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

  He snarled in a low voice, “Jagoe the petticoat heel, huh? If I drilled her I could drill you, too.”

  “I’ll drill you first.”

  “Listen, you sweet son of a punk; there’s a gang of heels across the street having a free-for-all right now. Cut loose with a gun and they’ll forget petty squabbles and come down on this place like a flock of bricks.”

  Jagoe’s eyes glittered. “Stay back, Cardigan! I crashed one of your arms and this time I’ll bust open your belly. I mean it!”

  There was a small satchel on the table. Cardigan smiled ruefully. He said, “I see you lugged the poke over here, huh? You are dumb all right. Don’t you ever read the Personals?”

  “I missed it. I didn’t see it. Never mind talking. Back out of that door. Scram. Beat it. You hear me!”

  Hazel stood drawn up to her full height, her face white with shock, her eyes wide with terror.

  Cardigan was sarcastic. “Hell, Jagoe, you look funny hiding behind a woman. Boy, you sure look a joke!”

  “Get out!” rasped Jagoe, his voice straining. “Get out or I’ll open you wide!”

  “I can fire as you fire, Jagoe. I can drill the woman clean as you drill me. I can fire three shots before yours would take effect. Go ahead, let her rip, honeybunch.”

  Hazel said nothing. Her chin went up and she closed her eyes, as though waiting, ready for the death blow.

  Suddenly there was a snapping crash of glass and the window shade billowed. Cardigan ducked instinctively and then Jagoe hurled the woman across the room. Crying out, she crashed into Cardigan and both went down. Jagoe grabbed the satchel and plunged through a doorway toward the rear of the house. Cardigan heaved the woman off, jumped up, crashed into a chair, and went down again. The pain in his arm drained the color from his face, made him sink his teeth into his lip, but he got up and, his battered hat crushed low over his eyes, he lunged through the doorway.

  A door slammed. He found it and whipped it open and saw he was in the hallway again. And he saw the tail of Jagoe’s coat as Jagoe went out through the hall doorway.

  He skidded out into the street and heard a window crash across the street, saw a dark shape fall halfway out.

  “Chief!”

  He turned.

  Pat was crouched against the house wall. She said, “I—I crashed the window, to break up that tension. He would have killed you! So I—I threw a rock through the window.”

  “Thanks, Pats. Beat it now. For God’s sake, beat it!”

  He turned and climbed the steep grade. Ahead, quite a distance ahead now, Jagoe was lugging the satchel. Cardigan fought the upgrade grimly, and then Jagoe was at the top, making for the beginning of the wooden stairways and treacherous walks. As Cardigan reached the crest, he could hear Jagoe’s feet pounding on the wooden boards.

  Chapter Four

  The Berries

  THERE was the crack of a gun and the nearer disturbance of lead splintering the wooden handrail. Cardigan bounded sidewise from the splinters, dropped to one knee as a second shot banged, and made the wooden rail jump. Then the rapping of heels began again, and Cardigan followed.

  He could not clearly see Jagoe; sometimes he saw his fleeting image, more like a shadow, and so he held his fire, knowing that Jagoe had fired wildly, and close to him only by chance. House lights winked on the hill. Windows were flung open. And then back of him, above him, Cardigan heard other racing footsteps. That meant that the fighting at the stocky man’s hideout had broken up, and that some of them or all of them were now in on the chase.

  By this time Cardigan was halfway down the long series of treacherous steps. The Bay was black beyond, with small lights moving across it. The wind was fresh, cold, and down below the long pier sheds bulked at the Bay’s rim. The wind cleared up Cardigan’s head a bit, made him feel less nauseated. But behind him footsteps were pounding. Reckless, he gained on Jagoe.

  And again Jagoe tried a shot. And then instantly from up and behind Cardigan another gun cracked twice. The wooden step to the rear of Cardigan’s flying heels was splintered. He cursed and ducked as he ran. Jagoe fired and Cardigan felt a tug at his flying, empty sleeve.

  Jagoe reached the bottom and was away, fleet-footed, and Cardigan landed fifty yards behind him and a bullet from above smacked the ground alongside him. Jagoe made for the Embarcadero. He was stretching his legs, his coattails flying. The approach was dark. To shoot with even the smallest degree of accuracy was impossible. But then suddenly a truck swung round the corner and for a brief instant its headlights shone on Jagoe. He realized it and flung wildly to one side, but Cardigan fired. The truck speeded up, whanged out of sight.

  Then it was dark again and Jagoe was running on, but not swiftly; his gait was something between a hop and skip and when Cardigan, pounding on, yelled, “Stop, Jagoe!” the man turned and desperately fired into the darkness. The shots were pretty wild; and then Cardigan, firing at the flash, heard Jagoe cry out, heard his body hit the pavement.

  Cardigan ran up to him.

  “I—I’m wounded, Cardigan,” Jagoe panted.

  “No! Are you?”

  Cardigan reached down, yanked up the satchel. Footsteps were rapping toward him and a shot crashed out, and then Cardigan, gripping the satchel and the gun in his right hand, ran out. He came to an alley and ducked into it, plunged along in the darkness, hoping his pursuers would pass it up and go. But soon he came to a dead end—a high board fence, twice as tall as himself. He bumped against a large covered can and stepped up on it, but still the fence was too high and he had but one able arm.

  A passing car momentarily illuminated the mouth of the alley, and he saw the silhouettes of two men there. He jumped from the top of the can, then turned on it, yanked off the cover. It was half full of old papers. Snapping open the satchel, he felt packet on packet of crisp bills. He drew a handful of papers from the can, then dumped into it the contents of the satchel. Into the satchel he shoved the papers, adding a few rocks which he found on the ground. He replaced the cover on the can.

  Then he made his way up the alley and did not stop until he reached the mouth of it.

  “I thought you went in there,” said the stocky man politely. “You see, I know this neighborhood. Please hand over the bag.”

  Cardigan said, “You guys’ll sweat for this.”

  “Him that laughs last laughs first,” observed William. “You boin me up like I’d got nuts. You heard! Hand it over!”

  Both William and the stocky man looked as though a cyclone had struck them. Their collars were torn, their clothing ripped, and there were welts and cuts on their faces.

  Cardigan argued, “This is bloody money, mugs. It’ll be the end of you. Use your heads. You can’t get away with this—”

  William hissed, “Here they come!”

  The stocky man struck Cardigan on the head, ripped the bag free of Cardigan’s hand. Stunned, a little groggy, Cardigan staggered backward. There was no wall to stop him and he wobbled into the alley, shook his head, cleared it a bit, and then went forward again. Two men went racing past the mouth of the alley.

  “Get him—now!” one shouted.

  “Right!”

  A gun cracked.

  Cardigan walked out into the street, looking after the running men, and called, “Hey!”

  But they did not stop; they ran on, firing. Cardigan picked up his feet and followed.

  “Mac!” he yelled.

  One of them looked back.

  “It’s me—Cardigan!” Cardigan yelled. “Wait—”

  “Hoss on you, Cardigan!”

  “But I want to tell you—”

  “Hire a hall, pal!”

  Cardigan shouted, “You big dope, you!”

  At this instant there was a spattering of shots and Cardigan flattened himself against a house wall. He saw what had happened. William and the stocky man had run into uniformed policemen and now they were cutting back and trying to cross the street. McGovern and Hunerkopf were heading them of
f.

  From three points the guns spoke—loud, harsh. The echoes ripped and tore down the street, clattered among the buildings. William went down headfirst, his legs flying, and the stocky man, cornered, came to a dead stop, dropped his bag, and held up his hands.

  Cardigan walked out in time to hear McGovern say, “Well, wiseguy,” to the stocky man.

  “I assure you,” said the stocky man, “that I am beaten.”

  “Oh, yeah? Not yet, mister—not yet you ain’t beaten.”

  “I’m afraid William is hurt very badly.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid. Let him be.”

  The cops came up and sprayed their flashlights about, and one snapped, “Hey, you—who are you?”

  “Me?” said Cardigan.

  “I said you, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, him.” McGovern laughed, picking up the satchel. “Why, he’s my old friendly enemy Cardigan. Just came to town and started a branch for a detective agency. Nice guy, Cardigan. Him and me spat around a lot, but he’s a good egg, ain’t he, August?”

  “He is a egg—I mean a good egg,” said Hunerkopf.

  McGovern was tickled. “Only he thinks he’s a hard-boiled egg. He’s really a fried egg, though, with a lot of ham thrown in. Boy, there’s a good one for you! Hey, August?”

  Hunerkopf was shaking with silent laughter. “You’re a one, Mac. You are a one, all right, yes.”

  Cardigan said, “Tell me, Mac. How’d you get in on this?”

  McGovern was in the best of humor now. “Well, I’ll tell you, Cardigan. I had a tail on you, see? I seen you meet that little dame, and then drive along the Embarcadero. Me and Hunerkopf followed you, but kind of lost you on Telegraph Hill. But we were poking about when we seen you and the dame and two other guys in the street. We seen you go in the house with the guys.

  “Well, we figured maybe you were tying up with some hoodlums in order to get a line on Jagoe. So we go around back and get in with a passkey. Then William here pokes his head out of the room and I nab him. Before I know it there’s a fight on my hands.” He showed signs of the fight, with swollen jaw, a torn coat, and a dent in his derby. “In the dark we lay into each other, and because these mugs know their ground, they got the best of it. I was afraid to shoot account of I figured the little dame was in that room, too, keeping quiet. Then these guys get away and we tail ’em, and we find they’re tailing somebody else, and up the street we find Jagoe on the sidewalk, who can’t talk. But when I ask him about the dough he points, and I know these guys have it. And,” he added, tapping the bag, “I got it. Sorry, Cardigan, old kid, old pal, old sock, but you’re just too smalltime to put one over on Mr. McGovern. See? I get the dough, and I also get Jagoe…. August, go back there and take care of Jagoe and you”—to one of the cops—“call an ambulance.”

  Cardigan lit a cigarette. “Well, Mac, congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Cardigan. I always did like you, always will, and after this I guess you’ll realize kind of that I’m a pretty good copper, up on my stuff.”

  “You’re a lulu, Mac,” Cardigan said, and walked off.

  He entered the alley, went to the can in the rear, and using his small flashlight, emptied the can of the bills he had placed there. Then he pulled out a newspaper, laid it on the ground, stacked the bills evenly, and wrapped them in the newspaper. Around this bundle he strapped his tie, knotted it, and went to the mouth of the alley. He heard heavy footsteps, running, and placed the bundle just inside the alley. Looking out, he saw Hunerkopf coming down the sidewalk.

  Cardigan stepped out and pretended to be idling along.

  “What’s the rush, August?”

  “Jagoe! Jagoe ain’t there anymore! Mac’ll lose the pinch!”

  “That’s tough,” Cardigan said.

  He was puzzled. Doubtless Jagoe had regained sufficient strength to get up and stagger off. Hunerkopf ran on.

  Cardigan recovered his bundle and walked down the Embarcadero until a cab came along. He boarded and said, “Hotel Galaty.” He felt very tired. His arm pained him again, and his legs, his whole body ached. But when he thought of McGovern—good old friendly enemy McGovern—he laughed.

  WALKING into the lobby of the Hotel Galaty, he saw Pat sitting in one of the big leather chairs. She saw him at the same instant and rose, and there was a thankful light in her eyes; he saw rather than heard a long breath of relief flow from her lips.

  His low voice was tired. “Well, Pats, I guess we’ve got the bacon and Mac is holding the bag.”

  “Oh, I’m just so glad you’re back safe,” she said. “You’ll never learn—the way you go running about getting smashed up all the time.” And then: “But I’m glad for your sake, chief, that you got the money back.”

  “When do you resign?” he said.

  She flushed. “Oh—gosh—well, I guess I was just mad at the time. I didn’t mean it.”

  “It was lucky you went home when I told you to, precious. It was a circus. Those guys were regular spendthrifts with their lead.”

  The red color on her face grew a little deeper. “B-but I didn’t go home. I—well, I followed you up the hill. I saw all those men after you and so I went, too. I was the last one and of course I couldn’t make as good time, what with my high heels. But I went over and down Telegraph Hill, and then I found a man lying on the sidewalk, wounded—and then I recognized him as Jagoe. So I got a cab and took him to a hospital, and then I called up the police station and the newspapers and said that the Cosmos Agency had brought in Jagoe. D-did I do right, chief?”

  “Did you do right!” he exclaimed.

  He dropped into a chair, let the bundle drop, let his arm dangle to the floor.

  “Patsy,” he said, “you’re the nuts.”

  Then he began laughing. He laughed so hard that veins stood out on his forehead.

  “Now what?” Pat said.

  “McGovern! I’m just thinking of McGovern!”

  “Oh, you’re a big silly. Both you and he are big sillies.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Cardigan said, getting up, his laughter ebbing away. “But look at the fun we get…. Just wait a minute, Pat.”

  He went to a house telephone and called the headwaiter. He said, “Have you any fresh razzberries?… Good. I’d appreciate it if you would send a box of fresh razzberries to Sergeant McGovern, police headquarters. And charge it to Cardigan.”

  Kick Back

  Chapter One

  “Shoes”

  CARDIGAN, his suspenders looping down from his waist, his shirt off, came out of the improvised pantry of his California Street apartment crackling celery between his teeth and carrying a brace of Scotch highballs. He planked one of the drinks down on the table, still littered with a haphazard assortment of used dishes, and took a long, noisy swig at the other. Halfway through the pull, he lowered the drink, looked down at “Shoes” O’Riley and shook his big head.

  “Nix, Shoes,” he said. “Uh-uh.”

  Shoes O’Riley looked melancholy. “Geez,” his wistful voice said, as he reached absently for the drink.

  “And lay off,” Cardigan pursued, pointing with his glass, “this crap about the Irish should stick together, and this palsy-walsy stuff and all this slop about my old lady knew your old lady when.”

  Shoes O’Riley took a drink, gulped, wagged his turnip head. “I guess I’m just a sort of a kind of failure. I’m just like whatcha might call the Forgotten Man.”

  “Forgotten, hell! There’s not a cop in this town or ten other towns that’d ever forget that pan of yours…. Listen, you hopeless jail-bird. I had one bad slam in this burg when Jagoe knocked off practically the first client the San Fran branch of the Cosmos had. I cleaned that up—but what the hell”—he hunched his shoulders—“the guy got knocked off and certain wiseacres I don’t need to mention have since been calling us the Cosmetic Detective Agency. And then you pop up fresh from a two-year stretch for petty and want to become a private detective. You must think I’m nuts or something
.”

  “What’s that?” Shoes said, twisting his head around.

  “What?”

  “Scratchin’ like.”

  Cardigan drank, said: “Rats. Cold weather drives them in.”

  SHOES took another drink, looking very sorrowful. “It’s just like I want to turn over a new leaf kinda. I got a good heart, Jack. I don’t mean no harm. Geez, this time I was wanderin’ around in a joolry store and kind of absent-minded like I pick up some jools to look at ’em just. I’m thinking about some gal give me the boudoir eye outside and then absent-minded, like I said, I waltz out with the jools—not meanin’ to, y’understand.”

  “Yeah. And about the stretch you did in Ohio State for slamming that night watchman on the conk with a hunk of lead pipe?”

  “Geez, why’n’t you set traps for them rats?”

  “I’m talking about the Ohio State stretch.”

  “Oh, that. Well, it’s me hard luck again. I go into this warehouse to get outta the rain and the cold, me on me uppers, and suddenly some strange guy I never seen before piles into me. Well, I think it’s just an old hunk o’ rubber hose I pick up, but it turns out to be a hunk o’ lead pipe and—”

  “It wasn’t lead pipe either, monkey. It was a blackjack.”

  “Oh,” said Shoes, slightly surprised. “It was? Huh, I wonder howcome I got hold of that. Now—let—me—think….”

  Cardigan walked across the room, rapped on the wall, as if to frighten away the rat, and said, pivoting, shaking his palms toward Shoes: “Nothing doing, kid. I split a T-bone with you tonight, gave you a couple of drinks, and I’ll give you ten bucks as a pick-me-up. That’s personal. But the agency’s something else. We’d have the cops and the press on our necks if we hired Shoes O’Riley. It’s tough, baby, but that”—he spread his palms—“is the lay of the land.”

  “Ah,” sighed Shoes, getting up, “I’m just a failure. I ain’t no credit to me mother or nobody. I’m just a port without a ship—I mean a ship without—”