The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 1: 1931-32 Page 8

  Cardigan kept on, turned left into the next cross street and did some quiet and deliberate cursing. He was sure it was the car that had opened fire on him, killing Dorshook. Its presence in the street meant one of two things; either the men were friends of McHugh or had come on a mission similar to Cardigan’s. If the latter, were they certain McHugh had the check or, like Cardigan, were they taking a chance?

  Cardigan stopped, looked up and down the street then scaled a low stone wall. He went through shrubbery in the rear of the corner house, fell over a croquet wicket in the back yard of the next and then came to a waist-high hedge that blocked the way to McHugh’s grounds. He followed the hedge to the rear of the yard, squeezed between the end of the hedge and the stone wall it met there. He went back of McHugh’s double garage and peered around the corner of it at the rear windows of the house. The hatchway to the cellar was open. The garage was empty, doors open.

  He had not been able to see how many men were in the car. He did not know how many were in the house. He ducked from the garage to the hedge and crept along in the shadow of it, nearer the house. He stopped, kneeling, his hand closed on the gun in his overcoat pocket. He looked at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch. It was twelve twenty-five.

  A couple minutes later he saw a shape materialize out of the hatchway. A tall man, topcoatless, dressed in dark clothes. He stood for a moment listening, a gun in his hand. Then he took hold of the open door, let it down slowly, softly.

  Cardigan made the dozen feet in three long steps, jammed his gun against the small of the man’s back as the latter was rising.

  “Quiet!” Cardigan muttered.

  The man froze in a half crouch.

  Cardigan whispered, “Stick your gun straight up in the air—arm high. Quick!”

  The man’s arm went up. Cardigan took away his gun, put it in his own pocket.

  He said: “You should have dumped that car right after you bumped off Dorshook.”

  He could see the man’s muscles flex, heard a breath being sucked in sharply. The man started to turn around.

  “No you don’t!” Cardigan muttered.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A reporter from The Press-Clarion. Now hand it over.”

  “Geeze, looka here now—”

  “Hand it over!”

  The man whispered an oath, put a hand in his inside pocket, passed an envelope over his shoulder. Cardigan took it, put it between his teeth, drew out a smooth oblong of paper with his left hand, then shoved it and the envelope into his pocket.

  “Now walk toward that garage,” he said. “Along the hedge here, then across.”

  He kept behind the man, prodded him with the gun. He knew that if Roberta Callahan died he would have a tough time of it with the police. They had no proof against him but they could raise an unholy row, hold him if they had to and create a lot of undesirable publicity for the agency. In which event Cardigan knew he would stand a good chance of losing his job. He had to protect himself. He walked the man to the garage entrance and told him to keep walking till he reached the back wall. While the man did this Cardigan swung the doors shut, slipped on the lock, snapped it.

  He heard the man jolt the doors a second later, heard him mutter fiercely: “Damn you, what you doin’?”

  Chapter Five

  Cardigan Crashes Through

  CARDIGAN looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty-five. He backed away toward the shadow of the hedge. He had almost reached it when he heard a twig snap. He pivoted, saw a man standing by the side of the house.

  He heard “Burt!” called in a hoarse whisper. He remained silent, motionless. Again—“Burt!” A little louder, almost stronger than a whisper. And eager—anxious.

  After a moment the man moved cautiously into the rear yard. He looked at the closed hatch doors, at the rear of the house. He moved again, peering hard. He was nearer the garage now.

  Again he called, “Burt!” in a whisper.

  The man in the garage answered in a whisper. “I’m in here! Get me out! A guy got it!”

  The other tensed, went swiftly to the garage. “Got it!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Who?”

  “A guy from The Press-Clarion. Cripes, get me out!”

  “Sh!” the man on the outside cautioned, and stood in a tense listening attitude. Then he examined the lock. “I’m damned if I can open it.”

  “You gotta! You get me outa here! Here! There’s no windows—only the door here—”

  “Quiet—quiet, loud mouth!… Lemme think…. Hell, I can’t force it—”

  “Take a chance! Put a couple o’ slugs through it! That egg— Listen, Louie—that egg knows I was in on that Dorshook kill. You gotta get me out. I ain’t gonna fall for no rap on my lonesome. You get me out or you and Joe and—”

  “O.K. Get back outa the way. I’ll blow her off, then lam. Better not hang together. We’ll join up at Cicero’s—and don’t you make any more cracks who takes a rap and who don’t. O.K.—get back.”

  “Hey you!” Cardigan said in a low, blunt voice. “Scram!”

  The man called Louis almost fell over with surprise.

  “And watch that rod in your hand,” Cardigan said. “You heard me—beat it!”

  The pitch of his voice and the darkness made it hard for Louie to locate him. Louie began backing away.

  “Louie!” cried the man in the garage. “Louie, you ain’t gonna leave me here! So help me, if you lam out on me I’ll shoot the whole works!”

  Louie stopped. He looked over his shoulder. Another man was coming along the side of the house. He stopped and looked at the cellar hatch, then at the shape of Louie.

  “Say,” he whispered, “Sisson’s gettin’ nervous. He says we better breeze. There’s a patrolman due through here any minute.”

  Louie backed up toward him, and the latter whispered, “Where the hell’s Burt?”

  “Louie!” Burt cried in a hoarse whisper.

  The third man began: “What the hell—” Then Louie made a motion of his head, kept backing up.

  “Come on, Joe,” Louie whispered grimly.

  “But Burt’s in that garage! How— Say, what’s the matter?”

  “Come on, you fool.”

  “I’m gonna get Burt!” Joe lunged toward the garage.

  “Scram!” Cardigan barked. “You heard what your pal said.”

  “Louie!” Burt pleaded.

  Joe stopped in his tracks, made a half turn with his gun held low. Its muzzle whipped flame and thunder through the dark. Cardigan heard the bullet snap through the hedge. He fired the gun he had taken from Burt and the echoes barked among the houses.

  Louie’s gun exploded. Cardigan heard the snick of the bullet passing, the slap of it against the stone wall beyond. He threw a shot at the dim shape of Louie and ruined a drain pipe on the house.

  Joe began yelling, “My God—my God!” and ran toward Louie. Burt hammered inside the garage.

  “I’m hit!” Joe gasped. “I’m hit, Louie!”

  Cardigan snapped: “You guys beat it!”

  Joe, yelling, “Oh, I’m hit bad!” ran right past Louie, fell over a flower bed and squealed like a woman. Louie backed up swiftly, cursing. There was the sound of a motor roaring, of gears being meshed savagely. Joe got up out of the flower garden and looked toward the street.

  He cried: “Sisson’s ditchin’ us, the louse!” He hefted his gun, yelled: “Hey, wait!” and staggered wildly toward the street. The touring car roared past in second, slammed into high violently.

  “Hey!” screamed Joe; then— “You dirty—” Rage choked him. He raised his gun. Flame burst three times from the black muzzle.

  “Good cripes!” Louie moaned. “Come on, Joe—come on!”

  Rubber tires rasped on the rough pavement. The touring car slewed from left to right, blindly, like a harried animal. Then suddenly it headed for the curb. The chassis wrenched at the springs as the car hurtled over the curb. A sycamore ripped off
the left rear mudguard. A low iron fence met the front tires, ripped them open. The radiator crumpled. The iron fence crumpled and the big car crashed head-on into a stone house. Glass snarled. The rear tires heaved five feet off the ground, slammed down again. The rending sound of tortured metal raked the streets for blocks.

  Joe and Louie reached the sidewalk.

  “Help me, Louie!” Joe gasped.

  “Come on—run!”

  Louie set an example but Joe found it hard to follow. He reeled along, coughing. Louie ran faster.

  “Louie—lemme a hand—”

  But Louie ran faster.

  Joe fell down, braced himself on one arm. “Louie!!” he cried savagely. “You hear me!” He raised his gun. He fired. Louie swerved, hit a tree with such force that he bounced back and crashed down in the middle of the street.

  CARDIGAN wiped off the gun he had taken from Burt and tossed it in front of the garage. He passed back of the garage, crossed the two yards, paused an instant by the stone wall and then vaulted it and landed on the sidewalk. He strode swiftly away. Stopped once to hide behind a tree and watch two cops rush past, then went on. Five minutes later he boarded a city-bound trolley. He looked at his watch. It was twelve minutes to one.

  It was three minutes to one when he got off, four blocks from the Flatlands, and entered an all-night drug store. He crowded into a telephone booth, called police headquarters. He pitched his voice high.

  “You guys down there—take this or leave it. There’s a red-hot in the garage back of 906 Magnolia Avenue. He was one of the guys bumped off Dorshook…. Who am I? Santa Claus to you, brother.”

  He hung up, left the drug store and walked to the Flatlands. At one he slipped in through the side entrance, ducked to the stairway and started climbing. At two minutes past one he entered his room.

  “O.K., Otto. Beat it.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “I did,” Cardigan said. “Quick. Back to your room.”

  He rushed Otto out. Then he whipped off his clothes, got into pajamas, rumpled his hair, grabbed a magazine and climbed in bed. He took one look at the mayor’s check, chuckled, slipped it in the back of the magazine, tore the envelope to bits and dropped them in a waste basket.

  He put the magazine under his pillow. He reached for his briar pipe.

  The clock’s hands crept around to two. The hotel was quiet. Vagrant street sounds rose sharply. No one disturbed Cardigan. He knew that headquarters must be throbbing with activity. Surely Sisson had been killed in that crash. Press wires were humming. Still the hotel remained quiet. Cardigan yawned, turned off the lights.

  Strout came in with Massey bright and early next morning while Cardigan, suspenders draping his hips, was lathering his face by the bathroom mirror.

  Cardigan bowed elaborately.

  “Swell morning, Strout!”

  “Not so swell. Say, a guy named Sisson: Massey said Sisson paid a call on you once here.”

  “Oh—you mean that little morning glory from the tab. Yeah, he did. He’d heard about me and wanted my picture for the tab. See that rug in there? Well, he tripped over that and busted his lip against the radiator.”

  Strout looked mournful. “Sisson got bumped off last night.”

  Cardigan stropped his razor. “Too bad.”

  “It was funny. Two other guys got bumped off—they bumped off each other apparently. There was a third guy locked in Party Boss McHugh’s garage. It was very funny. There was a fourth guy that slopped up the other’s parade. The guy in the garage said he said he was from the Press-Clarion.”

  “Reporters turning gangsters, huh?”

  “That guy was no reporter.”

  Cardigan said: “How did the girl make out?”

  “She died.”

  “You’re here to make a collar?”

  Strout shook his head. “No. Just before she died she identified the guy we found in that garage as one of the men. On the way out of the hospital the guy pulled a fast one and broke loose. We had to shoot him.”

  “What was all the fireworks around McHugh’s house?”

  Strout pawed his jaw. “Well there was one guy knows all about it. The fourth guy. And the fourth guy was the guy made a phone call to headquarters at a few minutes to one this A.M. And a gun we found was the one that did for Dorshook. Our ballistics man checked up.”

  “And what’s that to me?”

  Strout wore a bleak smile. “It’s funny—how that mysterious phone tip cleared you up completely. The guy said he was Santa Claus.”

  “And I suppose now you’re going to call me Santa Claus!”

  “There are a lot of things I’d like to call you, Cardigan. But just now I’m too tired. You’re in the clear now. O.K. But whatever job you are on—if I catch you in this town after tonight—”

  “You knew I was leaving this morning, didn’t you?”

  Massey looked uneasy.

  Strout turned and walked to the door. Massey opened it and went out first. Strout turned and stared sourly across the room. Cardigan, patting his face with a hot towel, grinned.

  “Go ahead—grin!” growled Strout.

  “Ain’t I?”

  “Sure.”

  “Grin!”

  “Ain’t I?”

  “Damn it, laugh your head off!”

  “Ho-ho! How’s that?”

  Strout disappeared, banging the door.

  Cardigan hurled the wet towel at the door, heaved into the bathroom chafing his hands in high good humor and bursting into a lusty ballad of the levees.

  Six Diamonds and a Dick

  Chapter One

  The Blonde in Blue

  THE girl in the slate-colored silk tights gave a fair imitation of the East Indian Nautch. The man at the bass viol plunked the strings and the trap drummer worked hard and grinned like a fool. A moving spotlight changed colors and followed the girl around the oval-shaped floor. Beyond the radius of light, sixty tables were white cases where men and women, the majority in evening clothes, took nourishment from tall glasses in which ice tinkled.

  Cardigan, nursing a Corona-corona, raised his left wrist close to his face and looked at the illuminated dial of his watch. The expanse of his boiled shirt was as wide as the average man’s breadth is from shoulder to shoulder. He weighed close to two hundred and his stomach was as flat as a griddle cake.

  He rose and picked his way among tables to the lounge. The Dago waiter looked after him with a dark malignant stare. In the lounge high-backed gilt chairs stood against mauve-colored walls, a crystal chandelier tapered from the ceiling, carpets an inch thick muffled footfalls.

  A tall man who looked like a diplomat but wasn’t, took a drag on a cork-tipped cigarette and put himself in front of Cardigan. Cardigan stopped, lounged on his heels with hard easy grace.

  “What’s eating you, Gould?”

  “I’m getting tired of this, Cardigan.”

  “Well, do something about it.”

  Gould had a thin dry-gray face, prematurely gray hair that was slicked back so tightly that his head looked like a skull. Only his eyes were dark and shiny with a surface glare that lacked depth, like lacquer. He laid long attenuated fingers lightly on Cardigan’s arm.

  “I mean what I say, Cardigan. You’ve been doing a Dracula around here for the past three hours. You haven’t taken a whirl at the wheel or the tables and every now and then you take a walk around the place like you owned it.”

  “So now what?”

  “I don’t intend standing here in the lounge room arguing with you. The door is—you know where the door is.” His voice was thin and quick and oddly brittle. The framework of him looked brittle.

  A grin threw Cardigan’s leather-brown face into many wrinkles. “I’m not ready to leave yet, Gould. I understand your overhead is ten thousand a day. Don’t try to chuck me out and raise your overhead.”

  Gould’s left eyebrow quivered. “I’ve got to know where we stand. I’ve got to know what the hell you’re doing he
re. This is a high-class joint. I’ve got to be careful.”

  “I’m telling you, honeybunch, that what I’m doing here has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re tailing somebody.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a surprise!”

  Gould’s thin voice shook. “Who the hell are you tailing?”

  At the other end of the lounge was a broad door of mirror glass overlaid with whorls and modernistic angles of bronze. Beside the door stood an attendant. In a chair a few feet from the door sat a chunky tuxedoed man with a face hard as nails. In the archway to the foyer stood another man. The three men were watching Cardigan and Gould.

  Gould was saying, “I warn you—”

  “You don’t have to warn me. If you don’t want me hanging around here then put me out. And I’d like to see you put me out. You scare me, you do, Gould. You scare hell out of me.”

  He went past Gould. The man at the mirrored door squinted pale eyes, opened the door. Cardigan went through.

  Hum of voices, click of dice and chips, click of a small white ball in a whirring roulette wheel. Women in glittering gowns, men in evening dress. Dispassionate-eyed croupiers. A cashier with a big wallet under his arm; he appeared through a small door from time to time and went to a table where a player was checking out.

  Cardigan’s roving gaze fell on a burly man who was playing roulette. A Spanish-looking woman was with him. Her blue-black hair fitted her like a casque and the green gown she wore followed every undulating curve of her body. The burly man had close-clipped sandy hair. There was a scar on his forehead that glinted like a sliver of silver. The man was quite drunk.

  A short, thin girl brushed against Cardigan. “A blonde—in blue. She went upstairs.”

  Cardigan said nothing. He moved on through the gambling rooms and came at length back to the mirrored door. He pushed out into the lounge, took the circular staircase aloft and went out on a wide veranda. Below, at the foot of the bluff, the Mississippi rolled through the night.