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

by Frederick Nebel

  One of her arched eyebrows rose slightly, but otherwise not a feature changed. For some vague unknown reason Cardigan suddenly hated her. She was so cool, so collected. He was a man of blood and fire, bitter against circumstances, and her attitude touched him like a bar of ice.

  “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that your telling anybody about Mr. Everett and me at the Ritz will gain you anything.”

  Cardigan scowled. “I’m not a scandal-monger.”

  The doorbell rang and a minute later Ralph Everett came in. He was a tall, slim man of thirty, with silky blonde hair, girlish blue eyes and pink cheeks.

  “Oh, hello, Cardigan.”

  Cardigan grunted.

  Everett said, “Dreadful—murder,” and lit a cigarette. “Sorry about Saul, Cardigan.”

  It was an uneasy meeting. Cardigan saw no remorse here. The death of poor old Hartz did not seem to stir them. A year and a half ago Clara had married the fifty-year-old milk magnate. And for the past year Everett had been welcome in Hartz’s household. Hartz had never shown any suspicion.

  “Have the police got anything out of Brodski?” Everett asked.

  “No. And they won’t,” Cardigan said bluntly. “I don’t believe this strike has anything to do with it. The strike merely proved convenient for somebody else to try murder, and have it blamed on the strike.”

  “But Detective-sergeant Bush—”

  “I know Bush,” Cardigan cut in.

  Everett shrugged and looked at his watch, nodded at Clara. “I have to catch a train for Cleveland.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Cardigan said.

  Everett looked at him, startled. “Why not?”

  “I just wouldn’t. The best thing for you to do is stay right here in town.”

  Everett bristled. “Why?”

  “Because I’m telling you. And I’m being frank with you—both of you. Stay here in town. The press is aching for news and if you pull up your stakes I’ll give them a little.”

  Everett came closer.

  “You mean about the other night?”

  “Judge for yourself. And maybe if I work back I can find out about other nights.”

  Everett gritted, “You would like to break a scandal, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not unless you force me to. And don’t stick your nose in the air, either, Everett.”

  “You as much as insinuate,” Everett snapped, “that I had something to do with Mr. Hartz’s death!”

  Cardigan wagged a finger.

  “Just stick around St. Louis.”

  Clara Hartz turned away, swivelling slowly on one heel. She walked out of the room and went upstairs.

  Everett muttered, “You’ve a nerve coming here and humiliating her!”

  “And you’ve got a nerve leaving her and trying to go to Cleveland.” Cardigan picked up his hat, touched Everett’s arm. “But don’t,” he said.

  Everett paled, clenching his hands. “You’re a louse—like all private detectives,” he choked.

  “Like Pat O’Hara, I suppose. Like O’Hara, who got in the way of a lead party to save Hartz! You lily-livered nice boy! Hartz thought you were a swell guy—the old fool! Why, you—”

  He gave it up suddenly. He strode out of the room, through the large foyer, into the street, his cheeks burning. He didn’t like wavy-haired nice boys and he didn’t like Oriental-eyed icebergs. He had let emotion get the better of him. He felt he had acted a fool.

  Chapter Three

  Written Evidence

  NO funeral parlor for Ludwig Hartz, since he had not wished it that way. He lay in state in the great living room of the great brick house. Mourners came and went. Clerks, stenographers, even some of the strikers. Relatives sat about in hushed groups. Clara Hartz was in the drawing room, stunning in black, looking tragic in a cool, icy way.

  Cardigan was there, standing in the foyer, a dark, shaggy-headed man, watchful though in the background.

  Bush came in, his hard bald head shining. He went to the coffin, looked grim, then said some condolences to Clara and elbowed his way back toward the door. He spied Cardigan and came over.

  “What are you doing here?” he grumbled.

  “No law against it. I see you had to let Brodski go. You certainly paraded a lot of guys through the shadow-box this morning. Good copy, Bush.”

  “Be funny!”

  “Any new clues?”

  “You?”

  “Here’s a promise, Bush. I’ll get you a pinch—a real, honest-to-God one. You’ve been nosing it around that as a dick, I’m last year’s summer cold. So I’m going to get you a pinch and make you swallow those words, right on the front page.”

  “Baloney!”

  “You’re a nice guy, Bush, only you’re a sorehead.”

  Bush swore and went out, jamming on his hat.

  Everett, passing through the foyer a couple of minutes later, stopped and said tensely, “Don’t you think it would be the decent thing if you went somewhere else?”

  Cardigan said, “I see you didn’t go to Cleveland.”

  Everett’s lips twitched. He turned and went off stiffly.

  A messenger boy appeared in the front doorway. A man-servant signed for a letter, carried it through the crowd to Clara Hartz. A minute later Clara appeared in the foyer. Cardigan saw the letter in her hand, the white look on her face. He watched her go upstairs.

  His eyes narrowed. He looked around cautiously, backed up toward the stairway. He looked up, saw Clara’s heels disappearing around the curve above. He turned and climbed quickly, quietly. He reached the top in time to see Clara standing in a doorway at the front of the upper hall, her back to him. Her head was bent. She was reading something. Then he heard the sudden crackle of paper as she went into the room.

  He darted into the bathroom, closed the door, listened. A few minutes later he heard footsteps come down the corridor, descend the stairs. He left the bathroom, walked quickly to the front of the corridor, entered a large bedroom. He crossed to a writing-table, ran his eyes over an assortment of cards, letters, telegrams; touched nothing. There was an ivory-colored metal waste-basket beside the desk. He knelt down, saw bits of torn paper, collected them quickly, held them in his closed hand and returned to the bathroom.

  On black-and-white tiles he pieced together a message written on plain white linen paper. The writing was heavy, black, oblique. It said:

  Dear Mrs. Hartz:

  My sincere sympathy. But as I said at the Ritz last Wednesday night, don’t let this tragedy make you forget your obligation to me, in case you decide to leave St. Louis.

  D.D. McKimm.

  Cardigan remained on one knee for a long minute, frowning at the letter. Then he gathered up the pieces, shoved them in his pocket and went downstairs.

  The undertaker was closing the casket.

  Cardigan went downtown in a taxi, strode into his office and said to Miss Gilligan, “Darling, call County 0606. Ask for Mr. Sherick.”

  He went on into his office, slapped his hat on a hook and sat down at his desk. A minute later Miss Gilligan chirped, “All right.”

  Cardigan pulled his telephone across the desk.

  “Hello, that you, Sherick?… This is Cardigan…. Oh, I’m feeling great, but outside of that I want to see you…. No, I’m not going out there. I can’t spare the taxi fare and besides I don’t like that scatter of yours. I’m naming the place, Sherick, and you’re going to meet me…. Now don’t talk that way. Your sweet young things took me for a ride and you’ll play ball with me or I’ll throw you to the cops…. Never mind what I want to see you about. You come right in here and see. You know my apartment on Lindell and I’ll expect you there at eight tonight—sharp…. Never mind, Sherick. You heard me. You did a dumb thing by sending your hoods after me and you’ll come in or else—”

  He hung up and stared hard at the telephone. He took out the bits of paper, pasted them in order to a letterhead. He read the message over and over.

  “H’m,” he murmured. “Oblig
ation.”

  AT a quarter to eight that night he stood in the center of his living room holding a gun in either hand and looking around the room with keen speculative eyes. The gun in his left hand was a Colt automatic. The gun in his right was a special Colt revolver with an abbreviated two-inch barrel.

  His eyes settled on a dull-colored mohair easy-chair and he strode toward it, sat down and shoved the revolver down between the arm and the cushion until it was concealed. With an easy upward motion of his hand the gun appeared. He shoved it back again, grunted with satisfaction and stood up. He slipped the automatic into his coat pocket.

  He took a drink of Bourbon and looked at the little folding clock on the secretary. At eight o’clock he heard the elevator down the hall open, and a minute later there was a knock on his door.

  Tom Sherick was a mountain of a man beneath a wide-brimmed Panama. The man beside him was small, thin, pale-faced, and he carried his hands in his pockets. They stood in the doorway.

  Cardigan said, “I didn’t expect the wet-nurse.”

  “Willie goes where I go,” Sherick said heavily, his little eyes quivering with suspicion.

  Cardigan stepped back and Sherick and the pale-faced man trooped in. Sherick went all the way across the room, but his companion closed the door with a kick of his heel and remained in front of it, his big wet eyes sinister.

  Sherick stopped, turned, mopped his neck and face with a handkerchief. His pale eyes had fire smouldering in their depths. He gestured with his handkerchief.

  “What the hell, Cardigan, what the hell? I had every reason to believe you was a scout for that mob. What do you want? Cripes, what do you want?”

  Cardigan sat down on the arm of a mohair easy-chair. “Never mind the apologies. And damper down your loud mouth. I expected you alone. You had to bring along this snot and complicate things.”

  “Willie goes where—”

  “O.K., he’s here now. And you’re here. And you’re the guy I want to have a talk with.”

  “Well, talk!”

  Willie drew in his lower lip and then let it fall out again, where it hung wet and shiny.

  Cardigan said, “I want the lowdown on a bird named McKimm.”

  “Mc—who?”

  “McKimm. He hung out around your place and he was known there. What’s his racket?”

  Sherick stopped mopping his big face. His little eyes narrowed.

  “How should I know? Hell, is that what you got me in here for?”

  “Just that.”

  Willie made spitting sounds with his lips and Cardigan looked at him. “Cut out spitting on my carpet.”

  Sherick started tramping up and down the room, mopping his face again.

  “This is funny,” he said. “This is funny as hell, Cardigan.”

  “Says you!” bit off Cardigan. “Don’t stall around when you know you’ve got to come across. You spring, Sherick, or by God I’ll throw you to the cops for that ride!”

  Willie took three forward steps from the door. His coat pockets moved and as he stood with his head down between his narrow shoulders, a sullen glassy look was in his eyes.

  Sherick threw an apprehensive look at him, licked his lips with a rapid motion of his tongue, jerked his pale harried eyes at Cardigan. Cardigan’s eyes were flickering from Willie to Sherick, and the skin tightened on his jaw so that little muscles bulged beneath it.

  Sherick rasped, “What the hell are you tailing McKimm for?”

  “That’s my business, Sherick, not yours. Yours is to tell me what his racket is and where I can call on him. I want to know that and the cheap snot over there with the two rods doesn’t make me change my mind!”

  Willie snarled, “For two cents—” His pale face rose, showing dark circles beneath his killer’s eyes.

  “Be quiet, Willie,” Sherick said; then he snapped at Cardigan, “This is all a lot of crap!”

  “Remember, Sherick, I was taken for a ride in the city of St. Louis. Not in the county, where you have the big shots smeared to lay off you. You’ll tell me what I want to know—”

  “Damn it, Tom!” rasped Willie feverishly. “This guy is askin’ for a bellyache!” A sudden look of frenzy leaped into his eyes and his two guns came out of his pockets.

  “Willie!” cried Sherick.

  Willie panted, “The horse’s neck’s got it comin’ to him!”

  “Willie, put away those rods!”

  A moan came from Willie’s throat and he stood shaking and opening and closing his mouth slowly. Inch by inch his guns lowered until they hung at his sides.

  Cardigan said, “Hell, Sherick, you’re dumb to carry that hophead around with you.”

  “For God’s sake, shut up!” cried Sherick.

  Cardigan ran a hand across his forehead spreading cold sweat that had appeared there in shining beads.

  “But you’ve got to tell, Sherick,” he said, grimly. “I’ve got to know. And I want the truth—and then I want you to go out of here and keep your mouth shut.”

  Sherick began coughing into his handkerchief. His face was red and streaked with sweat. He looked harassed and cornered, and his jowels shook. He glared at Cardigan with hate and venom but with fear also. While Willie stood quivering like a bird dog held back, his lips wet and his eyes shining as though filled with tears.

  Sherick stammered, “He—he gambles some. He used to be the silent owner of that gambling joint in East St. Louis—The Gold Casino. He went broke. Clean broke. I gave him a job, but he didn’t keep it long. I don’t know what he’s doing. He used to come out sometimes and hang around.”

  “Alone?”

  “Well, with a couple of pals sometimes.”

  “Who are they?”

  Sherick groaned.

  “What’s it about, Cardigan? Gee, what’s it about?”

  “Who are the guys?”

  “Oh, hell. Jack Gos and Billy Dessig.”

  “O.K. Now where does McKimm hang out?”

  Sherick almost choked, but he got it out. “He’s staying in a room over Lou Abatti’s speak—down by the river. And damn your soul, Cardigan!”

  Willie cried, “Tom—Tom, for cryin’ out loud, let me give this punk a bellyache! You hear, Tom!”

  Sherick jumped, grabbed Willie’s arm.

  “Willie, don’t!”

  He tussled with Willie, hurled him against the wall, took away the guns and thrust them in his own pocket. He held on to Willie, rushing him to the door. Willie cursed and moaned, and Cardigan opened the door.

  “Remember, Sherick,” he said. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  When he had closed the door he said, “Whew!” and stood wiping perspiration from his forehead.

  Chapter Four

  Killer’s Street

  CARDIGAN climbed out of a taxi at Marion and Broadway and headed toward the Mississippi. A warm river mist hung pendant in the dark streets, and infrequent street lights had needle-pointed auras of wet radiance. Cardigan’s footfalls were loud, purposeful, clean-cut in the dark alleys through which he strode.

  He passed a run-down billiard parlor where the curt click of balls could be heard, and the heavy voices of men. There was a boat horn braying on Old Man River somewhere beyond the house-tops. Cardigan turned a corner, passed a cigar store where a radio bleated. He turned another corner and followed a cobbled street that went slightly downgrade. Halfway down he lingered. An alley dead-ended here into the cobbled street. Fifty yards up the alley crouched a two-story red brick house with a drop light outside a door flush with a broken flag walk. Some cars were in a parking space this side of the building, and back of it was the Mississippi. Insistent was the muffled beat of a jazz band’s drum.

  Cardigan entered the alley. Under the drop light was a sign—black ungainly letters on white,

  THE HONKYTONK

  He pushed open an old wooden door painted a nightmare green. He went down worn wooden steps to a foyer where a slash-mouthed girl took his hat and gave him a check. The place was damp and
hot. The old building throbbed with the beat of the jazz band. Up two steps was the dance floor. The bar was in the basement. It was a French bar—small and narrow with stools in front of it.

  Cardigan pushed in. There were no bottles in sight. He ordered Bourbon straight and the barman produced it from underneath the bar. Three drunks were in a huddle arguing about the Browns and the Cardinals. The lights hanging from the ceiling quivered with the beat of the jazz band.

  Cardigan drank, looking around. The Bourbon was thrice-cut. He felt his arm prodded and he turned around and looked at Sergeant Bush. The Metropolitan dick was sucking a homemade cigarette. His hard straw hat was tilted over thinned-downed eyes.

  “Hello, sarge,” the barman said.

  “Gin,” said Bush, still looking hard at Cardigan.

  “You getting collegiate?” Cardigan asked.

  Bush downed gin straight without taking his eyes off Cardigan. He said, “You’re doing a hell of a lot of running around, Cardigan. What’s on your mind?”

  “Right now—a certain nosey shamus named Bush.”

  “Be funny!”

  “Go to hell!”

  Bush lowered his voice grimly.

  “Listen, you. I seen Tom Sherick come out of your apartment house before. Tom and a punk of his named Willie Martin.”

  Cardigan scowled.

  “Haven’t you anything else to do but watch my place?”

  “What’s between you and Sherick?”

  “I never saw Sherick.”

  “You’re a liar! I was parked down the hall and saw him and the hood come out of your apartment.”

  Cardigan cursed under his breath. He faced Bush squarely. “You dirty flatfoot,” he ground out. “Have you been tapping my wire?”

  “Never mind, never mind—”

  “Why the hell didn’t you stop Sherick? Hadn’t the guts, eh? Nah! He had his hood with him—that hophead. That’s why! Bush, you’re a dirty sneak. You’re a disgrace to an otherwise fine detective bureau. With swell guys like Holmes and Murfee, I don’t know why you were put in charge of this case.”

  Bush reddened and his jaw hardened.