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

by Frederick Nebel

  Rosalie Wayne drew herself erect. “I know nothing about her. I don’t even know the girl. I’m sure Mr. Drummond doesn’t.”

  “You?” Cardigan shot at Drummond.

  “I know nothing.”

  CARDIGAN walked across to the telephone, picked it up and turned to face them. “I hate to do this, but I’m getting a couple of precinct detectives over.”

  Rosalie Wayne started. “But why?”

  “They can get rough,” he said, eyeing Drummond, “and they have the law to back them up. I haven’t.”

  Drummond came across the room. “Please, Mr. Cardigan, wait, let us get this thing straight.”

  “Straight? This thing is about as straight as a roller-coaster. I tell you, I never run to the cops. I usually can settle my own troubles. But this time—my side-kick is in trouble and my hands are tied and nothing else matters and you’re either going to come clean or play house with the precinct dicks. I’m not—”

  The ringing of the phone cut him short. Rosalie started across the room but Cardigan answered it, said, “Hello.” Then he looked up, pressed the mouthpiece against his chest. “This is your maid calling, Miss Wayne. I want you to tell her to come right home—as quick as she can. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she said, breathless.

  “I want you to ask her where she is. I want the address.”

  “Yes.”

  He gave her the phone and she said, “Hello, Janie…. I know, I know; I thought you were out rather late…. But listen, Janie. I want you to come right home. It’s imperative…. I’ll explain later. And, Janie. Where are you?… You must tell me…. You must, Janie!… Oh. Oh, I see.”

  She hung up, said, “She said—a drug store.”

  Cardigan laughed shortly, unpleasantly. Then he said, “I’ll be seeing you two later. The best way to get yourself into a pot of trouble is try leaving the city. You get that, Drummond?” he whipped off.

  “I had no intention—”

  But Cardigan was on his way to the door. He went out.

  Standing in the doorway at the entrance to the Petremont Plaza, he was deep in shadows. The doorman had retired. Lights were low in the lobby behind and the street out front was dark, quiet. When he had been standing there for half an hour, a cab drew up to the curb. A woman got out, paid the driver and the cab shoved off. The woman hurried toward the entrance.

  Cardigan took hold of her arm. “Miss Leadley?”

  “Yes— But see here.”

  She was small, quaint-looking in a quaint bonnet that sat high on her gray head.

  “Mother,” he said, “you and I are going places.”

  “Let me go! Let—”

  “Yelling will bring only the police.”

  She stopped short, breathing hard. “But—but—”

  “You don’t really want to see the police: that’s right. Come along with me.”

  “But I have to—”

  He had no scruples. He showed her a gun. “I mean it! You’re going to take me to the place you just came from!”

  “I— No! No!”

  “Madam, it’s that or—” he moved the gun—“this.” He lifted his head, called, “Taxi!”

  Chapter Four

  Guido

  SHE huddled in one corner of the rear seat, her hands tensely locked, her eyes wide behind her little old spectacles. She stared straight ahead. It was as if she dared not look at the man beside her. She had given an address.

  “You know,” Cardigan said, “you’re a pretty old woman to get mixed up in a thing like this.”

  She bit her lips to keep words from issuing forth.

  “Murder,” he said, “and kidnaping are dangerous pastimes.”

  She muttered, “I murdered no one! I kidnaped no one!”

  She began crying. The cab rolled on, heading west, its tires swishing through the dark, empty streets. The sound of her crying was hardly audible. Presently the cab stopped in front of a shabby brownstone house.

  Cardigan said, “This it?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed.

  He backed out, reached in and handed her to the curb. He paid the driver and the cab ground into gear, rolled off. He held the little woman’s arm. She hung back. He tugged at the arm with his left hand. In his right was his gun—inside his pocket.

  “Oh, please,” she gasped weakly.

  He lifted her bodily, under the armpits, and carried her up the brownstone stoop. He set her down in front of the vestibule and moved to one side.

  He said, “Ring that bell.”

  She put her hand on the bell, her head on the hand, sobbing. He was touched by the hopelessness of her small, quaint figure, but he was also determined. He said nothing. Waiting, his hand was hard on the gun in his tuxedo pocket. He used his left hand to turn up the collar and drew together, as much as he could, the lapels. He regretted the low waistcoat, the expanse of boiled shirt.

  The inner door clicked. Cardigan pressed close against the stone to one side of the vestibule. There was a pause, and then the vestibule door opened. The little woman swayed. Suddenly she let out a faint cry and collapsed.

  A man pushed out of the vestibule and Cardigan said, “Up you!” quietly.

  The man almost stumbled. In the darkness he looked tall, burly, had a bald head and what looked like white hair above the ears.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said.

  “Pick her up,” Cardigan said. “It’ll keep your arms occupied. Pick her up and carry her. I’ll be behind you.”

  The burly man said, “I guess you got me,” cheerfully, and lifted the old woman. She made a small package in his arms. Cardigan got behind him and they entered, Cardigan closing both doors.

  The hall was lighted and at the head of the stairs stood the figure of a woman. She did not look young. She was plump and tall. The burly man carried the old woman up the stairway and Cardigan went behind him. The woman at the top could not see the gun in Cardigan’s hand.

  “What’s the matter, Matt?”

  The burly man’s answer was in the nature of a short, guttural laugh. Brass strips on the steps clicked beneath his heels.

  “It’s Janie,” the woman said.

  “Yeah,” the burly man said, hard humor still in his tone.

  “Who’s the man—” They were at the top and the woman caught sight of the gun. “Oh,” she said, quietly.

  She had a dowager look about her. Gray-white hair, piled high, and a black ribbon around her full throat. There were lines in her face, a double chin, growing hardness in eyes that were a queer shade of green. Majesty was in the straightness with which she held herself.

  Matt said, “She fainted outside and this mug was there, waitin’ with a rod.”

  “She fainted and— Oh, I see.”

  There was the sound of a piano, casually, softly played, in a room beyond. A door was part way open.

  “Get going,” Cardigan said.

  THE woman turned and walked majestically toward the door and Matt followed. Cardigan crowded close behind them, entered the room with them. He remembered the drab outside of the house and was instantly struck by the splendor of a large living room containing scattered floor lamps. At a grand piano, a small, dark man was rippling his fingers over the keys. He seemed unaware that they had entered. Then he looked up—and stopped playing. Leaped to his feet and shot a hand toward his hip.

  But Cardigan had him covered. “No you don’t!” And to Matt: “Keep holding her, you!” He swung his voice back to the dark man: “Keep your hands up and come over here.” The man came over. “Turn around.” Cardigan removed a small automatic from the rear pocket.

  There was in this room, about these people, a strange air that was oddly sinister. Cardigan sensed it vaguely but could not lay his finger on anything. The tall woman stood like a Tussaud figure, motionless; Matt stood holding the old woman and smiling with hard amusement; the dark man stood stonelike and stared fiercely, his eyes never blinking, at the floor. Cardigan moved until he could tap Matt’s pockets.
He withdrew a gun and stuffed it into the pocket where he had put the dark man’s.

  “Put her down,” he said.

  Matt laid Miss Leadley on a large divan. She muttered something and moved from side to side. Matt straightened and stared at Cardigan. The tall woman stared at him. The dark man stared fiercely at the floor. No one said anything.

  Until Cardigan said, “I’m looking for Miss Seaward.”

  Matt and the tall woman looked at each other. Their glances showed nothing. They returned their stares to Cardigan and after a moment’s silence the tall woman turned, walked leisurely to a straight-backed chair and sat down. She lit a cigarette, unhurried. Matt shrugged, took another chair and looked fixedly at his fingernails.

  “Miss Seaward?” the tall woman said.

  Suddenly the small dark man began crying. His shoulders shook and tears ran down his face. He returned to the piano stool, sat down, drew out a handkerchief and continued crying into it.

  Cardigan looked exasperated. “Am I in a nut-house?”

  The woman got up, crossed the room and patted the dark man on the shoulder. “There, there, Guido,” she said. “There, there.”

  She returned to the high-backed chair and sat down. “So you want Miss Seaward, Mr. Cardigan.”

  “I’m glad you know my name.”

  She regarded her cigarette. “You are a very able detective. You are well known in the city and you wield a certain amount of power. So do I,” she finished, sharply. “Do you know who I am?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care. I told you what I want.”

  “You may as well put the gun aside, because it won’t help you get Miss Seaward.”

  “I’ll hold the gun while I can.”

  The little dark man was weeping into his handkerchief and rocking from side to side. Matt got up and rocked over and bent down. “Snap out of it, Guido. You got to snap out of it. Come on, be a pal and snap out of it.” He rubbed Guido affectionately on the shoulder with an immense hand.

  Cardigan said, “You, Matt, get over to that chair!”

  “Me?” Matt chuckled hoarsely. “Sure.”

  Miss Leadley, only half conscious, was moaning. “O God, protect Rosalie! O God….” She trailed off into muttering.

  The tall woman looked at her, then looked at Cardigan. She stood up and her head went back arrogantly, green flame moved in her eyes. “I will bargain with you, Mr. Cardigan! I have Miss Seaward in my possession and—”

  “Get her,” Cardigan chopped in.

  TEETH, still fine and regular, shone between lips curving open in a smile of challenge. “The bargain, you remember.” She went on swiftly. “I have her. I had her kidnaped right from under your nose in the Club Cordova tonight. I had to do it, you understand! And now—now, we shall bargain. Her life—against the thing I want.”

  “Spill it.”

  “You are to forget this address. You are to forget all and everything connected with the Jacland murder case. That is all.”

  He said roughly, “If you have her, what the hell can I do but say yes?”

  “You can, afterwards,” she reminded him, “double-cross me.”

  “Naturally, I could do that. I may have to. I’m not the only one mixed up in it. The cops are after me for what I already know. They’re after Miss Seaward too. I can take it; I could talk them out of anything. But if they corner her, there’s no telling.”

  “You’re frank, at least.”

  “I’m frank even with killers. I’m telling you that, so far as I’m concerned, so far as things stand now, it’s a bargain. It’s tough to swallow, but it’s a bargain. I’d be crummy to walk out on her.” He was scowling, his face was dark and unpleasant and he was impatient. He growled, “Get her. Get her.”

  “First, put down that gun.”

  He gripped it hard. “I’ve got to see her first. I’ll not put this rod down—not with that crying hyena there and this roughneck here. Get her! Get her in here and, so help me, I’ll do nothing more than walk out with her!”

  The tall woman folded her arms. “I, Mr. Cardigan, am making the terms of the bargain. You forget that.”

  Cardigan’s eyes blazed. “Why, damn it, another crack like that and I’ll get the police here! I’ll phone them!”

  “You will put your hands up, Mr. Cardigan.”

  Startled, he twisted his head around. Miss Leadley was sitting up, holding a gun in her hand. “Put them up, please. You forgot about me.”

  Matt heaved out of the chair and started toward Cardigan.

  “You all forgot about me,” another voice said. “Steady!”

  Matt stopped in his tracks. Miss Leadley ducked her head. Pat came through a curtained doorway—small, trim, white-faced. There was a big gun in her hand.

  She said, “Never bind a woman with plain rope. And never leave loaded guns around in bureau drawers…. O.K., chief. I guess that does it. The little dark gentleman there did it. He carries a knife in his right sock. I felt it in the cab with my ankle. You’d better get it.”

  Cardigan turned on Guido. “Shell out, you.”

  Guido wept again and, bending, drew a knife from his trousers leg. He laid it on the piano, sat down, put his face in his hands and began weeping hard.

  Cardigan said to Pat, “You’re telling me the Rosalie Wayne lead is all wrong? There’s her maid.”

  Pat started. “I didn’t recognize her!”

  Matt’s fists were clenched. “Listen, Cardigan,” he growled passionately. “You can’t drag Rosalie Wayne into this. You can’t, you hear!”

  “She’s just as guilty—”

  “She’s not!” cried the tall woman, her eyes wide. “I tell you, she knows nothing about this! Nothing! She doesn’t know me! Not even me! She doesn’t know I’m alive! So help me God, she had no hand in this!” Suddenly she was out of breath, her face enflamed. “You can’t ruin her, her career! You can’t do what Giles Jacland tried to do! You can’t!”

  Cardigan was puzzled. He growled. “What do you know about Giles Jacland?”

  “You ask me what I know? You don’t know who I am. Well, Mr. Cardigan, I am Rose O’Day. I was—was Rose O’Day.”

  He said, “Rose O’Day was an actress who died—was drowned—when I was a kid. Fifteen years ago. I—” He stopped short. “You do,” he said, his voice dropping, “resemble Rose O’Day.”

  She shook with emotion. “I am! I’m Rosalie Wayne’s mother. Do you know who ruined me? Do you know who drove me to drink and then dope and who drove me from the boards?”

  Matt was uneasy. He went to her.

  “Rosie—calm, Rosie.”

  BUT no one could have stopped her.

  She cried, “Giles Jacland ruined me! With his bitter criticism—his cruel, heartless satire. He ruined me! He made me lose faith in myself until I believed I was a rotten actress. And I went down. But going down—I thought of Rosalie. And I vanished. She was left with Janie Leadley. Janie knew everything.

  “And Giles Jacland was ruining Rosalie. He hated me—hated me always because I was one actress who never came to him. And he suspected I never died. And he somehow kept track of Rosalie through the years—even though her name was changed. And he tried to do with her what he never was able to do with me. But he didn’t tell her he knew. He had a better way. His pen.”

  She spun around. “Just as he ruined Guido. Because one night, years ago, Guido got up in a restaurant and called him a fakir, a cad and a bounder. He ruined Guido—made him lose faith in himself just as I did. Matt caught me on the toboggan. Cured me of dope. Matt married me. Thank God for that!”

  She dropped to the chair, wringing with perspiration, shaking all over. Matt stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. There was a long moment of silence.

  Then Guido snarled. “I killed him! Me! With my knife! No one told me to! But I—I went and killed him! For Rosalie’s sake—but for mine also!”

  Pat sighed. Her gun drooped. She said, “I felt, chief, it was something like this.
Jacland was that way. A cad.”

  Cardigan was saying, with difficulty, “I know, I know, but Bone is on this. Bone is after you and me. Somebody has to take the rap for it. I’m not. I’m not going to let you.”

  She threw the gun on the divan. “I don’t care, chief. I’m walking out of this. I hate murder, but there are times when you can’t call it murder. I’m not a cop. I’m walking out.”

  She turned and went to the door.

  He said, “Pat, wait!”

  “Chief, you heard me. If you’ve any sense of decency in you, you’ll come with me, you won’t be a heel.”

  He felt his neck redden. His jaw hardened. “O.K., wisegirl. The cops’ll come after us for a shake-down. I hope you can take it.” He backed across the room. He said, “You, Rose O’Day—and the rest of you—take a heel’s advice. Scram out of here—now, this minute. Pack like hell and lam. You hear me?”

  “I got you,” Matt said.

  Cardigan said, “Because that operative of mine is only a woman. And cops are cops. And if they get rough with her—I tell everything—the whole works. Me they can rough-house and make me like it, when I get used to it. But—” he shook his head—“not her.”

  He backed swiftly to the door, backed out into the hall and closed it. Pat was waiting.

  He clipped, “So I’m a heel, eh?”

  She gripped his arm. “Chief, I didn’t mean that. I know you were thinking of me. But, hell, if we turned them over, if we raked up Rosalie Wayne—I’d feel rotten for the rest of my days.”

  THEY reached the lower hall, opened the door and passed into the vestibule. Cardigan pulled the door shut. They went out of the vestibule, down the stairs.

  A figure moved from the shadow of the stoop. “I’ve been waiting for you, Cardigan.”

  Pat’s hand tightened on Cardigan’s arm.

  “Hello, Abe,” Cardigan said. “I notice you waited outside—not in.”

  “Never mind that. I tailed you from the Cordova. I saw you get in a cab with a woman off Park Avenue and you come right here. So I’ve been waiting. It wasn’t this jane you got on your arm now. What’s in that house?”

  “Rooms. Roomers, I suppose.”