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

  “Where is she now?”

  The man shrugged. “Probably walking on the beach.”

  Cardigan strode out of the café. He was heading for the passageway that led to the headquarters bungalow, when Pat fell in step beside him, said: “Here’s your hat, chief.”

  He looked down at her but did not stop. “Where’d you get it? Keep walking, keep walking—and not too close to me.”

  “I found it in that café, under the table where I sat down. It was all bashed in. I felt something was wrong. At the next table I heard some people talking about a fight. I heard one of them say, ‘Looked to me as if the blonde started it, deliberately. The big guy was minding his own business. I saw the cops standing outside that door when she first appeared. They were standing there as if they expected something. Then when she began to pick on the big guy, why, the cops began to come nearer the door. It sure looked like a frame-up of some kind. Look, there she comes now.’ So I turned and saw a girl come out of a door back of the bandstand. Seeing your hat there, and hearing those men, I knew something had gone wrong and I reasoned, from their talk, that the girl had had something to do with it. So I followed her out of the café.”

  “Swell!”

  “And then a peculiar thing happened, chief. I followed her to the Old Mill, down near the end of the boardwalk. She got in one of the boats all by herself. It was Number Thirteen, I remember that. Well, when Number Thirteen came out of the tunnel again, five minutes later, she was not in it!”

  “You sure of that, Pats?”

  “Positive!” she said.

  “Give me my hat.”

  She gave it to him.

  He said: “Now where’s the Old Mill?”

  “Not far.”

  Chapter Four

  Hell Couldn’t Stop Him

  THE Old Mill had a gaudy exterior. The flat-bottomed boats came out of a tunnel on the left, stopped long enough to take on passengers, and disappeared in a tunnel on the right. Between the two tunnels a huge, wooden water-wheel threshed slowly. There were many boats and some had to be sent on empty, to permit room for those that followed. Cardigan bought two tickets and he and Pat entered one of the boats and were shoved off into the black mouth of the tunnel.

  Cardigan said: “I used to do this when I was a kid. It was always a great chance to neck.”

  “Well, don’t suddenly go boyish.”

  “Did I ever make a pass at you yet?”

  “I was only kidding,” she laughed softly.

  They moved slowly through the black tunnel, the boat propelled in places by cogs just beneath the surface of the shallow canal. Ahead, there was an amber glow. Presently the tunnel widened into a broad, greenish cave. Trick lighting made weird designs on the walls. The boat moved slowly between two wooden platforms. Cardigan stepped out, muttering: “Hold the boat here a minute. Hang on to the platform.”

  He crossed the platform to the wall of the cave, felt around with his fingers. He used a pocket flashlight the size and shape of a fountain pen; sprayed its light on the platform. He shook his head and climbed back into the boat. The cogs moved the boat along.

  They entered another tunnel, the boat rubbing against the wooden sides of the canal. The air was cool, damp. In a little while they came out into a cave where there was a waterfall with a floodlight centered on it. Cardigan again stopped the boat and told Pat to hold it. He stepped to the wooden platform, crossed swiftly to the cave wall, which from the boat had appeared to be solid, with no breaks. But now he saw a fissure, taller than he was, and wider. He poked into a passageway lighted by a blue light. At the end of the passageway was a door. He turned and went back to the boat.

  “Something here, Patsy,” he whispered. “Shove off. Wait for me outside.”

  But she had sprung from the boat, letting it move off. “And let you have all the fun by yourself?”

  “Listen, when I tell you to do a thing, chicken—”

  “Duck! Here comes another boat!”

  They fled into the shadows. Cardigan pointed to the fissure in the cave wall. He pressed through it and made his way down the blue-lit corridor, with Pat tip-toeing at his heels.

  There was no knob on the door. He felt around the edges for a button, found none. On the varnished door-panel he saw no wear and tear left by knuckles. He looked at the corridor walls, then up at the blue light, three inches above his head. A light cord dangled. He pulled it. The light did not go out but somewhere behind the door he heard the sound of an electric buzzer.

  A small Oriental opened the door, bowed, said, “Yiss,” and stepped aside.

  CARDIGAN and Pat entered a small anteroom. The Oriental closed the door and reached for Cardigan’s hat. Cardigan shook his head. The Oriental bowed, said, “Yiss,” and held aside drapes, revealing part of another room. Cardigan went in first.

  A black-haired woman was half reclining on a velvet-covered divan. She was tall, sumptuously built, with carved red lips. She wore deep-blue, velvet lounging pajamas, the jacket full, with a Russian collar. Her skin was tawny, her cheekbones high, her eyes wide and meditative. She wore her hair in bangs. She seemed unmoved, unimpressed, by the entrance of Cardigan and Pat.

  She said: “You wish to see someone specially?”

  “The blonde song-and-dance gal from the Sundown Café,” Cardigan replied.

  “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

  “I think you do.”

  She asked languidly, “What reference have you?”

  “None.”

  “Fu,” she said languidly, “bring wine.”

  “Yiss,” said Fu.

  Cardigan slapped his hand down on Fu’s wrist, said: “I didn’t come here to drink wine. Pat, keep her covered.”

  Pat drew her small automatic and trained it on the woman. Cardigan ripped loose a portière rope, bound Fu’s hands behind his back. He made the Oriental lie on the floor, bound his feet.

  The woman’s languid voice said: “A man of few words.”

  “How quick you catch on,” Cardigan growled. He spun on his heel and strode across the room, climbed three steps, pulled aside a portière and stepped into another room, smaller, dimly lit, and furnished with Oriental pieces. He heard the low, uneven drone of voices. On a table was a bowl containing fruit, nuts. In a corner was a small roulette wheel.

  He crossed to a doorway, drew nearer the sound of voices as he moved down a narrow corridor. A closed door drew his attention. He put his ear to it. The voices were behind that door.

  He put his hand on the knob, turned the knob slowly until it would turn no more. He felt the door give. It was not locked. He thrust against it.

  It jammed at the first six inches and he realized instantly there was a chain on the other side. He heard the scuffle of feet, of chairs. A voice said: “Who’s there?”

  Cardigan heard the rattle of poker chips.

  He said: “Sorry. I thought there was a game going on.”

  There was a movement of feet toward the door. Cardigan put his gun back into his pocket. A face appeared at the opening.

  Cardigan nodded up the hall, said: “She told me there was a good game going on.”

  The door was opened by a man Cardigan had seen before, somewhere.

  “Well, if she said so, pal, that’s O.K. by us. Come in.”

  Cardigan entered. It was a plain room with a round table in the center. At the table sat another man Cardigan had seen before. And then instantly he knew. Sam the Mope was also at the table. Sam the Mope stood up, his face beaming.

  “Why, Jack, old kid, old kid!”

  Cardigan felt like flooring him. At the same instant Sam the Mope must have realized his mistake, for his jaw fell, his eyes hung stupidly in their sockets. The other two men were the sharps who had walked out of the café with Sam. There was a fourth chair at the table, unoccupied; but there were chips before it on the table, and a drink.

  THE man who had opened the door brought his eyelids shrewdly together. He looked from Sam to Cardigan
, swiftly. Then he addressed Sam in a deadly voice: “I thought you didn’t know anybody around here!”

  Practically all the chips were in front of Sam. Sam said: “Well, you see, Jack, dis pal o’ mine he useter raise hogs right next t’ me out in Ioway. Doggone, you know I ain’t seen Jack since it musta been t’ree years ago, at de Ioway State Fair. We was both showin’ prize hogs, I an’ Jack, an’ bless me soul if he didn’t cop de blue ribbon from right out under me nose! An’ den he gave up hog raisin’ an’ sold out his farm an’ left for de east.” Sam felt proud of his story and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders, beamed, shook his head. “No, sir. I allus said dat when Jack Cardigan left Ioway—”

  The man beside him jumped up, lashed out: “You hear that, Jake? He said Cardigan!”

  Cardigan pulled his gun. “O.K., fellows. Upsy-wuppsy.”

  Jake staggered backward across the room, muttered, “By cripes, Steve!” in a gagged voice.

  Sam looked bewildered. In fact, he was so bewildered that he raised his hands also.

  The part down the middle of Steve’s black glossy hair was like a thin white stripe. Beneath it, his pale hard face was rigid. “It’s a trap, Jake. This yokel took us in.”

  Sam said: “I would like to resent them woids, Steve. Woids of that kind do make me most resentful.”

  “Sam,” said Cardigan, “pick up your winnings and get out of here. There’s going to be trouble. Come on, drop your hands, Sam. Take what you won, and blow.”

  “Jack, dat is most consid’rat’ of you. I won so far four hunnert an’ sixty-eight bucks.” He began taking the money out of a cigar box. “Pretty poor pickin’s, Jack, but what can a guy do when he’s playin’ against stacked cards? Tsk, tsk. An’ guys wit’ guns under dere arms, O.K.—dere’s me winnin’s—a paltry sum.”

  Cardigan, tight-mouthed, said: “Now beat it. Fast.”

  “Jack, I ain’t a guy dat forgets a good turn. I’m gonna—”

  “Get out, Sam!” Cardigan barked.

  Sam shrugged, picked up his straw hat and ambled toward the door. As he passed Cardigan, he said softly, out of the corner of his mouth: “Watch it. Dere’s someone in de back room.” Then he went out, shaking his head regretfully.

  Cardigan said: “Tell the other guy to come out of that back room.”

  “There’s nobody in there,” rasped Steve.

  “Tell him to come out.”

  “Who?”

  Cardigan smiled grimly. “Would it be Kenneth Drew?”

  The two men looked steadily at him. Steve moistened his lips, moved his head. The white stripe down the middle of his hair gleamed. The pulse at Jake’s temple was beating.

  Cardigan raised his voice: “Come out of that back room!” He approached the table. On the edge of the table a cigarette was smoldering. There was lipstick on the end of it. Cardigan looked up at the men, tightened on his gun. “Don’t try it, Jake. Is Clara Rubio a good poker player?”

  They were regarding him darkly.

  He yelled again: “Come out of the room before I shoot into it!”

  THE door opened and the blonde from the café leaned there, her eyes sultry, her full lips sullen. She strolled into the room, leaving the door open. “Well, here I am. What about it?”

  “Join the waiting line, sister. I know a frame when I see one and that was a frame at the café. Now I don’t want to blow you guys apart. I want Kenneth Drew and I want Clara Rubio. It figures as plain as simple addition. Brady’s mixed up in it because he told that guy at the parking lot not to worry about Drew’s car being parked there. It was Brady put you, sister, up to starting that brawl at the café, so’s he could gang on me for disorderly conduct. You, sister, were tailed here. You’re in it, too. You’re all in it: you and you and you and the good-looking dame with the bangs. Now come clean. Where’s Drew? And where’s this old fat dame Rubio? I want something like seven grand back from her.”

  The two men and the girl remained motionless, like images. Finally Steve, the white stripe down his hair glistening, said: “Why didn’t you bring a flock of cops along?”

  “This is private. If I don’t get what I want, if I don’t get Kenneth Drew—then I’ll go to the cops.”

  They smiled sinisterly at him.

  The blast of a gun shook the room. It was not Cardigan’s gun. It was not the gun of anyone else in that room. But Cardigan knew he was hit: there was the sensation of a jolt somewhere in his body. He fired through the open door into the darkness of the room beyond. He turned on Steve.

  “Don’t,” he gritted.

  But Steve had ideas.

  Cardigan shot him in the middle of the chest. The blonde screamed and tore at her hair and Steve drew himself up to his toes, his mouth straining. He put a hand against the table, turned half around, to lean on his arm. He fell face forward across the table.

  Jake did not get his gun clear. A second shot exploded in the darkness beyond the doorway. Cardigan felt the hat on his head twitch. He jumped to one side as a third shot blazed out of the darkness. Wood splintered somewhere behind him. The blonde pressed her body against the wall, her eyes wild with horror, her mouth open and out of shape and sucking her breath.

  Steve’s body fell off the table. The blonde screamed. Jake made another try for his gun, clawing at his left armpit. Cardigan fired and smashed Jake’s arm.

  “Ask for it, Jake, and you get it.”

  Jake looked stupidly at his bloody hand and the blonde made a mad, frenzied rush for the corridor door. Cardigan tripped her and she slammed down to the floor.

  “You too,” he muttered.

  Pain was beginning to pump through his body. It seemed centered in his right side, high, up beneath his arm. He slapped at the light switch, put out the lights. He heard Jake sit down on the floor and swear. Cardigan crept along the wall, felt his way around to the edges of the open doorway. From his pocket he drew his small cylindrical flashlight. Snapping it on, he rolled it into the doorway, its beam spraying into the other room.

  INSIDE there was an outcry of fear. Cardigan backed across the room. Now he could see into the other room. Explosions banged in his ears. He saw a man trying to shoot out the flashlight that lay on the floor. The bullets tore into the floor. The blonde screamed again. The gun in the other room clicked. It clicked again. Cardigan saw the man stare horrified at the empty weapon.

  Cardigan called out: “O.K. Chuck it and stick your hands up, brother.” He rose, turned on the lights. He went across the room, picked up the flashlight and stepped with it through the doorway. He played its beam on the man’s face. Instantly he remembered the eyes he had seen regarding him through a window in the Blackman lobby. Blue. Wide and very blue now.

  “Sweet cripes,” muttered Cardigan.

  It was Cable, the local bank clerk, the youth who had given him so detailed a description of Clara Rubio. He was shaking, his teeth were chattering. With an agonized cry in his throat he rushed forward, tried to fight his way past Cardigan.

  “Let me go!” he screamed. “Let me go!”

  Cardigan said, “Don’t be funny,” and locked Cable’s arms behind his back, clipped on the manacles. “Where’s Drew?”

  Cable choked: “You damn well know he’s dead!”

  “I had a stinking suspicion of that.”

  “I didn’t do it!” Cable panted. “Brady—with his nightstick! He was so damn free with his nightstick!”

  Cardigan marched him across the room, out into the corridor, down the corridor and through the small room and down the three steps into the room where Pat was still covering the woman on the divan.

  Pat let out a cry of relief: “Oh, chief—thank God!”

  The woman with the bangs stood up, placed her palms against her cheeks. Terror crawled across her face.

  Cable choked: “I tried my best, Clara—”

  “Clara!” Cardigan grunted. “You told me she was a fat old dame with an ugly puss!” The woman slumped to the divan.

  Cable muttered: “Sure.
I gave you a bum steer.”

  There was a sudden splintering of wood, then a crash. Cardigan whirled toward the anteroom. The drapes whipped back and two state troopers came in, their guns drawn. Cardigan lowered his gun and said: “O.K., boys. Take it away.”

  “Who are you?” the first trooper said.

  “I’m a private dick from New York. Cardigan.”

  The trooper grinned. “Glad to know you. We got a phone call that there was something hot here and the guy explained just how to get here.”

  “What guy?”

  “He wouldn’t give his name. He said like this: ‘I beg to surprise you of de fact dat a very swell guy by de name o’ Cardigan is in very much of a jam—’”

  Cardigan nodded. “I get it, I get it.”

  “You don’t look like you’re in much of a jam,” the trooper grinned.

  “Well, the guy that called you is an awful pessimist.”

  The trooper said: “What’s the matter with the private police in this park? They fall asleep?”

  “You don’t know the half of it, trooper,” Cardigan chuckled. He stopped chuckling, staggered a step, braced himself against the wall. “I forgot,” he muttered, his face growing pale.

  Pat ran to him. He closed his eyes, smiling ruefully to himself, and slid down the wall.

  “Hell, I must be a sissy,” he muttered.

  HE was lying in bed in his room at the Blackman next morning, his head propped up against two pillows. It was a quarter past ten. Sam the Mope, in a green-striped shirt and lavender sleeved garters, had just removed a breakfast tray from the bed. Now he placed a cigarette between Cardigan’s lips, struck a match and held the flame against the cigarette’s end. Cardigan inhaled; exhaled.

  “Thanks a million, Sam.”

  “Well, as me tailor says. ‘Hoy-kay, keed.’”

  There was a knock on the door. Sam crossed to it, opened it. George Hammerhorn, who had flown up at midnight, came in with Pat Seaward. George went right to the bed, put a hand over Cardigan’s, pressed it.

  “How’s it, boy?” he said, looking very proud.

  “Nothing to it. I’ll be up for the six-ten.”