcoat, then his hat, and kept running eastward. Reaching a main drag, Cardigan was almost knocked down by a truck. Jumping, he slipped, missed the truck but fell hard. It took him a minute to get under way again, and by this time Kincaid was far ahead.

  Cardigan did not draw his gun. He was certain that he could overtake Kincaid, certain that his wind was better than Kincaid’s. He gained slowly, steadily, crossed another main drag, heard a boat whistle and knew he was near the river front. He saw lights moving on the river a moment later. And he saw that now he was less than a block behind Kincaid.

  He caught a glimpse of the river, of bright gleams moving liquidly on the dark water. Kincaid did not change his course. He ran straight on, and Cardigan, closing in on him, shouted: “Pull up, Kincaid!”

  But Kincaid did not stop. He did not stop when he reached the bulkheads. He threw up his arms, dived over. Cardigan heard the splash, reached the river’s edge and saw Kincaid’s white face below, a pale blur in the darkness. He saw Kincaid lift his arms, sink. The man was not trying to swim.

  “Kincaid!” Cardigan shouted.

  Instantly his coat was off. He ripped away his shoe-laces, yanked off his shoes, dived. He cut the dark water neatly, groped in the wet depths, rose and looked around and saw Kincaid’s head float above the water, then sink again. He kicked out his legs, went beneath the surface, caught Kincaid and dragged him to the surface.

  Blindly Kincaid struck at him, cried: “Let—go!”

  “You’re drowning, dope!”

  “I want to, damn you!”

  “You won’t!”

  Kincaid clawed frantically with his hands, got one hand about Cardigan’s throat. Cardigan ripped it away, spat water from his mouth.

  “My God,” Kincaid cried, “let me drown!”

  “Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet. I ought to, I suppose—but not yet. I’ve got a reason, and maybe you know what it is—”

  “If you don’t let me, I’ll take you down with me!”

  “Yeah?”

  Cardigan kicked himself half out of water, raised his fist, chopped it down into Kincaid’s face. He felt the man go limp, felt the tug of his weight in the water. He turned on his back, caught Kincaid beneath the chin and swam backward with him. He saw no wharf, no ladder, in the darkness, but he kept swimming backward. The water was cold, and chilled him. He raised his voice, calling for help.

  Presently he heard voices, and then he saw the dim shapes of men appear above the line of the shore.

  “That you, Cardigan?” It was McCabe’s voice, loud, anxious.

  “Yeah. See me?”

  “Yeah. Can you hang on? We’re getting a line.”

  “O.K. Get it—sometime tonight.”

  He swam in circles, slowly, and soon McCabe shouted. “Here it comes. Can you see?”

  “Drop it. I’ll find it.”

  He heard the heavy line splash in the water, found it, passed it beneath Kincaid’s arm and called up: “Go ahead, pull. Then let it down for me.”

  He watched Kincaid’s body rise out of the water, dripping. He swam around lazily, and when the line came down again, he grasped it, made a loop around his wrist, shouted:

  “O.K. Haul me up.”

  Soaked, shivering, he stood on solid ground again, saw several cops bending over Kincaid, saw McCabe holding an overcoat.

  McCabe said: “I guess it’s Kincaid’s. I picked it up. Better put it on.”

  “Put it on Kincaid. This guy is valuable.”

  “You sure look after your clients, don’t you?”

  “I see a thing through, Mac—even if it hurts.”

  IT was late when Rose Cardoni opened the door. She was dressed, for she had not gone to bed. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked sapped; her face was drained of all color and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “I thought you’d be up,” Cardigan said. “The clothes look lousy, but they were dried in a
steam room.”

  “What do you want?”

  He carried a package in his hand, and entering the room, he went to the table, set the package down, tore off the paper. It was a geranium in a pot. He grinned, but Rose was in no condition to grin and only looked dumbly at the geranium.

  “It was just an idea,” Cardigan said. He sat down, planted his feet wide apart and said: “Tony’ll be home in the morning.”

  She cried: “Tony’ll be home!” But she stared as though she did not believe it.

  He nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. “Kincaid killed the chauffeur. I hauled him out of the river, and he talked. It’s a horse on me, and my face is red, no kidding. There was a girl he was crazy about, but she was crazy about his chauffeur—and Kincaid was not a young man and he was jealous. He knew what was going on.

  “He laid a neat plan. He was afraid of Tony coming out, and he started out to kill two birds with one stone. He had it planned out weeks ahead. He knew the exact day Tony was coming out, and that was the day the chauffeur was to get the works. To strengthen the impression that he was afraid of Tony, he hired me. I fell for it—but who wouldn’t? His plan worked neat as hell, Rose, but he didn’t take into consideration the girl. She committed suicide over the death of her boy friend—and that sent Kincaid nuts. He tried suicide himself. The fingerprints lied.

  “No,” he added, “not exactly. Several weeks before Tony slammed that magistrate he was in Kincaid’s apartment, and Kincaid showed him a gun. Tony looked it over, handled it. Kincaid was a farsighted man, and even then he was planning to get Tony out of the way. He took the gun—by that time it had Tony’s prints on it—and put it away in a box. He sealed the box with wax, made it airtight, so that neither air nor dust could get in it. Then he locked it away. It was that gun that killed the chauffeur—but Kincaid fired it. He used gloves. Tony’s prints were still on it.”

  Rose put her hands to her cheeks and cried: “Oh!”

  Cardigan stood up. “I might have been nasty to you and Tony, Rose, but—”

  “If you hadn’t pulled Kincaid out of the river, no one would have known—and Tony would have died—in the chair. Oh, God!” She stood with her hands still pressed to her cheeks, her eyes gaping, her small body quivering. Then suddenly she threw herself against Cardigan, gripped the lapels of his coat, pressed her forehead against his chest and sobbed hysterically. “Oh, God bless you, Cardigan—God bless you!”