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

by Frederick Nebel

  “That’s my business.”

  “That building is full of lawyers. You saw a lawyer. Who is he?”

  “Again—my business.”

  Michaels thumped his knee. “I’m telling you I’m serious. There’s nothing going to stop me. I’m going to get these heels. Where are they? When is the money to be turned over—and where?”

  Cardigan said: “My job is to get the kid.”

  “Mine is to get the gang.”

  “Even if it costs the kid’s life?”

  “I tell you, Cardigan—I’ve got to break this, one way or another, and I don’t care who pays.”

  CARDIGAN raised his foot, planted it on Michaels’ chest and toppled him to the floor. The two bruisers grabbed Cardigan as he rose and slammed him down again. They held him locked in the chair. Michaels got up, replaced his hat and jammed his hands into the pockets of his alpaca coat. Red color swam in his eyes and sweat poured down his face.

  He said: “You may as well come clean, Cardigan, because if you don’t you’ll stay here till you rot. You’ll be no good to Milbray or anybody else.”

  Cardigan shook his head. “I’d rot before I’d tell you anything.”

  Michaels hitched his shoulders. “Give it to him.”

  The two bruisers landed on Cardigan and spent five minutes tossing him around the shack. In the end, he sat in the middle of the floor, tie and collar gone and a stupid look in his eyes. Then very quietly, as though no one were watching him, he got on his hands and knees and began crawling toward the door. One of the bruisers took half a dozen easy steps, braced himself in the doorway, and when Cardigan arrived reached down and cracked him between the eyes. Cardigan fell flat and lay very quiet.

  The bruisers looked worried. One said: “Hell, we might kill this guy.”

  “No fear,” Michaels said. “But we’ve got to make him talk.”

  The one-eyed man came to and sat up. Michaels got him a drink and the man said: “What hit me?”

  “A chair. There it is. Now sit on it till you feel better.”

  Cardigan began coughing. He rolled over on his back.

  “Be sensible,” Michaels said.

  “Nuts,” Cardigan said.

  A voice screamed from the woods: “Help! Police! Help!”

  Michaels started. “What’s that?”

  “A woman,” one of the bruisers said.

  “Oh-o-o-o! Help!”

  Michaels snapped at the one-eyed man. “You all right, Jake?”

  “Sure, I’m all right.”

  Michaels took down a shotgun from a rack on the wall, thrust it into the one-eyed man’s hands. “Watch this guy!… Come on, boys. We’ll see—”

  “Help!”

  The three men barged out and Jake stood up gripping the shotgun and peering after them. Gradually his gaze lowered to Cardigan. He saw Cardigan’s mouth fall open. He saw a fixed, wide-open stare. He shuddered, moved a step closer.

  “Hey,” he croaked.

  He saw that not a muscle twitched. He saw that Cardigan’s chest was motionless. And the eyes stared at the ceiling, the mouth was lax, deathly.

  “Jeepers!” he croaked. He started for the door.

  Cardigan heaved and floored him. Jake hit hard and his head bounced against the floor. A blow ripped to his jaw and moved his entire body several inches across the boards. Cardigan grabbed the shotgun, went out through a back window and lunged along the woods road. A figure leaped from the bushes. Cardigan almost struck.

  “How was that?” Pat asked.

  “Little wonderful—step on it!”

  She had a gun of her own—and his gun. She thrust it into his hand and he tossed the shotgun away. They reached the hill road and there was a taxi parked a few yards away. He bundled her into it.

  “I fixed their car,” she said.

  “What’d you do?”

  “Broke their carburetor.”

  The taxi was speeding past the Hunky settlement. Dust billowed in white clouds behind.

  Cardigan looked at her. “Do you know what Michaels is?”

  “Don’t,” she said. “I hate language.”

  CARDIGAN entered the hotel by way of the garage. He found an open unattended service elevator. He ran it up to the fourth floor and left it there. Pat’s key was in his hand and he went to her room. Five minutes later she came in with some packages. She opened them and displayed absorbent cotton, salve, antiseptics.

  “Sit on that chair by the window,” she said.

  “Yes, mama.”

  “And don’t be funny.”

  She had small hands, white hands, neatly pointed at the tips. She washed his face with a soft sponge, did some cauterizing.

  “Ouch!” he said.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  She washed and cleansed a broken welt on his back where a hard shoe had torn his flesh.

  “Boy oh boy,” he said, gazing out of the window, “what names I could call Michaels!”

  “Don’t.” She sighed. “Some day you’re going to discover that while you’re a pretty hard hombre you can’t lick more than double your weight. Sometimes I think you’re a case of arrested development.”

  “A few more cracks like that I’ll recommend your discharge.”

  “Yes, you will!… There milord, except for five tiny bits of tape on the face, you look presentable.”

  He shook her hand. “Thanks, trainer.”

  “What now?”

  “Well, for the time being I think Michaels will lay off me. I’ve several calls to make. You stay here, right at the telephone, until further notice. I’ll go up to my room and put on a shirt and tie.”

  “Wait till I brush your suit.”

  She whiskbroomed it thoroughly. Then she looked into the corridor, nodded, and he went out and climbed to his room. He put on a white shirt and a blue tie, looked at himself in the mirror, said, “Humph!” and left the hotel.

  AARON STEINFARB was dictating to a gum-chewing stenographer when Cardigan looked in. The lawyer shooed the girl into her own little office and waved a tremendous cigar. It said 11:25 by the clock on Steinfarb’s desk.

  “I phoned you this morning,” Steinfarb said.

  “I wasn’t in.”

  “No.”

  “I took a ride out to the mines to see some country. I fell in some broken glass.”

  “It’s tough, falling in broken glass.”

  “Yeah. Well?” Cardigan said, lifting an eyebrow.

  Steinfarb reached into his desk, brought out the little camera. “There. All exposures made. You can get ’em developed.”

  “Thanks.”

  Steinfarb screwed up his white pudgy face. “Listen….” He chewed one corner of his lower lip, scowled sidewise at a blank wall. “Listen, Cardigan. I think I ought to tell you. It’s going to be tough getting that kid.”

  “Why?”

  Steinfarb made a sour face. “Oh, the cops. Not all the cops. Some. One or two or three. They’re sore. They hate private dicks in this town. They hate anybody who tries to butt into their bowl of cherries. Just be careful.”

  “Thanks. Is everything set?”

  “Thirty-five thousand bucks.”

  Cardigan said: “C.O.D.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got a girl with me. She’ll go with you. She’ll carry thirty-five thousand dollars. The cops don’t know her. They don’t know she’s with me. She’ll take the thirty-five thousand and she’ll turn it over on receipt of the baby. If,” he added, “these pictures satisfy me.”

  “B-r-r! They’ll shy at that.”

  “Listen, Steinfarb. I’m on the level. If I’d been hired to get these guys, I’d get them. But I’ve been hired to get that child. This mug of mine, well—” he shrugged— “some cops tried to play kick-the-wicket with me. But they don’t know this girl. She’s an agency operative. Do you know why the cops kicked me around?”

  “No.”

  Cardigan pointed. “They wanted to know who I came to see last nig
ht in this building.”

  “Oh,” Steinfarb nodded. “Oh, I see.”

  Cardigan walked to the door. “Get in touch with these kid-snatchers and talk turkey. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Chapter Four

  Plate Glass—and a Punk

  THE roll of film gave up four good exposures. The others were blurred or blanks. Cardigan got the pictures at 3:30 that afternoon and hopped a cab. Blaine was on the Milbray grounds.

  “Where’s Stope?” Cardigan said.

  “Snoozing.”

  Cardigan went on through the grounds and Mrs. Floom let him in. Milbray was fully dressed. He looked not as depressed as he had on Cardigan’s first meeting with him. He had a grip on himself, chin up, jaw tight.

  “Well?”

  Cardigan took the four snapshots from an envelope. “That her?”

  “Yes! But where—how—”

  “I don’t know where, yet. I made Steinfarb get pictures of her. She’s alive—”

  “Thank God!”

  Cardigan tapped the pictures. “You can see. Here she’s looking scared. Here she’s smiling. Here she’s looking down and here she’s looking to one side. That’s swell.”

  “This is a great load off my mind, my heart. But I say—your face!”

  “Slipped getting out of the bathtub this morning. Now—” Cardigan dropped his voice— “the money. Have it ready at a moment’s notice.”

  Milbray’s chest swelled. “Your confidence, sir, makes me feel that the worst is past!”

  “Good! It is, I’m sure.” He looked around. “Where is Mr. Stope’s room?”

  “Up that stairway—at the rear of the corridor.”

  Cardigan climbed the staircase, strode down the upper corridor, knocked. He opened the door and found the room empty. His lips tightened. He went downstairs again and into the kitchen. No one there had seen Mr. Stope. He returned to the library.

  “I ought to be back about five,” he said.

  He went out like a blast of wind and found Blaine at the gate. He gripped Blaine’s arm. “Stope’s not there.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  Cardigan made knots of his fists. “Sure you didn’t see him outside?”

  “Left him in the room, last.”

  “When?”

  “Hour ago.” Blaine began swearing, then stopped and said: “Do you think he slipped out for a drink?”

  Cardigan turned on Blaine and yelled at him: “I told Hammerhorn he should never have sent that booze hound with us! I told him! You heard me tell him!”

  “Well, why take my head off?”

  Cardigan shrugged. “Sorry, fella…. O.K., you stay here. If he turns up, phone Pat and I’ll connect with her later. That bum!”

  AARON STEINFARB lit a large cigar and whipped smoke out of one corner of his mouth. “Jake, Cardigan. It’s all set. You get the dough and give it to the jane and the jane and I will go and meet my clients. There’s four of them, Cardigan, and I’ll be frank with you—two of them are real hot hoods. So don’t double the cross.”

  “I’m no gofor.”

  “I don’t think you are. I just said that—well, to convince you that only the up-and-up will get that kid. You may think I’m a louse for representing these guys. Maybe I am. Only if I didn’t they’d have got someone else. And besides, louse or not, I’m being partially instrumental in the attempt to get the kid back. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not grabbing any glory. Don’t want it.”

  Cardigan said: “You don’t have to alibi your motives.”

  “Am I? Excuse me!”

  “That was no crack, Steinfarb.”

  Steinfarb cackled. “O.K., boy, O.K.!” He picked up a pencil, twirled it. “Pictures good, eh?”

  “Swell.”

  “I’ll meet the jane at Windsor and Pellman—northeast corner—at nine tonight. And for crying out loud, don’t let Michaels or anybody else see you with her or they’ll catch on. Michaels will crab this if he can. He’s got a lot at stake.”

  Cardigan said: “The girl will have the dough when she meets you. Stand on the corner whistling something—say, Sweet and Lovely. Know it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Goom-by!”

  CARDIGAN entered Pat Seaward’s room at 8:30. He took from his pocket a long flat package wrapped in brown paper and bound with ordinary twine. She was sitting in an easy chair reading a magazine which she lowered when the package struck her lap.

  “Thirty-five thousand,” Cardigan said.

  She hefted it but didn’t say anything. Cardigan sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at her a few times in silence and then looked at the floor. He was chewing on his lip. He looked dark and worried.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  He said: “They’re worth thousands, little wonderful.” He scowled down at his wrist watch, still wore the scowl when he looked at Pat. “No word about Stope, huh?”

  “No.”

  He rose, smacked fist lazily into palm and took a few exasperated turns up and down the room. Then he stopped and extended a hand toward her. “Can you imagine a guy like that?”

  “Do you suppose he’s on a drunk?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that ought to make him harmless.”

  He growled, paced the length of the room, stopped and said: “Do you think I like having that drunk wandering around town on a night like this? Anything can happen. He might take a pass at some guy and get pinched. Then what? Then they’ll find his identification in the station house. Then what? Well, if Michaels happens to be around….” He swore under his breath and heaved his shoulders.

  “What does Steinfarb look like?”

  “Little guy. Dark clothes. Derby. Very white face—sort of too white. You’ll know him by the song.”

  “Should I carry a gun?”

  “You’d better.”

  She stood up and stretched her arms. “Well, here’s hoping.”

  “If we win, Pat, hike the kid right to home. Don’t bother phoning me until you’ve got the kid home. Only—” a shadow passed his eyes and his mouth hardened— “if that bum Stope were only where I could lay my hands on him!”

  She smiled. She had a rather soft smile at times. “Don’t get all steamed up, chief. You might get rash.”

  He muttered: “Better get started, Pat.”

  She made a trim figure on her way through the lobby, ten minutes later. She had a smart, straight-legged walk and a fine eyes-front way about her. She looked white and cool and clean in the hot street. Lobby loungers looked after her.

  The street climbed upward here. No matter their original state, the buildings, one and all, were made dusky brothers by the everlasting coal dust. Neon lights looked red and swollen in the warm night haze. Pat reached the top and flicked a glance at the signpost there. She went on past the bleat and blare of a radio store. Corner loafers whistled at her. One wise guy tried to take her arm. She gave a backward kick, expertly, and the man fell down huddling his shins. She went on.

  A block behind, on the other side of the street, Cardigan drifted past shop windows, took a passing interest in their contents, followed with intermittent glances the progress of Pat. On the next corner was a large weighing scale surmounted by a large mirror. He stopped before it and in the mirror he was able to see a block ahead. Remaining there, he saw Pat cross the street, saw her linger on the corner and, after a moment, turn toward a small man. Cardigan kept his gaze fixed on the mirror. He saw Pat and Steinfarb start walking.

  “Gain any weight?”

  Cardigan knew the voice. He didn’t turn. “I’ve all the weight I need, Michaels. I suppose it’ll get to the point where I won’t be able to take a bath without having you pop in. How do you like my face?”

  “What happened to you?”

  Cardigan turned slowly and made a sarcastic grimace.

  Farther up the street there was the sound of glass crashing. Pedestrians stopped, turned. A police whistle blew.

  Cardigan stiffened.

>   MICHAELS raised his chin, started off on the run and Cardigan followed at a fast walk, joining the crowd. Then he too broke into a run. People began shouting and, beyond the next corner, a crowd was gathering, bunching on the sidewalk. Cardigan elbowed his way ahead roughly. In a minute he saw what had caused the sound. A plate-glass window had been smashed. Heels were grinding glass to powder on the sidewalk and a cop’s red face was working.

  Michaels broke through. “What’s up, Finn?”

  Cardigan saw the cop holding Stope by one arm. Stope was drunk. His hat was on the back of his head and his hair was in tatters down on his forehead. He was swaying on his feet and complaining.

  Steinfarb was holding Pat. He was saying: “The guy’s drunk. I didn’t strike him. He tried to get smart.”

  Stope said: “F’r Gawd’s sake, ossifer, I tell you I know the lady. Old pals. Yeah… I jus’ said hello and wanna shake hands and she high-hats me. And the bozo shoves me and this here glass window kind of bends out and smacks me and breaks. ’S ’onest trut’.”

  Pat was white-faced. “I’m sorry, officer. I never saw this man before. He must be mistaken.”

  “What’s your name?” Michaels butted in.

  Steinfarb said: “My name’ll do. The lady’s a friend of mine. Pinch this punk if you want to. He took a swing at me, missed and struck the window.”

  “Stay there,” Michaels rapped out; spun on Stope. “What’s your name?”

  “Harvey M. S-Stope.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “N’ York.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Sh! Mustn’t tell, commissioner! ’S trut’—hic—I’m private detective. Like you—only ver’ private. I—I—”

  Cardigan came through, glitter-eyed. “I’ll take him, Michaels. The fat-head works for me. We’ll settle for the window.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Cardigan grabbed Stope by the throat. “For two cents, I’d push in your mug. Stand up! What’s the idea of insulting strange women on the streets? Every woman you meet you think you’ve met before. Stand up!”

  “See here, Cardigan,” Michaels broke in.

  But Cardigan thrust him aside, said to Pat: “I’m sorry, madam, my friend did this. He’s drunk. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it for this window.”

  “O.K.,” Steinfarb said.