The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 8

  Kelsey said: “She’s nuts!” He let her go and made a beeline for the staircase. His companion joined him and the cop trailed. Cardigan walked the girl to a bench and made her sit down. He left her there and stretched his legs to the desk. The ambulance doctor was bending over the old man.

  “How’s he?” Cardigan said.

  “He was knocked goofy. He’ll come out of it…. What’s the matter with the jane?” He left the old man and went over to the bench. He put a hand on the back of the girl’s neck and pushed until her head was between her knees. He held her head down, massaging the nape with thumb and forefinger.

  Sirens moaned out in the street. The door burst open and half a dozen firemen came in on the double. They were armed with axes and bounded jovially down the lobby, up the staircase. A man outside was bawling orders in a loud voice. A fire chief came in, said: “Hello, doc,” and went up the stairs. A fireman came running down the stairs; he went outside at a brisk walk, came back again carrying an ax and whistling.

  “What a mess, what a mess!” he said.

  Presently Cardigan headed for the staircase, climbed two steps at a time and found action on the fourth floor. Smoke was billowing in the corridor and the sound of axes splintering wood was mixed with the sound of running, crashing water. He heard the deep-throated yells of men, the thud of a heavy object. The chief plowed out of the smoke, sneezed, blew his nose and went back into the smoke again. Two firemen appeared out of the smoke carrying a man who seemed to have lost most of his clothes. The firemen were coughing and choking. They carried their burden downstairs.

  The chief appeared a second time, choking and sneezing. Cardigan said: “Hey, what happened?”

  “Explosion.”

  “Who was hurt?”

  “Hurt? Killed you mean! Didn’t you see him?… Killed. Blown up! Ex-senator Bennett—ka-choo—damn smoke!” But he turned and bored into it again.

  “Bennett….” Cardigan’s bushy brows came together. He pivoted, rapped his heels down the stairs, reached the lobby and found the doctor squatting beside the old night man. He did not see the girl.

  “Doc!” He half knelt, pointed to the bench. “Where is she?”

  “Isn’t she?…” The doctor, still squatting, turned around like a duck. He shrugged. “I guess she left. Yes, I guess she left all right.”

  Standing, Cardigan said toward the door: “Oh, she did, did she?”

  IT had been a fine office paneled in hardwoods which age had given a deep dark lustre. A Chippendale desk had stood in the center. In one corner an eight-legged buhl cabinet had stood near a more modern secretary’s desk. There had been a couple of wing chairs, a Windsor chair, an Aubusson on the floor which was rolled up now, sopping, burnt and tattered, a couple of filing cabinets.

  There was a guy who looked like a news hound taking notes.

  Kelsey was going about the room, lifting each foot high off the floor like a man walking in mud; and he had rolled up the cuffs of his trousers showing loud socks. He was a ragged-haired man with a black slouch hat tipped way back. He looked irascible, discontented and sour. When he spoke his voice sounded like the voice of a man with a cold—but it always sounded that way.

  “What the fire didn’t ruin,” he complained, “them fire boys did. Them guys sure enjoy themselves.”

  Pfulger, his companion, said from beneath a low derby: “Just like Old Home Week.” He was prodding around too, a squarish thick-set man with big brown eyes, a bulbous nose and a chin like a block of wood.

  The desks, the chairs, lay in a splintered heap. The filing-cabinets had been hacked open. One of the paneled walls had been chopped through and there was a hole large enough for a man to walk through into the adjoining office. A black slush on the floor was all that was left of numerous papers. The hall door was open, unscarred.

  Cardigan appeared in the doorway, leaned there and watched Kelsey and Pfulger rummaging among the debris. They did not see him for a moment.

  “Find anything?” Cardigan asked.

  Kelsey turned around, stared, squinted. “Oh, so you’re back again! If we found anything, would I be sloppin’ around in this muck getting my feet wet?”

  “I never thought of that,” Cardigan said.

  Kelsey came over with his high, awkward steps. “Just where do you fit into this, Mr. So-and-So?”

  “The name’s Cardigan.”

  “Yeah? And so?”

  “So I just arrived from New York. I came in on the seven-forty-five, dumped my bag at the Brighton, hopped a cab and walked in the building at eight-fifteen. I came here—” he nodded around the room—“to see ex-Senator Bennett. I didn’t see him.”

  “So what was your business?”

  Cardigan withdrew a worn wallet from his pocket, flipped it open. Kelsey stared at it. “Oh,” he growled. “One of them guys.”

  Pfulger came over and said: “Huh?” and stared over Kelsey’s shoulder.

  “Private dick,” Kelsey said. He hunched his bony shoulders up alongside his ears, scowled at Cardigan. “What did you come here for?”

  “The senator called our New York office and wired an advance fee of two hundred dollars. I was to come out here, come to his office tonight, take a package back to New York and deliver it to an address.”

  “What address?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t know what the package was to contain. When I sailed in the lobby downstairs I found the night man unconscious behind his desk. You guys got my call at headquarters.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Search me. I’d like to know myself. She kind of disappeared during all the rumpus. She came in while I was bathing the old guy’s head. She looked frightened. She ran upstairs—and then the blow-off came.”

  The reporter started. “A woman!”

  Cardigan said to Kelsey: “Who’s he?”

  “Bernard—from The Press.”

  Bernard said: “What did she look like?”

  Cardigan described her and then Kelsey shot at Bernard: “Know her—know her?”

  “No—I guess not. No. I was just wondering….”

  Pfulger sighed. “Well, it was a bomb—it was a bomb all right.”

  Kelsey looked peeved. “I know—but here we looked all around and do we find any signs of a bomb? Do we?”

  Pfulger’s face fell. “No. But—”

  THERE were footsteps in the hall. The cop whom Cardigan had disarmed came in leading the old night man by the arm. A bandage circled the old man’s head.

  “His name’s Mularkey,” the cop said, and glowered for an instant at Cardigan.

  Kelsey bored Mularkey with a sour look. “And what happened to you, Mularkey?”

  “I was hit. I was hit.”

  “I know you were hit. And so?”

  “So I was hit. I was sittin’ down there behind the desk readin’ the paper and I didn’t look up much. I seen this man comin’ across the lobby. He was carryin’ a grip. I saw the grip and his legs but I didn’t look up at him. I don’t as a rule. He asked me if Senator Bennett was in and I turned around to look at the board behind. Then I was hit. I was hit with somethin’ hard and that’s all I know. I fell, I guess, down behind the desk.”

  “Was the senator in?”

  “No, he wasn’t in. I should ha’ known he wasn’t, but I always look from force o’ habit.”

  “What time was you hit?”

  “It must ha’ been about ten to eight—not after that. The old senator usually comes in about a quarter past eight. He has been, leastwise, for a month or more. He works up there till eleven, most times. His daughter works with him—”

  “Daughter!” growled Kelsey.

  The old man nodded. “She has been. They usually come in together.”

  Cardigan said to the reporter: “What’s eating you?”

  Bernard shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Did you know she was his daughter?”

  “Well—from the description you gave—no.”

&
nbsp; “I’m a lousy describer, I guess.” He kept his eyes on Bernard, saw Bernard’s face go red to the ears. “Or did you think she was someone else?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Kelsey complained: “Now what’s eating you, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan shrugged. “I’m goofy, I guess.” He looked around the ruined office. “So where are the remains of the bomb?”

  “Hell, it must have been a bomb,” Pfulger chopped out, looking around on the floor. “What could blow a place apart like this but a bomb? That’s what the guy had in the grip. The door here ain’t touched. You can see that. When the senator opened the door that set the bomb off.”

  Kelsey snorted: “Are you trying to show me up? Damn it, any fool can figure that out. But where’s the remains? In order the door being opened could set a bomb off, there’d have to be wires and things—either hooked up to the house current or to a dry battery. You see any such around here? Do you? Maybe I’m blind and all the stuff is laying around on the floor. You make me sick, Gus!”

  Pfulger’s face fell and he stared morosely at the floor.

  Cardigan said: “It might be a good idea to call the senator’s house and get in touch with his daughter.”

  “Gus!” rapped out Kelsey. “Go downstairs and call the senator’s house.” He looked bitterly down at his shoes. “I’ll bet I catch a death o’ cold in these wet feet.” He looked up at the uniformed cop. “Listen, Meyerbach, suppose you run over to one o’ them Jew stores in Division Street and get me a pair of heavy wool socks size twelve. Tell ’em it’s for Sergeant Mike Kelsey. Make sure you say Mike Kelsey because that damned brother Joe o’ mine’s been mooching on my name lately.”

  Cardigan was moving about the office, turning over pieces of wreckage, toeing the slush of burnt papers. He picked up a desk lamp, looked at it. The bulb was broken and that part of it which remained screwed in the socket was loose. He put the lamp down. He went to the windows, looked out. No glass remained in them, though the frames were locked tight. He went around trying four wall lamps and another desk lamp that apparently had been knocked from the secretary’s desk. All the globes were dark but one that illumined the office.

  “Was this on?” Cardigan said.

  “No,” rasped Kelsey. He was sitting on one of the overturned desks, removing his shoes. “I swiped it from the office next door. Do you expect them globes to stay whole after a blast like that?”

  Pfulger returned and muttered from the door: “She ain’t home. I spoke with the housekeeper. The daughter ain’t home.”

  Cardigan pivoted and stared hard at Bernard, the reporter. Bernard moistened his lips, looked away. Kelsey hadn’t noticed the byplay—he was now removing his socks—and Cardigan made no comment. Kelsey got up, slushed along in his bare feet and put his shoes on a warm radiator. Then he took two aspirin tablets.

  “Every time I get a cold,” he grouched, “the missus bawls hell out o’ me.”

  Cardigan was still watching Bernard. Bernard had his eyes lowered on a case from which he was removing a cigarette. Cardigan crossed the room snapping a match to flame on his thumbnail.

  “Oh—thanks,” said Bernard.

  Cardigan, saying nothing, held the match to Bernard’s cigarette. He saw Bernard’s hand shaking but Bernard’s eyes did not rise to meet Cardigan’s keen searching stare. Bernard choked on a puff of smoke, ducked away and went to one of the windows.

  Cardigan stared at his back. Then he said in a loud voice: “Knew the senator, didn’t you, Bernard?”

  Bernard swung around. “Yes. Why yes.”

  “He smoke?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Kelsey laughed raucously. “I suppose now you’re going to tell us somebody gave him a loaded cigar!”

  Cardigan was looking around the room—at the wall lights, at the desk lamps. He seemed not to have heard Kelsey. He was deep in thought.

  Chapter Two

  “It Wasn’t a Bomb”

  AT 9:30 that night the coffee shop of the Brighton was deserted but for Pat Seaward. She was sitting at a black marble table in a corner eating Bar-le-Duc. A neat ensemble of navy blue, with an ivory silk blouse, was enhanced by a Peter Pan hat that rode smartly over one hidden ear. On the table was an oblong black patent leather handbag with three slashes of white down the back. In the bag was a .25 Webley.

  Cardigan’s big feet made loud sounds on the henna-colored tiles. His shaggy mop of hair stood out around his head, hunched thickly over the ears, on his nape. His coat collar was up; one button of the coat was fastened.

  “You look like a tramp,” Pat said brightly.

  “Nerts to you, precious.”

  He slapped his hat on a hook beside the table, sat down.

  She indicated the jam, cheese and crackers. “Have some, Mr. Nerts.”

  He signaled a waiter. “Set-up.” He drew a tarnished silver flask from his hip pocket and planked it down on the table.

  “Always bragging with your liquor,” Pat said.

  He ran his big fingers through his hair but the hair remained shaggy, wild.

  “Comb?” she inquired sweetly.

  “You’re just full of bright sayings of children tonight.” He frowned, brushed imaginary crumbs from the table. “Well, little one, you won’t have to wear the disguise back to New York.”

  “Goody!”

  He glared at her, relaxed, then he said: “Bennett was killed.”

  “Oh, chief!” Her eyes widened, a hand flew to her breast. “But why didn’t you say so?” She reached out a hand. “Chief, I didn’t know—I just thought you were—”

  “Blown up, he was. Smithereens.”

  She sat back, grave-faced now. The waiter brought the set-up and Cardigan slushed in a tall jolt of Scotch, watched it bite into the ice. He took a swallow.

  He said: “There’s something screwy about it. He must have been blown up as he walked into his office tonight. But the rub is this: they found no evidence of a bomb—nothing. I was down in the Rails Building lobby when it happened. The night man there—” He went on to explain what had happened from the moment he entered the lobby. Then he took another drink.

  “Was she his daughter?” Pat asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Pat said: “I wonder what kind of a package we were to take to New York.”

  He said: “That’ll come out in the wash, but first we’ve got to do some washing. You’ve got his home address. Slam out there and work yourself under the housekeeper’s skin. The daughter may be home by now. If she is, get things straight. If you run into the cop, Kelsey—remember, call him ‘Sergeant,’ kid him, be nice to him. He’s not a bad guy but he was dropped on his head when very young.”

  “How’s the law in general around here?”

  “They all wear sneakers to keep from waking each other up. Run out there now, will you, Pat?”

  She left. Cardigan finished his drink, paid both checks and went out to the lobby. He bought a couple of nickel stogies, stuck one in his mouth and had it going by the time he reached the sidewalk. It was bright in the street: electric power was cheap. The theater opposite was one mass of light. The town was mostly flat—a prairie town with oil in the backyards, a refinery at the eastern edge of the corporation limit and an airport at the western.

  CARDIGAN walked around to the Press Building and met a man named Hanson at the city desk.

  “Oh, you’re the dick on the case, huh?”

  “In a way, yeah.”

  “Bernard was telling me. He came back with a swell story.”

  Cardigan said: “What kind of a guy is this Bernard?”

  “Pretty good. Young—and a little sappy. Impressionable. Wants to be a writer. We always have to cut his story down half but the half we keep is usually swell stuff. Dynamic. Eager sort of lad. Why?”

  Cardigan shrugged. “Nothing. Do you know anything about the late senator?”

  Hanson leaned back, linked hands behind his head. “An idealist—at fif
ty-five. Was swept into office seven years ago on a reform wave as an Independent. Started life as a minister—a two-fisted minister—in Columbus. Bought some property here before the oil boom and forgot about it. Remembered it when the boom came. He made a lot of dough and used a lot of it to war against underhanded politics. He lost his parish for being too outspoken, and then dropped the ‘Reverend,’ and then he was swept into office. Apparently he wouldn’t run with the crowd. He was a lone-wolf fighting a game singlehanded, not only locally, but nationally. Washington correspondents called him ‘Holy Abe’ Bennett. He lasted one term and was swamped out. Senator Koehrig, who went into office with him, was a conformist and they battled right off the bat. Koehrig helped defeat him.”

  “What was Bennett doing up until his death?”

  “Running a small weekly for rural distribution. A sort of religious paper—though not too heavy on the religion. He wasn’t one of those zealous sky pilots, you see. He was a damned sensible old man—though an idealist.”

  “Got a picture of his daughter?”

  Hanson called a boy, and when the boy returned with a photograph of Isobel Bennett, Cardigan looked at it, said: “Thanks a million.”

  “Was she the girl you saw in the building?”

  “She was. Bernard married?”

  “No.”

  “Where does he hang out?”

  “He lives at the Elsinore, but about this time he usually prowls around Dixie Street.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The flesh-pots.”

  “That kind of a guy, huh?”

  Hanson laughed. “Not at all! He’s always on the look-see for local color. Didn’t I tell you he wants to be an author man?”

  Cardigan pounded his big feet back to the Brighton and found a memo there to call Pat at the Bennett home. He phoned. “She hasn’t, eh?… What’s the housekeeper think?… I see…. No—you shoot back to the hotel and catch some shut-eye. See you at breakfast.”