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

by Frederick Nebel

  “This guy here got the works.”

  “Who’s he? Who’s the guy? Who are you?”

  “Akeley.”

  “You’re Akeley, are you?”

  “No. The stiff’s Akeley.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Cardigan. Cosmos Agency.”

  “Oh, yeah? Cosmos Agency, eh? You’re Cardigan, eh?”

  Cardigan said: “You don’t have to kill time. The guys lammed like a light.”

  “Don’t get smart, you. Never mind now getting smart. Just answer questions: that’s all you gotta do, guy. I ain’t taking lip from you, see?”

  “Haven’t I answered ’em?”

  “That’s all right; just answer them and nemmine the lip.”

  Cardigan said, “Ah, nuts,” in a low, contemptuous voice, and bent down beside Akeley.

  INSPECTOR KNOBLOCK was a tall horse-faced man with soft, brown eyes and wide lips that undulated slowly when he spoke. He always kept his eyes wide open and bland and had a habit of buttoning and unbuttoning his vest absent-mindedly.

  Cardigan said, “We left together. I was right behind Akeley when we went out the door. The shots came from down the street. Six of them. I think four got Akeley. One was in the cheek. He fell against me and I—and I had a time getting my gun out. I took two pot shots and missed. It was dark and there was no chance of getting the guys.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Two—I think.”

  Knoblock moved a paper-weight across the desk, then moved it back, as if he were playing a game. “Did Akeley show any signs of being afraid when he was in the speakeasy?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Was he drinking hard?”

  “He was sober.”

  Knoblock looked across at Toddy. “What do you think, Toddy?”

  “He on’y had four beers, and the kind o’ beer we serve, no guy even with a weak stomick could get soused on ten. He was down the end o’ the bar talkin’ to Cardigan here and when Cardigan said he was breezin’ Akeley said he’d breeze to. There was a phone call for Cardigan—”

  “A phone call,” Knoblock said, merely as a statement.

  “Yeah,” Toddy said. “I swung the phone over and I guess they got disconnected.”

  Knoblock said, “Know who it was, Cardigan?”

  “No.”

  “It was on’y a jane,” Toddy put in.

  “What time?”

  “Eleven,” said Toddy. “I know because at eleven I was to take some lousy medicine for me liver and it was eleven.”

  Knoblock made a notation; put his gentle brown eyes on Cardigan. “Cardigan, is there any chance that Akeley was the victim of an accident?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  Knoblock smiled gently; ran his tongue along the inside of his nether lip. “I’ll put it this way: Is there a possibility that the shots were intended for you?”

  “Where do you get that idea?”

  “I’m simply asking.”

  Cardigan shrugged. “There’s always a possibility. I’ve had a finger in sending many a guy to the pen, so why shouldn’t there be?”

  “I mean—” Knoblock moved the paper-weight to the center of the desk—any particular possibility?”

  “Nothing I could lay a finger on—right now.”

  Knoblock hefted the paper-weight. “You know, Cardigan, I like you. There are a few fellows in the department don’t. But I do. I’ve watched your work. I like your guts. I’m an older man than you, Cardigan, and I’ve found out through experience that it’s good policy to be free with ideas—not to hold them cooped up.”

  “Thanks,” said Cardigan, straight-faced.

  “This is murder. Murder of a reporter who was attached to The Star-Dispatch. You knew him. It’s likely that he might have told you he suspected he was in danger of his life.”

  “I didn’t know Akeley that well.”

  Knoblock sighed; put the paper-weight down slowly. “Very well, Cardigan. Very well.”

  The door opened and Detective Sergeant Bush came in. He didn’t look at Cardigan. He looked straight at Knoblock.

  “It was four shots, inspector,” he said. “One went in one cheek and out the other. One got him in the belly. One in the left side. And one smashed his chest. Three o’ the slugs were .38s and one was a .45. We looked around the neighborhood for ejected shells but didn’t find none. Sergeant Stultz notified the paper and sent Goehrig out to break it to Akeley’s family.”

  Knoblock nodded and said: “We’ve got to break this case, sergeant. Murder of a reporter usually raises a hell of a row. Break it—we’ve got to. When a reporter is killed it signifies that he knew something that might implicate someone high up. I thought—” he looked gently at Cardigan “—I thought our friend Cardigan might know, might have been told—even a hint—even the slightest hint….” His voice trailed off.

  Bush kept looking straight at Knoblock.

  Cardigan kept looking at Bush’s stubby, hard-jawed profile. The spectre of a smile moved lightly—once—from left to right on Cardigan’s lips.

  “Anything else, inspector?” Bush said.

  “Not right now.”

  Bush turned and went out, closing the door softly.

  Knoblock wrote something. “What do you think of Bush, Cardigan?” he asked.

  “I don’t think about Bush.” Cardigan said flatly.

  Knoblock held his pen poised. “I always did like your guts, Cardigan.”

  Chapter Two

  Mac of The Star-Dispatch

  WHEN Cardigan let himself into his apartment the lights were on. His first reaction was to reach for his gun.

  But he saw Pat Seaward sitting on the divan. She was snapping shut an octagon-shaped, red vanity case. She was small and rather thin and she looked trim and pretty in a quiet, certain way.

  Cardigan growled: “So now I suppose because you work for this agency you think you can hang around here.”

  “B-r-r!”

  “Yeah? How’d you get in?”

  “Picked the lock.”

  He heaved his topcoat over a chair, went to a secretary and took a bottle of Three Aces, took a stiff jolt and recorked the bottle. He scowled good-naturedly at Pat. “Well, what do you want?”

  She said: “For a guy that was on the spot tonight you’re pretty cocky.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I’m just a weak woman. I’ve been tailing you around for the past week, unbeknownst to you, kind sir. You were tailed to that speak by two men, and after you went in they concealed themselves in areaways. I was in another one. I waited a while, intending to do some shooting if trouble started. But I weakened. I hate to use a gun. So I walked to a store two blocks away and telephoned you. Something went flooey with the phone. As I came out I heard shots. I started for the speak and got to the corner and saw you on your feet. So I slipped away and reasoned this the surest place to find you.”

  “So you’ve been tailing me around, huh?”

  “Forgive me, my lord.”

  “Cut that crap.” He ran his fingers through his shock of hair, said dully: “Akeley got it. A little guy from The Star-Dispatch. He tried to get me to come through about Senator Ackerman. Dragged in a sob story about his wife and kids. Cripes—” he bent his shaggy brows “—feel lousy about the wife and kids.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “O.K., call me a mug.” He leaned on a window-sill and looked down on Lindell Boulevard. He said: “I never liked Akeley and yet the guy accidentally saves me. He was a whining sort of guy; that’s why I never liked him. He’d take advantage of you like a woman—through pity and hurt looks. I can’t stomach that in a guy. And yet—” he stood up straight, turned, spread palms “—here am I and Akeley is at the morgue.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Mobsters.”

  “Give me a cigarette.”

  Without moving he tossed her a package and said: “They were after me all right. Even Knoblock mad
e a pass at that. I told him ixnay.”

  Pat lit up. “You big dope, why do you insist on holding back? Why don’t you tell the cops that Senator Ackerman, Phil Gould and all that crowd are running chills and fever because of what you know? Why don’t you? But no—” she shrugged “—you think you’re tougher than the whole mob put together and you think it’s too effeminate to run to the police.”

  He said, jabbing a finger toward her: “I’ve been marking time, sister. It wouldn’t give me any swell kick to bust loose with a political scandal. You know me better than that. I’ve got to get something out of it.”

  “What you’ll get will be what Akeley got.”

  “Horseflies! And look: I’ve got to prove that Ackerman sent his mob after me. I’m sure as sure myself, but what proof have I? I know—but I’ve got to prove it—that Senator Ackerman is the silent partner in the county gambling casino. I saw him out there on a wild party with some chorines from Mean and Lowdown. You know as well as I do that when White got bumped off by those guns they thought it was me. But who were the guns? And we’ve got to prove that they were heels from Ackerman’s and Gould’s scatter. I should go down to headquarters and clown around with a lot of theories? In the sweet by and by I should!”

  Pat polished the nails of her right hand on the heel of her left. “To me sometimes you’re a greater mystery than which-was-first-the-egg-or-the-chicken. Either you’re over my head or you’re just plain ga-ga. That indemnity company hired you to recover stolen ice from White. You recovered it and during the waltz-around you got mixed up in that gambling casino and they thought out there you were trying to get something on them. They try to knock you off and now you recite some bed-time fable. My, you should be cast in bronze!”

  He said, patting down the air with his palm: “I just don’t run to the cops because some guys take a pot-shot at me. I know what I’m doing. I—”

  There was a knock at the door. Cardigan looked at the door; looked at Pat. He drew his gun, crossed the room, opened the door. A man walked into the gun.

  “Don’t do that, dammit!” the man rasped. “Me with a bum heart and by God I can’t come here but that you play cops and robbers—”

  “What do you want, McClintock?”

  “I want to kiss you, darling. Well! Well! Is there a law against me coming in?… Come on, Cardigan, for noisy tears smile and show the world—”

  “Get in, then,” Cardigan said.

  McClintock entered with gusto, said: “Greetings, Miss Seaward,” went directly to the secretary and poured himself a drink.

  “Hey,” said Cardigan.

  “Lousy rye,” McClintock said.

  He was a wiry, dynamic man, with a snarly mouth, sharp eyes. He wore a blue topcoat; a derby raked over one ear. His hair was pepper-colored around the ears and his nose was pointed like a knife. He sat on the arm of an easy chair and put his feet on the cushion.

  “What’s the straight dope on it, Cardigan?”

  “Your reporter was shot and killed.”

  “No!” McClintock had a raucous laugh. “Listen, big fella. I was just over to headquarters and they tell me that you don’t know a damned thing. As soon as I heard that I knew that you knew something. Now Akeley wasn’t on any spot. I know that. These guys that did the shooting were lying on wait and Akeley got in the way. And whom were they waiting for? Ah, that is the mystery—a deep, shadowy mystery larded with many ramifications. An enigma. A startling, provocative, teeming, dirty, lousy mystery. Yeah—like hell!”

  He bounded from the chair to the floor, snapped: “You know damned well, Cardigan, that those eggs were promoting your own demise! You know damned well that Akeley’s croak was an accident. I don’t blame you for holding out on the cops. Not at all.” He dropped his voice to a hoarse, rusty mutter. “Why the good cripes should you tell the cops when we can pay you five thousand bucks for the lowdown? Why should you?”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to bribe me, would you?”

  “Bribe you? Dammit, I’ll bribe anybody! Sure I’m trying to bribe you!”

  “You’re screwy,” Cardigan said.

  “Oh, so I’m screwy. What a belly-laugh I get out of that. Listen, Cardigan. Akeley was after you to spring some dope about some monkeyshines that took place at Gould’s casino and here in the city. The killing of White was a fluke. We got a whisper that State Senator Ackerman is sugar daddy to that casino and there’s one guy can confirm it. You’re the guy. We like to believe that Gould’s mobsters are after you because you know too much about the casino and Ackerman. We’re willing to pay good money to verify it.”

  Cardigan took the bottle of rye and locked it up. “The trouble with you, Mac, is that you’re taking a hell of a lot for granted. Akeley’s been bothering hell out of me for a couple of weeks. I told him nuts—and I’m telling you nuts.”

  “But listen to reason, man! Why chuck over five thousand berries? You can’t kid me. I know those guys had the finger on you and mobbed out Akeley by mistake. This rag I work for has dough and power and we’re out to smear anybody we can. One of our men was murdered. We’ve got to vindicate him. We’ve got to make a splurge. It’ll jump up our circulation.”

  Cardigan said, “You think you know they had the finger on me. You don’t know, Mac—you don’t know a damned thing. You can’t bust in here and talk that way to me. It don’t go.”

  McClintock rolled a cigar back and forth between bared teeth. His eyes glinted. “Six thousand, Cardigan.”

  “Go ’way.”

  “Seven.”

  “To hell with you and your rag.”

  McClintock cackled unpleasantly. “Or maybe you figure you can shake down Gould and Ackerman for more?”

  Cardigan looked sullen. “You better go back to the city desk, Mac.”

  “You never were dumb, shamus.”

  “A punch in the kisser might do you good.”

  McClintock rasped: “You can’t scare me, big fella! I’ve taken many a punch in the kisser. Dammit, I’m talking business with you! Akeley was murdered and we’re going to get to the bottom of it. You’re the key, Cardigan, and you’ll turn or be sorry as hell.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I’ll do anything to get what I go after. Anything. And I’m after the lowdown on this song and dance and I’m going to get it. Get it, Cardigan!” He shook his fist vibrantly.

  Cardigan made a half turn on his heel, walked heavily to the door, opened it. He looked somber.

  McClintock bit off: “You’re making an enemy of The Star-Dispatch, kiddo.”

  “Yeah. I’m making an enemy of a cheap snot of a city editor. And for two cents I’d throw him down the elevator shaft.”

  McClintock went to the door, his eyes narrowed, his lips bared tightly over his teeth. “I can find a way to make you strike a bargain, Cardigan.”

  “Nice big frame, huh?”

  “I’ve got ideas.”

  “You’ll have a broken jaw if you stand there much longer making faces at me.”

  McClintock shifted his cigar, jammed his hands into his pockets, strode through the door.

  Cardigan closed it slowly and looked at Pat. “Mac’s a rat,” he said.

  Pat said: “He’ll do you dirt, chief.”

  Chapter Three

  Bush Butts In

  CARDIGAN walked into his office at nine next morning and Miss Gilligan, his pop-eyed secretary, said, “Oh, Mr. Cardigan, another terrible, terrible murder! What’s the world coming to when people—”

  “Any wires from New York?”

  “N-no, sir…. It says here that you missed being killed by a hair’s breadth—”

  “Little more than a hair. Two hairs.”

  “Oh, Mr. Cardigan, you joke so about death.”

  “Being alive, I can afford to…. By the way, if that lousy pest Schanzen calls up again about his stolen cash-register, tell him I’m not in. Tell him anything. Only tell him I’m not in. You look swell this morning, Miss Gilligan.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, thank you, sir!”

  Cardigan went into his private office wearing a secret little smile, for Miss Gilligan was far from good-looking and made matters worse by using the wrong kind of rouge, the wrong kind of lipstick.

  His staff came out of the adjoining room. Blaine, Hennessy and Katz.

  “Ah, the three horsemen,” Cardigan said, dropping into his swivel chair, shuffling the morning’s mail.

  Blaine said: “So it’s bruited about that you’ve been mixed up in an exchange of lead again. Tsk, tsk!”

  “Yeah,” sighed Cardigan. “That poor little slob Akeley…. Did you ever have a dead man fall against you? Did you ever see a guy alive one minute, and then thirty seconds later dead and on his feet and leaning against you? Leaning against you dead—and sliding down you dead with his face shot to hell.”

  Katz droned: “You talk like a hangover.”

  Cardigan tore up a letter. “You’re new with us, Katz. Ever seen a dead man?”

  “Not yet, but I have hopes.”

  “That’s not being hard, Katz. That’s just bravado. Once you look in a dead man’s eyes you’ll never forget it. There’s a hell of a fierce concentration in a guy’s eyes just as he dies. A lot of ham writers talk about a blank stare. They’re nuts. There’s nothing blank about a man’s eyes when he kicks off. Just like the crap I read about an express bullet whistling as it brushes the down off a guy’s ear. That close, there wouldn’t be a whistle at all. There’d be a distinct snick which is the vacuum of air closing in the bullet’s wake.”

  “What’s this a treatise on?” Blaine asked.

  Hennessy said: “Was this guy Akeley on the spot? Did a wiper have the cross on him?”

  “The chief’s morbid this ack emma.” Katz said.

  Cardigan said: “I think I was the guy on the spot.”

  “Oh-ho!” Blaine exclaimed softly, nodding his chiseled head. “Am I to infer that certain hired hands of a state senator through a gambling-house owner tried to snuff out our illustrious boss?”

  “Anyhow,” Cardigan said, “Akeley got it. I went out to see his heirs this morning. A wife and two kids. One kid—three and a half—just over a double-mastoid operation. The other kid—five—in need of treatment for his eyes. Akeley was getting forty-five a week and his family living like a lot of hunkies in a lousy flat on the south side. And the wife anaemic—a little mud-gutter blonde who still can’t believe her husband’s dead. I tell you, gang, it got me—me of all guys.”