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

  He let his long arms hang at his sides, let her tug at the lapels of his coat. And he smiled ruefully down at her dark hair. He looked bulky and shaggy and unshorn. Presently he raised his head, saw his reflection in a mirror. He chuckled, rubbed his chin.

  He said: “A beard now—say if I had a white beard, a long one, I guess I could pass for Santa Claus…. Bawl on, Rose—bawl on; I need a clean shirt anyhow.”

  Murder & Co.

  Chapter One

  Dead Man Aboard

  THE baggy ulster that Cardigan wore was yanked tight at the waist by a frayed belt; his lop-eared hat looked a little older, a little more faded, and its brim was down all around, not from design—the wind had been strong on the Embarcadero. He had his hands in his overcoat pockets, weighing the pockets down, and a copy of The San Francisco Chronicle was beneath his arm.

  Pat Seaward, his able and very feminine assistant, stood beside him; she was a small, slender trick in dark tailored clothes, a snug cloche hat that cut smartly aslant her forehead, neat patent-leather pumps.

  All about them the crowd was restless, noisy, laughing and chattering, gay and expectant. Cardigan was expectant also, but not gay; his dark troubled eyes roved the enclosed pier and always returned to the gangplank that would soon rise toward the high hull of the S.S. Andromeda, docking from Shanghai and Asiatic ports. Gusts of cold wind came in from the night-shrouded San Francisco Bay. Telegraph messengers were on the jump.

  LIEUTENANT BROKHARD came in from the street with a gust of wind that fanned his coat tail. Sergeant Doughty, plainclothed like the lieutenant, stopped the door hard with his round hard stomach, fought it open and rocked flat-footed, after Brokhard’s heels. The sergeant was munching salted peanuts which he carried in a bag clasped in his left hand; he had a trick of popping them into his large, fishlike mouth and rarely missed; he wore the large, beatific expression of a good-natured moron.

  Cardigan scowled and said down at Pat: “Look who’s here. I expect words and music, chicken.”

  “Be careful, chief,” she said anxiously.

  “These Siamese twins would make any guy careless.”

  Brokhard came up, nodded curtly and said in a brusque hammerlike voice: “Well, I see she’s docking. Swell.” He was a narrow, dark man, bony and hard of jaw, with eyes sharp as the jab of a poniard, and with a tight humorless mouth beneath a clipped black mustache. Craning his neck, he added: “I hope you don’t mind if we grab Kemmerer when he comes off.”

  “Kemmerer’s our meat, Brokhard,” Cardigan snapped.

  “It’s a long story, I suppose. Sorry, Cardigan—but the State of California wants this hot potato and Doughty and me are down here to collect him.”

  “That’s right, Cardigan,” Doughty chimed in blandly. “Have a peanut?”

  But Cardigan was eyeing Brokhard. “Listen, sweetheart. Our agency man—Stewart—tailed this baby for months and sat on him in a gambling hall in Macao. It cost the agency plenty of dinero. The State of New York wants Kemmerer for the killing of Addison March and it hired our agency to run him down—”

  “And the State of California wants him for a million-dollar state-land swindle first. So what? So he arrives in San Francisco first and the State of New York can do handsprings until we’re through with him.”

  Cardigan stood back on his heels, and his face wore a bleak expression. “This is a heel’s trick, Brokhard.”

  Brokhard shot him a dark look. “I’m not going to stand here and ring-around-the-rosy with you, Cardigan. You heard me. We’re grabbing Kemmerer as soon as he puts foot on the dock. That’s plain, ain’t it?”

  Pat gripped Cardigan’s arm. He tugged away and snapped back at Brokhard: “This is your doing, shamus. I had the big shots talked into letting me snake Kemmerer east—until you put your big foot in it. They have good cops in this burg. How did you ever get in the bureau?”

  Brokhard had started off, but he pivoted and came back with his lowering dark look. “Another crack out of you, Mick, and I’ll disarrange your pan!”

  Pat was tugging hard at Cardigan’s arm.

  Cardigan grinned wickedly at Brokhard. “You and a squad maybe!”

  “For two cents—”

  “Go on, cheapskate. That badge you wear doesn’t make you a heavyweight!”

  “Hey, Luke!” Doughty said. “Gangplank, Luke!”

  Brockhard swiveled away and went after Doughty, and Pat was still tugging at Cardigan’s arm.

  “Cut it out!” he muttered.

  She said: “I just wanted to tell you— Now don’t look, but about ten feet away—on your left—a girl in a dark red coat—she was listening intently to everything you and Brokhard said. Don’t look now!”

  “O.K. Quit breaking the coat. It’s got to last another winter.”

  “She’s moved now,” Pat whispered. “Up a bit. You can look now. See her in the red coat?”

  “O.K. You keep your eye on her. I’m going—”

  “Chief! Please don’t get yourself in trouble—”

  But he was off, elbowing and shouldering his way through the crowd until he came to Brokhard and Doughty.

  “Listen, Brokhard,” he said earnestly. “Be a white guy. Look the other way. Let me snake Kemmerer off, will you? I’m sorry for all those things I said—”

  “Sell it outside, Cardigan. I’m not buying.”

  “Honest, Brokhard—”

  “Vamoose. Scram. Take the air. Hang around here and you might get hurt.”

  “Have a peanut?” Doughty said.

  Cardigan rasped: “Feed ’em to Brokhard! He’s nuts already!”

  “Have a peanut, Luke?” Doughty asked innocently.

  Brokhard glared at him.

  People began surging forward. The gangplank was down.

  CARDIGAN’S fists were knotted in his pockets, his chest burned and he felt the hair on his nape bristle and itch. He had crossed the continent to meet Stewart here on this dock. Young Stewart had run down Niles Kemmerer in a faraway port, only to be deprived of his catch here on San Francisco’s Embarcadero. Of course, he did not know this yet. It would be a jolt to him, Cardigan knew—a blow below the belt. Hammerhorn, the agency head back in New York, would throw a fit, burn the wires to the coast. But there was nothing Cardigan could do; his hands were tied.

  He saw a porter run up to Brokhard. Brokhard nodded, motioned to Doughty. The two detectives plowed in the wake of the porter. Cardigan weaved after them, saw them reach a tall, dapper man who wore a uniform and braided cap. He was the purser of the Andromeda.

  Cardigan became entangled in a throng of people, and when he had extricated himself he saw Brokhard and Doughty well beyond. He followed, but was stopped at a deadline by a pier guard. He showed his badge, but the guard shook his head. Reunions, gay and ecstatic, were going on all around him. He was shunted from side to side, back and forth, while he craned his neck and looked for Stewart. He had half an idea that Brokhard had wirelessed the ship at sea and given orders to detain both Stewart and Kemmerer. His teeth clicked shut, biting an oath in half.

  At last he caught sight of Brokhard. The lieutenant came hard-heeled down the gangplank, with his hands jammed in his pockets and a sour look on his face. He strode in a beeline, looking neither to left nor right. Cardigan stepped in his path and said: “Listen, what’s the idea of holding Stewart?”

  Brokhard looked up with a dark humid stare. “Nobody’s holding Stewart, fat-head!”

  “O.K. Then—”

  “Stewart’s dead, Irish.”

  “What!”

  “Knife in his guts this side the Golden Gate.”

  “Hey, wait a minute—”

  “And if you want to know it, Kemmerer’s not on board. He was on board, if you get what I mean, but he’s not there now. The City of San Francisco’s obligated to cart Stewart off, so get the hell out of my way!”

  Cardigan stared at him with glazed eyes, said in a vacant voice: “Thanks, flatfoot.”

  And Brokhard snarle
d: “So nobody gets Kemmerer, huh?”

  “I’ll get him, honeybunch. I’ll get him.” He wasn’t even looking at Brokhard. “Me—I’ll get him.”

  THE taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Polk, in windy Bush Street, and Cardigan swung out, tossed half a dollar to the driver and strode into the small, plain lobby. It was a small hotel, for the agency was having hard times and Hammerhorn kept a sharp eye on expense sheets. Cardigan rose in the elevator, standing with his feet spread wide apart, staring down savagely at the floor. He got off at the fifth, walked down the corridor, unlocked the door of 509, reached in, snapped on the lights.

  He took off hat and overcoat, flung them to the bed, stood in the center of the floor and ran his big hands up across his face, through his matted wiry hair. He had gone on board the vessel, had ridden with poor young Stewart to the morgue. Now he cursed, dropped to the chair beside the telephone table and picked up the instrument.

  “Wire to the Cosmos Agency, New York,” he said. “Stewart murdered on board Andromeda tonight. Details and body follow.”

  He hung up, poured himself a stiff jolt of whiskey and downed it neat. He used the phone again, saying: “Miss Seaward get in?” He waited, tapping his foot; then, “When she comes in, tell her to call me.” He mixed a highball next, with plenty of foundation, sank into an armchair and cuddled the drink. The wind had been knocked out of him. He had been primed for the loss of Kemmerer, but not for the death of Stewart.

  Half an hour later he was roused by a knock on the door. Without rising, he said: “Come in.”

  Pat entered and Cardigan growled: “The minute I let you out of my sight, you disappear. I don’t suppose you know Stewart is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “I said dead.”

  “Oh, chief!”

  “If the shooting-and-knifing public goes on this way, dear old Cosmos Agency is going to have to erect a cenotaph or something.”

  “But how—when—”

  “How? A knife. When?” He shook his head. “I dunno. Sometime after that sea-going barge passed through the Golden Gate. Nor was Mr. Kemmerer, the nice so-and-so, on board when she docked. I hope he’s a good swimmer.”

  She was silent for a moment, wide-eyed, a shocked white look on her face. Cardigan got up and jangled the ice in his glass.

  “Want a drink?”

  “No.”

  “You’re wise. This liquor is lousy.” He stopped and eyed her sharply. “Well, what happened to you? Where’d you go?”

  She started. “Oh! Oh! That!” She sat down on the edge of a chair. “I followed that girl. I lost her for a while inside the pier, and then suddenly I saw her again—she was rushing out, in a great hurry. So I followed her.”

  He frowned—but with interest now. “And so what?”

  “She crossed the Embarcadero, walking fast. I went after her. The Embarcadero side of Filbert Street is no street at all but a winding narrow wooden staircase that climbs steeply up to the hump of Telegraph Hill—”

  “Is this a Cook’s Tour?”

  “If you keep on interrupting, I’ll leave.”

  “Sorry. Shoot.”

  “She went up that stairway—it winds back and forth, up and up, to the top of Telegraph Hill. That’s Bohemia—or used to be more than it is now. Full of quaint little houses, at all angles. Well, she went in one of those houses. It was dark when she went, but she turned lights on—so that means she lives there. I spotted the house and went over the Hill and down the other side of Filbert Street, and walked to a Powell Street cable car.”

  “Did this dame see you?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure she didn’t.”

  “Did you get the number?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K. Go to bed and read a book.”

  “I haven’t a book, and besides—”

  “There’s a Gideon in there. Read that.”

  She stood up, said in an anxious voice: “Chief, cool off a bit. You’re too worked up to go tonight. You’ll get in trouble. Honest, you will. Please, chief—”

  “Pat, honey, you’re a swell kid and I like you, I’m crazy about you, but”—he made a gesture—“toddle to the hay, precious. The old man’s going out.”

  Chapter One

  Rah-Rah Stuff

  WHEN he stepped from the elevator into the lobby, Brokhard and Doughty were planted in front of it. Doughty was placidly popping peanuts into his mouth and Brokhard wore a dark, severe look. Cardigan saw them but ignored them and started on his way. Brokhard stopped him and said: “Wait a minute, Cardigan.”

  “Sorry, copper. I’ve got a date with four girls—”

  “How you like yourself! But anyhow—”

  “Any one of them would make you regret your departed youth, Brokhard—and, please, unhand the sleeve and give next summer’s moths a chance.”

  “You must have had a drink.”

  “Five. On which number I begin to hate all cops whose names begin with a B.”

  Doughty said: “I find eating peanuts goes good with beer.”

  “Try finding a couple of hot clues for a change and give the taxpayers a break.”

  “Listen, Irish,” Brokhard broke in seriously. “That’s just what we’re looking for. Now wait! For cripes’ sake, get off the high horse and come down to earth. You’re looking for Kemmerer and so am I. Two heads are better than one—”

  “I see only one around here—and only when I look in that mirror over there.”

  “Now look here, Cardigan—”

  “Forget it, Brokhard. You were tough and nasty earlier tonight. You were wise—a smart guy. O.K.—now you try doing handsprings a while. I wouldn’t tell you anything, Brokhard. I wouldn’t even tell you the time. Any guy that muscles in on my parade—that tries to make a snatch after we spend dough and time to nail a killer—that guy to me, Brokhard, is something that has an ‘r’ and an ‘a’ and a ‘t’ in it—and it’s a three-letter word.”

  “Gosh!” said Doughty, and popped in two peanuts at once.

  Brokhard held his breath while red color suffused his dark, narrow cheeks. “That’s the lay, huh?”

  “You wouldn’t want it any clearer, would you?”

  Brokhard’s voice was chilled. “A lot of guys have hit this town with big ideas. They’re singing Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? now.”

  “They must have been half-wits to begin with. Goom-by, Lieutenant.”

  He strode away across the lobby, punched open the door and went out into Bush Street. The wind hit him, slapped his face, and he ducked his head into it, kept his hands in his overcoat pockets, and pegged on to Powell Street. He hung around Union Square for a while, in front of the St. Francis; saw that Brokhard and Doughty were tailing him and picked up his big feet in a brisk walk down Powell. He turned left at Market, went on; ducked into a pool hall, killed five minutes there, then went out and walked swiftly to Grant Avenue, and up Grant to Sutter. By this time he had shaken Brokhard and Doughty. He climbed into a taxi and said: “Embarcadero side of Filbert.”

  He shot out his legs, sat on the small of his back and lit a cigarette. A window was open and the wind snatched at the smoke, whipped it out. Soon they were speeding along the wide waterfront street, with hills on the left, the Bay on the right. The sky was clear, bright, gemmed with stars, and lights moved liquidly on the dark water.

  The cab stopped and Cardigan got out, paid up, and took the short passageway that led to the base of the Hill. He found the spindly wooden staircase, climbed it, saw a sheer cliff at the left and the great bulk of the Hill before him, with tiny house lights twinkling. The wind whistled among the steps and rough balustrades, and once he paused in his climb to get his breath, to take a backward look at the moving harbor lights.

  Then he went on, following the switchback stairway, coming finally among the first houses—small wooden structures, some with tiny porches and brightly painted doorways with small tin lanterns aglow outside. Pat had not only given him the number; she had supplied a
description of the house, and given its location. At a sharp turn in the stairway he came to it.

  UP here the wind was stronger, humming through aerials. Below, far below, auto lights moved on the Embarcadero and the Bay was a broad dark field. In the windy dark he heard a piano rapping out Gershwin music—The Blue Room; it sounded crisp, clean-cut, well-fingered.

  The house he wanted had an amber lantern burning outside above a maroon door. It had a narrow porch and a frail railing, stilted, with sheer cliff dropping away beneath it. The shades were drawn—two white squares brightened by the light back of them.

  He stepped onto the porch, listened at the door, then at the windows. The wind flapped the long skirt of his overcoat, drummed the brim of his hat against his nape. Presently he moved back to the door, rapped on it with his knuckles. He heard some movement inside, then the click of the lock. The door opened and he looked down at an olive-skinned girl whose jet-black hair was matted down over her ears. Before she could say anything, he pushed in, closed the door and explained: “I don’t want to let the cold in.”

  He tossed his hat to a studio couch, unbuttoned his overcoat and observed, “Nice roost.” He moved across the room, pulled aside a pair of tan monk’s-cloth curtains; saw in the next room a skylight that offered a view of the stars. An easel stood beneath the skylight, with a canvas on it. He turned back into the living room.

  “Artist, huh?”

  She had not moved. Dark green lounging pajamas of some heavy, liquidlike cloth added zest to her dark beauty; bare feet, with red-lacquered toenails, were encased in green sandals. The room was low and warm and intimate, full of easy chairs and fat soft cushions, cigarette trays, magazines.

  Cardigan said: “What’s the matter—no spikka English?”

  “What do you want?” she cried in a low voice.

  He had had an idea that she would have that kind of voice—kind of low and husky with dark possibilities that intrigued the ear. The wind keened over the roof, plucked petulantly at the windows.