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

by Frederick Nebel

  Cardigan crept from beneath the stair well, flattened against the wall on the way to the door, reached the door and slipped out. He ran diagonally across the street, went down an areaway into a speakeasy and piled into a telephone booth. He called the nearest police station.

  He said, “There’s a strange man prowling around the halls in a house at number —— East Fifty-fourth Street.”

  Five minutes later he stood in the street in front of the speakeasy and watched two cops roughhouse Fogel down the steps diagonally opposite and march him eastward toward the Fifty-first Street station. Cardigan lit a cigarette, tossed the match away with an air of complete satisfaction and headed toward Madison Avenue.

  Chapter Four

  Pooch Ad

  WEELER let him into the suite on West End Avenue, and Cardigan said, “Well, I hope I’m rid of Fogel for a while. He’s going to have a hell of a time explaining what he was doing in a strange house in Fifty-fourth Street tonight.”

  Wheeler looked worn and haggard and in no mood for levity. His eyes searched Cardigan’s face. “What about the woman?”

  “She claims the ice is hers and tried to pull the sweetest story ever told. Only I happened to know that she didn’t come alone. There was a big guy waiting for her in the lobby.”

  “That ought to be Bradshaw. I saw him with the woman once.”

  “You never saw this jane before you hit Paris?”

  “No. I’m sure they connected there.”

  Cardigan was eyeing him keenly. “You’re sure, Charley, that you’re not giving me the run-around?”

  Wheeler’s mouth hardened. “What do you mean?”

  “That you never had anything to do with that ice.”

  “As far as I’m concerned there never was any ice. What the hell are you driving at?”

  “O.K., O.K., Charley. How’s the little woman?”

  “She’ll be ready to sail—unless these lousy heels take a crack at me. What about the cops?”

  “Bone’s still doing a hop-skip-and-jump on my heels, but he can’t touch me. You’ll sail, Charley.”

  “What does your boss think?”

  Cardigan smiled. “He’s O.K.—a swell guy.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Cardigan stiffened, put a finger to his lips and slipped into the bedroom. After a moment Wheeler called him out.

  “It was only a bell-hop. I had him take the pooch out for an airing, and the pooch broke the leash and beat it. He asked me if I wanted to put an ad in the paper.”

  “No, you don’t,” Cardigan said.

  “Why not? Damn it, I’ve come to like the homely mongrel.”

  Cardigan pointed. “You keep out of the papers, kid. You always were a sentimental egg, but you’re taking orders now—if you expect to bail out of this man’s town. These heels may see the ad and trace you through it.”

  Wheeler shrugged. “Oh, all right.”

  Cardigan looked hard at him. “I mean it, Charley. Don’t think you can put an ad in on the sly, because I’ll be watching the papers. They traced you to your first address and got a line on me, too. They’re trying like hell to trace you to this one.”

  “All right, old bohunk, all right. But the old doc was a swell guy, and the pooch—”

  “Now lay off.” Cardigan put on his hat and strode to the door. “So I’ll be seeing you.”

  IT was eleven o’clock when Cardigan dropped from a taxi at Madison Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street. Walking east, he became aware of heels keeping time with his own. He looked around and saw a figure walking behind in the shadows. He slowed down, and the dim shape behind turned into a hall door. Cardigan went on, and a moment later turned his head about and saw the dim shape again walking. Cardigan looked up at the brownstone front and saw that the fourth floor, left, was dark. He went on until he reached Park Avenue, stopped and, looking back, saw the dim shape come to a pause. Cardigan turned south, walking fast, and when he reached Fifty-third Street saw the man idly following. Cardigan turned west and walked faster. When he reached Madison again he had dropped the dim shape. He turned north and again entered Fifty-fourth Street.

  He dodged into the vestibule of the brownstone. He got the hall door open with a master key and climbed to the fourth floor. He stood in the corridor for a moment getting his bearings, then went toward a door he was certain led to the Valhoff woman’s apartment. He knocked several times and listened intently. There was no answer, nor did he hear any sounds inside. He tried his master key and several others, but none worked.

  He went to the rear of the hall—it was not long—and opened a solitary window there. He leaned out and saw a fire-escape platform. He climbed out, closed the window and squatted for a minute on the metal platform. He leaned way out and saw that one of the adjoining windows was open a couple of inches. He swung closer to the building, got his left hand on the ledge, stretched farther and got hold of the bottom of the open window. Holding it hard, he clung to the frame of the fire-escape with his right hand while working his left foot over to the window ledge. For a brief moment he remained spread-eagled, then kicked out with his right foot, swayed and came to his knees on the ledge, gripping the bottom of the open window with both hands. Bit by bit he raised the window, stepped into a darkened room and remained motionless, but breathing heavily.

  After a few moments he began moving. From his vest pocket he drew a flashlight the size of a fountain pen. Its meager glow showed him a bedroom. He entered another bedroom and then went straight ahead into a living room. Before him were the front windows of the apartment. He cruised the living room without finding anything of consequence. Then he entered the middle bedroom, closed the connecting door and turned on the lights.

  The bed had not been slept in that day. Half-packed bags were on the floor, and a man’s clothes hung in a closet. Gradually Cardigan became aware of the fact that they were the clothes of two men; the suits varied in size. He plowed into a steamer trunk that appeared not to have been unpacked. Stenciled on it were the initials L.S. Apparently they stood for Sterns. In the bottom of the trunk he found an assortment of knives—five in all—of varied construction, thickness of steel and length. One he knew was a Malay kris; another was a stiletto; another a broad-bladed dagger with a mottled agatelike grip. All the knives were clean. He replaced them and, disappointed, closed the trunk.

  The rear room was obviously the woman’s. Only two dresses hung in the closet. Most of her things were packed. Cardigan went back into the middle room, searched beneath the pillows and the mattress. He flung the mattress down again, straightened, turned, and found himself looking at a man standing in the living room doorway. The man held a gun. He was the bull-necked man, and he wasn’t smiling.

  “CAREFUL, Cardigan. I believe it’s Cardigan.” Over his shoulder he said, “Lights.” Lights in the living room sprang on, and beyond the bull-necked man Cardigan saw the woman and a tall, emaciated thin man. Cardigan removed his hat and fanned himself.

  “Bradshaw,” he said. “I believe it’s Bradshaw.”

  The bull-necked man said, “We are glad to meet, I’m sure.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” said Cardigan.

  “For me,” said Bradshaw bluntly.

  The thin man, impeccably dressed, strode past Bradshaw and stood regarding Cardigan with a withering glance.

  Cardigan said, “And Mr. Sterns, of course.”

  “And what about it?” snapped the thin man.

  Cardigan said, looking past him, “And Miss Valhoff. I see, Miss Valhoff, that you’ve stopped being a woman alone.”

  “Enough out of you!” Sterns ripped out. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Cardigan’s smile was not genuine. He must have known he was in a tough spot, but he said, “Imagine your surprise.”

  Sterns took two jerky steps and laid the flat of his hand across Cardigan’s cheek. Cardigan did not budge. Only his head moved to one side, snapped back straight again while his eyes shone with a frigid smile.<
br />
  Bradshaw said, “Cut it out, Lester,” in a tone that indicated such an act was child’s play.

  The woman remained in the living room taking slow drags on a cigarette.

  Bradshaw said, “What are you looking for, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan was honest. “Some hint as to which one of you birds bumped off Tracy in my room.”

  “And you found the hint?”

  “Of course. Sterns did it.”

  The woman laughed mockingly.

  Bradshaw came into the room saying, “Lester, take away his gun. Get behind him and take it.”

  Sterns got behind Cardigan and removed the gun from Cardigan’s hip-pocket. He moved to one side and released the safety.

  Bradshaw said patiently, “Lester, close that safety and give the gun to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not going to have you monkeying around with a gun.”

  Cardigan put in, “Sure, when his game is knives.”

  “That’s enough out of you,” Bradshaw said. “You are going to talk, but not in a light vein. You are going to tell us where Wheeler is located. We are going to get those diamonds. Each and every one of them.”

  “You’re screwy,” Cardigan said.

  Bradshaw said, “Tracy tried to double-cross us, you know. He hadn’t the brains, though. Tracy was the one who located Wheeler, but did not tell us. But we were watching Tracy. Get in the living room.”

  Cardigan did not move. Sterns kicked his shins, and Cardigan grunted and stumbled forward. He went into the living room and found the woman regarding him maliciously with her green eyes.

  He said, “I suppose you’re waiting to see the Irish take water, huh, sister?”

  She smiled. “With pleasure!”

  “Go to hell,” he growled.

  Sterns kicked him in the spine, and Cardigan whirled, but Bradshaw was there solidly with his gun. “Nix, Cardigan,” he said patiently.

  Then he said to the woman, “Lorraine, turn on the radio—rather loud.”

  Chapter Five

  Irish Blood

  THE woman went to a cabinet and turned a knob. A Harlem jazz band cut loose. Bradshaw made Cardigan sit down in an armchair, then spoke to Sterns. Sterns went into one of the rooms and reappeared carrying two heavy leather luggage straps. He buckled one end to the other, then threw the strap across Cardigan’s stomach, put the ends through the arms of the chair and buckled the strap behind the chair.

  Bradshaw sat down on another chair with his gun, and Sterns leaned over Cardigan and said close to his ear, “Now where is Wheeler staying?”

  “You want him,” Cardigan said. “You go find him.”

  Sterns whipped his fist into Cardigan’s face. Blood trickled from Cardigan’s lip, but his head snapped back to an erect position, and he pressed his lips tightly together.

  “Where is he?” Sterns snarled.

  “The trouble with you guys,” Cardigan said, “is that you’re all nutty. He hasn’t got the diamonds.”

  “If he hasn’t got the diamonds, why didn’t he report to the police? Why didn’t you?”

  “He didn’t want to make trouble.”

  “No. He didn’t report because he has those diamonds, and he knows that if he reports, that will be the end of them!”

  Cardigan said, “He hasn’t got the diamonds.”

  “Where is he staying?”

  “You’ll have to find that out for yourself.”

  “I intend to.”

  He kicked Cardigan’s shins and kept kicking them until Cardigan lashed out with his foot, caught Sterns in the pit of the stomach and sent him smashing into a chair ten feet away. Chair and Sterns went down to the floor, Sterns moaning and rolling back and forth on his stomach.

  The woman disappeared and came back quickly, her green eyes shimmering. She carried a razor strop. She whanged it across Cardigan’s face while Sterns still groaned in agony on the floor. Bradshaw took a clinical interest in the proceedings.

  The woman laughed hysterically. “How do you like that, eh?”

  “I’m not crazy about it,” Cardigan said.

  “What is that address now?”

  “I told you once to go to hell; that stands.”

  Whang!

  The buckle went clear around the back of his neck and opened his right eyebrow.

  The green-eyed woman shook with rage. “You regret insulting me today now, don’t you?”

  Pain kept Cardigan’s lips shut.

  Bradshaw got up and came over and leaned close to his ear while the radio jazz band thundered. “Don’t be a fool, Cardigan. We’re going to get that address.”

  Cardigan’s sneer was freighted with contempt.

  Sterns got up with oaths bubbling and fizzing on his lips. He grabbed a poker from the fireplace and rushed madly toward Cardigan. Bradshaw caught the descending arm, wrenched it, and the poker fell to the floor. “Not that,” he said. “We want information out of this guy, Lester.” He was patient. “Now don’t be an idiot.”

  “I’ll kill him!” Sterns grated.

  The woman cut loose with the strop again, and Cardigan grunted. He heaved up, lugging the armchair with him, and broke the straps with his body and arms. Fury burned red in his eyes and as the woman struck out again Cardigan gave her the flat of his hand across her mouth. She yelped and fell down, spat out a tooth.

  He whirled with his fist knotted and moving uncorked it into Sterns’ face, lifted Sterns off his feet and dropped him into a divan where Sterns bounced like a rubber ball and then lay chattering.

  But Bradshaw stuck his gun in the small of Cardigan’s back and said patiently, “This isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

  The woman was emitting crazy chirping sounds.

  The jazz band had stopped.

  A voice was saying, “Late news dispatches. Here’s a good one. The only one hundred thousand dollar bulldog ever found. And dead at that. An unidentified brindle bull was run over at ten tonight at Ninety-second Street and Broadway by a Broadway street car. Killed instantly. Patrolman Swenson took charge of the body and in lifting the dog noticed something fall from one of the wounds. It was a diamond. On closer inspection it was found that four other diamonds were imbedded in the dog’s flesh. It appears that these diamonds had been placed in an incision, whereupon the incision had been sewn up. A doctor claimed that it looked like an expert job, probably the work of a surgeon. A cursory examination of the diamonds by an expert indicates that these diamonds are worth about a hundred thousand dollars. Some dog, folks—”

  The woman had stopped mumbling. Sterns had stopped gibbering. Cardigan looked at the radio, transfixed, and Bradshaw said, “By God,” dully.

  The woman yelped, “Wheeler had a bulldog! The doctor’s bulldog! The fool didn’t know—we didn’t know. Oh, what utter fools!”

  Sterns said, “The diamonds are in the hands of the police!” as though making a revelation.

  “Of course,” Bradshaw said. He looked stunned, but he kept his gun hard against the small of Cardigan’s back.

  Cardigan said, “I told you. I told you Wheeler didn’t know anything about those damned diamonds.”

  Sterns crept from the divan and stood on shaking legs. His voice was clotted. “But that doesn’t let you out. You know too much. Too much.”

  The woman sprang up. “Too much indeed.”

  Cardigan said, “Tracy was a heel like the rest of you. His death doesn’t mean anything to me. The case is over. Believe it or not, this will never get to the police.”

  “Take him out,” the woman said. “Kill him somewhere. Meantime I will pack the bags.”

  Sterns said, “I’ll wash my face first.” He went into the bathroom.

  Blood streaked Cardigan’s face. “I’ll break even on this, so help me.”

  “We can’t take the chance,” Bradshaw said. “You know too much. Start packing, Lorraine.”

  Sterns reappeared, carrying a slender stiletto. “This is the thing. No noise. We�
�ll gag him in the car. Should I go and get the car?”

  Bradshaw said, “Yes, get it and wait down the block. I’ll bring him. Get in the bathroom, Cardigan, so Lester can wash that blood off your face.” He pushed Cardigan into the bathroom, and Sterns washed Cardigan’s face with mocking tenderness.

  “You guys’ll regret this.”

  Bradshaw said, “We’ve got to do it.”

  STERNS dried Cardigan’s face, and Bradshaw marched him back into the living room. Harlem was again on the air. And there was another sound. Someone was knocking. Sterns looked at Bradshaw, and Bradshaw looked at Cardigan.

  Cardigan said, “There’s only one guy could be out there.”

  “Who?” Bradshaw asked.

  “The cop that met Miss Valhoff at my place this evening—Lieutenant Bone. If you think you can shoot it out with him, you’re crazy. He’s a wizard with a gun.”

  Bradshaw set his jaw, and Sterns began to get panicky.

  Cardigan muttered. “I said we’d break even. Turn the lights down. I’ll sit in that armchair. You, Bradshaw, sit in that one. Tell Sterns and the woman to go in the back and close that connecting door. You and I are friends. Act that way. It’s your only out—so take it—and quick.”

  “I don’t believe him!” Sterns said in a whisper. “As soon as the cop comes in he’ll tell. No—no!”

  “So help me,” Cardigan promised.

  “No—no!” cried Sterns.

  “What’ll you do?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Tie two bed sheets together and let myself down to the fire-escape. It slants beneath the rear window.”

  “How about Lorraine and me?”

  “I’m going,” Sterns said. “You and Lorraine can make it, too. Come on.”

  “How about this guy?”

  Sterns said, “For some reason or other this guy is just as much afraid of the cops as we are. We’ll make him go, too, and get rid of him on the East Side. Come on.”

  “No,” Bradshaw said. “Get in that room, close the door and keep Lorraine in there.”

  The knocking was louder.