The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 33

  He said: “I came to the city to pick up a murderer. That about makes it clear, doesn’t it?”

  Kemmerer panted: “Now listen—”

  “Shut up!” the girl snapped. “I told you to shut up!”

  Cardigan stood up and the girl shifted, raising her gun. Cardigan scowled at her. “You’re way ahead of yourself, sister. You’d never get me on board that schooner. Do you know why? Because there’s an operative of mine covering this dump right now. I walk out of this place top-dog. If I don’t, you’ll hear the blast of a police whistle.”

  “There’s a back way out, smarty,” she said; and then to Kemmerer, “Get up, Niles, and put your coat on. We’ll take this big harp over to ‘Nigger’s’ and run him out to the schooner before daybreak. I hate to do it, but he won’t listen to reason.”

  Kemmerer jumped up, put on vest and coat. His suit, though expensive, was badly wrinkled, as though it had been immersed in water. His pale face was haggard, his eyes were shot with fear and apprehension.

  The girl said: “You take this.” She passed him the gun she had taken from Cardigan. “Downstairs and out the back way. Grab that flashlight.”

  Kemmerer picked up a pocket flash in his left hand, held the gun tight in his right.

  The girl said: “O.K., Niles. Open the door and see if the way’s clear.”

  KEMMERER jumped to the door, flung it open. Brokhard struck downward with his left hand, and with his right jammed a gun against Kemmerer’s belly. Kemmerer almost collapsed. Doughty, pop-eyed, covered the woman. Brokhard’s face looked lean and tight and dark, but a sardonic half-smile warped his thin lips.

  “Fast one, huh?… O.K., Kemmerer—drop the shoot-gun like it was hot.”

  Kemmerer dropped it and Brokhard planted his foot on it. Doughty said to the girl: “Now, miss, as you are,” and moved his flat feet toward her. Shaking, glitter-eyed, she allowed her gun to be taken away from her. Doughty beamed. “That’s nice, miss.”

  Brokhard said to Cardigan: “Well, mastermind, how do you like this? Pretty neat, huh? You should have known we have hotel operators under our thumb. I listened in when your dame phoned. Smart, eh?”

  “Honest, Brokhard,” Cardigan said, “your cleverness slays me, knocks me down. I’m frankly amazed.”

  “I thought you would be.”

  “I find the leads, I poke my nose into the trouble—and good old Brokhard walks in and picks up the marbles. A nice guy—fearless, clever, kind to children!”

  “Have a peanut, miss?” Doughty offered the girl.

  “Oh, shut up!” she rasped.

  “Lot of oil in them. Good for the system.”

  Kemmerer cried: “Now look here—”

  “Niles!” the girl snapped.

  He looked at her, quaked, swallowed hard. Her dark eyes were burning fiercely on him.

  Brokhard droned: “All right, boys and girls. Pick up your tootsies and let’s walk around to the station house. Come along, too, Cardigan. We’d love to have you. Crazy to have you.”

  Cardigan wore a malignant dark look. “Nuts to you, Brokhard! I wouldn’t be seen on the street with you.”

  “Well, I hope you have lots of fun twiddling your thumbs on the long ride back to New York. Come on, Doughty. You two—get out.”

  Brokhard took Kemmerer and Doughty took the girl, marched them out of the room and down the hall. Cardigan, bitter with rage, took a long slug from a bottle of rye, kicked over a chair, left the room and lagged toward the staircase. He saw Brokhard and the others in the hall below, saw them reach the front door, go out. Cardigan went heavy-heeled down the steps, opened the front door and lounged out.

  Pat moved from a shadow. “Chief!”

  “Hello, chicken.”

  “What happened, chief?”

  He made no reply. Staring dismally up the street, he saw Brokhard and the others hustling along, a block away. Then suddenly he saw three men appear from nowhere. The action was sudden, quick, violent. No shots. But blows—sudden sharp blows. Two figures fell to the sidewalk. Five figures vanished down an alley.

  “Good lord!” Pat cried.

  “Gimme your gun.”

  “But—”

  “Gimme it, I tell you!”

  She passed him her small automatic and he ran up the street, found Brokhard and Doughty getting shakily to their feet, staggering. Brokhard was cursing violently and Doughty was saying, “Gosh, my! Gosh, my!”

  Cardigan started toward the alley, then stopped as though struck by a sudden thought. He turned and looked at the two detectives. They had their guns out.

  “Not sore, are you?” Cardigan asked.

  “Out o’ my way!” Brokhard snarled. “Come on, Doughty!”

  They plunged into the alley.

  Cardigan retraced his steps to where Pat stood. “Go home, Pat. I mean this now. Go home and sit by the telephone. You’ll probably get a call. No arguments now. Go home!”

  He reentered the house, withdrawing a key.

  Chapter Four

  Murder & Co.

  HE LEFT the house with Pat’s gun in one pocket and a .45 automatic in the other; the .45 he had found, loaded, in a drawer in the fat girl’s sideboard. He stretched his legs eagerly and with a vengeance, a bulky tall man with a purpose. It was late, well past midnight, and the streets were deserted; his footfalls rang with a hollow, echoing sound. He hit Pacific, darker and gloomier than any other street below Grant Avenue. Reaching the Embarcadero, he felt the cold hand of the Bay wind against his face. He turned right, paused beneath a street light to read again what he had scrawled on a slip of paper. Then he went on.

  Where two streets met at a sharp angle, there was a narrow alley that sliced between two tottering ancient red brick buildings. The houses were sunk in shadow, the alley was a black causeway through which Cardigan felt his way with groping hands. The alley emptied into a cluttered yard, and here he found a fire-escape. He climbed upward, soundlessly, careful of each step, and presently he reached the roof, saw a square of light. He crawled on hands and knees across the roof until he came to the skylight. Crouching in the wind, he looked down into a large, shabby room.

  He saw Rita sitting on the arm of a worn leather chair. Niles Kemmerer was slumped on a sagging cot. A huge dark man stood with his arms folded. He looked like a wrestler, barrel-chested, bulging-muscled, bald. A gold ring dangled from one ear. The Nigger, Cardigan thought—though the man was a Portuguese. A slim, well-dressed man, with a part sliced down the middle of his hair, sat at the table toying with an empty glass. A short, oval-faced man, with close-cropped brown hair, sat beside him, picking a cigarette to shreds. The Nigger was talking, gesticulating, but Cardigan heard nothing. The girl nodded, from time to time. Kemmerer looked woebegone, haggard, and apparently had no part in the conversation.

  Finally the man with the center-part rose, withdrew a roll of bills, counted off several and tossed them on the table. The Nigger looked at them, reached out and picking them up, counted them. The girl began talking violently toward the man who had a part down the center of his hair. He shrugged indifferently. Kemmerer jumped up and Cardigan saw his face working, his lips moving rapidly. The Nigger grabbed him and the oval-faced man stood up and brushed off his fingers. The girl slumped to a chair and hung her head. The Nigger put on a blue peajacket. Kemmerer fled to the other side of the room and the Nigger started after him, but the oval-faced man said something and drew his gun and the Nigger stopped. Under the dark eye of the gun, Kemmerer dragged his feet forward. The oval-faced man put on his hat. Neither the girl nor the sleek tall man showed any signs of moving. The girl began talking again, but a word from the tall sleek man silenced her.

  Cardigan backed up, reached the edge of the roof and went down the fire-escape to the dark, damp well of the yard. He groped around in the darkness, found the alley and felt his way through it to the street. His nerves were tingling. The street here was bleak; not a soul moved; dull drab houses shouldered each other in a mournful silence and f
ar away a heavy, doleful whistle drifted across the Bay.

  He heard a door open, knew where it was even though the thick darkness prevented his seeing it. Shoes scuffed on stone and a clipped voice said: “Pick up your feet, Kemmerer.”

  Shapes moved in the darkness, loomed, came within several feet of where Cardigan stood at the mouth of the alley. To follow these men would be ridiculous. It was too dark, and footsteps made too much sound. He drew the .45 from his pocket—he had already jacked a shell into the chamber. The three shapes went past him, so close that he held his breath; and then he took one step and was only three feet behind them.

  “Stop dead, lugs—and reach high.” His voice had a blunt, hard sound in the darkness. “High and fast, sweethearts—or it’s doused lights.”

  HARD heels scraped to a stop and shadows rose that were arms. A rough, startled oath ripped from the lips of the Nigger. No sound came from the oval-faced man. Kemmerer gasped. But three pairs of arms were up.

  “Kemmerer,” Cardigan said. “I want you for the murder of a pal of mine.”

  A choked gasp came from Kemmerer.

  Cardigan continued: “You other heels—walk toward that street light a block away. Walk fast, with long steps, and smack your heels down hard so I can hear them. Stop smacking them down and I’ll cut loose with this rod. O.K.; I’ll give you one minute to reach that street light. Get going.”

  The Nigger and the oval-faced man started off in step, and Cardigan advanced, prodded Kemmerer, slapped his pockets and felt beneath his coat. Kemmerer was unarmed.

  He choked: “Now listen. Now—”

  “Stow it.”

  The two men were walking toward the street light, smacking their heels down hard and in unison. They had almost reached the light when one of them turned and fired twice. Cardigan ducked. Kemmerer bounded like a jackrabbit and went crashing against the door through which he had come a few minutes before. The door flew inward and Kemmerer went in with it. Another shot banged up ahead as Cardigan dived after Kemmerer. The bullet chipped brick a few inches from Cardigan’s face, splashed brick dust into his eyes. He leaped into the hallway, slammed the door shut and threw home an iron bolt.

  In the pitch dark he could hear feet drumming up the stairway.

  “Kemmerer!” he yelled.

  He went bounding up the stairway, saw light—but not its source—pierce the darkness of the upper hallway; heard the crash of a body against wood and a startled outcry. Reaching the hall, he saw a door swinging shut. He leaped, crashed against it and whipped it inward as a shot crashed and put a splintered hole in it. But the door knocked the sleek tall man down. Kemmerer was trying to raise a back window. Cardigan shot the window out and amid a shower of glass Kemmerer reeled backward across the room. Rita, unarmed, stood tall and tense, round-eyed, white-faced.

  The man on the floor was whipping his body around and trying to bring his gun up. Cardigan jumped, kicked him flat back against the floor and the gun flew upward and landed on the table. Kemmerer jumped for it. Cardigan shot at the table, blew a bottle of whiskey to smithereens and Kemmerer covered his face and fell backward onto the cot. The girl shook as though an electric current vibrated her whole body and downstairs there was hammering against the hall door.

  “Now it’s hell for sure!” the girl muttered.

  Cardigan snapped: “If you don’t want to get spread around the floor, sister, scram out that window. You’re liable to get hurt as well as anyone else. This looks like old-home week. Kemmerer! Get up off that cot! We’re going out the back window too. The State of New York wants you for murder and I want you for another murder—”

  “No! No! I’ll turn myself over to the San Francisco cops!”

  “And get a stretch in stir for a lousy land swindle, eh? With two out of three chances of breaking jail and taking it on the lam back to the Orient! Nix, baby. Get up off that cot!”

  Pounding feet came up the stairs. Cardigan jumped to the door, barred it; spun and clouted down the tall sleek man as the latter swung on him. To the woman he rasped: “Get out! Get out that window! This is somebody’s finish and the only thing I want is Kemmerer!”

  A hard body hit the outside of the door. “Open it!”

  Cardigan barked: “Get away from it or you’ll get hurt. I tell you guys all I want is Kemmerer! Get away!” He backed up to the window. “Get over here, Kemmerer.” He grabbed Kemmerer and hauled him to the window, dumped him onto the fire-escape and stepped out after him. He half carried, half dragged him down to the yard.

  STUMBLING around in the yard, still dragging Kemmerer, he heard footsteps rapping down the fire-escape. Rita dropped into the darkness. Cardigan reached the street with Kemmerer, found the girl tagging along, panting hard.

  Kemmerer would not get up. He dragged his body and cried: “I’m not going! You’re not taking me back east!”

  “Damn you, Kemmerer, get up!”

  “Rita,” Kemmerer screamed, “you got me into this! Damn you, you got me into this!”

  “Shut up and get on your feet!” Cardigan snapped.

  “You—you, Rita!” Kemmerer bellowed.

  Cardigan reached down, picked Kemmerer up and flung him over his shoulder. “By God, if I have to carry you, I’ll carry you!” he ground out; and breathless, to the girl, “You beat it, sister. Get out of here!”

  There was a scramble in the dark behind him, a shout, scraping shoes. Gun thunder roared in his ears; he felt Kemmerer jerk and twist violently and heard his piercing scream. Kemmerer jerked so violently that he uprooted Cardigan, and both went down. Still screaming, Kemmerer jumped up, staggered away. Two more shots rang out and he yelped sharply, twisted upward, slammed down again. The girl moaned.

  Cardigan fired from a squatting position and a figure that had been rushing toward him stopped rushing and began to walk like a drunken duck. Suddenly the figure collapsed amid a mixture of Portuguese oaths and prayers. Two other figures darted in the dark; from one shot a dagger of flame and Cardigan heard the thud of lead in red brick.

  “Here! Here!” the woman cried.

  He spun and fell into a doorway as another shot jarred the frame.

  “Murder!” he growled bitterly; added ironically: “And company, by cripes!… Where’s the bolt?”

  “There is none. It’s a condemned house, but I think we can get out the back way. Come on.”

  “What’s the idea? Who’s side are you on, anyhow?”

  “Come on. Quick.”

  He lunged after her and they found a door at the end of the pitch-black passageway, opened it, entered and closed it. This had a bolt, which Cardigan threw. Both hurried around in the dark, seeking another door or window.

  “I’ll try a match,” Cardigan said.

  He scratched one, found a candle on a battered old table and lit it. He held the candle above his head, looked around.

  “Hey, there is no way out!”

  “Quick! Back through the door—”

  She stopped short.

  Cardigan muttered: “Heard that, didn’t you?”

  Both had heard the front door open and now they heard the thud of feet in the hallway. Cardigan picked up a stool, stood it alongside the door and placed the candle on it. He said: “O.K. This is somebody’s finish. Get back—we’ll get back in the shadows here. They’ll be in the light if they come through that door. Scared?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes were wide, round, dark, and there was a strange pallor in her face. “Just let me stay beside you,” she said. “Just stay beside you.”

  “Say, what’s getting into you?”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Afraid of these heels? Nah!… Say, am I going nuts or are you?”

  “They want me now,” she said. “They got Kemmerer and now they want to finish me. Kemmerer knew too much. They were sending him off with the Portugee tonight. I tried to stop them. I tried to make peace. No go. No go. And because I know what Kemmerer knows. Oakes—”

&nbs
p; “Who’s Oakes?”

  “The tall one, with the part down the middle and—”

  A fist hit the door. “Open it, you!”

  “Go scratch your neck,” Cardigan said. “Come in and you’ll come down.”

  “That’s Oakes,” she whispered. “The other, the little fellow—he’s Fess. Once I was in love with Kemmerer and then I was in love with Oakes and—”

  “Open it, you hear! We’ve got a Tommy here and we’ll cut the door down if you don’t.”

  Cardigan muttered to the girl: “Flat against the side wall there.” He shoved her against the wall, forced her behind him. There was a chill on his spine and he felt his scalp itching, and his throat was tight.

  She was saying in a low, husky voice: “Cardigan, you wouldn’t believe it—I don’t expect you to—but in this little time I’ve fallen for you. I’d die for you, Cardigan.”

  He muttered: “Quiet!” and kept her wedged behind him.

  “I’ve never seen a guy take it the way you can, Cardigan—”

  THEN came the harsh, metallic thunder of the machine gun, its lead slamming through the door, thudding into the back wall, making the table jump. Cardigan felt sweat burst out on his face, but he did not fire. The candle’s flame was twisting, waving like a small yellow banner, smearing light back and forth across the door as the lead splintered wood, began to crack up the heavy iron bolt. A foot kicked the door. The door shook. Another burst of gunfire shattered the bolt and the door swung open and Oakes stood there with the Tommy gun.

  The girl screamed: “Barney!” and leaped from the wall, her arms upraised. “For God’s sake, Barney!”

  “Get out of the way!” Cardigan roared.

  The machine gun banged and the girl wilted, pitched backward. Cardigan cursed and the big .45 in his hand thundered and emptied itself. Oakes went down with a shattered chest and the last bullet drilled the oval-faced man between the eyes.

  Cardigan dropped to his knees beside the girl.

  “You see,” she said. “I did it. I told you I would. And so you got Oakes. It was Oakes who knifed your pal on the boat and tossed Kemmerer overboard. Oakes and Fess got on at Honolulu and found that Kemmerer was bringing four diamonds back with him—valued at forty thousand. They were rifling the stateroom while Kemmerer and your pal were on deck—but then your pal walked in and they let him have it. And then they went out—it was dark—and they shoved a handkerchief in Kemmerer’s mouth and tossed him overboard.