The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 5

  “Chief, why go around making trouble?”

  “I’m Cardigan for one thing, precious. Second, I’m a private cop. Third, this job looks so much like suicide that it’s got all the earmarks of murder.”

  Chapter Two

  Five-Spot Clue

  SEVEN stone steps led up from the sidewalk to a vestibule. You entered the vestibule, rang a bell, and a girl opened the door and looked at you. You were supposed to have a card with an undecipherable scrawl on the back. Cardigan had cards to practically all the places in New York, but he hardly ever had to use them; his face was a good password.

  “Of all people!” exclaimed the girl.

  “I thought you were going in the Follies.”

  “My gentleman friend went bust.”

  “He was no gentleman.”

  “You old kidder, you!”

  He was in the squarish entrance hall and the girl closed the door behind. A couple of house men sat on high-backed Spanish chairs; they looked blankly into space.

  The girl took Cardigan’s hat, ulster, said: “So I thought there one time you were going to speak to Mose Abrams about a job for me in his revue.”

  He flipped her under the chin. “I didn’t think Mose was your style, chicken.”

  Upstairs there was low, throbbing darktown music; a woman’s voice moaning out a delta ballad. Downstairs—down a curving stairway like a stairway in a lighthouse—was a bar paneled darkly like an English alehouse.

  Smoke and dialogue crowded the bar. One end of the rosewood bar was lacking in elbows, and Cardigan placed his there, nibbled at crisp potato chips. Cardigan ordered and nodded to the man who leaned at the opposite end of the bar.

  John “Soft-Shoe” Pomano kept his weight down, his years young. He was a slim, white-skinned Italian, oval-faced, quiet and watchful. He had almond eyes and a habit of moving his arms only from the elbows. He rarely ever bent. He had been in the movies, on the stage, as a dancer. A broken ankle had sent him into the ravioli-and-red-ink trade.

  Cardigan beckoned and Soft-Shoe came over with his straight, slow, quiet walk. He never smiled.

  “Been away, Cardigan?”

  “Here and there.”

  They drank and Soft-Shoe held his glass in front of his chest and watched Cardigan, waited; he seemed a most patient young man.

  Cardigan said: “Ever have a visitor here from Texas?”

  “Once I had a visitor from Wyoming.”

  “This guy was from Texas. A little bony fellow with kind of wide shoulders. About up to your nose. You’d remember him. Clothes cut by a lawn-mower, loud tie, hard collar—raggy kind of hair.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Must have had that Texan drawl. I figure he hit little old New York with a wad, grabbed a brush and a bucket of red paint and started out to do some painting. Maybe he had a little dough.”

  “I’m sorry I missed the dough.”

  Cardigan looked at the ceiling. “Still running those stiff stud games in the attic?”

  “For them that like it.”

  Cardigan shook his head. “Dangerous, John. Some guys might yap if the sleigh-ride’s too long.”

  “No sleigh-rides in my place.”

  “Hell, John, you don’t have to Pollyanna me!” Cardigan chuckled good-humoredly, used a glass swizzle stick in his drink and took a mouthful.

  Soft-Shoe sipped and kept his quiet almond eyes on Cardigan and said in his quiet, lipless way: “Looking for something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find the guy here.”

  “I know. He’s dead, John.”

  “That’s tough.”

  Soft-Shoe turned about and walked away unhurriedly out of the bar, his slim waist, his neat shoulders, riding smoothly in a well-tailored coat.

  CARDIGAN finished his drink, took the stairway up to the entrance hall. He lingered there for a moment and then went up to the next floor. There was a crystal chandelier in a small foyer; off the foyer there was dancing in a large, long room that once had been two rooms.

  Soft-Shoe came out of this room, stopped and hung his quiet almond gaze on Cardigan. “Want a table?”

  “Just poking around, John.”

  Soft-Shoe came closer with his pale, expressionless face. “Listen, Jack. I’ve got a big overhead here and can’t afford to have any bright acts staged. Why don’t you be smart and take the air?”

  Cardigan was craning his neck, looking beyond Soft-Shoe. “John,” he said, “I didn’t come here because a birdie told me. This little guy from Texas was a stranger in town and he wrote down one telephone number. The number was yours.” He dropped his eyes quickly, squarely on Pomano’s face. “Yours, John.”

  “A lot of people call here for friends.”

  “I expected that. But a strange little guy from Texas wouldn’t have this number unless the person he was calling hung out here a lot—or worked here. Or lived here.”

  “That might be swell reasoning, Jack, only it don’t work this time. This is no hide-out for heels. I can’t afford that. I told you the straight. You can’t shadowbox around my lay-out, Jack, and cause a lot of trouble. I got nice people here. It don’t go with me.”

  “You’re getting pretty tough, John.”

  “I’m being frank. That’s the only way to get along in my business.”

  A waiter came and summoned him; he turned and went into the dining-room. Cardigan lit a cigarette, climbed another staircase and entered a large sumptuous room on the top floor. Beneath a green-visored light five men were playing stud. Three were in dinner dress, two were not. Half a dozen women were standing around a chuck-a-luck table and at another table two men were rolling dice. Keepers and patrons were absorbed in their games and little notice was given Cardigan. He hung around, watched faces, played a few times at the chuck-a-luck table and won ten dollars.

  Players left, others came in. Cardigan won another five dollars and figured that was enough for a man working on a salary. Stepping back, he noticed a crumpled handkerchief lying on the floor. He picked it up and asked the women around the chuck-a-luck table if it belonged to one of them. They looked. It did not.

  He was jostled by a couple of drunks.

  He turned and left the room and going down the staircase he sniffed, raised the handkerchief. He stopped halfway down, inhaled deeply. There was the odor of a familiar perfume. He pocketed the handkerchief and went on down.

  Soft-Shoe met him in the foyer outside the dining-room. “I thought I asked you something, Cardigan?”

  “Dropping the familiar Jack, huh? I’ve been asking you things ever since I came in.”

  “Are you going to scram?”

  “When I feel like it.”

  Cardigan left him and went slowly down to the main floor, and as he reached the bottom step a hand gripped him on either side and he looked up to find himself flanked by two gorillas.

  “It’s out, brother,” one of them said.

  “You can walk,” the other said, “out the front door. Or we use a back door for throw-outs. I’d say use the front. The back’s a long drop.”

  Cardigan looked up the staircase. Soft-Shoe stood at the top, quiet, motionless, white-faced. He was drawing slowly, softly on a cigarette.

  Cardigan lifted his lip. “Thanks, Soft-Shoe.”

  He went and got his hat and coat and the two gorillas stood beside him. One opened the door and Cardigan stood there drawing on his gloves. He took his time. One of the gorillas became impatient and used a foot. Cardigan stumbled down four steps, grabbed the handrail and braced himself. The door banged.

  He stood for a moment rubbing himself. Then he climbed the steps again and rang the bell. The door opened and the gorilla who had kicked him stuck his head out.

  Cardigan hit him square in the mouth and drove him half the length of the entrance hall. Then he reached in, grabbed the knob and closed the door. He walked a block and felt better and then he hopped a cab and rode back to the Gascogne.


  In his office, he hung up hat and overcoat, rubbed himself again, took out the money he had won at the chuck-a-luck table and placed it with the money in his wallet. But he paused, drew one of the five-dollar bills out again, peered at it.

  In each corner of the banknote was the number five. In the center was the reproduction of a former president of the United States. To the left of this was the legend:

  THE FIRST NATIONAL BANK

  OF FORT WORTH TEXAS

  Will pay to the bearer on demand

  FIVE DOLLARS

  The bill was new, crisp.

  WHEN Cardigan strode into the agency office at 9:30 next morning George Hammerhorn, the head, said: “It seems to me, Jack, that when you’re put on a soft snap like the Gascogne patrol you could at least stay on the job.”

  “Manager’s been complaining, eh?”

  “He said you were conspicuous by your absence. One of the clerks had to go up and quiet a wild party.”

  “That’s swell. So now you can send over Grossbeck or Taylor tonight. Because I’m going to be busy. Just because a couple of cops see a rope they right away talk suicide. I’ve got an idea there’s some dough mixed up in this and I need new socks. Of course, if I told you it kind of got me to see that poor old slob from Texas dead on the floor, you’d say I’m nuts. So I won’t tell you. Also, I got kicked out of a place last night. There’s no cheap ex-hoofer can chuck me out of a place and make me like it. This guy Attleman was murdered and the Cosmos Agency is going to establish another record.”

  He yanked over the telephone, called police headquarters. Fort Worth had been telegraphed for news of Henry Attleman, had secured no record of him. Texas newspapers would advertise for relatives or friends. Meantime the body was at the morgue.

  Pat sauntered in looking fresh and lovely in a tan coat, a cloche hat of darker tan and small brown pumps. Cardigan tossed her the handkerchief.

  “Am I right or am I, precious?”

  “Attar of Roses,” she said. “Up early, aren’t you?”

  “I slept on the job last night.”

  Hammerhorn said pensively: “He either sleeps on the job or he isn’t on the job at all.”

  Cardigan sat down at the desk. “And he wastes money making long-distance telephone calls…. Hello, operator. I want long distance.”

  “Hey,” said Hammerhorn.

  “Long distance?… Calling Fort Worth, Texas. The First National Bank.”

  “Hey now! Now look here, you wild Irish rose—”

  “Pul-lease! How do you expect me to hear?” He sat smoothing down the five-dollar bill. In a few minutes he was talking with an executive of the bank. The series of five-dollar bills—he mentioned the number on the one before him—was issued two weeks ago. “Ever have a depositor named Henry Attleman?” The voice at the other end said, no, they had not. “All right, thanks,” Cardigan said; and then, quickly: “Hey, wait a minute!… Ever have one named Joe Henderson?” He waited, and after a while he said: “Yes, go ahead,” and listened and made notes on a pad of paper. Finally he hung up.

  “You talked at least twenty dollars’ worth,” Hammerhorn said.

  “But look what I found out, you tightwad! This bill here was issued two weeks ago. It’s cockeyed to suppose that this bill could have gone through the usual banking channels, from man to bank to bank to man, and reached New York in that short time. Cockeyed as hell! This bill was brought here. And two weeks ago a man named Joe Henderson drew from that bank, in cash, forty thousand dollars—and closed out his account.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Apparently he was a friend of this little guy that was bumped off last night. There’s something here as crooked as a Chinatown street—and there’s a lot of dough involved. And I should go back to pounding a beat in the corridors of the Hotel Gascogne? My eye!”

  HE made another telephone call to a local tab, got a friend on the wire. “This is Cardigan, Ben…. You got good contact in Texas?… Swell! Now try to rush this for me. Try to get a telephoto picture of a guy named Joe Henderson, a Texan. He was in the papers a lot down there. Desert rat, cattle dealer, once took part in a Mex uprising. Can you?… Good. And ring me right away.”

  Hammerhorn leaned forward. “Jack, I’m getting interested.”

  “I know. I usually have to put on a three-ring circus, though, before you do. Did you see the paper this morning? Five lines about the suicidal take-off of one Henry Attleman, of Fort Worth, Texas, in an unnamed mid-town hotel.” He stood up. “Come on, Pat. I’m empty. I need breakfast and the food always tastes better with swell-looking you across the table.”

  Pat made a mock curtsey: “Oh, pleathe, thir, my muvver—”

  “My neck! Come on.”

  They went down in the elevator and stepped out on the main floor. Doake and Dirigo were waiting to enter.

  Cardigan said to Pat: “Scram, kitten. Go around to Hollandhauser’s and wait for me. I think I’m in for some repartee. Scoot, chile!”

  She went across the floor with a rapid knocking of high heels.

  Doake said dejectedly: “Was just going up, Cardigan.” He looked, as he always did, whether happy or unhappy, with the same vacant eyes, the same down-twisted mouth; he never looked you in the eye. It wasn’t that he was afraid; it was just a habit he had of fixing his gaze on another object.

  Cardigan shrugged: “Come up, then.”

  “Nah. I’m not seeing the agency.”

  “It’s you,” Dirigo dragged out.

  “I hear,” Doake said, “you been pulling a button-button-who’s-got-the-button over to Pomano’s and that you smacked a guy in the teeth—”

  “Trouble with you, Mick,” Dirigo sliced in, “is that too many guys around this town hesitate to call your bluff.”

  Doake said: “Pipe down. I’ll tell him…. So that’s it, Cardigan. Pomano’s is a nice place. It’s quiet. Soft-Shoe is a pretty good egg and he hates trouble and he never lets trouble get headway if he can help it. He said you just walked in there last night, made cracks all over the place and wound up by knocking a guy’s teeth out.”

  “Good. I didn’t know that.”

  “See?” Dirigo said. “Still smart.”

  Doake said: “It’s like this, Cardigan.” He eyed a spot on the floor pensively. “We sent in a report of suicide and we hear you go over to Pomano’s and as much as say he took this guy Attleman for a full-course job. It’s suicide, Cardigan. If it ain’t, you got to show us why you think it ain’t.”

  “He’s just a damned trouble maker,” Dirigo said.

  “You got to show us, Cardigan. Show me.”

  “I’d like to see him,” Dirigo taunted.

  Cardigan buttoned his overcoat. “I’m going to breakfast, Doake. There’s no law says I have to tell you anything.”

  “Stay out of Pomano’s, then. Soft-Shoe asked me if it would be all right if they kicked you down the steps. I said that under the circumstances it would be O.K. if they kicked you right across the street.”

  “Thanks.” Cardigan started by and Dirigo, leering but without humor, grabbed his arm.

  “Irish, you try to make a monkey out of us—”

  “I wouldn’t, Dirigo,” Cardigan said with a bleak smile, and shook his head. “I’d give the monkeys a break.”

  “Listen, you big tramp—”

  Cardigan ripped away Dirigo’s hand. “Cut it out, small change. You can’t spend it in big-time. Go over to South Brooklyn where you used to shake down the burlesque houses. The lights of the big town get in your eyes—”

  “For two cents—”

  “Piker.”

  Cardigan swung away, slapped open the swing door and let the cold morning cool the heated flush on his face. He had always rather liked Doake, but never Dirigo.

  LATE that afternoon Cardigan received a telephone call and took a taxi to The Daily Press-Dispatch. He found Walter Bently sitting behind a big desk far removed from the hum and clatter of the city room. Bently was the personally calm and pl
acid editor of a rowdy, blatant sheet; he had, he would have explained, to make a living.

  “There it is, Jack,” he said. “Not too clear but better than most.”

  Cardigan bent over the desk, stared at the photograph.

  Bently said: “What’s in the air, Jack? Anything I can spring in the morning?”

  “Maybe not so soon, kid. But you know me.”

  “I got wind you were slamming around town like an unleashed hound dog. What’s up?”

  “You know me, don’t you?”

  “I ought to.”

  Cardigan stood up, pocketed the photograph. “Then sit tight, old kid. I’m on the tail of something red-hot but I’d be goofy to spring anything on chance. Besides, I’m not sure. Sit tight and I’ll give you something that’ll blow the lid off.”

  “O.K., old sock, old sock—from your Uncle Walter.”

  Cardigan breezed out of the building. When he reached the agency office Hammerhorn was out, the stenographer was walloping the typewriter in the outer office. Cardigan went into the inner sanctum, sat down and went to work at the telephone. He went after Texas again, after municipal bureaus of records. He ran up a big telephone bill trying to locate relatives of Joe Henderson. But he could find no record of relatives.

  Finally he hooked on to an old Fort Worth editor who said: “I don’t know if he ever had any relatives. He must have, of course. But this Joe Henderson came from nowhere, so to speak, and wrote a colorful record into Southwest history.” He went on at great length, and finally Cardigan thanked him, hung up.

  Hammerhorn came in a few minutes later, whistling, cheerful; but his spirits were dampered down when Cardigan informed him of forty-five dollars’ worth of telephoning.

  “But wait, George,” Cardigan went on. “Hold your ponies, old boy. I found things. This Joe Henderson has no relatives anyone knows of. But on his last deal—he sloughed down into Mexico with a pal after some gold that was supposed to have been stolen and hidden six years ago—stolen from a Mexican train. This pal’s name was Gus Tracy. No one knows whether they got the gold. No one knows when they came out of Mexico. But one thing I know—the name of Henry Attleman is phoney. The guy who died in the Gascogne wasn’t Henry Attleman.”