The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Page 36

  Cardigan snapped his hand and blood flew from it. Garrity jumped back, clipped: “My new coat, damn you!”

  Cardigan pointed. “Look out for that dame, Pete. She’s a female Dracula.”

  “Listen, you. Who’s that I handcuffed to the stairway downstairs? Listen. I met him coming out the front door before. He stopped and then he decided to go for a walk. So I walked with him and then I asked him if he always walked with his hand in his pocket. So he was warming a rod. So I waltzed him back to the door. Who is he?”

  “A heel. They’re all heels.”

  “Well, I’m glad I know. When I came in here, I didn’t know whether to shoot you or this guy.”

  “My pal!”

  “Who’s this guy I shot?”

  “His friends used to call him Sam. He bumped off that taxi driver.”

  “Listen, now after I save your life are you going to hand me a load of baloney like that?”

  Cardigan pointed. “Hold that jane. When I say hold her, I mean hold her. Put your foot on her neck.”

  He gripped his gun in his left hand, pushed back the sliding doors, found lights, stepped over the white-haired man and put his shoulder through the next door. He brushed splinters from the shoulder, turned on lights, stopped short.

  A woman lay on the bed. He saw her eyes rolling. She was bound and gagged. He tore off the gag.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Are you the police department?”

  “The police department is in the other room. You’re Marta Dahl. Listen, don’t tell me you’re not!”

  “I—I—am Marta—”

  “Swell! I’m Cardigan. Glad to know you, Miss Dahl. Now don’t get excited. We’re going to Poland together.”

  “But I have a husband in Poland—”

  “What the hell—I mean, I would get a break like that—I mean, sure, that’s swell!”

  “But please—these ropes—they’re cutting me— Oh, I’m so hopeless—so horrified—so tired—”

  He got the ropes off, said: “Now rest here. Just rest here a little while. Everything’s all right. Only—” he nodded toward the rear of the house— “I wouldn’t want you to see what’s in the other room. Just rest here. There’s no danger.”

  SHE nodded, put her hands to her eyes. He spun on his heel, strode long-legged through the next room, stepped over the white-haired man and entered the rear room. Garrity had laid the woman on the divan and was stroking his hard jaw. He sighed.

  “Pretty, Cardigan, ain’t she?”

  “Now I’ll tell one. What I’d like to know, Pete, is how the hell you turned up here.”

  Garrity scratched the underside of his chin. “It sounds nutty. Yager busts into headquarters a little while ago hauling this hophead Chink Wiggins. Yager is all smiles and yelling for the reward. He says he nabbed this egg on the back fire-escape of this address. What does the egg say? ‘I killed the taxi driver. I kidnaped Marta Dahl.’ And Yager says, ‘You see!’ like that.”

  Cardigan snapped. “That dirty bum Yager tailed me from the hotel and he’s been tailing me—”

  “Yeah, what I figured. So the newspaper guys flock in. Yager grins and sticks his chest out. The hophead says he killed Marta Dahl too. Yager don’t say anything about you. But I begin to figure. I know he’s a lousy dick. I figure he couldn’t follow a clue even if it was hooked onto his nose. But I remember you had your mind set on this Chink Wiggins. I figure you tailed Chink and Yager tailed you. But I don’t say anything. I slip out of headquarters and fandango over on my lonesome…. Oh, young lady, are you awake?”

  The woman stared at them. “I guess I’m done for, huh?”

  “I’ll say you are,” Cardigan said. “With Marta Dahl in the front room.”

  “What!” exclaimed Garrity.

  “Resting, Pete. Sit down and wait. This jane here is the head of it. She got all these bums to kidnap Marta Dahl.”

  “Oh, yes?” the woman said and chuckled brittlely. “And who got me to get these bums to do it? I’ll tell you. I won’t burn, smart boy. Not me! Do you know who’s behind it? I’ll tell you.” She leaned back. “Francis K. Braun. Who is he? Marta Dahl’s banker. The head of a small uptown bank where a friend of a friend told her to put her money. When she wanted the four hundred thousand grand the bank was in a bad way but they didn’t dare tell her she couldn’t get it inside of two weeks. Braun had been fooling around with the funds. If he told her she couldn’t have the money it would have raised a howl. Bank examiners. Ruination. Penitentiary. So he came to me. Knew me well. I supplied him with hop. Sure, he was a hophead too. So Marta Dahl was to be kidnaped, held until he could replace the money, and then released. That’s all there was to it. It would have worked. Only Sam there went haywire. It was a neat plan. It would have worked swell but things happened.”

  Garrity was stunned. “You mean to tell me the head of a bank would do a thing like that!”

  “Listen, copper, when a big shot gets in a jam he’ll do anything. He invited Marta Dahl to his apartment this evening—”

  Garrity got up, crossed the room and picked up the phone. “I’ll have some men pick that guy up. I’ll—”

  The sound of a gun rocked the room. Garrity dropped the telephone. Cardigan bounded to his feet and lunged through the wide doorway to the other room.

  The white-haired man was turning over on his stomach, groaning. A smoking gun slipped from his fingers. He stiffened and then there was a dark splotch growing on the old rose carpet.

  Cardigan turned him over. He heard a faint outcry.

  Marta Dahl was standing in the doorway that led from the front room. Her hands were pressed to her cheeks.

  “That,” she said, “that is my banker! That is Mr. Braun!”

  Cardigan rose, turned and went back into the rear room.

  Garrity was tearing a gun from the woman’s hand.

  He said: “By God, Jack, if she didn’t try to put a bullet in your back!”

  “She just doesn’t like me,” Cardigan said. “It must have been something I did.”

  A Truck-Load of Diamonds

  Chapter One

  The Hesitant Mr. Micah

  IT WAS something about a jewel theft in Thirty-seventh Street, over near Fifth Avenue….

  Pat Seaward pronged the telephone receiver, sat back, killed a cigarette against the side of a corroded ashtray and read quickly the notes she had taken down.

  Meantime she fooled with a lock of hair, near her left ear. It was late noon. She was the only one in the agency office—a trim, neat symphony of clothes, hairdress, good looks. She glanced up, reflected. Sunlight winked on the distant Chrysler spire.

  Opening a desk drawer, she withdrew a dog-eared notebook, flipped the indexed pages to “C.” At the head of the “Cs” was the name Cardigan; beneath it, in parenthesis, an explanatory line: “Addresses at which he might be found.” There were twenty-one addresses. Alongside one of them was the word “home”; alongside eight, the word “girl”; to the other twelve addresses was appended the one word—“speakeasy.” And there was also a footnote: “If not at any of the above, try police stations, jails, hospitals, or the city morgue.”

  She began using the telephone. The sixth call, ending in “Foggy Joe” Pomano’s place, brought results, and Pat said: “Well, you vanishing American, it’s about time.”

  His voice said: “You old nagger, you.”

  “Listen,” she said. “Now listen. Traum and Fleer, the jewel people, just called up. Listen now, because they’re one of our best clients. They’ve just had a sixty-thousand-dollar diamond bracelet snatched from their man Harold Micah, in East Thirty-seventh Street. They want you to look after their interests. The crowd’s at the Twenty-fifth Precinct house. Are you able to ambulate?”

  “Ever see me when I wasn’t?”

  “Well, I shan’t go into that. Will you go over?”

  “O.K., precious. Soon as I finish this stud hand I’ll take a tramp over.”

  She said: “Why take a tramp alo
ng?”

  “You bring back my childhood,” Cardigan said. “Haven’t heard that one since I was six. Goom-by, chicken.”

  SO it was something about a jewel theft in broad daylight, some minutes shy of high noon, four blocks from the Traum & Fleer establishment.

  Cardigan, entering a large room of the precinct house, saw Captain Garrity, an H.Q. dick, sitting on a desk and spinning a coin in the air. Two precinct dicks leaned against the wall. Harold Micah, the jewel firm’s man, sat in a swivel chair; he was small, plain, commonplace in looks and dress—and about fifty years of age. On another chair sat a tall, wiry, waspy man—cool, collected, with dark pool-like eyes. There was a blue bruise on the olive skin near his left cheekbone.

  Garrity—hard, bluff, clean-boned and straight as a ruled line—Garrity said: “Did I hear you knock, Jack?”

  “How come you’re up in a white man’s neighborhood, Pete?”

  “Well, I guess that makes us even. I’ll tell you, you gorilla. I just happened to be Johnny-on-the-spot…. This man is Mr. Micah. He was carrying the bracelet.”

  “We’ve met,” Cardigan said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Cardigan,” said Micah. “I’m relieved to find you on the case.”

  Cardigan grinned at Garrity. “I guess that puts you in your place, Pete.”

  Garrity could take it. He grinned back with his hard bony face, then jerked a thumb, said: “This man says his name’s Paul Kinnard. Have you met?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure,” Cardigan said.

  Garrity said, “He was supposed to have snatched the bracelet.”

  “Yeah,” said Kinnard. “I was supposed to have.”

  “Suppose now,” Cardigan said, “instead of all this nice bright repartee—suppose I get some details.”

  Garrity flipped the coin, caught it, pocketed it. His voice was blunt, clipped. “At eleven-forty Mr. Micah left the establishment carrying the bracelet in a small case. The case was in his pocket. A man named Fitchman had telephoned them to send over the bracelet. Said he’d seen it in the window. The address was an office building on Broadway near Thirty-sixth. You’ve heard of Reuben Fitchman—the big silk man. The establishment was glad to send the bracelet over. We just checked up. Fitchman never phoned at all. It was a stall.

  “Mr. Micah was jostled in a crowd in Thirty-seventh Street. He was tripped—accidentally maybe he fell; he says he was tripped. A man helped him up. He says this looks like the man. This man hurried off, west. Mr. Micah missed the case from his pocket and yelled. I was watching a safe being hoisted at the time. I got to him when he was running west. We saw Kinnard hiking it up the Thirty-eighth Street “El” station. A northbound train was pulling in. It pulled out with Kinnard on board. We hustled into a cab.

  “Traffic was at a standstill on Sixth Avenue. Some company was making a movie of a wild auto ride. We passed the outfit like a bat out of hell and reached the Forty-second Street station. We beat it up the stairs and got to the platform just as the train was stopping. I told a brakeman to keep the train stopped. We watched the people get off. Kinnard didn’t get off. Then I gave orders to close all the doors. Mr. Micah and I went through the train. We found Kinnard on the rear end platform. I nailed him. He started to argue and I took a poke at him—”

  “How the hell did I know you were a cop?” Kinnard said.

  “I dragged him off the train,” Garrity went on, “but he didn’t have the bracelet. He claims he wasn’t the guy helped Mr. Micah up. He claims he never swiped the bracelet.”

  Cardigan looked at Micah. “You’re sure this is the man?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “You ought to be absolutely sure.”

  Micah looked uncomfortable. “I—I was a little upset when I fell. I didn’t look squarely at the man who helped me up. But when I missed the bracelet, my instinct chose this man. There was something about his clothes—his walk. And when I yelled I thought I saw him walk faster. He didn’t look around. And he ran toward the station—”

  “Naturally,” said Kinnard. “I saw the train coming. I wanted to catch it. Why shouldn’t I run?” He scowled at Micah. “This guy’s lying. He had to pick someone out. So he picked me. I’m the goat.” He returned his dark gaze to Garrity. “You’ve got to get a little more to hold me, mister. I’ll be no goat.”

  MICAH grimaced painfully. He wasn’t sure, and this embarrassed him. Perspiration stood out on his face. Kinnard remained cool, dark, a little resentful, but unruffled. Garrity sighed. He motioned to Cardigan and they stepped outside the room.

  “Jack…” Garrity paused, made a face, knuckled the hard slab of his jaw; then he looked up, puzzled but keen-eyed. “Jack, this case is punk. Either Micah’s scared to come right out and say this bird robbed him, or he’s not sure the bird did rob him. Maybe he just picked him at random. Hell, he had to save his face to some extent, didn’t he? If he couldn’t name anybody—if he said he just lost the ice, it’d look suspicious. Hey—” his voice dropped—“what do you know about Micah?”

  “Been with the firm ten years. Lost his wife two years ago and collected ten thousand insurance. All alone now. Far as we know—steady, reliable, short on the brains side but that helps. A guy that messengers jewels around shouldn’t have too much imagination. Think it’s a frame?”

  Garrity growled: “Hell, I was just thinking. Forget it. The guy seems kind of goofy. Why the hell didn’t he come right out and say Kinnard was the guy? It’d make it easier.”

  “What about Kinnard?”

  Garrity looked at a slip of paper in his hand. “He’s living at the Hotel Gold on Lexington. I checked that up. He’s played in a couple of movies—minor parts. Used to play a piano on the vaudeville stage for a while. Now he’s a piano player and wit that hires out for swell parties, banquets, things like that. You see, Jack, things don’t reason out. This bird has an address, a business. There’s a fluke somewhere. If Micah don’t come right out and identify him for sure, we can’t hold him.”

  “If you let him go right away,” Cardigan said, “you’ll have the insurance people on your neck. You’d better stall around. Take him down to H.Q. See if he’s got a record. If he swiped the ice, he could have passed it to a pal and steered you wrong.”

  “He’s no sap. He’ll want a lawyer and I wouldn’t blame him.”

  Cardigan said: “Get Micah out here.”

  THEY took Micah to another room and Cardigan eyed him for a long minute. Micah’s face looked pasty and he kept at it with his handkerchief.

  “It’s like this,” Cardigan said. “You’ve got to know if this is the man. You’ve got to be pretty sure about it. You can’t guess. You see, you work for a house that’s got piles of dough. If you had this man arrested and filed the charge formally against him—and if it turned out he wasn’t the guy, your firm might have a lawsuit on its hands.”

  Micah was troubled. “I—I should not like to have an innocent man arrested. I said I thought this was the man. I tell you I didn’t look squarely at him—I was so shaken after the fall. I just said, ‘Thanks,’ brushed myself off and by that time he was gone. I suppose I just saw him, so to speak, out of the corner of my eye.”

  “Look here,” Garrity chopped in, a little impatient. “I want to help you all I can. I’ve got a reputation I’m kind of proud of: I never pinch a guy just because I need a pinch. I won’t do it now. I’ll give you a break. If you swear outright that Kinnard’s the man, I’ll pinch him. Will you do that?”

  “I—I—you see, an innocent man—I—”

  “Oh, nuts!” Garrity growled. “Is this the guy or isn’t he? Yes or no? Do you want to arrest him? I’m just a cop. This is up to you. You may not be certain, but if you just say you are, I’ll arrest him. That plain?”

  Micah inhaled deeply, stared at the floor. “I—I can’t say for sure he’s the man. I—I couldn’t swear to it. There was, really, quite a crowd around me at the time. It might have been—I might have just thought….” He slumped, sighed
hopelessly. “I don’t knew. I’m all—all upset.”

  Garrity snorted. “O.K. So I’ll let this guy go.” He made a decisive gesture, swiveled, stalked to the door. His hand on the knob, he paused, turned around, then returned to face Micah. “Listen, Mr. Micah. I hate to do this. Can’t you for cripes’ sake know if this was the guy? Can’t you say it was? Just so we can hold him. Huh?”

  “No-o…. I can’t. I—I’m sorry—”

  Garrity barked: “Now you should be sorry! After I clown all over the street and bop a guy—now you’re sorry! What the hell kind of a cop do you think I am?”

  Micah made vague gestures.

  “For crying out loud,” Cardigan said, “don’t be an old woman, Pete. Let the guy go. Be noble. But—listen, Pete—like an old pal, hold him for about fifteen minutes longer.”

  “Why should I?” crabbed Garrity.

  “Now you wouldn’t go cutting corners on a pal, would you?”

  Garrity leveled an arm. “No longer, Jack—no longer than fifteen!” He jerked his chin toward Micah. “Come with me, Mr. Micah.”

  Micah and Garrity left the room. Cardigan scooped up a phone, leaned comfortably back on his heels, called the agency. George Hammerhorn answered.

  Cardigan said: “This is Jack, George. Pat there?… No, I don’t want to talk to her. Tell her to shoot right down to Thirty-fifth Street, near the Twenty-fifth Precinct house…. No, not in the house; near it. I’ll walk out with a guy. She’s to follow this guy and see if he meets anyone after I leave him…. Well, George, there’s just something screwy here…. The guy’s name is Kinnard.”

  Chapter Two

  The Girl in the Gold

  THE house was in the respectable West Eighties. Cardigan found the hall door open. The foyer was clean; an expensive but worn carpet padded the staircase. Once this house must have been the stronghold of the rich, but wealth had since migrated eastward, ramparted itself east of the Park, hard by the river. Renovations had not entirely wiped out the Georgian influence. The third floor was dim, cool; doors shone darkly. The door marked “33” was in the rear. It took Cardigan three minutes to find the proper master key.