“Balm was back of it. Balm knew Pinky Bellmont from Caliente days and told Pinky he’d like to get hold of two or three guys to help pull a deal. Pinky wrote Tom Gow and Tom and Finger and Berkman came up from Los Angeles. When they couldn’t reach Charley Sun, Balm got this bright idea. Tom Gow kept telling Mae Ling that Charley was involved and he kept telling Charley that Mae was involved; in that way, he kept Mae and Charley anxious about the other and neither one would tell on the other. It was Tom Gow who advised Mae to meet me when I asked her. He said that if I showed signs of arresting her she should wave that match by the window and he would make a phone call to the Pearl of Nanking that would take her from the table—and then she could skip out. But Tom Gow took a pot-shot at me instead. When Mae ran out Pinky Bellmont, who was up the street, picked her up and gave her over to Finger and Berkman. They took her aboard the schooner, afraid she’d break up. Pinky and Tom Gow tailed me and Sam Chang. Pinky tailed me away from Mae Ling’s place and Tom Gow went up and shot Sam Chang. Pinky was to kill me, but he held off until he could get a load of dope and enough courage.
“The phone call that Charley made to Marya Rutlov was sincere on his part. But Marya told him to make it at that time so that if things jammed up, he’d be accused of complicity. She knew at what time the throne-chair was to be moved because Balm had told her. It was clever of Balm. He pays down three thousand bucks in cash, he even offers a reward—which he knew he would never have to pay. The schooner was to start out westward with the throne-chair. Balm was to fly to Honolulu and get another schooner to meet the Pacific Shark, take off the throne-chair and then sail with it to China.
“Mae refused to tell me anything about Tom Gow because she was afraid that would lead to something about Charley Sun. And Charley hung back about explaining the phone call because he felt that would lead to something about Mae Ling. Tom Gow had planted so much suspicion in Mae’s and Charley’s minds—about each other—that the poor kids were ga-ga with doubt. It was a swell sight, seeing them again—and both on the level.”
Magruder grunted. “It’s all swell, except for once in your life you got dished out of a reward. You and Dave both!”
“Yeah?” said Cardigan, laying down ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Balm offered a reward, he advertised it. All those doctors over Sam Chang cost dough, so I charged Balm taxi fare to the hospital. A thousand bucks taxi fare, baby. You’re not the only one around here with dash of Scotch.”
Murder By Mail
Chapter One
Death in the T-File
CARDIGAN stood at the window of the Cosmos Agency’s St. Louis office and stared biliously down into the noontime traffic of Olive Street. In his left hand he held a half-smoked cigarette, in his right a ten-ounce glass of tomato juice seasoned to fiery strength with tobasco sauce. His shaggy hair looked more rumpled than usual; a black bow tie was askew against the soft white collar of his shirt. His head ached and he felt pretty mean. It was the worst hangover in years. Draining the glass of tomato juice, he rasped his throat, blew out a hot breath and turned away from the window.
His office staff was out to lunch, but standing in the doorway between his inner office and the reception-room was a very well dressed slender man who dipped his head and said: “Good-day. Are you Mr. Cardigan?”
“Uhn,” grunted Cardigan and carried the empty glass across to the washbasin behind a screen. Rinsing the glass, he said, “Yeah, I’m Cardigan,” and came from behind the screen drying his hands on a towel.
THE stranger came all the way into the office, placed his dark blue Homburg, his gray suede gloves, on the desk. “I am John Strawn,” he said. He was tall and his dark blue overcoat, his light blue shirt complemented each other. He had long, white, smooth hands. His face was long, well shaved, a little wolfish, and his hair was black, crisp. He had brown, level, almost mocking eyes.
Cardigan was too concerned with his hangover to pay much attention to him. “Sit down, sit down,” he muttered, and sitting down himself said: “What can I do for you?”
Strawn remained standing, smiling slightly. He gave a small, amused laugh. “I’m afraid I’m disturbing you.”
“Well, we can skip that, Mr. Strawn. I got tangled up in a drinking marathon last night, and maybe I ain’t the man I used to be.”
Strawn’s eyes drooped, slid round the office, came back again to rest on Cardigan’s wrinkled, unhappy face. He said: “Do you recall any correspondence you had with a man named S.N. Talbott?”
“Talbott? Uh-uhn. No. Why?”
“I am representing Mr. Talbott. I assumed you’d recognize the name and the circumstances surrounding it.”
Cardigan shrugged. “We have a lot of correspondence and you can’t expect me to remember everything. Hang around. My secretary ought to blow in soon and she’ll hunt it up.”
Strawn looked a little pained. “Unfortunately, I’ve an appointment at one. Would it be asking too much if I asked you to look in your files? The name is Talbott—S.N. Talbott. The circumstances were so thoroughly outlined in his letter—”
Cardigan pushed himself up to his feet, scratched his head and said, “O.K., O.K.” He slouched into the outer office and crossed it to a high, green, steel filing-cabinet. Strawn came in with him, saying in an apologetic voice: “I’m sorry to disturb you but—”
“Think nothing of it,” Cardigan rumbled. “If I can see yet, I’ll find the correspondence. Guy that invents hangoverless liquor is going to make a fortune. Talbott… that’s in the T’s,” he said, pulling out a drawer marked T—U—V. “Let’s see, now.” He began thumbing through the T-file, came to a thin sheaf marked Talbott, S.N. “Yup—here it is,” he muttered, and pulled out the sheaf. “Dated—hell—a month ago—”
“That will do,” Strawn said quietly.
Cardigan felt a sudden hard firm pressure against the small of his back. He twisted his head and looked into the cold, mocking eyes of the man—bent his gaze down over his shoulder and saw part of the gun that was pressed against his back.
“I’ll take the correspondence,” said Strawn gently. “Don’t be foolish about anything. Raise both hands high.”
Cardigan’s face began to look very sour. He raised his hands and Strawn with his left hand reached up and took the sheaf of correspondence, thrust it into his left overcoat pocket. He said: “Now in the other office.”
“You know, now that I get a good look at you, I don’t like you already.”
“In the other office.”
Cardigan moved backward slowly, his hands dropping inch by inch until they were level with his shoulders. His eyes were heavy, dull, and anger was beginning to stir slowly in their depths. He backed through the doorway, kept backing up until the desk stopped him.
“Sober, I’d resent this,” he growled. “With a hangover, I resent it twice as much. What kind of a chin have you got?”
Strawn, smiling coolly, picked up his hat and gloves. “I noticed there’s a key in the connecting door. I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in here. I’ll leave the key on the desk in the other office.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’m very considerate, Mr. Cardigan.”
“With a gun in your mitt, you can afford to be. I’m still wondering what kind of a chin you’ve got.”
Strawn’s smile was razor-thin. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”
Cardigan, giving him a contemptuous look, reached over and removed the telephone receiver from its hook, placed it on the desk.
Strawn’s hand tightened on his gun. “Hang that up!” he said.
“Hang it up yourself, Mr. Strawn, if you—”
THE man took three strides, picked up the telephone receiver and slapped it into the hook. Cardigan swung at the same time. His big fist caught Strawn on the side of the jaw, sent him revolving wildly across the office. The screen crashed down, the gun was knocked from his hand and sent arcing across the desk, and Strawn landed on the floor with his heels kicking.
Cardigan gr
owled: “That telephone trick was to get you near enough, honey bunch.” He reached across the desk, yanked open a top drawer and was reaching for the gun inside when Strawn said: “Hold it!”
Cardigan looked at him.
Strawn, holding another gun, this time in his left hand, said: “I’m always prepared for an emergency.” He jumped to his feet, his chin red where Cardigan had smacked it. He moved fast; kicked shut the desk drawer, went around and recovered his first gun and put the other back in his left-hand overcoat pocket.
His cool bloodless smile had returned. “The trouble with your telephone trick, Mr. Cardigan, is that it doesn’t work twice.” He walked swiftly to the connecting door, drew the key from the inside, thrust it into the outside keyhole.
The front-office door opened and young Buddy Miller, the tow-headed office boy, came breezing in. He took one look and stopped in his tracks. His blue eyes popped wide, his little chin shot forward.
Cardigan bawled out: “Buddy, keep clear!”
“Get in this office, son,” Strawn clipped. “Quick!”
“Get in here, Buddy,” Cardigan said, his voice heavy, anxious.
The boy’s eyes were flashing, his lips were shaking but beneath them his chin was trying to be very stiff. He moved across the outer office, walking on his toes. He stopped in front of Strawn and demanded: “What you tryin’ to do here?”
“Get in, brat.”
Buddy yelled, “You can’t do this!” and leaped at him.
“Buddy!” shouted Cardigan, starting forward.
Strawn’s gun exploded as he leaped backward and Buddy turned and fell through the doorway into Cardigan’s arms. He fell heavily, a little grimace on his mouth. Strawn flashed out of the office, banging the outer door.
Buddy choked: “Go—get him, chief.”
But he was heavier now in Cardigan’s arms and somehow Cardigan, despite his fierce desire to follow Strawn, could not let the boy go. He knew Buddy was hit; how seriously, he didn’t know. And then the boy fainted. Cardigan lifted him clear of the floor. “You fool kid!” he muttered. “You poor kid!”
He carried him out into the corridor and half walked, half ran with him to the elevator. But he saw by the indicator that the car was up at the top floor. He turned and ran down the stairway—two flights to the lobby. People were streaming back from lunch. Suddenly Patricia Seaward was in front of him.
“Chief, what’s wrong with Buddy?” she cried.
“Plenty. Go up to the office. Don’t touch the phone in my office. Get that? Don’t touch the—”
“I get it. But—Buddy—” She stopped short, put her hand to her lips, when she saw blood. For an instant she seemed to wilt. “Good God, what happened?”
But Cardigan was on his way to the street. “Taxi!” he bawled. “Taxi! Taxi!”
A fat man was just about to step into one parked at the curb. Cardigan rushed up and said: “Out of the way!”
“Look here! I saw this first— I engaged—”
“You get out of the way, mister, before I step on you!”
The driver said: “Now looka here, buddy, this gentleman—”
“And you drive this wagon, brother, or I’ll poke your face in and drive it myself! I got a sick kid here!”
Chapter Two
Enter the Law
PAT SEAWARD entered the office, paused and looked carefully around. Her heart was pounding and the red color in her face had not come entirely from the cold out of doors. She moved slowly across to the connecting doorway, looked into the rear office, saw the overturned screen. She crossed to the desk, pulled out the drawer, and saw Cardigan’s gun lying in it, beside a flask of rye. She looked at the telephone, remembered that he had told her not to touch it. She sat down because her legs were shaking and she remembered the blood on Buddy Miller. Her body shook as though a chill had struck it and she got up again, went to the window. Restless, upset, she walked aimlessly into the outer office.
Miss Elfoot, the secretary, came in puffing a cork-tipped cigarette and reading a folded newspaper. She was a flat-heeled woman, thin as a rail, who wore huge horn-rimmed glasses and a long, belted overcoat.
Pat said: “Did you see the chief?”
“See him? I saw him when he rolled in at about eleven but I doubt if he saw me. He was fried.”
“Elvina—Buddy was shot.”
Miss Elfoot looked up crisply. “Who says so?”
“I saw him. Downstairs in the lobby. Jack was carrying him—taking him to the hospital. I don’t know how it happened. Jack was in a hurry. He didn’t have time to say.”
Miss Elfoot sat down, took off her hat and scaled it on the desk. “I know I should have remained in social-service work. This is a screwy business. It does nothing but go round and round—like the music. The poor little kid—”
The door swung open and Lieutenant Bozeman Shadd strolled in, knocked an inch of white cigar ash to the floor and said: “There was some shooting up here, sisters.”
Miss Elfoot slid an ashtray across the desk. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but I’m not your sister—and use an ashtray next time.”
“He’s Lieutenant Shadd,” Pat said, “from the police. This is Miss Elfoot, Lieutenant, the new secretary. She’s only been here three weeks.”
Shadd said dryly: “And getting tough like Cardigan already.” He was a wide-shouldered gaunt man in a hard white collar that at no point touched his brown, long neck. His eyebrows were black, bushy, forebidding. He had high reddish cheekbones and a deep furrow ran from each one, downward to his bladelike jaw. His eyes were deep-set, sultry, and his mouth was a sardonic slash beneath his big nose. Looking hard at Miss Elfoot, he said: “Don’t get off on the wrong foot with me, lady.”
“Sure, only next time you’ve got ashes to dump, dump them in the tray. The floor is to walk on. I met hundreds of cops when I was in social-service work, so don’t think you impress me.” She removed her glasses, polished them, added: “Now what’s on your mind?”
Shadd eyed her stonily. “There was a shot up here, lady. You’re smart. Now what would be on my mind?”
Pat said: “As I was coming in from lunch, I ran into Jack downstairs in the lobby. He was taking Buddy Miller, our office boy, to the hospital. Buddy’d been shot.”
“How’d it happen?”
“I don’t know. Jack didn’t have time to stop. He was carrying Buddy.”
Shadd looked at Miss Elfoot. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. I came in just a minute or so ago. I didn’t even know there’d been any shooting until Pat told me.”
Shadd put his cigar carefully between his teeth, dug his hands into his overcoat pockets and strolled into the inner office. He walked around the office, toed the overturned screen, stopped before the desk and picked Cardigan’s gun out of the drawer. He broke it, saw that it was fully loaded, and replaced it.
“What hospital?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Pat said.
Shadd sat on the desk and laid his hand on the telephone.
“Don’t use that,” Pat said.
“Why not?”
“Jack told me not to.”
Shadd chuckled dryly. “Told you not to. That’s just the kind of a mug he is—always trying to hide things from the police.”
“No—it wasn’t that—”
“Don’t tell me, sister!” he said, and picked up the instrument, called headquarters. “Gus, I’m over at the Cosmos Agency. This is Boze talking. There was a shooting here, nobody knows about what. I’ll hang around till I find out…. No, he ain’t. The kid in the office was shot, the gals say—but they weren’t here. Cardigan took the kid to a hospital…. Yup, later—I’ll let you know.” He hung up and chuckled again. “Just like Cardigan—telling you not to phone!”
She flashed back at him: “He didn’t say not to phone—he said not to use that phone!”
“Just take it easy, sister. Sit down and take it easy. Get in a sweat and you’ll catch co
ld.” He pulled out a dirty deck of playing cards and said: “I’ll kill time at a little solitaire till your boss gets back.”
With an impatient gesture Pat whirled and went into the other office.
WHEN Cardigan blew in, bare-headed, his hands and face red with the cold, he said to Pat: “He got it low on the right side. We won’t know for hours if he’ll pull through.” His face was grave, his forehead ribbed with wrinkles. “If ever I lay hands on the lug that pulled that trigger—”
“Who was the lug?” Shadd called out from the inner office.
Cardigan started. Through the doorway he saw Shadd sitting at the desk and playing cards. He said: “Who let that guy in?”
Shadd scooped up his cards, fanned them once and stuck them back into his pocket. He leaned back in the chair and said: “Now don’t tell me the kid was playing with a gun and it went off.”
Cardigan strode in, lifted the flask of rye out of the drawer to see if any had been drunk, replaced it and said: “A guy came in and asked me to check up on some correspondence with a guy named S.N. Talbott. I hardly got the stuff out of the file when he stuck a gun in my ribs and took it away. Buddy came in, tried to block the guy and the guy let him have it. Get out of my chair.”
Shadd, his eyes narrowed and glinting, got up and slouched back on his heels. “Who was the guy?”
“He said his name was John Strawn. Sometimes they say John Smith or Bob Brown. Tall. About thirty-five. Blue overcoat and blue hat and blue shirt. Brown eyes. Long, dark, good-looking mug. I pick him for a con man. He can sling the English.”
“What about this S.N. Talbott?”
“You got me. The file was thin, maybe two or three letters, and I don’t connect the name with anything important. My secretary’s new—this correspondence was dated a month ago and the secretary I had then went to China. Do you remember anything, Pat?”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 4: 1935-37 Page 27