The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35
by
Frederick Nebel
Altus Press • 2013
Copyright Information
© 2013 Altus Press
Publication History:
“Spades Are Spades” originally appeared in the January 1, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Hot Spot” originally appeared in the March 1, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Kick Back” originally appeared in the April 1, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Read ’em and Weep” originally appeared in the May 1, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Red Hot” originally appeared in the July 1, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Not So Tough…” originally appeared in the August 15, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Too Hot to Handle” originally appeared in the September 15, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Pardon My Murder” originally appeared in the November 15, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Leave It to Cardigan” originally appeared in the December 15, 1934 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Hell on Wheels” originally appeared in the February 1, 1935 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
“Hell Couldn’t Stop Him” originally appeared in the April 15, 1935 issue of Dime Detective Magazine. Copyright © 2013 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by arrangement with Argosy Communications, Inc.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Designed by Matthew Moring/Altus Press
Special Thanks to Joel Frieman, Ron Goulart, Ken McDaniel, Will Murray, Rick Ollerman, Rob Preston & Ray Riethmeier.
Spades Are Spades
Chapter One
Two Many Noses
THE train from New York dragged slowly through the St. Louis yards in the smoky winter dusk. Snow had fallen all the way from Indianapolis. The coaches, the Pullmans were white-blanketed; the hissing locomotive was flecked and spattered with the snow and the bell had a lazy bonging sound.
Cardigan was standing in the vestibule of the head sleeper, cuddling a cigarette in his palm. His battered fedora was cramped down low on his forehead, his old ulster was wrinkled, its shapeless collar bundled about his neck.
Pat Seaward, small, trim in a three-quarter length raccoon, with a racy antelope beret aslant on her head, came out of the corridor. She said:
“You certainly look as though you slept in those clothes.”
“I did, precious, more than once.” He took a drag on his cigarette, looked down at her. “So what’s it to you?”
The station lights began drifting past the steamed vestibule window and the porter snapped up the metal leaf, opened the door. Snowflakes whipped in.
“Nothing to me, of course,” Pat said airily. “Only some night, if you hang around a corner in that outfit, you’ll likely be picked up on a vagrancy charge.”
He popped his cigarette through the door. “So the candid critic is kibitzing again. O.K., sweetheart, have your fun, have your fun. I can take it.”
The train stopped and Cardigan swung down to the platform carrying Pat’s patent leather suitcase and his own ramshackle Gladstone. A redcap made for him, but Cardigan shook his head and went swinging his long legs up the platform. Pat followed at a chipper walk. As they passed through the gate into the large, barnlike waiting-room, a bright-eyed, eager young man called out:
“Well, if it isn’t Cardigan!”
And Cardigan, keeping his chin down, striding onward, ripped out in a low voice, “Lay off the broadcast, Pinkler!”
“But, hey, why the high hat, Cardigan,” Pinkler cajoled, bobbing along beside the Cosmos man. “After all—”
“After all—scram!” Cardigan rasped, striding on, lengthening his stride and scowling furiously, straight ahead.
A knowing look heightened the brightness in Pinkler’s blue eyes, and he said, still bobbing along, “Traveling incog, huh?” He grinned. “Disguising yourself as Cardigan. Look here, Jack; what’s in the wind? Promise to keep it under my hat—”
Cardigan snarled, still low-voiced, “Pinkler, you dumb excuse for a reporter, lay off me, lay off me!” He bowled on his way through the crowd, cursing under his breath, with Pinkler still joyously at his elbow.
“Hell, Cardigan, for a guy that used to—”
Cardigan suddenly crowded him into a corner, stared down hotly and said in his low, angry voice, “Lay off! You hear me, Pinkler; lay off! Leave me alone! Chase rainbows or something—but for cripes’ sake stay clear of me!”
The undercurrent of fury in his voice, the dull red growing on his face, frightened the reporter. Pinkler, his grin fading, backed up, shrugged, turned and drifted off.
Cardigan swung on his way, joined Pat at the door and they went out into Market Street. He said in his low violent voice: “Of all the prize dumb-bells, that potato takes the cake!”
“Who is he?”
“Newshound from The Times-Express. I bought him a drink once, and ever since he’s taken advantage of it…. Hey, taxi!” He strode toward the cab, saying to Pat, “Come on; snap on it, Patsy. We’ve got to get out of here before—”
“Hey, Cardigan!”
CARDIGAN dropped one bag, yanked open the cab door. He looked over his shoulder and saw a man coming toward him through the windy snow.
“In, Pat,” he muttered, his lips compressing.
“Cardigan—”
Cardigan heaved in the Gladstone, then the suitcase. He was on his way into the cab when the man came up to him and laid a hand on his arm.
“What’s the rush, bo?”
Cardigan backed out, turned and said: “I’ve got a date with a minute steak, Scanlon. You know how minute steaks are—”
The snow was blowing into plainclothed Sergeant Scanlon’s face, and he was squinting his eyes against it. “Pinkler back there said you were disguising yourself as Cardigan—”
“There’s a law against having to listen to lousy jokes. I’m in a hurry and you’re standing in my way.”
Scanlon had a lazy, sand-papery voice, a mocking twist to his wide, thin lips. “But what’s the rush, what’s the rush? I just wanted to say ‘hello’ to you.”
“So you did, and so now how’s to let me get in the cab?”
Pinkler came bobbing up and said, “What�
�s the matter, Dave?”
And Scanlon said, “Oh, nothing, nothing. What I like about celebrities like Cardigan, they hate the limelight.” He chuckled drily, spitting snow from his lips. “Look at him! Just a shrinking violet!”
Pinkler laughed. “Yup. Jack always was that way!”
Cardigan growled, thrust Scanlon aside and pushed on into the taxicab, slamming the door behind him. Scanlon reopened the door and said:
“Mind dropping me downtown?”
“Yes I mind!” Cardigan snapped and slammed the door shut again; and to the driver: “Come on; get going!”
Scanlon and Pinkler stepped back, with the curtain of falling snow dimming their faces. The cab shot off. Cardigan looked back and saw them still standing, Pinkler a small shape, Scanlon a tall one.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Hotel Maxwell.”
Chains on the tires kept whanging against the undersides of the mudguards as the cab rolled down Market Street.
Pat was a little worried. “Gee, chief—”
“Mugs, mugs!” Cardigan growled. “By God, you’d think a guy needed a passport to crash this lousy burg! It’s times like these I go anarchistic in a big way.”
She put a hand on his forearm. “Take it easy, chief.”
He slumped in the seat, blowing out a large exasperated breath that was not intended for Pat.
After a moment she said, “Do you think somebody might have heard or seen?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, turning seriously on her. “Anybody, anybody… the way,” he added, scowling, “that half-wit Pinkler song-and-danced me the minute I hit the gate.”
CARDIGAN got a room on the fifth floor of the Maxwell. Pat got one on the fourth. The room when Cardigan entered it was stifling, the steam radiator spluttering. The bellhop opened a window and a blast of cold air came in, bringing snowflakes and coal dust with it.
“Anything else, suh?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Maybe some nice gin—”
“I make my own gin, colonel.” Cardigan tossed him a dime. “Beat it.”
The bellhop grinned, took a bow and left. Cardigan removed his overcoat, draped it over the radiator. Jangling keys, he bent down and unlocked his Gladstone and from it removed a brown paper envelope. He carried this to the small green metal desk, sat down and emptied the envelope of its contents, which he perused for ten minutes. Then he replaced the contents, all except a small photograph and one slip of yellow paper, which he shoved into his inside pocket. The brown paper envelope he replaced in the Gladstone. He locked the Gladstone, and rising, sighed and said, “Well, Genevieve…” to the room at large; struck a match on his thumbnail and lit a cigarette.
He telephoned Pat, blew smoke into the mouthpiece as he said, “Stay in out of the wet, Patsy. The old man’s going to take a walk…. Huh? Nah, I’m not afraid of the big bad cop.”
He hung up, whistled a few disjointed bars from “Sleepy Time Gal” and got back into his overcoat, slapped his hat lopsided on his head and breezed out into the corridor. The elevator plummeted him to the main floor and he sailed into the lobby with his big feet rapping the tiles and the skirt of his overcoat flopping.
He leaned his weight against the front swing door; the door was heavy, of glass and brass, and there was a wind bent hard against it. But Cardigan got it open and the wind pelted his face and drummed the brim of his floppy hat up against the crown. The snow spiraled and twisted down Locust Street, got down his neck, in his ears.
With the wind at his back, he swung on down Locust, turned right into Sixth, crossed Olive and proceeded down Sixth. Here it was darker, the buildings old and second-hand. It became noisier where Sixth crossed Market; farther along, it became tawdrier, the street soaked in slush.
“Keep walking as you are, Cardigan.”
The voice was close at hand but garbled a bit by the wind. Cardigan, looking out of the corner of his eye, saw a large, bulky man walking near his right elbow.
The man said, “You’re covered. Show me some identification.”
As they walked on, Cardigan withdrew his small card case in which was folded his Agency card. “Read it and weep,” he said. “But why the identification?”
“I just want to make sure. Keep walking. I thought that guy in the railroad station yelled your name— Here’s a light. Stop a minute and keep your hands clean…. O.K., now get going again. I’ll mind this.”
“Out walking for your health?”
“No. Yours.”
“Thanks. I like the thought behind that.”
“Where you heading?”
“I thought I’d take a walk down to the river and see if the fish are biting.”
“How’d you like to be chucked in the river?”
“You’re starting to get personal as hell, fella.” Cardigan stopped, turned and eyed the man. “What’s the idea?”
“You look like you could use a thousand bucks.”
“I could.”
“Take an early train out, then, and make believe this was only a dream.”
The man spoke almost laconically, while the stub of a cigar moved in one corner of his mouth. His left hand was sunk in his overcoat pocket, his right held a gun almost concealed in his palm. His eyes were in the deep shadow of his hat brim and his cheeks were full, rather rubicund. He was well-dressed—a man in his forties.
CARDIGAN threw a half-smoked cigarette on the snowy sidewalk, said:
“You’re up the wrong alley.”
“I’m up the right alley,” the man replied offhand. “I know why you’re in St. Louis and the cards read you’re not wanted. You’re sticking your big nose into three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of business. Take a tip and lam and buy luxuries with what your heirs will save on funeral expenses.”
Cardigan chopped off a brief, caustic laugh. “I know what I’m sticking my nose into, baby. I get paid to stick my nose into things.”
“You’d make more keeping it out.”
Cardigan pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, slipped a cigarette between his lips and then dropped the pack. He stooped over, recaptured the packet and, rising again, made a swift pass at the man’s gun. He missed as the man jumped backward; but the man lost his footing on the snow and slammed down. The gun went off, almost straight up in the air, and shattered a window in the house nearby. Cardigan ducked toward the corner of the house as a second shot, partially aimed, passed close over his head. The man was struggling to his feet and trying to shoot at the same time.
Cardigan had his gun out now, but he was reluctant to fire. Close at hand a police whistle blew and instantly there was the sound of pounding feet. The man, up now, lunged across the street. Cardigan started after him, but stopped short when he saw several policemen on the run. He backed up, ducked past the corner of the building into the narrow, slushy alley. He ran on, skidding and stumbling and slamming from wall to wall.
Suddenly he met a figure head on. A man. Obviously the man was waiting for him, for he went into action immediately, using a blackjack that missed Cardigan’s head but clubbed his left shoulder. Cardigan struck with his right fist; hit something hard that gave under the impact. Losing his footing, he fell down, lost his hat. A foot hit him in the stomach, but he got up, felt hands clawing at his leg. He kicked backward. There were flashlights coming up the alley, and Cardigan ran on, came to the street beyond and was able now to break into a long-legged run. In Olive Street, he bought a new, cheap hat.
Chapter Two
Cardigan Gets Canned
NEAR the river, near Commercial Alley, Cardigan saw the blue globe of light, with the snow blowing past it. It was in a dark, dismal street. The building was two-storied, of brick. Once it had been a stable. There were several cars parked out front, and a taxi. A small wooden shed extended over the door, and beneath the shed stood a man bundled in a great coat. He opened the door and Cardigan went in.
The entrance hall was small, stuffy. There was a bar to the l
eft, a low room to the right in which a five-piece Negro band raved and couples were dancing. The tables had red-and-white checked cloths on top. A red-headed girl gave Cardigan a check and reached for his hat. He gave her the check back, kept his hat and overcoat on and went into the bar. A drunk bumped against him and said:
“S’ look; you wanna play horse-shoes, pal?”
“Uhuh,” Cardigan said, shaking his head.
“Was gonna say if you did we’d be kinda outta luck sorta, because—hic—we ain’t got no horse-shoes. Too bad. Well, be seein’ you, pal.”
The drunk’s knees kept knocking together as he went out.
“Rye,” Cardigan said to the barman; and leaning his elbows on the bar: “Where’s Mafey?”
“You mean Mafey?”
“Yeah, Mafey.”
The barman pointed. Cardigan turned about and saw a man sitting at the only table in the bar. It was in a corner at the rear. Cardigan picked up the drink and took it over to the table, planked it down and took a chair facing Mafey. Mafey was eating.
“Mafey?”
“Yeah.”
“My name’s Cardigan. I just got in from New York.”
“I ain’t been in New York in five years,” Mafey said, biting a lamb chop. “Did you want to see me?”
“Yeah,” Cardigan lit a cigarette. “I’m looking for a line on Genevieve Stoddard.” He blew the match out.
Mafey put down the lamb chop bone and wiped his fat fingers on a napkin. “M’m… Genevieve….” He looked up with his fat complacent eyes.
“She worked here once,” Cardigan went on. “Sang or something, or danced. Sang, I guess.”
“Kinda sorry,” Mafey said.
“What do you mean, sorry?”
Mafey stared abstractedly at his plate. “Well, Genevieve just upped and walked out and she didn’t say where.” He raised his complacent eyes to Cardigan’s dark curious ones. “Just like that.” He spread his palms, then cleared his throat, shoved back his chair and rose with an unhurried air of finality.
“Maybe you got me wrong,” Cardigan said. He stood up and followed Mafey to the bar. “This is no pinch, Mafey. I’m out to do the girl a good turn.”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 1