The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37

by Frederick Nebel

  Block said: “Well, you can come around when the formal hearing’s held. But the money stays in custody for the present. If it’s Mr. Poteska’s, and I guess it is, he’ll get it back—but I’m only a sergeant, I can’t hand it over. And now you can go, Miss Bell.”

  “I didn’t intend hanging around,” she said, moving back across the room. She was a head taller than Poteska. She patted his cheek. “Be seeing you, snooksy-wooksy.”

  “Whoops!” guffawed Carpintero.

  She drawled at him: “Do you speak, too, or do you just make animal sounds?… So long, boys.” She drifted out.

  Block moved his shoulders inside his coat, said: “Now to get back to—”

  Cardigan interrupted: “I thought you said Bourke was going to Florida.”

  “I did.”

  CARDIGAN stooped over Bourke’s suitcase, which still lay open on the floor. He picked up a pair of fur-lined gloves, a woolen sweater. “Since when do people pack these things for a visit to Florida?”

  Poteska jumped.

  “Sit down, you,” Block snapped. Poteska sat down.

  Block stared at the gloves, the sweater.

  He mused out loud: “I think I get it. Bourke maybe was supposed to go to Florida—but he figured, with twenty grand, to run out.”

  Poteska jumped up again, pointed, cried: “Now don’t say sit down! Don’t tell me, now!” He looked very small and comically indignant.

  “You know,” said Patrolman Carpintero, “it’s funny about that gentleman there. Sitting or standing, he looks the same. If he was behind a bar, f’r instance, I’d think he was kneeling.”

  Poteska colored. The red color swept across his white face like a flame. A vein in his temple bulged. His wide-open eyes stared at Carpintero with a touch of fierce, glassy hatred. Sweat oozed out on his skin.

  Carpintero looked sheepish. “Geez, did I say something?”

  “Anything you say,” Block told him, “is too much.” The gaunt sergeant turned to Poteska. “And what were you going to say?”

  Purse-lipped, Poteska sat down. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing my eye,” Block grunted.

  Poteska moved his lips, moistened them with his tongue, then dried them with the side of his index finger. “Well….” His eyes dropped, flickered. “Well, it’s just tough to believe that Steve Bourke would have double-crossed me by running off with the dough I gave him to take South.”

  Block broke a dry cigar in half and stuck one half in his mouth, chewed it to pulp. “What about women? Was he ga-ga on any gal?”

  Poteska scratched the back of his left wrist. His eyes were expressionless again. “I don’t know about that. I never noticed. I don’t think he was. No, I don’t think he was.”

  “When was the last time yesterday you seen him?”

  “Seven o’clock last night, when I gave him the money.”

  “Where?”

  “At my place, my apartment where I live. West Fifty-second.”

  There was a knock on the door and Carpintero opened it. A young man, with his hat in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other, said: “Is the lady of the house in?”

  “Hah,” chortled Carpintero.

  The young man looked a little puzzled.

  Block rapped out: “And what would you want with the lady of the house?”

  “Well,” said the young man, “I’m selling magazine subscriptions and I thought—”

  “Hah,” chortled Carpintero.

  “You shut up,” Block told him; and to the young man, “Sonny boy, if I knew where the lady of the house was, I’d go out and get drunk as a celebration. If you find her, sonny boy, tell me. Do tell me. I’ll get us both drunk.”

  “Oh,” said the young man.

  “Magazine subscriptions!” exploded Block. “Those harness bulls downstairs would let in an elephant if an elephant could get through the door! Beat it!”

  “Beat it!” echoed Carpintero as he slammed the door shut. “That’s telling him, Sarge.”

  Cardigan crossed the room and picked up his battered old fedora. He slapped it on his head, gave the front of the brim a downward yank. He buttoned his shabby ulster.

  “You guys have your fun,” he said. “I work for a living.”

  “You just wait!” Block said.

  “I know, I know. Ivy Bourke phoned me at five after one this morning. We had a long talk and she told me she killed her husband and I told her she’d better take it on the lam.” He strode to the door, turned, snorted: “Grow up! It’s the last thing in the world I’d tell her—to beat it! If you want me again, you know where you can find me.”

  “I’ll want you again, all right, all right.”

  “Swell. Only make it interesting.”

  Chapter Three

  The Dead Visitor

  THE phone in George Hammerhorn’s private office rang at half-past one that afternoon. Hammerhorn was the head of the Cosmos Agency. He was a broad, blond man, well groomed in dark gray. His movements were slow, deliberate. He reached out slowly, deliberately for the phone with his right hand, removed a half-smoked cigar from his mouth with his left.

  “Yes?” He watched the smoke rise from his cigar. “O.K. Hang around though.” He slid the receiver into the prongs and said across the office to Cardigan: “That was Floom, watching the Bourke place. She hasn’t turned up yet.”

  Cardigan was standing with one foot on the floor, the other on the radiator by the window, and leaning cross-armed on his knee. He scowled down at the traffic on Madison Avenue, his big face brown and saturnine, his wide mouth drawn down at one corner.

  George Hammerhorn leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair. “She did it, I guess.”

  “And why the hell shouldn’t she have?” Cardigan growled, his black eyes stirring, not seeing the traffic. “That guy Bourke stank. A handsome, glib, fast-fingered guy-about-town.”

  “That has nothing to do with the law, Jack. She should have stayed there, held her ground—called it self-defense or something. When they find her, they’ll be tough.”

  Cardigan swung his foot off the radiator and spaded his hands into his pockets, facing Hammerhorn. “Don’t read me the law, George, for cripes’ sake. I know she should have held her ground. But the poor kid was scared, she didn’t know what to do—”

  “She knew enough to come over to your place and borrow five bucks.”

  Cardigan dropped into a chair and knuckled his chin.

  Hammerhorn said: “I think you should have told the cops about that call, Jack. It would have cleared up one angle—the fact that she couldn’t have made that phone call at one five because she was at your place.”

  “That’s not the main angle. The main angle is that Bourke’s watch was smashed at twelve twenty. I can prove, if I have to, later, that she was at my place at five past one. It’s going to make a stink. The scandal-mongers are going to link her to me in a nasty way. The main reason I didn’t tell Block that she was there was because I wanted to be free to move around. He hasn’t got her, so he’d have held me as a material witness or something—maybe even an accessory after the fact. All right—I can prove she was at my place when the phone call was made, but I can’t prove where she was at the time Bourke’s watch was smashed.”

  “Who did make the phone call, then?”

  Cardigan got up and took a caged walk around the office. “There’s a fluke somewhere. I knew there was something wrong when she came into my apartment last night—I could tell it. Maybe she did sock him, say, at twelve twenty, and broke the watch. Then maybe she left. Maybe Bourke tried to get me and fainted before the connection was made—or changed his mind and hung up. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he stuck his head out the window for some air and fell out.”

  Hammerhorn was gravely logical. “The fact remains, Jack, that she hasn’t come back to the apartment. That’s an indication of guilt. We can assume—”

  Angry, impatient, Cardigan slashed his hand through the air. “We’re wasting time. There’s
just one thing I’ve got to do. I’ve got to find her before the cops do. Guilty or not guilty—I’ve got to find her first, George!”

  “How about the place where she said she was last night before she came home?”

  “I checked that. I went up there right after I left Block at the apartment. Helen Shepard said she left there at eleven thirty last night in a cab. That’s the last she’s seen or heard of Ivy. Helen knows we’re friends and she promised to let me know if she got any news.” He scooped up his overcoat, shrugged into it. “Take any message if she calls. I’m going to find out where Ivy spent the night.”

  “Want a couple of men?”

  “No. Just keep Floom watching if Ivy shows up at her apartment.”

  “Keep your nose clean.”

  CARDIGAN grabbed his hat and swung out. He went down to the Grand Central Terminal, changed a dollar into nickels and went into the men’s smoking-room and across to the telephone booths. He took down a classified directory and spent ten minutes checking off the hotels within ten blocks of his own address and then made another check of the ones Ivy would be likely to stop at. Then he began telephoning.

  “Is Miss Ivy Bourke registered there?”

  His fifteenth phone call brought a “Yes, sir” from the operator at the Whiteledge.

  “Ring her,” said Cardigan.

  There was an interval of silence and then the operator said: “Miss Bourke does not answer.”

  “Send a hop up and make sure.”

  He waited, put in another nickel when he was told to; waited another minute. The operator said: “Miss Bourke’s key was found in the outside of her door. She apparently checked out. Her room was paid for in advance.”

  Half an hour later he called the Cosmos office, said: “Any news about Ivy from Floom?”

  “No,” said Hammerhorn. “I just heard, though, that the medical examiner reported Bourke must have been pretty tight when he died.”

  “No poison or anything?”

  “No. Just alcohol.”

  “Get me a list of the bars that Gus Poteska owns and runs, George. I’ll call you back. I know some of them but I want all of them.”

  When he called back half an hour later Hammerhorn gave him a list of six; added: “And no word from Floom.”

  Cardigan figured it would be a waste of time to go around to the bars before five o’clock. He stood outside the terminal, on the corner of Forty-second and Vanderbilt, watching the moving crowd with narrowed, hunting eyes. Ivy was somewhere in this city. Walking, probably; walking endlessly. If she had paid three dollars for a room, she had two left. She could not go far on two dollars. The police had her photograph. They would be combing the streets for her, watching the theater lobbies. The evening papers would carry her picture too. Her father would hear of it days later—he was down in Central America somewhere with a survey outfit. Cardigan began to tramp the streets around Ivy’s apartment, knowing that a guilty person often haunts the neighborhood of a crime. He worked back and forth across town down to Thirtieth Street, where he lived, and dropped into his vestibule to see if there was any mail. There was a letter bearing the name of the Hotel Whiteledge. He tore it open.

  Dear Jack,

  I must have looked a fool and acted a fool the way I barged in on you at that hour. Warm and dry here now, in the hotel room, I feel very embarrassed. I guess the rain and the cold just upset me. But you were always so good to me when I worked at the agency, and afterward with Steve and all, that you were the first one I thought of to bother. Please excuse me. It’s two o’clock now and I’m going to bed and as soon as I get home, about eight or nine, I’ll send you the five.

  Gratefully,

  Ivy.

  It was postmarked at eight A.M. Cardigan crushed it into his pocket, hiked up the stairway to the second floor and fished his apartment key out of his pocket. He flung open the door and shouldered in, still confused by the contents of the letter. Taking the letter out, he read it again, trying to find something between the lines. He shrugged, put it back into his pocket and went into the pantry for a drink. As he reached over the sink to wash out the jigger, he saw a few red spots on the porcelain. He put his finger on one of them, smeared that spot into another. The spots were still wet. They were blood spots.

  He turned slowly, his brows coming together, his lips parting a little, and stared out into the living-room. The sun lay in three slanting bars across the carpet. He pushed out of the pantry, stood for a minute in the middle of the living-room, then moved with slow heavy steps into the bedroom.

  A man was lying face down alongside the bed, near the bed-table. The phone was on the floor, a broken wire curving upward. The man wore a light gray overcoat. His hat was about two feet away, upside down. His heels were worn on the outer edges. A blond man.

  Cardigan took a few more slow steps, bent over, grabbed hold of a shoulder and turned the man half over. Blood dripped from between the man’s coat lapels to the floor, where more blood lay in a dark wet patch. The man was Whitey Fife, Block’s partner from the station-house. He was dead.

  Cardigan let him fall back on his face. He said, “M-m-m,” through lips that slid tautly back and forth across each other. The phone had been yanked out. The only sign of a struggle was a twisted small rug.

  Cardigan went back into the living room, lit a cigarette and stood nibbling quick little drags at it. He turned suddenly, strode to the door and went out into the corridor; locked the door and wheeled toward the head of the staircase.

  Block was standing there leaning against the banister. The sergeant said: “Boy, you’ve been doing a lot of running around and telephoning since I clamped on your tail.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Wherever you came from. You ain’t kidding me, Jack. You know plenty about that little affair over in Thirty-fifth street. I just thought I’d follow you around.”

  Cardigan swiveled and went back to the door, saying: “All right, follow me in here.”

  He opened the door, strode into the living-room and with a jerk of his chin said: “Take a look inside.”

  Block shot him a suspicious sidewise glance, stretched his gaunt legs across the living-room and disappeared into the bedroom. Cardigan heard him bawl out: “Good God!”

  Cardigan took a few steps and leaned in the bedroom doorway. “Now say I did it,” he said.

  Block had turned the body over and was feeling around. “A knife did it. Poor old Whitey….” He dropped to his knees, felt the arms, the legs. “He ain’t been dead long. He ain’t been dead over an hour. What’s this?” he said, slapping at the broken telephone wire. He crawled on his knees and pulled a gun from beneath a chair, looked at it. “Whitey’s gun.” He stood up and turned and his long, narrow face was bitter, sinister. He rasped: “Nobody said you did it! I know you didn’t because I been tailing you for a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks,” said Cardigan.

  “You got nothing to thank me for.” Block’s voice was hard, blunt. He pointed. “I’ll tell you something, though. I sent Whitey around here a couple of hours ago, just about the time I clamped on your tail. I sent him over to watch this place, in case the dame showed up looking for you. I told him to hang around across the street and watch. So here’s his body—in your room. He tailed someone up here. He followed someone up here. Now who would he have followed up?”

  “No matter what I say, Grove, you’ll naturally say he tailed Ivy Bourke up.”

  “Sure I’ll say it!”

  “And Ivy Bourke, who’s about five feet tall and weighs a couple over a hundred pounds—she drove a knife into a man’s chest—and the man was armed.”

  Block stretched his gaunt neck and his eyes were dark, hot, alongside his bony beak of a nose. “A knife slides in easy, Jack. I only know this,” he ground on doggedly. “I told Whitey to keep an eye peeled for the woman. Now who else would he have followed up here?”

  Cardigan was gnawing at his under lip. “Try this,” he said suddenly. �
�Whitey saw some known gangster go in the building. A guy he recognized. He took a Brody and followed him in. He found the guy in the apartment here, got the drop on him and was starting to make a phone call when the guy jumped him, stabbed him. Then the guy yanked the phone out in case Whitey wasn’t all dead.”

  Block threw out the cylinder of Whitey’s gun, counted the shells. “None gone. Hey, wait! One nicked. Whitey tried to fire and the shell didn’t go off.”

  “There’s blood in the sink in the pantry. A few drops. The guy that killed Whitey washed his hands, or his gloves.”

  “You’re pretty sure it was a guy, huh?”

  “And a smart guy, Sarge. He washed his hands, he even locked the door after he went out—using a skeleton key, which he used to get in with.”

  Block’s eyes were shrewd. “You sure this dame didn’t have a key to your apartment?”

  “You wouldn’t want to get your face caved in, would you?”

  Chapter Four

  K.K.

  IT was seven o’clock when Cardigan swung into the foyer of the Rio Club. He had already been to four of Gus Poteska’s bars. The Rio was in Fifty-fifth Street, west of Fifth Avenue, and the brunette leaning at the checkroom desk was small, pop-eyed, and chewed gum with a sliding motion of her jaws.

  Cardigan said: “Hello, Gert.”

  “Well, look what the wind blew in.”

  I thought you worked over at the Bandstand.”

  “I used to. I been working here a week.”

  “Like it?”

  “It’s a living. Some of the trade’s kinda crummy but— Say, would you like to buy a chance on a round-trip airplane flight to Chicago? Only two bits.”

  “Nix, Gert. The sight of even an airmail stamp makes me airsick. Were you on last night?”

  “Sure.”

  “Know Steve Bourke?”

  “Hey, wasn’t that tough about him? Didja read in the papers about how—?”

  “You knew him, then.”

  “Well, to see him, yeah.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “Oh, boy, was he here—and how!”