The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Read online

  “I’m on the wagon.” He was dour, wrinkle-browed. “We got no fingerprints. There was a dead end. Whoever bumped off Jacland knew him, because nobody asked the desk for him; they knew his apartment number. I checked up on phone calls this morning, though. He got a phone call—early.”

  “Swell! You get a break then.”

  “Yeah. I get a break I find out you been two-timing on me.”

  Cardigan turned to Pat. “You better turn the other way, chicken. The Bone and I are headed for words.”

  Bone said under his breath, “You stay right here, Miss Seaward.”

  Cardigan faced him. “Spill it, Abe.”

  “What I want to know is, how did you find out Rosalie Wayne phoned Jacland a half hour before he got bumped off?”

  “I didn’t. Me—find out? You’re crazy.”

  “That’s a rumor you been tossing around town a long time. If you didn’t know about the phone call, why did you send Miss Seaward to Rosalie Wayne’s apartment this morning?”

  Cardigan blinked. That was a fast one and he stalled, saying, “Who said she went there?”

  “I got it from the maid there. She said a girl from The Flash dropped in. I called The Flash. No girl from their office went there. I asked the maid to describe her. She did it perfect. I got a hunch and I went to the taxi stand near your office. A guy remembered taking her from in front of your office right to the Petremont Plaza.”

  Cardigan said, “O.K. She did. Now what? You damned well know I’d have a hell of a time trying to get any dope out of the telephone exchange.”

  “That’s just what I know. And now what I want to know is, how’d you find out about Rosalie Wayne? What did you pick up when you prowled through Jacland’s apartment eating grapes?”

  “Nothing.”

  Bone narrowed an eye. “I’m a tough baby, Cardigan. When a private dick bursts into an apartment I’m covering and walks off with some info, I’m tough. What did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then how the hell did you get onto the Rosalie Wayne steer? Answer me that!”

  Cardigan leaned back, looked down his nose. His face was not pleasant. “If I got onto that steer, Abe, I didn’t find anything. And how did I get onto it? I use,” he said softly, “a Ouija board.”

  “You can’t pull that crap!” Bone muttered, grabbing Cardigan’s arm.

  “Take your hand off, Abe,” Cardigan snapped. “You’re not tough; you’re just nasty. Take it off!” He wrenched free and a sullen look swept into his eyes. “If you found the Wayne steer, land on her—not me.”

  “I did,” Bone said, slowly. “I quizzed her over at the theatre. She admitted calling Jacland, but she said she called him in a fit of temper—about something he wrote. I asked her if she was ever in his apartment. She said no. And that’s why I tailed you here. What, Cardigan, what the hell did you lift out of that apartment?”

  “I told you.”

  “The truth, I mean. You found some evidence there, damn you! You found something—a card, a case, something—that made you send Miss Seaward to the Wayne apartment!”

  Cardigan patted Bone on the shoulder. “There, there, Abe. It’s probably been your diet. You need a rest.”

  Bone flung the hand down. “I’m not kidding, bozo!”

  “Neither am I!” Cardigan shot back at him, darkening. “If you want me to answer questions, get a subpoena, but for God’s sake stop tailing me around town like a pup!” He turned. “Come on, Pat. We dine.”

  “You wait, Cardigan!” Bone cut in.

  CARDIGAN ignored him. He handed Pat down from the stool, guided her across the bar and on into the dining room. A few people were at table and the orchestra was tuning up. Antonio led them to a table at the edge of the dance floor and a minute later Ken Strange, the owner, came over and bent over the table. “What’s the matter with Bone, Cardigan?”

  “He’s got an idea, Ken; that’s all.”

  “Listen, Cardigan. If he starts clowning around here I’m going to get in touch with Inspector Gross. I’m paying enough for peace in this scatter and I’m not going to have any dick raising a howl. I’ll have him bounced out.”

  Cardigan laughed. “You don’t hurt my feelings, boy. On second thought, Ken, I wouldn’t do that. Abe’s a nasty guy to cross. Especially in your business.”

  “I just ain’t going to have him raise a disturbance!”

  Cardigan shrugged and Strange turned on his heel and walked off.

  Pat wasn’t at ease. “Why didn’t you try to humor Bone?”

  “You ever try humoring a guy that’s naturally bad-humored? Abe’s a grifter. He’s up a blind alley and for the sake of his face he’s trying to shake me down for some dope.”

  The crowd began coming in. The jazz band began playing and couples swung out onto the floor. Cardigan danced with Pat, he could handle himself for a big man; and from time to time he caught sight of Bone beyond the entrance. There was consommé waiting when they returned to the table and Cardigan ordered some Chablis for the fish course. At 11:30 Rosalie Wayne came in with a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow and neither of them looked gay. They went to a table in a corner.

  “She’s lovely,” Pat said.

  “There’s one thing about you I like, kid; you’re no cat.” He dropped his voice. “I think she’s headed for the dressing room. Run along and get a close-up of her. See how she looks—how she feels. Hop!”

  Pat left and Cardigan beckoned Antonio over. “Who’s the guy just came in with Rosalie Wayne?”

  Antonio leaned close. “Robert Drummond.”

  “That’s a name. What’s he do?”

  “You haven’t seen him in the play The Backlands!”

  “No.”

  “Say, he’s great. Leading man! And you know, he’s come up. Yes, sure! And this play—I tell you, Mr. Cardigan, is the berries, like. Strong! For men! It is in the jungle, maybe Africa, I think. And in the last act—ah! In the last act, there is the jungle, dim and sinister, and the villain leaning in the girl’s hut—the doorway, you understand. He laughs. The girl inside cries out. Mr. Drummond appears from the wings. He makes one grand leap and with a knife kills the villain. I understand he studied for two months the use of the knife. Grand! Swell!”

  “Thanks,” said Cardigan. “See about that wine, will you?”

  He got up and drifted into the bar, whence Robert Drummond had gone a moment before. He leaned on the bar beside Drummond and said, offhand, “I like your work in that play, Mr. Drummond.”

  Drummond turned. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “The knife work was swell. The way you leap across the stage and use that knife— You know how to use a knife, I’ll tell you!”

  “I—studied for the part.”

  Cardigan nodded, his eyes wandering. “It’s a dangerous asset.”

  Drummond started. “I don’t quite get you.”

  “Oh, nothing.” Cardigan laughed. “I was just thinking of the Jacland case. Well—good luck!”

  He turned away, taking with him an impression of the sudden white look that his words had brought to Drummond’s face. He returned to his table, cocked an eye at the lemon-yellow Chablis. In a few minutes Rosalie Wayne returned to the table accompanied by Drummond. Cardigan began to get impatient when, with the lapse of five minutes, Pat did not put in an appearance. At the end of ten minutes he called Antonio.

  “Send someone up to ask the maid in the dressing room if anything is wrong with Miss Seaward.”

  In three minutes Antonio was back, palms spread upward. “But she left the dressing room ten minutes ago—”

  Cardigan was on his feet, a wicked look in his eyes.

  Chapter Three

  If the Cap Fits

  KEN STRANGE met Cardigan in a private room off the bar. “Look here, Cardigan, what the hell do you think—”

  “Cut it, Ken!” His voice was low, thick, his eyes lowering. “I want to speak to that maid.”

  “But she said Miss Sea
ward—”

  “Are you going to get the maid out of that dressing room or am I going to crash it and start a lot of female shrieks?”

  Strange took a breath. “O.K. Come on.”

  They went up to the second floor, into a small, private dining room.

  “Wait here,” Strange said.

  He went out, reentered a moment later with a young woman dressed in black with a small white apron. She looked frightened.

  Cardigan said, “Did any word pass between Miss Seaward and any other woman in there?”

  “There was only one other woman—Rosalie Wayne.”

  “Well?”

  “N-no. They didn’t say anything—not to each other. Miss Wayne, I thought, at one time was crying. I can’t be sure. I just thought so.”

  “Who went out first?”

  “Miss Wayne. Miss Seaward left a moment later.”

  “O.K. You can go.”

  She went.

  Cardigan turned to Strange. “Is there a back way down and out from this floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “A courtyard in the back. There’s a through alley to the next street south.”

  “Where’d you last see Abe Bone?”

  “In the bar. About fifteen minutes before you sent Antonio up here.”

  Cardigan turned, pulled open the door and went downstairs. Strange was at his heels saying, “Now for God’s sake, Cardigan, don’t start a rough-house!”

  Cardigan strode into the bar, stopped short and turned on Strange. “Ask the bartender when he last saw Abe.”

  Strange shrugged and went to the bar, spoke for a minute or so, returned. “He said he saw Rosalie Wayne go through here to the back hall. Then the girl you came in with. He said Bone saw them too and went into the hall also. The men’s room is at the back of the lower hall.”

  Cardigan went down the lower hall, took a look and returned. “The nigger in there said Bone wasn’t in. Did anybody see Bone after he went into the hall?”

  “He didn’t come back here.”

  Cardigan jerked a thumb. “Go in and ask Rosalie Wayne if she saw a man hanging around the hall upstairs when she came out of the dressing room.”

  “Look here now, Cardigan—”

  “If you don’t, I will!”

  Strange touched a handkerchief to his forehead and walked away. He returned in a moment shaking his head.

  Cardigan said, “Now come with me, Ken, and show me every room in this place.”

  “Cardigan, I’m not going to have my place—”

  “And me, Ken, I’m not going to have Pat Seaward drop out of sight in your joint. Get going.”

  “Hell, what a guy—what a guy! Come on.”

  They searched every room in the three-storied house, found nothing.

  “There’s no monkey-business goes on in my place,” Strange said.

  Cardigan grouched, “Hell, I’ve nothing against you, Ken. But I wanted to see. Listen. Get Pat’s wrap from the chair and leave it in the checkroom, will you?”

  “This kind of knocks me over, Cardigan.”

  “You should be knocked over!” Cardigan laughed grimly. “What about me?” He wheeled away. “I’ll probably be back.”

  HE got his hat from the checkroom and rolled out the front door. He hailed a cruising cab and gave an address. He sat on the edge of the seat, the heel of his right hand grinding on his knee. He was too upset, too angry, to attempt to find solace in a smoke.

  He snapped at the driver. “Listen, you! I’ve seen Broadway too many times. Get out of the traffic. Get over on the West Side.”

  “Geez, chief, I’m doin’ me best!”

  “For that meter of yours, yes. Hike west.”

  Ten minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a station-house’s green lights. Cardigan heaved out and said, “Wait here.”

  He swung across the sidewalk, climbed steps and barged into the central room. A fat lieutenant at the desk was unimpressed by the noisy entrance.

  Cardigan said, “Hey, Bromfield, where’s Bone?”

  “Bone?”

  “Bone.”

  “He ain’t called in lately. I don’t know. Say, Cardigan, you think that Sharkey-Schmelling thing was fixed?”

  “Where’s Bone?”

  “My, my, you got to take the roof off the house?”

  Cardigan cursed and sailed on into the back room. Three plainclothesmen were sitting around, smoking.

  One said, “Ask Cardigan, now. Go ahead. Hey, Cardigan, don’t you think Sharkey beat hell out of—”

  “Where’s Abe Bone?”

  “I mean, take it now like this: Sharkey boxed—he boxed, I say, and in the last round, why in the last round—”

  “Where’s Bone?”

  The man gave it up in disgust. “I don’t know,” he growled.

  Cardigan turned and went out of the room with slow, lagging steps. In the central room, he stood looking sourly at Broomfield, who was complacently eating an apple. He muttered and strode to the door, reached the curb by the taxi and stood there tapping his foot.

  The driver stirred. “I see a lot of guys ain’t satisfied with that there Sharkey-Schmelling decision. I—”

  “You,” bit off Cardigan, “start back for the Club Cordova.”

  He paid up in front of the green marquee. The flunky opened the door and Cardigan went into the foyer. The checkroom girl reached for his hat. It was in his hand, but he didn’t see her. He ran into Ken Strange in the bar and he could tell by the look on Strange’s face that something was up. Strange stopped him with a palm.

  “Take it easy, Cardigan.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Bone—”

  “Where the hell is that bum?”

  “Easy, Cardigan! For God’s sake, easy! I may be in a jam, but so help me, it’s not my fault! This way.”

  He led the way into the room off the bar. Bone was sitting in an easy chair, foggy-eyed. There was a welt on his forehead and his hair was tangled. He didn’t seem to notice anything.

  Strange was whispering. “We found him under the stair well in the hall upstairs. He was beaned—and out cold. For cripes’ sake, look at the jam I’m in!”

  Then Bone, seeing things, suddenly cried hoarsely, “You, Cardigan! You, damn you, you cracked me!”

  Cardigan said to Strange, “Imagine!”

  “You, Cardigan—” Bone heaved to his feet and clawed at his hip pocket. But he was sluggish.

  Cardigan leaped, man-handled Bone back into the chair and took his gun away from him.

  Strange rasped, “Damn it, Cardigan, don’t do that!”

  “You think I’m going to let him play cops and robbers with this rod?” He flung it on a table, spun on Bone. “Listen, Abe. I didn’t crack you. I’m looking for the guy that did.”

  He wheeled about and with Bone’s abuse still ringing in his ears he crossed the bar and was stopped by Antonio at the entrance to the dining room.

  Cardigan said, “Get Miss Wayne—and her boy friend.”

  “But they left, Cardigan.”

  “Left! When?”

  “Maybe half an hour ago. Miss Wayne, I think, did not feel well.”

  “Maybe,” Cardigan said, pivoting, “she’ll feel worse.”

  HE went upstairs, found the rear staircase and followed it down to a rear door. The door opened into a dark courtyard. He used a flashlight the size and shape of a fountain pen. Going round and round the courtyard, he covered every inch of brick with the small but thorough beam of light. Then he took the alley that cut between two stone buildings. The alley was a narrow strip of cement and he followed it with his flashlight. Halfway through, he picked up a crumpled handkerchief. Pat’s initial was in the corner. She’d dropped it purposely, he guessed, to point the line of flight out to him.

  Reaching the street, he caught a taxi and gave an address. In five minutes he alighted before the Petremont Plaza and strode long-legged through the lobby. Th
e elevator whisked him upward and he went down the twelfth floor corridor looking very dark and malignant. He used the knocker of 1212.

  Rosalie Wayne opened the door and Cardigan, dispensing with overtures, walked right in past her. She made a little startled outcry and Drummond, rising from a chair, rapped out: “Look here!”

  Cardigan went toward him, patting down air with an open palm. “I am, Drummond. Right here.”

  Drummond looked awestricken. “What in the name of thunder do you think you are doing?”

  Cardigan swung around, shaggy-headed, brutal-eyed, and pointed at Rosalie Wayne. “Why did you phone Giles Jacland this morning?”

  Drummond got between them. “Now look here, whoever you are—”

  “My name’s Cardigan, of the Cosmos Detective Agency.”

  “Oh!” quietly; and Drummond stepped back. “I see.” Then he flared up again. “That still gives you no right to blunder in here and—”

  “Blunder, is it?” Cardigan snapped.

  “Please, please!” Rosalie Wayne cried.

  Cardigan was hard at it. “Listen to me, you two! The girl I was with tonight disappeared from the Cordova. She was the same girl that came to this apartment this morning and spoke with your maid.” He stopped short. “Where’s that maid?”

  “It’s her night off,” Rosalie Wayne said.

  “Disappeared!” Drummond was echoing.

  Cardigan turned on him savagely. “You heard me! Disappeared!” Then he was back at Rosalie Wayne, ripping out, “Why did you phone Giles Jacland just before his murder?”

  She held hands to her face. “I—oh, it was nothing—nothing! It was stupid of me but—but I was angry, so—”

  “Was Drummond here at the time? Did he go, then, directly to Jacland’s apartment?”

  “No! No!”

  Drummond’s voice shook with anger. “What the devil are you implying?”

  “If the cap fits, wear it.”

  “Why, you dirty—”

  “Wait!” Cardigan broke in, his voice low, held back. “Let that slide for the moment. All I’m interested in now is the disappearance of Miss Seaward. You two left the Cordova directly after she was kidnaped. She was up here this morning. There’s got to be a connection. Now I don’t want any dramatics or wisecracking repartee or third-act heroics or any other kind of bushwah. I want Miss Seaward. Get that. I want Miss Seaward!”