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

by Frederick Nebel

  Cardigan frowned. “What’s the joke?”

  “No joke, Jack. Some guy poked him and nobody knows why.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “Nobody knows. Just a customer, I guess. He socked Bourke in the men’s washroom. Nobody seen him do it but we put two and two together, because a guy came streaking out here for his hat and coat and I saw him wiping what looked like blood off his knuckles. And he looked plenty mad. He couldn’t find his check and he snapped at me, ‘I can’t find it. Gimme my hat and coat.’ So I says to him, ‘You’ll have to describe them, mister.’ And so he describes them, exasperated all the time, and still mad, and I give them to him.”

  Cardigan said: “That’s a nice hairwave you got, Gert. How did he describe them?”

  “Well—oh, yes, I remember. Ha—I had to laugh. He says, ‘There’s K.K. stamped in the hat.’ And I says, ‘Ha, another K and you’d be a Ku Kluxer Klanner.’ And then I says, ‘Now describe the coat.’ Well, he says it’s a black one. I ask what the label is. He says he can’t remember. He points out a black one and tells me that’s it. But I says, ‘Maybe there’s something in the pocket you can describe.’ By this time the guy is boiling. But he snaps, ‘My hotel key! The Hotel Whiteledge!’ So the key is in the overcoat and I give him the coat and he slams out.”

  Cardigan was staring slit-eyed at her. “The Whiteledge, eh? You wouldn’t remember the room number?”

  “Gee’ Jack, no. All I remember is the Whiteledge and the K.K. business account of like I said, did he have three Ks—”

  The door opened and two well dressed young men grooved smoothly into the foyer and stood eyeing a painting on the wall. They said nothing to each other. One wore a brown raglan overcoat and a derby. The other was dressed in a dark blue Guards coat and a dark blue fedora with the brim turned down over his right ear. Their faces were cleanshaven, smooth, expressionless.

  Cardigan finished talking with Gert, started off still looking at her and saying good-bye, and almost crashed into the two young men. Both stepped aside nimbly, dropped their eyes.

  Cardigan said, “Excuse the truck, buddies,” and heaved out of the Rio.

  AN east wind slashed up Fifty-fifth Street, made Cardigan duck his chin into the collar of his old ulster. The street was jammed, noisy with auto traffic through which a mounted patrolman, his face beet-red, pranced his deft-footed horse. Cardigan couldn’t catch a cab until he reached Madison Avenue.

  “The Whiteledge,” he said.

  The Whiteledge was in East Thirty-sixth Street, between Park and Lexington. It raised a gray-white front leanly into the darkness and a short marble tunnel led from the entrance into the small, well appointed lobby.

  Cardigan said to the man at the desk: “Is Tom Buffo around?”

  “I think he’s in his office on the first floor.”

  Buffo was sitting behind a plain oaken desk in a small, plain room. He was a knob-nosed fat man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He was the house officer.

  “Well, well, speaking of the devil—”

  “Hello, Tom. Want to do me a favor?”

  “Probably not. Want to buy a chance on a round-trip airplane flight to Chicago?”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “All right, I just thought I’d ask. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’d like to find out who’s name K.K. would stand for. He’s living here.”

  Buffo took off his glasses and put them right back on again. He gave Cardigan a short, weary look, rose and left the office.

  In five minutes he returned saying: “We have three. Katherine Kern in Two-one-six, Kirk Keersage in Five-o-two, and Kenneth Klaeberg in Six-two-one.”

  “The woman’s out. Know the other two?”

  “Keersage’s a permanent here. Fat guy, about like me, middle-aged. Klaeberg I don’t know. He checked in three days ago.”

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  “Don’t mention it. Now this round-trip airplane—”

  “Listen, Tom. I can’t do it. A pal of mine died that way. In a parachute jump. Choked himself to death. You know the ripcord is over the heart, because when a guy falls they figure he’ll reach for his heart. Well, this pal o’ mine’s heart was in his throat when he jumped and so—he choked himself to death.”

  “M-m-m,” brooded Tom Buffo as Cardigan streaked out.

  Cardigan rode an elevator to the sixth floor, got out and took a swinging look at the nearby room numbers. He went toward the rear of the corridor and found 621 near the end. He shifted his revolver from his shoulder holster to his right-hand overcoat pocket and kept his hand in the pocket with the gun. With his left hand he knocked on the door.

  A man’s voice said: “Who’s there?”

  “Electrician. I got to check up on the telephone. The operator downstairs says she can’t get you.”

  Feet came up to the door, a latch was turned and the door swung open.

  Cardigan said dourly, “I’m not really an electrician,” and jammed himself in between the door and the frame.

  The young man who faced him was the one who had appeared at the Bourke apartment that morning as a subscription salesman for magazines.

  Cardigan took no chances. He pulled his gun and said: “Back up, bud. I want to talk to you about magazines. Just in case you get any foolish ideas, put your dukes up high. That’s nice.” He entered, shut the door and locked it.

  The man before him was steady-eyed, watchful. He looked to be in his young twenties, slender, narrow-hipped, with broad shoulders and a strong, lean neck.

  Cardigan said: “And what magazines do you sell?”

  “Skip it.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I said I’ll stand.”

  CARDIGAN kicked him on the shins and the man sat down promptly, his lips writhing tightly. “Get over the idea,” Cardigan said, “that I’m kidding.” He stood in front of the man. “What was the gag about selling magazines this morning?”

  “I wanted to see if they had the woman.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Cardigan said: “You know she spent the night here at the hotel, don’t you?”

  Klaeberg started. His voice popped when he said, “No!” He started to rise but Cardigan motioned him back, muttered: “How long do you know her?”

  Klaeberg scowled at him. “Five years—a little over.”

  “What’s your interest in her?”

  Klaeberg sat back and clamped his lips tight.

  Cardigan said: “You socked Steve Bourke at the Rio Club last night. Why?”

  Klaeberg’s lips twisted, his eyes darkened, flashed. “To hell with you!”

  Cardigan pulled over a chair and sat down. His face was very dark, grim, threatening; his voice was low, grave, heavy. “Buddy, I’ve got no scruples against breaking your neck. This gal is a friend of mine. And when I say a friend, I mean a friend; I don’t mean a sleepy-time gal. I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to find out things that led up to what happened last night. I’m going to find out, buddy, and you’re going to help me.”

  Klaeberg snapped back at him: “You’re wasting your time! I’d like to know where she is myself. Damn it, if I knew where she was, do you think I’d be sitting here?”

  “Listen, buddy, I tell you I’m a friend of Ivy’s. Ivy is in a spot—”

  “Ivy who?”

  “The gal we’re talking about.”

  Klaeberg’s hands slapped to the arms of the chair, gripped them. His mouth opened, his eyes popped wide with confusion.

  Cardigan jumped to his feet, lashed out: “I get it! We’re talking about two different gals!” He towered above Klaeberg. “What gal are you talking about, Klaeberg? Come on, boy, spit it out!”

  “No!” rasped Klaeberg, jumping to his feet, starting a swing.

  Cardigan snapped a left to his diaphram, clipped him on the chin and dropped him to the floor. He muttered, “Fool!” unde
r his breath and for half a minute watched Klaeberg lying motionless. He strolled across the room and saw an opened envelope lying on the bureau. It was addressed to Kenneth Klaeberg, Hotel Whiteledge, New York City. He pulled out the letter, read it.

  Dear Ken,

  I hope you find Vivian. I know you’ll try hard. Please explain how everything is, how I haven’t much more time to live, and that all I do is pray that she’ll come and see me, just once, just for a little while. Then I’ll die happy, Ken.

  Your grateful brother,

  Willy.

  Cardigan looked at the back of the envelope. Written there was, William Klaeberg, 12-20 Grove Road, Kansas City.

  Klaeberg sat up, shook his head.

  Cardigan swung his gun toward him. “How about it? Going to talk?”

  “Go to hell,” mumbled Klaeberg.

  Cardigan picked up the phone and called the Cosmos Agency. “This is Jack, George…. Send a man over here to the Hotel Whiteledge, Room Six-two-one. Right away…. Yes, I’ll be here.”

  Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” asked Cardigan.

  “Eddie Shore.”

  Cardigan opened the door and a short stocky man said: “Hi, Jack. George said—”

  “Yeah, Eddie. Just sit here and keep this lad good.”

  “That all?”

  “No rough stuff—unless he tries to leave. I’ll be back—or phone you.”

  AS he stepped out of the elevator at the lobby floor a page boy was droning: “Call for Mr. Cardigan. Call for—”

  “Here, boy.”

  “Mr. Cardigan? There’s a phone call for you. Booth Three—across the lobby.”

  Cardigan gave him a dime and swung across to Booth Three, crammed into it and picked up the receiver, heard the hotel operator say: “Go ahead.”

  “This you, Jack?” said a girl’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jack, listen, this is Gert. I hoped I’d catch you there. Listen, Jack, do you remember those two fellas you almost bumped into when you was leaving?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Well, I think they’re following you. No kidding. Because you know how they came in and stood looking at the wall. Well, when you left they turned around and left too.”

  “Thanks a million, Gert.”

  He stepped out of the booth, stuck a cigarette in his mouth and cupping his hands over the match, peered around the lobby. He saw the two well dressed young men standing at the other side of the lobby, near another bank of telephone booths. He headed past them, pretending not to see them, then turned suddenly and entered one of the booths, closing the door. He heard the door of the next booth creak, deposited a nickel, called the agency office and said: “I won’t be able to eat dinner with you,” in a loud voice. “I’ve got a hot date with a gal who’s on the spot, only she don’t know it…. Forget it, forget it…. Sure I am, screwy as hell.”

  As he hung up he heard the door of the next booth creak, caught a glimpse of the man in the brown raglan hurrying to join his companion. Both men strode rapidly toward the front door. Cardigan stretched his legs in the same direction, went out and out of the corners of his eyes saw them entering a cab. He ran out into the middle of the street as though he were in a great hurry and flagged down an empty cab headed east. As he climbed in he heard the other cab get away with a roar.

  He said: “Follow that one.”

  They swung north on Lexington. At Forty-second Street the cab ahead shot through a changing light. Cardigan’s driver braked sharp on the red and Cardigan pounded on the window, shouted: “You’ll lose it!”

  “And eef I’m going through a rad light and gatting a ticket who’s to be paying de fine?”

  Cardigan stormed: “Damn it, you could have made it through!”

  “Mebbe yass, mebbe no. So I didn’t going through de rad light, so I’m not gatting de ticket, so by me hit’s hukkey.”

  The other cab was lost in the welter of traffic. Cardigan thought of Gus Poteska, figured that possibly Poteska might know about Bourke’s relation with the woman Vivian.

  He said: “Go over and head up Fifth Avenue.”

  Chapter Five

  The Cocktail Hour

  POTESKA was wearing a maroon velvet smoking-jacket, faced with black silk, when his houseboy ushered Cardigan into the penthouse living-room. The tiny man stood in the center of the vast room drawing on an enormous cigar.

  “Good evening, Cardigan,” he said, with a wary downward look in his eyes.

  “Hello, Gus. I thought you told Block there was no woman in Steve’s life.”

  Poteska looked with blank wide-open eyes at his cigar. He shrugged. “Well, Steve used to kid around with a little girl over at the Rio. Some blonde.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Poteska took a drag at his cigar, gave Cardigan a sly look. “I don’t know.”

  “Rats!” snapped Cardigan. “You don’t have to beat around the bush with me, Gus!”

  Poteska was calm. “I ain’t beating around the bush. And you don’t have to yell. I tell you I don’t know her name. Maybe Gloria knows. I seen her talking to Gloria once. I was just about to go over there to Gloria’s. I’ll get my things. You go along with me.”

  “Sure.”

  He went up a stairway to a gallery and entered a doorway beyond. In a minute he reappeared wearing a tight black overcoat that made him look smaller, and carrying a derby, a pair of calfskin gloves and a snakewood stick, silver-knobbed.

  “Let us go,” he said.

  They drove across town in a taxi, went a few blocks north on Park, then east again. The cab stopped in front of a large, pale apartment house and Cardigan followed Poteska down two steps into a low-ceilinged lobby walled with cream-colored stone. They went up to the eleventh floor in a cream-and-brown elevator and as they walked down the eleventh-floor corridor Poteska drew a key from his pocket, slipped it into the keyhole of 1105.

  The apartment foyer was triangular in shape. Off one point of the triangle was a door leading into the living-room.

  “Greetings, Gloria,” sang out Poteska, taking off his hat and overcoat.

  She sauntered into view, her hand holding a cigarette. She wore a green evening gown, cut low all around. “You’re early, Gus. A couple of friends just dropped by.”

  “Good, good, Gloria.”

  She had to bend over to touch his lips with a kiss. She looked over his head at Cardigan. “And you, big boy? How’d you come to be rung in?”

  Cardigan’s head was too full of business to be playful. He said, “Hello,” and scaled his ancient hat and ulster onto a chair.

  “Come in,” she said.

  POTESKA went into the living-room after her and as Cardigan bulked in the doorway he saw two young men standing at the other side of the room.

  Poteska was saying: “Gloria, you remember that little gal Steve used to kid? You know, the blonde, the one with big blue eyes? Where is she?”

  “Maxine? She went to Mexico City a month ago. You know that.”

  Poteska turned to Cardigan. “That’s it—Maxine.”

  Gloria was saying: “Gus, this is Vincent Bates and that’s Stew Morgan. Boys, this is Gus Poteska and this is—”

  “Cardigan,” said Cardigan dully, eyeing the two men. They eyed him back. They were the two he had bumped into at the Rio and whom he had seen in the lobby at the Whiteledge.

  Gloria had a hand on a rakish hip. “How about a drink, fellas?”

  Vincent and Stew kept their eyes lowered politely. Poteska gave Vincent a long, puzzled look, then shrugged, said, “I’ll mix the drinks,” and went over to a bar-wagon. “Cardigan?”

  “Anything straight.” He was scowling.

  Gloria said: “Cheer up, big fella.”

  “Can I make a phone call?” he said. “I’m supposed to meet a gal uptown. Maybe she can pick me up here.”

  “Sure, sure,” called out Poteska.

  Gloria smiled. “Of course.”
>
  Cardigan looked up the phone number of the Whiteledge, called it and asked for room 621. When he heard Eddie Shore’s voice he said casually: “Listen, palsy, I’m uptown and I won’t be able to pick you up. You pick me up.” He gave the address and the apartment number. “Make it snappy…. Oh, that? Bring it along. And what will you drink? O.K., kid.”

  He hung up, said: “That gal’s fancy. She drinks Bacardi cocktails.”

  “I’ll have it ready,” Poteska said, very deft with his short white fingers. He looked up at Vincent again, then looked down at his drink-mixing and whistled a few bars. Vincent looked at Poteska’s bald head.

  Stew went over and turned on the radio.

  Poteska protested: “Please, I can’t stand radios. Gloria knows that.”

  Stew snapped it off. “Sorry, Mr. Poteska,” he said, and went over to a casement window, staring out across the lights of the city.

  Poteska said: “Play the piano, Gloria.” And to Cardigan, “You know, Gloria used to be on the stage, Cardigan. She can play like anything.”

  She played. Poteska sat and watched her and every now and then he looked at Vincent. Gloria played one song after another and presently her eyes became filled with strain, her mouth was drawn. She began to fumble the keys and at last she stopped, wiped her forehead, got up.

  “I need a drink—straight.”

  Poteska rose to get it.

  A buzzer sounded.

  She said: “The maid’s out. You get it, Gus.”

  Gus went drumming his little heels out into the foyer. There were voices. He returned leading Eddie Shore and Kenneth Klaeberg. Gloria dropped the drink she had begun to pour and her hand flew to her throat.

  Eddie Shore said: “Gee, Jack, the guy here just got bad news as we were leaving. A telegram. His brother died.”

  Klaeberg’s eyes were burning across the room on the woman. “You did it, Vivian,” he ground out. “You left Willy and he died of a broken heart.”

  Poteska said: “Look here, you’re mixed up, son. This is Miss Gloria Bell.”

  “Is it?” panted Klaeberg. “It’s Vivian Klaeberg, my brother’s wife. She stole his money and ran away from him.”

  The woman’s face was red, vicious. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out! Get out!”